Ten minutes later, while police and firemen, both protected by the First
Battalion, were devoting their energies to checking the flames that were
rapidly sweeping through the great repair shops, and the other two
battalions of the regiment were clearing the blazing freight-yards of
the last skulkers of the mob, the surgeon had established a temporary
field-hospital in the open enclosure between the main entrance and the
yards. Thither had been driven the two ambulances, conspicuous by the
red cross of Geneva. Here, feebly moaning, lay poor Jim, kicked and
clubbed into most unrecognizable pulp. Here beside him knelt Fred, still
praying for tidings of his father. Slinking away from the scene of their
recent triumph the rioters fled before the solid ranks of the troops,
only to regather, though in smaller force, and resume the work of
pillage and destruction farther along the line. And now the Colonel
began to appreciate the full effect of orders to serve under police
instruction. First he had to send Major Flint with his battalion to
report to Police Captain Murray a mile away in one direction. Then Major
Allen with the second was despatched far out to Prairie Grove. Ten
minutes more and a third detachment was demanded to assist Police
Sergeant Jaeger, now struggling with the strikers at the elevators along
the canal, and when ten o'clock came the Colonel with his staff, his
hospital, and something like a dozen officers and men, whose heads were
cut by stones and coupling-pins, had just one company left in his
immediate command. "B" had gone to the Prairie Avenue crossing, where a
mail-train was stalled, and "L," Fred's own, was posted at the storage
warehouse, half a mile northward. Fred himself still remained by his
brother's side, while police and firemen, lantern-bearing, were
searching through what was left of the long line of repair shops in vain
quest of the old foreman. With Fred, too, by this time were his mother
and sister Jessie. Poor little Billy, led home by sympathizing women,
had told his story, and the brave wife and mother, leaving to the elder
daughter the duty of caring for the house, had taken Jess and made her
way through the now scattering crowd, through the still blazing yards,
through the friendly lines of National Guardsmen, over the well-known
pathway to the shops, there to take her place by her stricken
first-born's side, tearfully, prayerfully waiting for tidings of the
husband and father, even while devotedly tending the son. By 10.15 the
flames about the buildings were extinguished, and the firemen turned
their attention to the blazing ruins in the yards. And now the searching
parties were raking through the burned-out sections of the shops in the
belief that there, and only there, could old Wallace be found. Time and
again, as some one came out from the grimy gateway, the sorrowing woman
lifted her white, piteous face in mute appeal. Jessie, weeping sorely,
was clasping Jim's blood-stained, nerveless hand. Fred had gone to join
the searchers. Far down the tracks toward Prairie Grove the glare of new
conflagrations reddened the skies. From up the yards near the warehouses
came stories of fresh gatherings of the mobs. The police thought more
soldiers should be sent there, and the Colonel said he had but one
company left. Out in front of the shops an elevated iron foot-bridge
crossed the freight-yards. It had been red hot in places until the
firemen turned their streams and cooled it off. Then Fred's friend, the
signal sergeant, with a couple of men, had mounted it, and sent their
night torches swinging. "Hurrah for Colton," said the Colonel. "That
boy's worth his weight in gold," for presently a bugler came running up
to report the sergeant had established communication with Prairie Grove,
and soon after with Captain Wagner's post far up the tracks. The first
message from below told of fresh fires and outbreaks, as was to be
expected. The first from above set the Colonel's eyes adancing.
"Police report rioters gathering in force about the Amity Wagon-Works.
Twelve loaded cars on their tracks there. Think they mean mischief."
"Hullo!" cried the Colonel. "Where's Corporal Wallace?"
And poor, sad-faced Fred, just back from unsuccessful searching, and now
kneeling by his mother's side, promptly sprang to his feet and
approached his commander.
"What's in those cars at the Amity Works, corporal?
"New wagons, sir. Loaded yesterday and ought to have started last night,
but they couldn't get anything out."
"I can't bear to take you away from your mother, my lad, until we hear
of your father; but I feel sure, somehow, that he is safe, and the
doctors tell me your brother will recover, though he may be laid up some
time. It is more than likely we'll be called on for more duty presently,
and if we are"--and here he glanced keenly at the young fellow from
under the brim of his scouting hat.
"I'm ready, sir," said our corporal, grimly. "I'd welcome a chance," he
added, as he glanced back at the group about his brother's battered
form, at his mother's white face, and Jessie's weeping eyes; and just
then Jim feebly rolled his bandaged head from side to side, and his
swollen lips were seen to be striving to form some words. Eagerly the
mother bent her ear to catch them. All others ceased their low-toned
chat; all eyes seemed fastened on them--anxious mother and stricken son.
Only she to whom his earliest baby lispings were intelligible,
inexpressible music could understand his meaning now.
[Illustration: "DID FATHER--GET HOME SAFE?"]
"Did father--get home safe?"
Then Jessie's sobs broke forth afresh, and a young railway man, whose
bruises the surgeon had been dressing, could stand it no longer. He was
one of the striking trainmen, and knew Jim well.
"Mrs. Wallace," he cried, struggling to his feet and coming towards her,
"I'm a Brotherhood man and bound to them in every way, but I can't stand
this. I know what's happened, though I had no hand in it, as God's my
judge! The old man's safe, ma'am--safe and out of harm's way, though I
don't know where. Jim wrapped him in his own coat with our badge on it,
and run him out through the south gate when they burst in here. I saw
him. There were only a few fellows down there, and he got him out all
right, and made him promise to keep away. I saw the old man cross the
street into the lumber-yards, and gave Jim my word I wouldn't peach. I'm
no traitor to our fellows, but I couldn't see the old man hurt." (And
here his eyes wandered to where Jessie crouched beside her brother.) "I
tried to keep 'em off from Jim, but he would go back and brave them, and
there were men among them no one could influence after old Stoltz said
his say. I got these," he added, half in shame, "battling against our
own people, trying to save him, but they were far too many for both of
us. They were madlike, and most of them were black-guards we'd not be
seen with any other time. They downed him, and nearly kicked the life
out of him, because he wouldn't say which way the old man went or where
he'd hid him."
Then, at least, the old foreman was not in the ruins--might, indeed,
have escaped from the rioters. Yet Mrs. Wallace was not much comforted.
Again and again she implored Jim to say whether he had designated any
particular place as his father's refuge; but Jim had drifted off again
into the borderland between the other world and this. His ears were deaf
to her appeal. If father had been spared, she said, surely he would have
made his way home to reassure them. In vain Fred pointed out that to do
so he must again venture through the mile-long yard of rioters, firing
cars, and mad with glut and triumph. He would surely have been
recognized, and by that time every striking switchman and trainman knew
it was he who held the throttle of the first engine to essay to break
the morning's blockade--more than enough to ruin him. They might not
themselves use violence, but they or their women would point him out to
the bloodhounds in the mob--men who were ready for any deed of violence,
no matter how brutal or cowardly, and the brave old fellow would have
met the martyr's fate at their hands.
"He never would have gone and left poor Jim to go back and face them all
alone," cried Mrs. Wallace, breaking down at last; and then Fred had to
tell her that Jim was himself a leader in the strike, a personal friend
of Steinman, and completely influenced by him. Neither father nor Jim
believed that they would assault one of their own Brotherhood, the man
whose contributions had exceeded those of any other, and whose heart had
been hot for action days before. They did not realize that men are
turned to tigers at the touch of blood or riot, and that for lack of
other material--just as the mob of Paris guillotined their own leaders
when gentler blood was all expended--so would these mad dogs turn for
victims upon their kind.
"Go you and search," said Inspector Morrissey to two of his bluecoats.
"You know every hiding-place about here. Find him, or trace of him quick
as you can."
And the wearied officers turned away. They had had a wretched time of
it, for over thirty hours, and not a wink of sleep. Scattered by twos
and threes they had been expected to preserve the peace even though
repeatedly cautioned not to use force. An important election was close
at hand. The city officials, now seeking re-election, had forfeited long
since the respect of the educated classes of the community, and their
only hopes lay now with the great mass of the populace in which the
strikers were largely represented, and from which their supporters and
sympathizers were without exception drawn. It would not do to club or
intimidate, and thereby offend these thousands of voters, and the
police, brave and determined individually, and long schooled in handling
the "tough" element, now found themselves absolutely crippled and
hampered, first by a feeling of personal friendship for many of the
railway men themselves, second by absence of either support or approval
when it came to handling the rioters. Not until the mob had burst all
bounds, and the safety of the great city was at stake did the officials
realize the tone of the torrent they had turned loose, and then gave
reluctant, half-hearted orders to suppress the riot even though somebody
had to be hurt. When at last the city troops were marched to the several
scenes, the wearied police took heart again, and many of them went to
work with their old-time vim.
Just before eleven o'clock Jim was tenderly lifted into one of the
regimental ambulances, and with his mother and Jess carefully driven
over home, where sympathizing neighbors gathered and ministered to one
and all. Half a dozen of Jim's associates, strikers themselves, but
appalled and disgusted now at the contemplation of the result of their
folly, established themselves as a guard at the cottage, while others
eagerly, fearfully joined in the search for the honored old Scotchman
who, with too good reason, many feared, had fallen a victim to the fury
of the rioters. Farley, Jim's brakeman, had not been seen for hours, and
this was significant. Fred, leaving his brother safely stowed away in
bed, with all possible comfort secured for the night, kissed his
mother's tear-stained face and told her he must go. She clung to him
shuddering a moment, yet could not say no. He was a man now, just
twenty-one, and knew his duty. Had not the Colonel said there was
further work ahead?
It came, quickly enough. A man in a buggy with a prancing, frightened
horse, was eagerly importuning the imperturbable gray-mustached Colonel,
as Corporal Fred returned to his post, and the conversation was more
than interesting.
"I _have_ appealed to the police. They say they're powerless. They've
got all they can do now. There's two companies of your regiment right
there near them within four squares. Colonel, if you will only order
them to go with me we can disperse that mob, and save the plant, cars,
and all."
"How many rioters are there, Mr.--Mr. Manners?"
"There must be five hundred; five hundred at least, and they've set fire
to the cars twice, and driven off the firemen and police."
"But, Mr. Manners, two companies of _tin_ soldiers can't drive away five
hundred strong men; and I understand you spoke of my men to-day as
such."
"Don't kick a man when he's down, Colonel. I may have said something
foolish--any man's liable to make mistakes; but four hundred thousand
dollars' worth of property is burning up there, and my watchmen are
being stoned and killed. We discharged some bad characters last week,
and they're heading the mob now."
"Yes, this does seem to give your discharged men a chance. Now there
were two or three given their walking papers to-day," continued the
Colonel, with provoking coolness, his lips twitching under his handsome
gray mustache.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Colonel, don't rub it in! I'll make it all right
with those men. Just think what's happened to the Amity Works all the
time you've been keeping me waiting and begging."
"I know what's been happening, Mr. Manners," said the veteran officer,
calmly, "and you don't know what wouldn't have happened but for the
prompt action of the very regiment you saw fit to ridicule, and the very
men you kicked out of their clerkships because they obeyed the order to
turn out, as _it_ turned out, to save you and your works. I ordered two
companies there twenty minutes ago. The mob scattered at their coming,
and not a dollar's worth have you lost. I only kept you here out of
danger for a while, and now, if you please, Corporal Wallace of my
headquarters party--with whom possibly you're acquainted--will conduct
you safely back. Jump into the gentleman's buggy, corporal. Your uniform
will pass him through our lines without detention. Good-night, Mr.
Manners. Next time we send a summons to the works, it'll probably be for
Sergeant Wallace, and I hope to hear of no further objection on your
part."
And despite sorrow for Jim and anxiety about his father, Corporal Fred
couldn't help feeling, as he drove with his abashed employer swiftly
through the dim yet familiar streets, that life had some compensation
after all.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 821.
FIGHTING THE ELEMENTS.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
"I tell you the steamship is a wonderful machine."
That was the exclamation of Mr. Powers as he sat on the deck of the _St.
Petersburg_. Away above him towered the three funnels from which the
brown smoke went swirling away to leeward. Away below him throbbed the
giant quadruple-expansion engines, turning the twin screws over nearly
ninety times a minute, and hurling the massive fabric forward through
the sea of sapphire and silver twenty-one knots an hour. Little Harry
Powers, who sat beside his grandfather, thought the steamer a fine thing
too, but he was not quite so much impressed with it as was the old man,
because he had not lived in the days when there were no steamers.
"No buffeting head winds and head seas for months at a time now,"
exclaimed Mr. Powers. "Steam is invincible."
"Um--yes, generally," said Captain Ferris, who was going over as a
passenger to bring out from Gourock a new yacht.
"Why not always?" asked Mr. Powers.
"Well, in order to answer that question," replied the Captain,
thoughtfully, "I must tell you that some steamers are not as large and
powerful as others."
"Of course I know that," said Mr. Powers, rather impatiently, "but they
all manage to get across in defiance of the winds."
"Perhaps I'd better tell you of an instance I have in mind," said the
Captain.
"Do so by all means," answered Mr. Powers; and Harry leaned forward
attentively, because he perceived that a yarn of the sea was
forth-coming. Captain Ferris settled himself comfortably in his chair,
cast a look around the horizon, and then launched into his story.
"Three years ago," he said, "I was in Hamburg in command of the
steamship _Bristow_. She is a vessel of about 1200 tons, and is in the
carrying trade, though she occasionally takes half a dozen passengers at
low rates. I was ready to get under way for New York when a man,
accompanied by a boy about the age of your grandson there, came aboard
and applied for passage. He said that he had come to Europe on business,
and had received word that his wife was very sick in New York. He was
anxious to get home and my ship was the first that was going. I advised
him to wait three days and take the Hamburg-American liner, which would
arrive fully five days before us; but he said he had not money enough to
go that way except in the steerage, and he could not think of doing that
because his boy's health was none too good. So, of course, I agreed to
take the two. The boy looked up at me and said,
"'Thank you, sir; and please make the ship hurry, because mamma is
waiting for us.'
"I promised him I'd do my best, and, indeed, I did make up my mind to
push the ship as she'd never been pushed before. We sailed at three
o'clock on June 28th--I remember that date well enough. It was a
lowering damp afternoon, with a brisk southwesterly wind, and as soon as
we got fairly out into the North Sea the ship began to butt into a nasty
chop that sent the spray flying over her bows. But I was able to escape
the worst of it by hugging the Holland coast, and so got down into the
English Channel in some comfort. But now it was no longer possible to
hug the coast, for that would have carried me too far out of my course.
However, the _Bristow_ made good progress till we passed Fastnet Rock
and got well out into the Atlantic. And there our troubles began. The
morning of our third day out dawned with a hard low sky, a dead calm,
and a deep, long, oily swell underrunning the ship. She rolled pitiably
indeed. The barometer began to fall, and the wind rose and became very
unsettled. I think that before noon it blew from every point of the
compass, and some of the gusts were regular white squalls. The swell was
running from the south, but the wind was chiefly from the west,
southwest, and northwest. Toward evening the wind settled down, and by
dark it was dead calm. But the terrific swells that swept up from the
south, the gradual fall of the barometer, and the lurid state of the sky
told me that there was a lot of trouble ahead of us yet. We were about
400 miles west of Fastnet at ten o'clock, and I lay down, giving my
first officer instructions to call me in case the wind rose. Just before
midnight I was aroused, and went on deck to find the wind coming in
short angry blasts from the nor'west. At midnight it came out with the
full force of a hurricane right in our teeth. In a short time a terrible
confused sea was running. It was a frightful night. At three o'clock in
the morning a thunder-storm swept over with the gale. Fierce lightning
and a deluge of rain combined to make an appalling scene. Daylight found
the ship reeling and staggering over huge jagged walls of water that
loomed up ahead of her as if they would swallow her. Just after four
o'clock a fearful sea fell bodily over the starboard quarter and stove
in one side of the cabin, filling it with water. I saw that it was
madness to try to drive the ship against such weather, and I hove her
to. When I went to my breakfast, Mr. Howard, my passenger, and his son
were there, very quiet and with white faces.
"'Will the ship sink, Captain?' asked the boy.
"'Oh no,' I answered; 'she's all right.'
"'But we sha'n't get home to mamma so soon,' murmured the boy,
mournfully."
[Illustration: FOR TWO WEEKS, INCH BY INCH, THE "BRISTOW" FOUGHT AGAINST
A SERIES OF WESTERLY GALES.]
"I had hove the ship to so as to bring the damaged side of the
deck-house to leeward, and I set the carpenter at work repairing it. We
were hove to for twenty-eight hours, and then, the weather moderating
somewhat, I started the _Bristow_ ahead at half speed. We had drifted
back fully seventy-five miles, and as we did not make more than three
knots an hour ahead, it took us fully a day to recover the lost ground.
Although the force of the wind had abated, it was still blowing a gale,
and the sea was sufficiently heavy to impede our progress very much. In
all my experience at sea I have never met with such heart-breaking
weather. If the wind had only shifted to our beam I would have been
profoundly grateful, while a hurricane on our quarter, disturbing at any
other time, would have filled me with joy. That boy's pale anxious face
and the thought of the sick mother at home haunted me as I walked the
reeling bridge or clung to its rail, and held my breath when some green
wall crashed down upon our forecastle deck. But the westward sky seemed
to be made of chilled steel, and out of its pitiless lips blew one gale
after another, and all full of a biting cold that made the name of
summer a foolish jest. For two weeks, inch by inch, the _Bristow_,
running her engine at its full power, fought her way against a series of
westerly gales. The decks were white with crusted salt, and the
iron-work became browned with rust, until the ship began to look old and
haggard from her struggle with the elements. But the worst had not come
yet. On the seventeenth day out, while I was at my dinner, the
pale-faced boy and his father sitting opposite to me and gazing at me in
mournful silence, the chief engineer came to me with a grave
countenance, and asked me to step aside that he might speak with me.
"'Captain,' said he, 'I am sorry to tell you that the coal in our
bunkers is getting very low, and that unless we make better headway it
will run out before we make port.'
"'Cut up all the spare wood in the hold,' I said, 'and feed that to the
furnaces.'
"The engineer went away shaking his head, and then the boy came up to me
and said,
"'Captain, are we ever going to get home?'
"'Oh yes,' I said, with an effort to appear cheerful; 'of course we are.
We're doing very well now.'
"The boy looked at me reproachfully and walked away. His father hadn't
said a word to me for two days. But I declare it wasn't my fault. Well,
you may think we had had our share of trouble, but we were not through
yet. On the afternoon of July 20th several large ice-floes were sighted,
and that night the ship ran into a dense field of ice. By this time most
of our spare wood had been burned, and we were depending largely on our
sails to carry us along, while the wind, which was still blowing half a
gale, was almost dead ahead. And here we were in an ice-field that
hemmed us in as far as the eye could see. The temperature of the air was
bitterly cold, and it seemed as if we had been plunged into the midst of
arctic regions. The ice-floes crashed and groaned, gulls whirled
phantomlike and screaming above our stained spars, and all the time the
wind blew against us as if some supernatural force were bent on driving
us back. On the evening of the 21st the ship's carpenter came to me and
said,
"'Captain, there are six inches of water in the hold.'
"For a minute, I think, I could not speak, for this new misfortune quite
stunned me.
"'Have you found the leak?' I asked at length.
"'Not yet, sir,' he answered. 'It is somewhere forward, though.'
"'Make a close search for it, and let me know at once,' I said.
"He went below, and in about half an hour reported that one of the
plates in our starboard bow had been cracked by the ice. The break was
below the water-line, but I succeeded in stopping it up by melting some
tar, which I fortunately had aboard, and pouring it into the crack. Our
engine was stopped altogether now, because the ice was so thick that it
was dangerous to push the vessel ahead. There was a good deal of sea
underrunning the ice, and it required the greatest skill and
watchfulness to prevent disaster. To avoid injury altogether was quite
impossible. At four bells in the morning watch on July 23d, while we
were still in the ice-field, there was a jar and a crash. I sprang from
my bunk, in which I had been lying dressed, and jumped on deck.
"'What in the world has happened now?' I cried.
"'Carried away our rudder, sir,' called the second mate, who was leaning
over the taffrail.
"The pale-faced boy came up to me, and looking into my face with his
great solemn eyes, said,
"'What shall we do now?'
"'Rig another,' I answered as bravely as I could.
"I'm not going to describe to you the rigging of a jury-rudder, because
it's one of the commonest feats of sea-engineering; but I will tell you
that it cost us a day's hard work, and required the use of some spare
stuff which I would have been very glad to put into the furnaces, for
the coal supply was becoming smaller and smaller, and we were seven
hundred miles from the nearest port. Well, we were twelve long,
heart-breaking days in the ice. Fortunately it rained heavily during two
of those days, and by using everything we had on board, including the
boats, to catch the rain, I succeeded in fairly replenishing the supply
of water in our tanks. We were fortunate in having an unusually large
supply of food, and this alone saved us from falling into the straits of
hunger. We had plenty of everything except beef and pork. These articles
were exhausted, and we had to depend upon canned food, bread, crackers,
tea, and coffee. But we had enough of those to last us three months, so
that I did not deem it necessary to shorten the allowances. On August 2d
we got clear of the ice, and began to make progress at the rate of four
knots an hour under sail and a little steam, but three points off our
course. In all this time we had sighted nothing save one distant sail;
but on August 3d, to our intense joy, a steamer rose over the horizon
ahead of us. I set signals of distress, and they were seen. The steamer
proved to be the _Argonaut_, from Halifax for Liverpool, and her Captain
agreed to tow us into Halifax. It was a long, long way, and we knew it
would be a slow task, but the thought of it lightened every heart. My
men jumped eagerly to the task of passing the great hawser, and at four
o'clock in the afternoon it was stretched, and the _Argonaut_ began to
drag us westward at six knots an hour. Our ship's company gathered in
the bow and gave a cheer, and the boy smiled and said,
"'At last we shall get home to mamma.'
"I turned in after that and slept the sleep of exhaustion. The
_Argonaut_ towed us gallantly for 250 miles; and then, on the night of
August 5th, we ran into another gale from the nor'west. It was not as
bad as those we had previously encountered, but it checked our advance,
and before morning had raised a heavy sea. At eight o'clock the tow-line
parted with a report like that of a gun. To think of stretching it again
in such a sea was hopeless, but the _Argonaut_ lay by us all day.
Several times in the course of the following night we saw her lights,
but before morning the wind shifted to the southeast, a fog came up, and
we never saw the _Argonaut_ again. Sadly we set sail on the _Bristow_,
and began to move slowly through the still troubled waters. But at nine
o'clock the fog cleared off, the wind hauled to the eastward, and the
sea became moderate. I was now able to set every stitch of canvas on the
vessel with a fair wind, and I laid my course for St. John's,
Newfoundland. We forged ahead at four knots an hour, and hope revived in
every breast. But before night the wind fell light, and our progress
became nothing better than a drift of two knots hourly. Still we were
going ahead, and we did not despair. Calm weather and light winds
continued till August 10th, and then the wind came in ahead. We were now
about two hundred miles from Cape Race. Two schooners passed us in the
course of the day, and I signalled to them our condition, asking them to
report us, and they promised to do so. I now determined to use the last
fuel I could find aboard the ship. Our coal had been exhausted, and I
did not dare to strip the spars from the masts lest I should still need
them to make sail. All the bulkheads in the ship were iron, but I had
every available bit of wood-work cut away, including the doors, and so
made enough steam to start the engine again. We went ahead very slowly
all that day, but the following morning, when 38 miles southeast of Cape
Race, we came to a stand-still. Our fuel was all gone, and the boilers
were cold.
"'What shall we do now?' asked the pale-faced boy.
"'Send a boat to Cape Race for help,' said I.
"My first officer, Hiram Baker, and four seamen volunteered to make the
voyage, and at nine o'clock, with a well-provisioned and unsinkable
life-boat, they pushed off from the ship. We watched them out-of sight
with aching hearts and throbbing eyes. There was a light breeze from the
westward, and the life-boat was able to work to windward, so she could
come pretty near laying her course. The weather seemed settled, and I
felt that unless some unforeseen accident occurred she would reach her
destination before the next day. And so, indeed, she did. Two powerful
sea-going tugs were despatched from St. John's, and on the afternoon of
August 12th they hove in sight. Two hours later they had us in tow, and
that night we arrived in St. John's, six weeks and three days out. The
boy and his father hurried off to the telegraph office and sent a
message to New York. In the morning a messenger came aboard with an
answer. I can never forget with what eager hands Mr. Howard tore open
the envelope. Then he threw his arms around his boy and said,
"'She is much better!'
"'Then we shall be at home in time, after all.'
"And he came up to me and gave me a kiss, which rewarded me for all my
struggles."
* * * * *
In the thirteenth century the Chinese government issued some paper
currency. To-day there are probably but two notes of that issue extant.
One is in the British Museum, and the other in the possession of the
Oriental Society of St. Petersburg. These notes were issued in the reign
of Hung Woo, the founder of the Ning Dynasty, who died in 1398. The face
value of the notes is about a dollar, and that issue of paper currency
was the only one ever guaranteed by the Chinese government. To-day these
notes are probably the rarest and most valuable of currency issues.
Nearly all note collectors and Chinese bankers are fully aware of their
existence and their value.
STEWED QUAKER.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
I don't like to be very ill--just ill enough to make her,
(My grandmamma) say softly, "Child, I'll fix you some stewed Quaker."
It's sweet and thick and very nice, and has molasses in it,
And lots of vinegar and spice; you want it every minute.
And being medicine, of course you sip and say it's dandy.
Just only think! it's _medicine_, and tastes like taffy candy!
Now castor-oil and squills, and stuff that wrinkles up your forehead,
And puckers up your mouth, and gags and burns, are simply horrid.
_I_ don't mind being ill at all, if darling grandma'll make her
Nice dose she used to make for pa when he was young--stewed Quaker.
HIS WHEEL SAVED HIS LIFE.
The bicycle has proved useful as a life-saving machine in many
instances, but it remained for John O'Hara, of Broome Street, in New
York, to discover how good a bicycle is as a means of escape from a mad
dog. John is a well-grown lad, and is so fond of bicycle-riding that he
goes on wheeling trips through the streets of the Fast Side. All of
these streets are crowded, but probably no one of them is so jammed full
of pedestrians and push-carts and peddlers' wagons as Forsyth Street.
Experts say that no other part of the world is so thickly populated as
this neighborhood, so you can easily imagine how difficult it must be to
go wheeling a bicycle through it.
John O'Hara was enjoying a pleasant spin on the smooth asphalt pavement
of Forsyth Street, near Broome, at noon the other day, when he noticed
the crowd scattering right and left, and diving into open hallways and
down cellar stairs. Presently he heard a cry of "Mad dog!" He wheeled
around and turned to flee to the southward. As he hurried away he looked
back over his shoulder, and saw a big white dog galloping after him, its
red tongue lolling out, and yellow foam dripping from its open jaws. As
the dog ran it turned and snapped viciously right and left. The cries of
the crowds on the sidewalk warned everybody on the pavement, so that
there was a clear field ahead of O'Hara for several blocks. He pushed
hard on the pedals, and sprinted away as hard as he could. If he could
only be sure of plenty of headway he knew he would be safe. The dog was
not running very fast, for his gait was uncertain, and he wavered from
side to side.
If O'Hara had turned out into any of the side streets he would have been
safe, but in the excitement of the moment he did not think of this. His
one idea was to run ahead as fast as possible. Now and then the carts
and wagons in the street were slow in turning out, and O'Hara had to
slow up. In this way he ran five blocks, now gaining on the dog, and now
almost overtaken. At Canal Street there was such a jam of vehicles that
the bicycle rider almost had to stop. The dog galloped ahead of him,
snapping at the wheel as it went past. O'Hara might have even then
turned northward for safety, but he was too excited, as probably most of
us would have been in his place. He kept straight ahead, and as the dog
fell in front of him, the wheels of the bicycle passed over its neck and
stunned it. Away went O'Hara at full speed, and a policeman, fortunately
near at hand, shot and killed the dog before it could recover. Probably
this is the first time that a bicycle was ever used as a weapon as well
as a means of flight from danger.
TWO BRAVE MEN.
It has frequently been asserted that no fortifications of masonry could
resist modern ordnance, and this is doubtless true so far as heavy siege
guns are concerned. But in the recent war against China the Japanese
troops found on several occasions that with their light batteries of
field and mountain artillery they were unable to make any impression
upon the heavy stone defences of some of the walled Chinese towns. The
gates, especially, seemed able to resist any amount of bombarding, for
the masonry was much thicker and higher at these points, and frequently
there were three and four heavy iron-bound oaken doors to be broken open
before an entrance could be effected. The attacks on these walled towns
furnished occasions for a number of brave deeds on the part of the
Japanese soldiers, who proved themselves to be reckless in the display
of courage, and absolutely fearless in the face of the greatest dangers.
One of the first occasions of the kind was at Kin-chow, a good-sized
town surrounded by a very high stone wall with only a few gates. The
Japanese artillery had been firing at the principal gate for an hour or
so without effect, and the infantry had made assault after assault
against the perpendicular walls without being able to dislodge the
enemy, who were well screened behind battlements and embrasures. At last
the commander of the attacking force decided that the only way to get
into the town would be to blow open the gate with dynamite or
nitro-glycerine. It was all very well to decide upon this, after looking
at the heavy doors from a distance through field-glasses, but it was an
entirely different matter to put the explosive in place and set it off.
[Illustration: TOKUYI BLOWING UP THE GATES OF KIN-CHOW.]
Nevertheless, as soon as it was announced that it had been determined by
the commander to blow open the gates, Onoguchi Tokuyi, a private soldier
of the corps of engineers, volunteered to take the cartridge and place
it under the doors. He rushed from among his companions and ran straight
for the wall, from the top of which the Chinese poured a perfect hail of
bullets at him. But the Chinese soldiery never aim, and usually fire
with their eyes closed, so that Tokuyi reached the gate unharmed. He
placed the bomb under one of the hinges, lit the fuse, and only had time
to retreat a few steps when with a roar and a crash the great oaken
doors were torn to pieces and fell inward. The soldier was knocked down
by the force of the explosion, but he quickly picked himself up, and,
leaping through the dust and smoke, placed a second cartridge under the
inner gate and blew that open in the same way. By this time a perfect
avalanche of Japanese infantry was pouring through the opened doorway,
and in a very few minutes the Chinese were in full rout. Tokuyi was
found unconscious after the fight, lying near the second door. He had
been hit in the shoulder by a bullet as he entered the outer gate. He
was treated by the army surgeons, and sent home to Japan to get well,
and then he was decorated for his bravery by the Mikado.
[Illustration: MIMURA CLIMBING THE WALLS OF PING-YANG.]
A similar exhibition of courage was given by an infantryman at the
storming of the Gemmun Gate at Ping-Yang. There, too, the thick stone
walls proved impervious to Japanese shot and shell, and after two
fruitless assaults it was decided to try some other method. Lieutenant
Mimura volunteered to open the gate single-handed, but Private Harada
stepped out and said he would follow along and help. Both men then ran
for a corner of the gateway, while their comrades diverted the attention
of the Chinese defenders by keeping up a hot fusillade. Mimura and
Harada clambered quickly up the face of the wall by placing their hands
and feet in the chinks between the stones. They succeeded in reaching
the top without being seen by the Chinese, who were busy blazing away at
the main body of the enemy, and then jumped down and rushed for the
inside of the gate. They had to cut their way through a horde of
Chinamen as soon as they had gotten inside the town; but they finally
beat them off, and threw the bolts of the heavy gates, that were at once
shoved in by the attacking force outside. Both Lieutenant Mimura and
Private Harada were promoted the next day.
* * * * *
Two gentlemen had a rather lively dispute, which finally wound up in an
agreement to fight it out in a duel. One of the gentlemen was extremely
thin and the other stout. The stout gentleman complained that it would
be useless for him to fire at such a shadow, for one might as well
expect to hit the edge of a razor as to hit the man. Whereupon the lean
man made the proposal to chalk a line down the fat man, and if his shot
failed to take effect within the narrow side of the line it wouldn't
count.
GREAT MEN'S SONS.
THE SON OF LUTHER
BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.
[Illustration: Decorative H]
igh on a Saxon hill-side overlooking the pleasant valley of the Itz, and
in the shadow of the loftier Frankenwalds, stands an old castle now gray
with age and rich in memories. In one of its many guest rooms, near an
open window, about which crows and jackdaws hung with swirl and clamor,
there sat, many years ago, a stockily-built, firm-featured,
fearless-eyed man writing a letter.
Armed men fill the castle; upon its walls and on its highest turrets
watchmen stand on guard; above it floats the standard of the Elector of
Saxony; and the great gate opens only to the summons of those who come
with credentials or password.
The time is one of anxiety and excitement, for the Protestant Princes of
northern Germany have taken a bold stand against their lord the Emperor.
Messengers ride daily to and from the castle, and letters are sent now
this way and now that, freighted with important measures or hot with
words of protest, counsel, and appeal, strengthening those who waver,
restraining those who are over-bold.
As by his open window in the ancient castle of Coburg, where his
presence is honored and his word is law, the strongman sits at work.
What is the letter that he writes? Who is the Prince or preacher for
whom his words of wisdom are penned? Is he a soldier issuing commands,
or a councillor sending advice to Elector, Duke, or King?
We draw near the writer, and as we look over his shoulder, following the
queer old German script his quick quill traces on the paper, this is
what we read:
"Grace and peace in Christ. My dear little son, I am glad to hear
that thou learnest well and prayest diligently. Do this, my son,
and continue it; when I return home I will bring thee a fine
fairing.
"I know a beautiful cheerful garden, in which many children walk
about. They have golden coats on, and gather beautiful apples
under the trees, and pears and cherries and plums; they sing, and
jump about, and are merry; they have also fine little horses with
golden bridles and silver saddles. And I asked the man, 'Whose
children are they?' He replied, 'These are the children who like
to pray and learn and are pious.' Then I said, 'My good man, I
have a son; his name is John Luther, may he not also come to this
garden to eat such nice apples and pears, and ride such fine
little horses and play with these children?' And the man said, 'If
he likes to pray and learn and is pious, he shall come to this
garden with Philip and James; and when they all come together they
shall have pipes and cymbals, lutes and other musical instruments,
and dance, and shoot with little cross-bows.'
"And he showed me a fine meadow in the garden prepared for
dancing, there being nothing but golden pipes, cymbals, and
beautiful silver cross-bows. But it was yet early and the children
had not dined. Therefore I could not wait for the dancing, and
said to the man, 'My good master, I will go quickly and write all
this to my dear little son John, that he may pray diligently,
learn well, and be pious, that he also may be admitted into this
garden; but he hath an Aunt Lena whom he must bring with him.' The
man answered, 'So be it; go and write this to him.'
"Therefore, my dear little son John, learn and pray with all
confidence; and tell this to Philip and James, that they also may
learn and pray; and ye will all meet in this beautiful garden.
Herewith I commend thee to Almighty God. Give greetings to Aunt
Lena, and also a kiss from me. Thy father who loves thee.
"19th June, 1530.
"MARTIN LUTHER."
A cheery, bright, helpful, storylike letter to a boy, is it not? And
written from that old German castle in a time of danger and of
controversy. And the writer is neither soldier, prince, nor priest, but
greater than soldier, prince, or priest, the one man who gave the
death-blow to the ignorance of the Dark Ages, and changed the history of
the world. For the writer was Martin Luther, the apostle of the
Reformation, the "renegade monk" who dared, in spite of Pope and Orders,
to tell the world that alike the Word of God and the conscience of man
were free, and who, in the year 1521, commanded by Pope and Emperor to
take back his bold words, heroicly said, in the midst of enemies, and in
the face of almost certain death: "I may not, I cannot retract; for it
is neither safe nor right to act against conscience. Here stand I. I
cannot do otherwise. God help me."
And the little four-year-old boy to whom this storylike letter was
written was Luther's first-born, the dearly loved "son John." He was
named for his grandfather Hans (or John) Luther, the Saxon miner, and he
was born in June, 1526, in the cloister-home in Wittenberg, where his
father, Martin Luther, had first lived as monk, and afterwards as
master. For when that monk made his heroic stand, and the men of North
Germany followed him as a leader, the Prince of his homeland, the
Elector of Saxony, gave him as his home the Augustinian convent at
Wittenberg, deserted by the monks, who would not follow him whom they
called "the renegade."
Here in the cloisters of the old convent, close to the city wall, and
almost overhanging the river Elbe, Martin Luther and his wife Catherine
made their home; here they received into their household students,
professors, travellers, and guests--men anxious to hear the glad tidings
of religious freedom that this great leader proclaimed to Germany and
the world, and here, as I have told you, in June, 1526, little
"Hanschen," or "Johnny" Luther was born.
Luther was a man who loved home and family ties, and from babyhood
little John was most dear to him. The Reformer's letters to his friends
are full of references to the small stranger who had come into the
Wittenberg home; and neither hot religious disputes, knotty theological
problems, nor grave political happenings could crowd Johnny out of the
father's heart.
We get these glimpses of "our John" frequently. "Through the grace of
God there has come to us," he writes to one of his friends, "a little
Hans [John] Luther, a hale and hearty first-born"; and a few days later
he says that, with wife and son, he envies neither Pope nor Emperor. Of
the year-old boy he writes, in May, 1527, "My little Johnny is lively
and robust, and eats and drinks like a hero."
That year of 1527 some terribly contagious disease, called, as all such
"catching" illnesses then were, "the plague," visited Wittenberg and
converted the Luther household "into a hospital." "Thy little favorite,
John"--thus he closes a letter to a friend--"does not salute thee, for
he is too ill to speak, but through me he solicits your prayers. For the
last twelve days he has not eaten a morsel. 'Tis wonderful to see how
the poor child keeps up his spirits; he would manifestly be as gay and
joyous as ever, were it not for the excess of his physical weakness." It
was in the midst of the poverty and worry that the plague and the other
crosses he endured brought about that Luther wrote his great hymn, "Ein
feste Burg ist unser Gott," one of the grand and triumphant "Hymns of
the Ages," and we can imagine that, with his powerful voice, he rang the
hymn out gladly when, in December, 1527, he could write thankfully, "Our
John is well and strong again."
Luther was a great letter-writer, and in the midst of pressing duties
and important deeds, away from his loved ones, he could always find time
to write home. Many of these "letters home" remain on record, beginning
"To the gracious dame Catherine Luther, my dear spouse, who is
tormenting herself quite unnecessarily"; or, "To my sweet wife Catherine
Luther von Bora. Grace and peace in the Lord. Dear Catherine, we hope to
be with you again this week, if it please God." But one of the most
famous of the Luther letters is that one which, when "our John" was just
four years old, his father wrote from the old castle of Coburg, in the
shadow of the Saxon mountains, and in the midst of stirring times,
sitting at the window, as we have seen, while outside the crows were
cawing and the jackdaws were chattering, and armed men guarded the great
letter-writer as the most precious of Germany's possessions.
Five boys and girls blessed that cloister-home at Wittenberg. The
Luthers were never "well-to-do"; sometimes they were so short of
money--for Luther was overgenerous in his charities--as to feel the
pinch of poverty. But Luther had friends in high places who would not
let him want, and he was therefore able to give his boys tutors at home
and good instruction later on in life.
"Son John" could scarcely be called a brilliant scholar. Indeed, he was
a bit dull, and inclined to take things easy. In this his mother seems
to have been just a trifle partial to her first-born, and inclined to
help him thus take things easy. So, when he was sixteen, "son John" was
sent away to school.
From the letter which he bore from his father to Mark Crodel, the
teacher of the Latin school in the Saxon town of Torgau, young John
seems to have entered the school as a sort of "pupil-teacher," for thus
the letter runs:
"According to our arrangement, my dear Mark, I send thee my son
John, that thou mayst employ him in teaching the children grammar
and music, and at the same time superintend and improve his moral
conduct. If thou succeedest in improving him, I will send thee two
other sons of mine. For, though I desire my children to be good
divines, yet I would have them sound grammarians and accomplished
musicians."
Young John would seem to have been sent to Torgau as one needing
correction; and, indeed, I am afraid he was not always a good or a
dutiful son; otherwise it is hard to explain the words of Luther when
one of his friends spoke of the boy's frequent attacks of illness. "Ay,"
said Dr. Luther, "'tis the punishment due to his disobedience. He almost
killed me once, and ever since I have but little strength of body.
Thanks to him I now thoroughly understand that passage where St. Paul
speaks of children who kill their parents not by the sword, but by
disobedience."
Just how the son "nearly killed" his father we cannot say. It may have
been the great man's strong way of putting things, but evidently "son
John" also needed reformation.
[Illustration: JOHN WAS THE COMPANION OF HIS FATHER IN MANY
EXPEDITIONS.]
However that may be, we catch more glimpses of John's good side than of
his bad. He was the companion of his father in many of his expeditions
about Germany, and he was with him on that fatal trip to Eisleben in
January, 1546, to reconcile the quarrelsome Counts of Mansfeld.
With his boy he forded the icy rivers Mulde and Saale, where they nearly
lost their lives, and where the Reformer doubtless "caught his death."
Escorted by horsemen and spearmen, Luther and his son entered Eisleben;
the Counts of Mansfeld were reconciled, but Luther fell sick, and that
very night, the 18th of February, he died.
All Germany mourned the great man's death; all Germany hoped that his
sons might follow in the father's steps. But the three boys seem only to
have turned out respectable men, without any of the elements of
greatness or leadership.
John Luther made a fairly good lawyer. He married the daughter of one of
his professors at Königsberg University; served as a soldier in the
German army; settled down, and died at Königsberg, in the year 1576, at
the age of fifty. His name is chiefly remembered as the "dear Johnny"
and "son John" of his great father's letters, and of the happy home
circle in the cloister-house at Wittenberg. He left neither name nor
deed to make his memory a word in the mouths of men; yet we cannot but
feel that, as the son of Luther, he must have been proud of the great
father whom he remembered only with love and reverence, and, let us
hope, rejoiced to see the regard the world paid to the masterful ways of
the great Reformer and leader, whose gifts the son did not inherit, and
whose name he but feebly upheld.
[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]
This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on
the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address
Editor.
The last Pudding Stick was especially designed for young people who wish
to write for the papers. This one is also to be about writing, but in
rather a different line. I hope none of you will be offended if I urge
upon you the importance of learning to spell. It always gives me a
little quiver of pain--something like the sudden start of a nerve in a
tooth which is sensitive--when I read a letter from one of my girls, and
find that she uses two "l's" where she should use one, or one "t" where
two are required. I think it is easier for some than for others to spell
correctly. Spelling is largely a matter dependent on attention. You may
not know it, but your eyes are always teaching you how to spell, and,
unconsciously, as you read interesting books or the daily paper, you see
how words are spelled, and learn to spell correctly yourself. There is
no excuse for any girl who has both sight and hearing to blunder in her
spelling, when Helen Keller, who can neither see nor hear, spells
without ever making a mistake. Helen writes a beautiful legible hand,
and uses a type-writer to perfection, and yet she has never had the
advantages which most of us possess, having been blind and deaf ever
since her babyhood. The thing is to pay close attention if you desire to
be a good speller.
Very much more than we fancy we are dependent for our style of speech in
writing and conversation on the authors we read. Here, too, we need to
be attentive. No bright American girl can afford not to read a few pages
of some good author every day of her life. Mere story-books are not
sufficient. Keep on hand a book which is a serious undertaking, and plod
straight through it. I have made this a rule all my life, and I advise
you to do the same.
Those who have had the good fortune to be early taught another language
besides your own, and who understand French or German, should keep on
hand a book in one of those languages, and read a chapter or two every
day. If I could I would like to persuade you of the importance of doing
something along the line of a study or an accomplishment every single
day. Even a few minutes regularly devoted will tell in time to
advantage. The president of one of our great New England colleges used
to say to the students, "Nothing can stand before the day's works."
People who set apart a little while every morning or every afternoon for
a definite purpose, and then never allow themselves to lose that time,
making it up if they are interrupted by extra effort on the next day,
soon surpass the brilliant people who are capable of great exertions now
and then, but never do anything patiently day by day. I wish, too, that
I could say to you as strongly as I feel, "love your work." "The labor
we delight in physics pain." It seems to me a dreadful thing to go to
one's work with the spirit of a slave. We should always put into our
work our best thoughts, our best hope, and the motive of true love. No
matter what the work, the way we go about it gives it worth and dignity,
or makes it petty and mean.
Another caution is, do not talk very much about what you are doing.
Nothing is so weak as vanity. Somewhere in the world there is always
somebody doing such work as ours quite as well as we can do it, and we
have no right to inflict upon our friends the story of our personal
endeavors or failures. It is well to omit from our daily conversation as
much as possible references to ourselves and to what we are engaged
upon. I want my girls to become interesting women, and the woman who is
really interesting thinks and talks of others more than of herself.
It is a good plan, in order to fix on your mind what you read and wish
to remember, to keep a commonplace book. Here you may copy poems which
please you, dates of striking events, bits of description, and
entertaining anecdotes. One girl friend of mine succeeded thus in making
a very beautiful compilation, which was afterwards published, and which
gave great pleasure to her friends.
[Illustration: Signature]
ON BOARD THE ARK.
BY ALBERT LEE.