itself, such billows of light did it pour forth. The rollicking breeze
danced round and about the caravan, and would by no means be left
behind. The corn in Farmer Tucker's field waved its silken tassels in a
delighted frenzy. All the golden-rod and asters were alert to see the
sight.
At last the coverings were taken from the gilded chariot; fifes and
drums struck up a tune. All the Skowhegan boys came flocking out of town
to meet the caravan. Some one put an American flag into Philemon's hand.
What an honor! The lad's heart swelled with pride. He held his head
high. He was actually a part of "The Great Moral Show."
So absorbed was he in his new dignity that he did not notice that they
were nearing the bridge which stretched across the Kennebec River, just
outside of Skowhegan. Neither did he observe that the elephants were
separating themselves from the rest of the train, until, just as the
gilded chariot passed on the bridge, the animal Philemon rode broke into
a trot--and what a trot!--starting down the river-bank, followed by the
other four elephants. Philemon clung with both his hands.
Into the stream plunged the beasts, wading clumsily along until the
water was breast-high, when they began to swim. Philemon stuck like a
little burr to the gray back.
At last the elephants gained a foot-hold once more. But they were by no
means ready to give up the cool water. They snorted; they tramped; they
plunged; they sucked the water into their trunks, and poured it out
again in great streams. Never had Philemon had such a shower-bath. One
of the elephants lay down and rolled playfully over and over. Philemon
was frightened nearly out of his wits: suppose his elephant should do
likewise? Instead of that, he rose to within a few feet of the bank,
and, having first treated his rider to a few extra bucketfuls of water,
twisted his trunk round one of Philemon's legs.
There was a jerk, a dizzy whirl through the air, and our friend lay
"high," but by no means "dry," upon the earth.
The crowd gathered round. He heard Tom Tadgers's voice in a terrified
wail: "He's dead! he's dead!"
Then some one else spoke: "Bring water."
That was adding insult to injury. Up as straight as a ramrod sat the
afflicted Philemon. "If anybody dares to put another drop of water on
me, I'll--I'll--I'll go _home_!" gasped he.
There was a burst of merriment at that tremendous threat, and the young
hero was lifted on some one's shoulder, and borne along in triumph.
Strange to say, he was not even bruised, and he almost forgot his
mishap, when, an hour later, he was permitted to help in spreading tan
around the open space where Madame Lucetta Almazida was to ride the
famous horse Pegasus, and perform her "world-renowned feat" of jumping
through seventeen hoops and a "barrel wrapped in flames."
That noon Philemon was actually invited to dine with Mons. Duval, the
"incomparable gymnast," and a host of other circus celebrities.
"You're a plucky little fellow, and fit to feed along o' us," said Mons.
Duval, with a grin.
Philemon was much pleased by the compliment, which, though perchance not
expressed in the most refined language, showed a kindly appreciation of
his merits.
He entirely forgot Tom Tadgers, who, not having had the luck to meet
with an accident, was left outside. In fact, Philemon saw Tom no more
that day, and the latter, at the close of the afternoon, met Silas Elder
once more, and rode peacefully home, where he went to bed, quite
omitting to say a word to anybody about Philemon.
In the mean time that worthy ate his dinner with his new companions. He
wondered vaguely what his mother would say if she knew where he was.
He might have wondered more had not one of the men poured a yellow
liquid into a cup, and handed it to him.
"Drink this, my man," said he.
Then everybody laughed. The liquid was sweet. Philemon liked it. He
drank every drop. Soon he began to feel very bright and merry; and when
a new song was sung he joined lustily in the chorus. He had a clear,
high, ringing voice.
"Bless us!" exclaimed Mons. Duval. "Tip us a song yourself, boy."
Not a whit abashed, Philemon began to sing.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mons. Duval. "Tim Luker, what used to do our first
tribble, was took sick this morning. What d'ye say, youngster, to being
blacked up, and singing this evening to the circus along o' our minstrel
troupe?"
That yellow liquid was in Philemon's blood. His eyes sparkled, his
cheeks flamed.
"Yes, I'll sing," cried he, boisterously, "and I'll go to the ends of
the earth with you."
After dinner--it was strange--he felt very drowsy. Mons. Duval, for some
reason, was extremely amused, and considered it a great joke.
"You lay down here and take a nap," he said, and actually took off his
own coat to put over Philemon. The boy slept all that afternoon; indeed,
he never opened his eyes till it was nearly time for the evening's
entertainment to begin.
The big dingy tent where the performance was to come off was lighted.
Philemon followed Mons. Duval into the small tent behind the large one,
where those who were to take part awaited their several turns.
He stood meekly silent, while his face, hands, and neck were daubed with
some sticky black stuff; and then, as bidden, he arrayed himself in some
extraordinary baggy yellow clothes, and a big paper collar.
He caught sight of himself in a bit of glass. He looked like a little
black imp. What would his mother say to see him? A feeling of intense
shame surged over him. He crouched down in a corner, wishing he could
hide himself from the eyes of all men.
Philemon looked around him, and there, close by, was a boy about his own
age, with large brown eyes and white cheeks. He was dressed in
flesh-colored tights.
"Who are you?" asked Philemon, as the boy stared and half smiled.
"I'm the 'Phenomenal Trapezist,'" announced the lad, solemnly.
"What do you do?"
"Oh, I go up on the trapeze, at the tiptop of the tent, and my father
and uncle--they're the crack gymnasts, you know--they toss me about as
if I was a ball. By-and-by I'm going to learn to hang by my toes, and
take a flying leap, sixty foot, to the slack-rope near the ground."
"Aren't you frightened?" exclaimed Philemon.
"Ye--" began the boy, and then quickly changed his tone, as a man clad
in scarlet and gilt came near. "No, I ain't scared. I like it."
"Of course he ain't scared," said the man, roughly. "Come, Bill, it's
time for you and me to show ourselves."
They were joined by Bill's uncle, and the three passed into the outer
tent. Philemon put his eye against a hole in the canvas to watch them.
Like monkeys the two men and the child swung themselves aloft, and
reached the tent roof. Here they twisted, they turned, they made fearful
leaps from one trapeze to another, until Philemon trembled to see them.
At last both men hung by their knees, head downward, and Bill crept
carefully to the end of a long rope, gave a spring, and caught his
father's hands. There was an awful pause; then small Bill was sent
spinning through the air, sixty-five feet from the ground, to be caught
by his uncle, tossed back to his father, now seized by an arm, now by a
leg, now almost missed, now twirled round and round like a ball.
Philemon caught his breath, and stretched out his hand in an agony of
fear. His hand touched another, which was as cold as ice. Glancing up,
he found Madame Lucetta Almazida close by, her eye glued to another hole
in the canvas, her breath coming short and thick, her face livid and
drawn. Not knowing what she did, she clutched Philemon's hand, and he
heard her mutter,
"My baby! my baby!"
"Bill" was her own "Phenomenal Trapezist," and under Madame Lucetta
Almazida's shabby bodice a mother's heart beat wildly.
Philemon's heart beat too. What if he had been a "Bill," and his own
sweet mother had worn short skirts and ridden Pegasus? Horrible!
Poor Lucetta Almazida! Poor little Bill!
But there was time to think of them no more. The band of negro minstrels
was ready to sing. A clown seized Philemon's hand, and hurried him into
the ring. There was a shout from the spectators. Some one gave him a
nudge.
"Pipe up, boy. We're ready for 'Massa's in the cold, cold ground.'"
Philemon opened his mouth, but no sound came. The eyes on every side
burned into him. His one desire was to rush away from those blackened
men, from the choking odor of tan and kerosene, from the disgrace of
standing there, like a little black fiend, to be hooted at and expected
to make fun for the crowd. His brain reeled. With a cry he broke from a
detaining hand, and ran headlong across the arena, his yellow coat tails
flapping about his heels.
Through the back tent he sped, past Madame Lucetta Almazida, who was
holding the "Phenomenal Trapezist" in her arms, past Mons. Duval, out
into the night. Home--home--home--that was the place toward which, if he
had had wings, he would have flown. Being neither an angel nor even a
bird, only a little wretched boy, all he could do was to stumble along
the dark road. Eight miles away was his home. On and on he went, and at
last his weary feet began to flag.
It seemed as if the chirping crickets were hissing at him. The frogs in
the ponds croaked disapprovingly. Even the stars winked reproachfully.
He was growing exhausted. He sank down by a fence, and his eyelids
closed heavily.
The sun was high when he awoke, and then a colder, hungrier boy you
never saw. Six miles from home was he. There was nothing for it but to
plod along, for there were no houses on that road. One mile, two miles,
he walked. He picked some apples by the road-side, but they were sour
and hard. Sometimes he tried to run, but had to give that up.
At five o'clock that afternoon the cook at a certain farm-house was
frying doughnuts in the back kitchen. She was looking very sober, and
near her sat a very sober boy, who every now and then drew his hand
across his eyes. At last he spoke.
"Cerinthy," said he, "do you cal'late they'll ever find him?"
Cerinthy put another doughnut into the expostulating fat. "Romeo
Augustus," said she, "it's my opinion that maybe they may and maybe they
mayn't; an' like as not if they do, it'll only be his body, and-- Oh!"
Cerinthy gave a great scream, and dropped her panful of doughnuts on the
floor, for on the threshold of the "pump-room" stood a boy as black as
the ace of spades, clad in startling yellow clothes, his neck ornamented
with a huge paper collar.
This image opened his mouth and spake. "Where's my mother? Give me a
doughnut."
Cerinthy shrieked louder than ever. An opposite door opened, and out
rushed a lady whose eyes were swollen with crying.
"Mother!" called out the black boy, as he flew into her open arms.
"Philemon! mother's own little boy!" she sobbed; while Romeo Augustus
performed a war-dance about the two.
I think Philemon's father was so relieved when he beheld his fifth-born,
that he would have _whipped_ him soundly. But his mother would by no
means allow that. She gave him preserved peach and cream toast instead.
"For you'll never do such a thing again, will you?" demanded she,
tenderly.
Philemon gazed lovingly at her, with a mouth full of toast. "_Catch
me_," said he.
[Illustration]
JAPANESE CHILDREN.
Here we have a genuine picture of Japanese _kodoma_. They are in
every-day dress, with hair and shoes just as one sees them in their own
village. There is the baby carried pickapack, and laid on the back of
its sister like a slice of meat on a sandwich. Baby's head is shaved as
smooth as one's palm, and kept so until it is two years old. Then the
next style--a little fringe of hair above the ears and one near the
neck--will be proper. The next step will be a tiny top-knot and a
circle, in addition to the ear-locks.
All these children live on boiled rice, and they are as round and chubby
and rosy-cheeked as it is possible to be without bursting. See their
nice loose clothes, with neither a pin to stick nor a button to fly off!
They do not wear socks nor stockings, for it is not very cold in Japan.
One little tot has on a pair of straw sandals, and the girl and old man
wear clogs, held on by a strap passing between the "thumb of the foot,"
as the Japs call the big toe, and its next-door neighbor.
It would do American boys good, and set them a good example, to notice
how kind to animals Japanese children are. There is old daddy telling
his children to treat their pet kindly, and doggy knows it will be good
for him to have such playmates. See his little straw kennel made like a
tent, with a crock of water in it. I'll wager that the children will
feed the little _inu_ with tidbits from their own chopsticks.
A SEA-SIDE ADVENTURE.
AS RELATED IN A LETTER FROM BESSIE MAYNARD TO HER DOLL CLYTEMNESTRA,
WHOM SHE LEFT AT HOME.
OLD ORCHARD BEACH, _July, 1880_.
MY DEAREST CLYTEMNESTRA,--Do you miss me? and are you wondering why I do
not write? Well, my dear, writing is an impossibility when one is at the
sea-shore. You never knew such times as we are having all day long. I
must tell you, first of all, of an adventure that befell me
yesterday--not _me_ exactly, either; it _most_ befell Lucille, the
beautiful Paris doll that Fanny Bell was so proud of; and well she might
be, for a handsomer creature never walked. You remember her, of course;
the lovely Mademoiselle Lucille, as she was called, that being the
French for Miss, for it would never do to call her plain Lucille, such a
fine young lady as she was, just from France, with all the airs and
graces that belong to Paris, the politest city in the world. It's no
great wonder she was proud--Lucille, I mean--for I'm afraid most of us
would be if we looked like her. Such hair as she had, all natural curls
down below her waist; and such a _nelegant_ wardrobe, or "trooso," as
Fanny calls it. Perhaps I haven't spelled trooso right, but please
excuse it; indeed, _you_ wouldn't know whether it was right or wrong,
you are such a poor little ignorant thing. I'm ashamed of myself for
neglecting your education as I have done, when I see the dolls here, and
realize how much they know. Just as soon as I get home, we'll begin with
regular lessons every day. It isn't _your_ fault, you sweet lamb, that
you don't know anything. _I_ am the only one to blame, and I'll try to
make up for lost time when I come home.
But, dear me, how I do run on, without telling you a word of the
adventure. The "sad sea waves" put all sorts of ideas into my mind, and
I get terribly confused. I heard a lady sing last night about the "sad
sea waves," and I think it sounds prettier than "the ocean"--don't you?
Well, to begin at the beginning: Yesterday morning Fanny Bell, Dora
Mason, and I went down to the beach as usual, Mademoiselle Lucille
walking along by her mamma, just like a real live beautiful child. We
scooped holes in the warm sand, and made caves, and then we built the
Pyramids. _They_ are in Egypt, you know, curiosities that people go to
see; but we make them of sand, so they look just exactly like the
pictures, "Sfinks" and all. Perhaps you don't know what the "Sfinks" is,
but I will tell you some day, when I begin your education, my poor
Clytemnestra.
Well, at last we wanted to go round the point to pick some wild
morning-glories, so we sat Lucille up on a kind of throne behind the
Pyramids, and left her. We were only gone a little bit of a while, but
what do you think? when we came back the tide was in, and the sad sea
waves had washed away Pyramids, Sfinks, Lucille, and all! Oh, the
despair we were in! Poor Fanny jumped right up and down, and screeched,
and then sinking down upon the sand, as the story-books say, "she buried
her face in her hands, and wept as if her heart would break." All at
once I saw something bobbing around, and if there wasn't Lucille about
four feet from the shore, fastened to a rock by the flounce of her pink
satin dress! Fanny shrieked aloud, but Dora and I seized a pole, and
after working a long, long time, we managed to fish her out of the
water. Here is a picture that I have drawn to show you how we looked in
our awful excitement.
[Illustration]
Lucille is frightfully pale to-day, and her curls are gone forever. She
is a bald-headed "faded beauty," as a gentleman truly said when he saw
her this morning. When I look at her, and remember how fine she used to
think herself, I can't help saying, "Well, my dear, 'pride must have a
fall.'" I pity her, though, from the very bottom of my heart, for it
must be dreadful to be so changed, and all of a sudden, too. I guess we
sha'n't have to be so particular any more about calling her
"Mademoiselle."
I can not be thankful enough that I left you at home, my sweet Clytie.
The sea-shore is a lovely place for children who know how to take care
of themselves, but 'tis dreadful dangerous for _dolls_.
And now good-night, my pet.
Your loving mamma,
BESSIE MAYNARD.
P.S.--Dora has just come in to say that Fanny has changed Mademoiselle's
name, and hereafter she is to be called "Jane." Poor thing!
[Illustration: A BABE IN THE WOODS--"I 'ANT TO DO HOME!"]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
SYRACUSE, NEBRASKA.
We have taken YOUNG PEOPLE ever since it was published, and we
like it very much. I think "The History of Photogen and Nycteris"
was the best story of all, but sister Addie likes "Across the
Ocean" best, because it teaches her geography.
I have no brother, but three sisters. Addie is thirteen, Mabel is
nine, and Sadie is five. I was eleven yesterday.
I live on a farm in Eastern Nebraska, and I take care of the
little chickens and turkeys for mamma. I like to do it, for they
are so cunning.
I think that the Tree Album would be nice, and I am going to make
one. There are a great many trees here. And we have many birds and
pretty birds' eggs. I would like to preserve some eggs, only I
don't know how. I would be glad if some correspondent would tell
me the best way.
I have no pets but cats and kittens, and there are so many of
those that mamma votes them a nuisance.
GEORGINE D.
* * * * *
POULTNEY, VERMONT.
I am ten years old, and my uncle Charlie takes YOUNG PEOPLE for my
sister Daisy and me.
I have a pretty kitty named Dusty, Carlo, a big dog, and Petite, a
canary.
We are going to camp out at the Lake in July. Last summer we had a
tent, but we are going to have a cottage this year.
H. M. C.
* * * * *
ELIZABETH, NEW JERSEY.
I am seven years old. I am living with my grandma in the country.
I have thirteen children. They all eat at one table. Minnie,
Flora, Daisy, Tally, Mamie, Allie, Lulu, Jennie, Lillie, Annie,
Pinkey-Ketto, Harry, and Johnny. My papa likes Daisy best, but I
like Minnie.
I have a pet cat named Chubby, a chicken named Drabee, and a hen
named Coachee. Uncle has a horse named Dolly, that eats sugar out
of my hand, and always when she goes by the window she looks up
for a lump of sugar.
I made a little pie a few days ago, which was said to be very
good.
My papa reads me the stories and letters in YOUNG PEOPLE, and I
thought I ought to write a letter too.
GRACIE.
* * * * *
STANBRIDGE, CANADA.
I am seven years old, and I have a sister twelve years old.
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE was a Christmas present from our grandpa. I
read all the letters in the Post-office Box every week, and I like
them the best.
I have a pet dog I call Nestor. He is a spaniel. And I have a
bantam hen which has five little chickens. I have also two dear
little kittens that I found in the wood-shed.
I am going to school this summer, and I like my studies very much.
On my way from school to-day I stopped and picked some
strawberries. They are just getting ripe.
JANET M. G.
* * * * *
TRENTON, NEW JERSEY.
I am a little girl six years old, and I am going to write and
spell this letter all myself. I have three brothers, but no
sister. The youngest is a baby one year old. We have a puppy named
Nip, and he is full of fun. The other day Lewis was pulling me in
our express wagon, and Nip ran after us as if the cart was a
carriage and he a grown-up dog.
We are going to the sea-shore this summer, where we expect to have
a nice time playing in the sand.
FANNY S. S.
* * * * *
CANTON, ILLINOIS.
I tried Bessie L. S.'s recipe for doll's cup-cake, and I thought
it was very nice. I have a little brother and a little sister
younger than myself. I am eleven. I am always glad when papa
brings me home my YOUNG PEOPLE. I think it is a very nice paper.
MAGGIE M.
* * * * *
FRANKLIN, OHIO.
My papa made me a Christmas present of YOUNG PEOPLE, and I like it
so much.
I have three pets. One is a little black dog named Aristotle. We
call him Tot for short. I have a little kitty named Malty, and an
old cat named Tabby. They play very pretty together. I have two
nice dolls. One is very handsome. My papa brought her from Paris,
and I called her Rosa Bell. The other one's name is Stella.
I live on a hill, and we have beautiful views of the sunset.
ETTA D.
* * * * *
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS.
I am making a collection of birds' eggs. My brother sent some eggs
to Alice Paine. I hope she will receive them safely.
We have two cats; one of them is fifteen years old; he is a pure
Maltese, with the exception of a few white hairs under his chin.
We have a little gray squirrel too, and he is so tame that when my
brother opens the door of his cage he will jump out and run all
over him.
I should like to know if English sparrows build in trees as robins
do.
DAISY R.
English sparrows build in little houses, if kind hands provide them,
otherwise they seek out any cozy corner wherever there is a shelf upon
which to lodge their nest. They never build in trees. You will find an
article about them in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 14.
* * * * *
SEDALIA, MISSOURI.
I wish to tell Rebecca H. that I tried her recipe for candy, and
found it just splendid. I will send Puss Hunter's club a recipe
for butter-scotch, and I hope Rebecca H. will also try it, and
like it as well as I did hers. I wish she would let me know if she
thinks it is good. Here is the recipe: Three table-spoonfuls of
molasses, two of sugar, two of water, one of butter; add a pinch
of soda before pouring out to cool.
KITTIE G.
* * * * *
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.
Here is a recipe for apple-cake for Puss Hunter. Take one pint
bowl of apples, pare, core, and chop them; then add three cups of
cold water, one cup of sugar, one table-spoonful of butter. Bake
about twenty minutes in a quick oven.
L. GRACE P.
Is this mixture intended as a filling for pie-crust, or as apple jam? In
writing out recipes, our young housekeepers must be very careful to omit
nothing, and to explain all details, as a slight error may ruin a
delicious dish.
* * * * *
HARTFORD, OHIO.
I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE so much that I wish it would come
every day.
Here is a recipe for Puss Hunter. I call it maple candy. One and a
half cups of maple syrup, and one-fourth of a cup of vinegar. When
I think it is done, I pour it into a buttered dish to cool. Then I
pull it till it becomes white. I tried R. C. W.'s recipe for
candy, and I think it is very nice. I would like to be a member of
the cooking club.
We have two pet bird dogs, two robins, and a canary, and I have
about seventy-five little chickens.
MAUD K.
* * * * *
SEDALIA, MISSOURI.
I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and I like it
very much.
I have a mocking-bird that is only five weeks old, and I have to
feed it.
Here is a recipe for ginger cookies for the cooking club: One cup
of lard; one cup New Orleans molasses; one cup New Orleans sugar;
two eggs; two-thirds of a cup of boiling-hot water poured over a
heaping tea-spoonful of soda, and a little salt. Ginger to taste.
ABBIE R.
* * * * *
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.
My sister and I tried Fanny S.'s recipe for caramels. The candy
was very nice. Here is a recipe for Shrewsbury cake for the
cooking club: One cup of butter; three cups of sugar; one and
one-half pints of flour; three eggs; one tea-spoonful of royal
baking powder; one cup of milk; one tea-spoonful of royal extract
of rose. Rub the butter and sugar to a smooth white cream; add the
eggs one at a time, beating five minutes between each; then add
the flour, well sifted, with the powder and the extract. Add the
milk last, and heat until the batter is light and thoroughly
mixed. Bake in well-greased cake moulds about forty minutes in a
quick oven.
FLORENCE MCC.
* * * * *
FRANK F. R. sends a recipe for caramels to the cooking club, which is
the same as the one from Fanny S. in Post-office Box No. 31, with the
addition of three table-spoonfuls of flour.
* * * * *
RYE, NEW YORK.
We have about fifty pigeons, and a whole flock of hens, chickens,
turkeys, and guinea-fowls. I have a flower garden, and some lovely
rose-bushes. I wish some correspondent could tell me how to kill
the rose-bugs, and how to tame my pigeons. I am nine years old.
ANNA S.
* * * * *