Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 141. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 11, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SEARCHING FOR THE BURGLAR.]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XV.
STEALING DUCKS.
Toby coaxed and scolded, and scolded and coaxed, but all to no purpose.
The monkey would clamber down over the end of the tent as if he were
about to allow himself to be made a prisoner, and then, just as Toby
would make ready to catch the rope, he would spring upon the ridge-pole
again, chattering with joy at the disappointment he had caused.
The visitors fairly roared with delight, and even the proprietors, whose
borrowed property was being destroyed, could not help laughing at times,
although there was not one of them who would not have enjoyed punishing
Mr. Stubbs's brother very severely.
"He'll break the whole show up if we don't get him off," said Bob, as
the monkey tore a larger hole than he had yet made, and the crowd
encouraged him in his mischievous work by their wild cheers.
"I know it; but how can we get him down?" asked Toby, in perplexity,
knowing that it would not be safe for any one of them to climb upon the
decayed canvas, even if there were a chance that the monkey would allow
himself to be caught after his pursuer got there.
"Get a long pole, an' scrape him off," suggested Joe; but Toby shook his
head, for he knew that to "scrape" a monkey from such a place would be
an impossibility.
Bob had an idea that if he had a rope long enough to make a lasso, he
could get it around the animal's neck and pull him down; but just as he
set out to find the rope, Mr. Stubbs's brother settled the matter
himself.
He had torn one hole fully five inches long, and commenced on another a
short distance from the first, when the thin fabric gave way, the two
rents were made one, and down came Mr. Monkey, only saved from falling
to the ground by his chin catching on the edges of the cloth.
There he hung, his little round head just showing above the canvas, with
a bewildered and at the same time discouraged look on his face.
Toby knew that it would be but a moment before the monkey would get his
paws out from under the canvas, and thus extricate himself from his
uncomfortable position. Running quickly inside the tent, he seized Mr.
Stubbs's brother by his long tail, pulling him completely through, and
the mischievous pet was again a prisoner.
It was a great disappointment to the boys on the outside when this
portion of the circus was hidden from view; but it was equally as great
a relief to the partners that the destruction of their tent was at last
averted.
After the excitement had nearly subsided, and Toby was reading his pet a
lesson on the sin of destructiveness, Reddy arrived with the materials
for making his circus poster--a sheet of brown paper, a bottle of ink,
and a brush made by chewing the end of a pine stick.
He began his work at once. It was a long task, but was at last
accomplished, and when the partners went to their respective homes that
night, the following placard adorned one side of the tent:
[Illustration]
On arriving at the house, Toby secured Mr. Stubbs's brother so that he
could not liberate himself, after which he ran into the house to inquire
for Abner.
The news this time was more encouraging, for the sick boy had awakened
thoroughly refreshed after his long sleep, and had asked how the work on
the tent was getting on. Aunt Olive thought Toby could see him, and
after promising that he would not remain very long, or allow Abner to
talk much, he went upstairs.
The crippled boy was lying in the bed bolstered up with pillows, looking
out of the window that commanded a view of the tent, and evidently
puzzled to know whether the large sheet of brown paper which he saw on
one side was there as an ornament, or to serve some useful purpose.
Toby explained to him that it was the poster Reddy had made, and then
told him all that had been done that day toward getting ready for the
great exhibition which was to dazzle the good people of Guilford, as
well as to bring in a rich reward, in the way of money, to the managers.
Abner was so interested in the matter, and seemed so bright and cheerful
when he was talking about it, that Toby's fears regarding his illness
were entirely dispelled. He came to the conclusion that Abner had simply
been tired, as Aunt Olive had said, and that he would be better than
ever by morning.
This belief was strengthened by the doctor, who came while Toby was
still with his friend, and who, in answer to a question, said, cheerily:
"Of course he'll be all right; he may not be quite smart enough to go
out to-morrow, but before the week is ended I'll guarantee that you'll
have hard work to keep him in the house."
Toby's heart was light again as he attended to his evening's work; and
when he met Joe, on his way to the pasture, he laid plans for the coming
exhibition with a greater zest than he had displayed since the matter
was first spoken of.
Now that the tent was up, and Abner on the sure and rapid road to
recovery, Toby thought it quite time that Mr. Stubbs's brother should be
taught to take some part in the performance. Joe was of the same
opinion, and they decided to commence the education of the monkey that
very night, giving him two or three lessons each day until he should be
thoroughly trained.
The cows were not exactly hurried on the way home that night; but they
were not allowed to loiter by the road-side when they saw particularly
tempting tufts of grass, and as soon as they were in the barn Mr.
Stubbs's brother was taken to the tent.
He was in anything rather than a good condition for training, for he
evidently remembered his frolic of the afternoon, and was anxious to
repeat it. Toby thought he could be made to leap through hoops as a
beginning of his circus education, and all the energies of the boys were
bent to the accomplishment of this.
But the monkey was either remarkably stupid or just then determined to
take no part in the show, for although Joe held the hoops until his arms
ached, and Toby coaxed and scolded until he was hoarse, Mr. Stubbs's
brother could not be persuaded even to attempt a leap.
"It's no use to try any more to-night," said Toby, impatiently, when it
was nearly dark inside the tent, and his pet was showing signs of anger.
"We'll commence the first thing in the mornin', an' I guess he'll do
it."
"I'd whip him if I was you," said Joe, who was thoroughly tired, and
angry at the monkey's obstinacy. "If you would give him a good
switchin', he'd know he'd got to do it."
"I wouldn't whip him if he never did anything," said Toby, as he hugged
his pet tightly, almost as if he feared Joe might attempt, as one of the
partners in the enterprise, to whip the unwilling performer.
"'Tain't my monkey, so I ain't got nothin' to say about it," and Joe was
impatient now; "but if he was mine, I'll bet he'd do what I told him
to."
It seemed almost as if Mr. Stubbs's brother knew what had been said
about him, for he nestled close to Toby, hiding his face on the boy's
neck in a way that would have prevented his master from whipping him
even if he had been disposed so to do.
"We'll put him in the shed, and I guess he'll be good enough
to-morrow," said Toby, cheerfully; and then, after fastening the flag in
the front of the tent in such a way that the wind would be kept out, if
nothing more, he and Joe walked toward the house, discussing the
question of the kind of tickets they should use at the show.
While they were yet some distance from the wood-shed in which Mr.
Stubbs's brother was lodged, Aunt Olive called Toby to come quickly to
the house.
"You put him in the wood-shed, an' fasten him in snug," said Toby, as he
handed the monkey to Joe, and started for the house at full speed.
Now Joe knew perfectly well where Mr. Stubbs's brother was kept; but as
he had never seen him put away for the night, he was uncertain whether
he should be tied there, or simply shut in. It hardly seemed to him that
Toby would leave the monkey tied up by the neck all night, so he set him
comfortably on a bench, and carefully shut the door.
Toby had been called to go to the druggist's for some medicine, and he
came out of the house in such haste, calling to Joe to follow him, that
nothing more was thought of the insecurely prisoned monkey.
When Toby returned it was so late that Uncle Daniel advised him to go to
bed if he had any desire to be "healthy, wealthy, and wise," and he
obeyed at once.
Positive that Abner was on the road to recovery, sure that all his work
had been done, and with nothing to trouble him, it was not very long
that Toby lay awake after he was once in bed.
It seemed to him that he had been sleeping a long while, when he was
awakened by the sound as of some one hunting around in his room; and
before he had time to call out, the candle was lighted, showing that the
intruder was Uncle Daniel, only partially dressed, and in a high state
of excitement.
"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Toby, in alarm, thinking at once
of Abner, and fearing that something had happened to him.
"Hush!" said Uncle Daniel, warningly; "don't make a noise, for some one
is trying to get into the hen-house, an' I am going to make an example
of him. I suppose it's one of the tramps who went by here to-day, an' I
want to find that gun I saw in here yesterday."
There was such a weapon in Toby's room, or at least what had once been a
gun was there, for a hired man whom Uncle Daniel had employed left it
there. It had been an army musket, and appeared to have been used as a
collection of materials to repair other guns with, for the entire lock,
ramrod, and at least four inches of the stock had been taken away,
leaving it a mere wreck of a gun.
"It's up there in the corner behind the wash-stand," said Toby, coming
out of the bed as quickly as if he had tumbled out, and alarmed at the
thought of burglars. "It ain't no good, Uncle Dan'l, for there's only a
little of it left."
"It will do as well for me as a better one," said Uncle Daniel, grimly.
"I don't want to shoot anybody, only to give them a severe fright, and
perhaps capture them."
"Then what'll you do with 'em?" asked Toby in a whisper, almost as much
alarmed by Uncle Daniel's savage way of speaking as by the thought of
the burglars.
"I don't know, Toby boy--I don't know. The tramps do trouble me greatly,
an' I'd like to make an example of these; but I suppose they must be
hungry, or else they wouldn't try to get into the hen-house. I guess if
we catch one we'll give him a good breakfast, and try to persuade him to
go to work like an honest man."
Uncle Daniel's anger usually had some such peaceful ending, as Toby
knew; but he did look blood-thirsty as he stood there in his shirt
sleeves, with one stocking on, and his night-cap covering one ear and
but a small portion of his head, while he handled the invalid gun
recklessly.
By the time he was ready to go in search of the supposed chicken thief,
Aunt Olive, looking thoroughly frightened, came into the room with his
other stocking and his boots in her hand, insisting that he should put
them on before he ventured out.
It must have been a very tame burglar who would have continued at his
work after the lights had warned him that the inmates of the house were
aroused; but Toby did not think of that. He saw that Aunt Olive had
armed herself with the fire-shovel, that Uncle Daniel kept a firm hold
of the gun even while he was trying to put his boots on, and he was
frightened by the warlike preparations.
Toby put on his trousers and shoes as quickly as possible, and when
Uncle Daniel was ready to start, he stationed himself directly behind
Aunt Olive--a position which he thought would afford him a fair view of
what was going on, and at the same time be safe.
"Now be careful of that gun, Dan'l, an' don't go so far that they can
hurt you, for there's no telling what they will do if they find out you
mean to catch them;" and Aunt Olive looked quite as badly frightened as
did Toby.
"There, there, Olive, don't be alarmed," said Uncle Daniel, soothingly.
"They will probably run as soon as they see the gun, and that will end
it. I only hope that I can catch one," and Uncle Daniel went down the
stairs as determined and savage-looking a man as ever started in search
of a supposed chicken thief.
Aunt Olive insisted on carrying the candle, though Uncle Daniel urged
that it would not be possible for him to surprise the burglars if she
held this light as a warning; but she had no idea of allowing him to go
out where there was every probability that he would be in danger, unless
she could see what was going on.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
In the month of May, 1765, an advertisement appeared in London
announcing that a concert would be given at Hickford's Rooms, Brewer
Street, Golden Square, "for the benefit of Miss Mozart, aged thirteen,
and Master Mozart, of eight years of age, prodigies of nature, a concert
of music, with all the overtures[2] of this little boy's own
composition."
[2] Overture, strictly speaking, means a prelude to some longer work,
but the term has also come to be applied to pieces of concert music
which illustrate some special idea.
Suppose one had been able to go to that concert in May, 1765. It would
have been a charming sight. I am sure there was a great deal of jostling
about of Sedan-chairs and footmen; and in the spring twilight--they gave
concerts earlier then than now--the gorgeously dressed ladies and
gentlemen must have looked very much like a picture. Let us follow them
into the "rooms."
We find ourselves in a large well-lighted hall, with chairs and benches,
and a big platform containing some instruments and a good harpsichord.
Then out comes old Papa Mozart, a dignified gentleman from Salzburg,
leading a child by each hand, one a charmingly pretty little girl in the
quaint dress we are reviving to-day; the other, a boy of eight, of the
most striking grace and beauty, and dressed like a little court
gentleman, that is, with knee-breeches, silken hose, shoe-buckles, a
little satin coat with lace ruffles, and a little sword at his side.
The little boy makes his bow to the enthusiastic audience; he sits down
to the piano, and forthwith begins one of his own sweet, child-like, yet
harmonious compositions. Then Nannerl plays. Presently the two young
prodigies vanish, the fine audience move away, the lights are out, and
the boy's London fame has begun. As we go through dingy Golden Square
to-day, a hundred and fifteen years later, we think of all the music he
left for us to hear and feel and play between that night when he played
"his own little compositions," and the day of his early death, in 1791,
at the age of thirty-five years.
[Illustration: WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.]
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born at Salzburg in 1756. His father had
possessed musical talent, but in him it was genius. At three years of
age he learned to play; before he was five he had composed a great many
little melodies, which his father wrote down for him. I remember seeing
in the studio of an English artist in London,[3] himself the son of a
great musician, a picture representing the baby Mozart, a charming
little figure, leading a visionary choir of angels. It seemed to me the
very embodiment of what Mozart must have been as a child--beautiful,
fascinating, angelic, and a musician to his very soul.
[3] Felix Moscheles.
His sister Anna, or "Nannerl," as she was called, also played
marvellously, and when the children were very young their father started
with them on a concert tour, during which they played in London.
Everywhere they went they were fêted and caressed in a way which would
have spoiled even Mozart's sweet, sunny nature, but for his father's
watchful care.
Innumerable presents were made them, some of rich jewelry. This their
father insisted upon keeping in a box, only allowing them to take it out
on rare occasions and enjoy looking at it for a little while.
It was during that London visit that the father fell ill. They were in
lodgings in Chelsea, which was then an open country with blooming
gardens and green lanes. The little Mozarts had to keep very quiet
during this illness of their father's. The harpsichord was closed, and
the children took to running about the pretty suburban place, no doubt
enjoying the rest from practicing. But it was during this enforced
idleness that Mozart composed his first symphony (Opus 15). He was then
in his tenth year. Think of the amount of scientific knowledge as well
as the genius the boy must have possessed! Soon after, they gave more
concerts, playing among other things duets for four hands on the
harpsichord, which was then (in 1765) a great novelty.
During the latter part of the London visit a series of entertainments
were given at home, where for two shillings and sixpence people could
come and "test the youthful prodigies at the harpsichord." They were
lodging in a quaint old inn down in the part of London known as
Cornhill, and there they delighted hundreds of admiring and curious
visitors.
Passing from this time of sunny though precocious childhood to a boyhood
in which he worked indefatigably, we find Mozart in Italy, studying,
composing, performing, and writing the most delightful letters home,
chiefly to his dear Nannerl, who was by this time more devoted to
domestic duties than music.
One of the most interesting experiences of the Mozarts took place in
1775. The Elector of Bavaria had invited Mozart to write an opera for
the Carnival, and so when the work was completed--_La Tinta
Giardiniera_--the father and son, with pretty Nannerl, set off for
Munich, where court life was then very gay.
In the old market-place of Munich lived a very respectable widow, and
Nannerl was lodged there, the father and son having to go nearer to the
court. It must have been a delightful visit. Nannerl was all excitement
about the opera, and her brother darted in and out half a dozen times a
day to report progress. Finally the grand night came. The opera-house
was crowded to excess; the court was there in full splendor, and Mozart,
the youthful maestro, fine, in a new suit of lace and satin, sat by his
father's side, with Nannerl, waiting not a little timidly, no doubt, for
the performance to begin. The success was tremendous. The boy--for he
was scarcely more in years--became the object of the wildest enthusiasm,
and from that hour his musical fame was established.
But we must not feel that all Mozart's days were so cloudless and so
joyful. Times of anxiety and heart-sickness were not wanting in his
short and busy life. The little family circle was so centred in Mozart
that when he started out on a second tour, and the father could not
accompany him, the mother left her household duties to Nannerl and set
forth with her son. An adoring fondness for his parents was one of the
most lovely traits in Mozart's beautiful nature. On this trip he wrote
home with pride how careful he was of his mother, and she, good woman,
watched him tenderly, giving up everything to his pleasure and profit.
He spent the winter in Mannheim, where his letters show how very busily
he was employed. He writes that he rose early, "dressed quickly," and
after breakfast composed until twelve; then wrote until half past one,
when he dined. At three he began to give lessons, which continued until
supper-time; after which he read, unless he was among his friends. Of
course he had a large circle wherever he was, but in Mannheim during
this winter he formed friendships which shadowed all his life.
The Weber family were there--brilliant musicians, agreeable, and witty.
There were five daughters, and Mozart straightway fell in love with the
eldest, Aloysia--a beautiful girl, who was studying for the stage. She
was well pleased with the young composer's attentions, and he went to
Paris half, or, as he considered it, wholly engaged. That was a sad
visit to Paris. His mother, wishing to economize for her son's sake,
took rooms in a cold, poor quarter of the town, and there fell ill with
a fatal disorder. Poor Mozart wrote home the most pathetic letters. We
can fancy how he tried to save her, but it was in vain. The careful,
tender, self-sacrificing mother faded from his life, her last thoughts
being to commend this beloved son to God's keeping.
Full of sadness, the poor young fellow hastened to Mannheim, where he
hoped Aloysia Weber would console him. She had gone to Munich, and
thither he followed her. There the true selfishness of the Weber family
was shown to him. They had become prosperous, and Mozart, although
famous, was far from being rich, so that the family of his betrothed
received him coldly. Aloysia herself scarcely listened to the first
words he said. He had entered the Weber parlor full of hope and anxiety
to see his future wife and tell her the story of his sorrow. He must
have looked noble and manly, with the tenderness of his grief in his
handsome face, but Aloysia turned aside coldly--there were others there,
to whom she talked. Mozart hesitated a moment, and then seating himself
at the piano, sang in his rich clear voice: "Ich lasse das Mädchen das
nicht will" (I leave the maiden who leaves me). And before the evening
was over, the engagement was at an end.
We could wish that his intimacy with the Webers had also ended, but
later he renewed acquaintance with them, and in spite of much opposition
from his anxious father and Nannerl, he married Constanza, Aloysia's
younger sister. With her he tried to be happy, but even in his tenderest
letters we see that she was ill-tempered, cold, and selfish. But
Mozart's nature was so uniformly sweet that it took a great deal to make
him positively wretched, and unkind he could not be.
When he was in the midst of many worries, one summer, he used to ride
out every morning for exercise, and leaving his wife sleeping, he never
failed to pin a little note to her pillow, that she might find it on
awaking. It was always a sweet word of love and care for her, and it is
hard to think Constanza was not worthy of it.
There is so much to tell of Mozart, I wish that we might linger an hour
more over his sweet story. His successes were so many that it is hard to
think of him as so often in trouble about money.
In 1791 his beautiful opera of _The Magic Flute_ was produced with
tremendous success at Vienna. Constanza came on to hear it, and was
thoroughly frightened by Mozart's altered looks. He was ashy pale, worn,
and thin. She seems to have been full of a really tender feeling for him
then. He was writing his famous mass, the "Requiem," and continued it
even after he took to his bed, and while Constanza sat beside him
watching with tears the feeble hand at work, he told her that his heart
and soul were full of thoughts of the dear Lord who had died for him.
_The Magic Flute_ was drawing crowded houses, while Mozart lay dying not
far off. In the evenings he would time the performance, saying to
Constanza and her sister Sophie, and some musical friends always with
him, "Now they are singing this or that part."
The day before his death he read over the score of the Requiem, and
asked the friends near him to try and sing it with him. They did so,
Mozart coming in with his part in a sweet faint voice. Suddenly, at the
Lacrimosa, he burst into tears, and laid down the score for the last
time. That evening he murmured to Constanza, "Oh, that I could once more
hear my _Magic Flute_!"
Constanza glanced at Roser, a musician who was with them, and, blinded
by his tears, Roser sat down to the piano, and sang one of Mozart's
favorite airs. It was almost the last sound his closing ears received.
The next morning, Sunday, December 5, 1791, at the age of thirty-five,
Mozart died.[4]
[4] Nannerl survived her brother many years. Constanza Mozart died in
this century, having in 1809 married a second time.
He left behind him so many works that I hardly know which to speak of
first. His operas, _Don Giovanni_, _Figaro_, and _The Magic Flute_ are
known and prized all the world over; but besides there are the masses,
the sonatas, the symphonies, and the quartettes. In the sonatas
especially the young pianist may find the greatest advantage. As
_reading_ they are admirable, and for practice with four hands I know of
nothing better, unless it be some of Haydn's quartettes.
[Illustration: STRATEGY.]
HAVING FUN WITH A WOODCHUCK.
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
Jack and I made up our minds to catch a woodchuck. We were spending the
summer down on the east end of Long Island, and judging from the number
of cauliflowers eaten by them, the woodchucks were abundant; so we
determined to catch one.
Farmer Brown, to whom we applied for advice, told us to "grab him by the
tail as he went into his hole." This sounded so easy that we decided to
try it at once. We found, however, after two or three days of patient
waiting, that the woodchuck absolutely refused to go into his hole while
we were within grabbing distance.
We then set steel-traps in the burrows, but with no effect. We wandered
around the fields armed with an old musket, and succeeded only in
wasting a large quantity of powder and lead. We tried to drown one out,
and after blistering our hands by carrying pails of water, were told
that "a woodchuck hasn't lived in that burrer for two years." We were
disappointed, but not discouraged.
"Let's set the rabbit trap," said Jack one morning as we were planning
for the day's campaign.
So we carried the rabbit trap, which was a great box with a swinging
door, up to the hedge back of the barn, and set it. Farmer Brown laughed
at us, and said,
"Ef you see a 'chuck, put for the nearest hole; ef you git thar before
him you can stop him from goin' in."
This plan seemed so much more exciting than any other, that we spent
that afternoon and the next day looking for a stray woodchuck. Toward
evening our patience was rewarded by the sight of a woodchuck in the
middle of a field. Jack and I had by that time learned the location of
the holes as well as the owners themselves, and we both started for a
burrow in the hedge.
The woodchuck saw us, and made for the same burrow. He hadn't so far to
go, and was evidently in a great hurry. Jack managed to arrive just in
time to throw his hat in the mouth of the hole, thinking to bar the
progress of the woodchuck. Vain hope! On came the woodchuck, and dived
into the burrow, carrying Jack's hat with him. I just reached the spot
in time to see the brown stump of a tail vanish, and hear Jack exclaim,
"I wonder what he is going to do with my hat?"
The loss of Jack's hat cast a damper upon our hunting for the afternoon,
and it was not until after supper that we thought of the rabbit trap.
When we reached it, it was sprung, and there was a sound of scratching
inside that showed plainly something was trying to escape. We carried
the trap carefully down to the barn, and opened it, so as to let our
prize into a large barrel.
Our happiness was complete: it was a large woodchuck. What had tempted
him to go into the trap I am sure I can't tell. Probably he was a victim
of his own curiosity. At any rate, we had him safe and sound in the
barrel, and after we had covered it with a board we went to our beds
very much elated over our success.
The next morning we rose early, and went to the barn to see our prize.
There he was in the barrel, his little eyes gleaming with rage, and
signifying his disapproval of our proceedings by a series of short,
sharp barks. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck me.
"Let's shut the doors; then let him out on the floor, and have some fun
with him," I said.
Jack agreed, and we soon had every door and window but one securely
fastened. This window was, fortunately for me, overlooked in our haste
to have our fun.
We turned the barrel over, and out sprang a very angry woodchuck. He
started directly for Jack, and that youth, with an agility which I had
never given him credit for, scrambled into the oats bin. The animal then
turned his undivided attention to me, and I dashed around the barn, the
woodchuck in pursuit.
Every nail in the barn seemed to stand out and take a hold upon some
portion of my clothing, and it was rapidly being reduced to fragments.
Jack jumped out of the bin to assist me, but only succeeded in making
the confusion worse. With a jump, the woodchuck fastened his teeth on
Jack's arm. Luckily he only bit through the sleeve of his loose blue
flannel shirt. Thoroughly frightened, Jack grasped a rope which hung
from one of the rafters, and swung himself out of reach.
At that moment I spied the open window, and in a second more I was out.
Jack was hanging on the rope with a tenacious grip, and the woodchuck
was trotting around trying to find an avenue of escape. I ran to the
door and threw it open. A dark form whizzed past me, and Jack dropped
from the rope. We had had enough woodchuck for one summer.
"What on airth hev you boys been a-doin'?" inquired Farmer Brown as we
entered the house.
"Been having some fun with a woodchuck," replied Jack, a little
sheepishly.
Farmer Brown laughed, and remarked, as he took a second look at our torn
clothes and flushed faces,
"Wa'al, I don' know, but it kinder looks as ef the woodchuck had been
a-hevin' fun with you."
And when I think the matter over, I am rather inclined to be of the same
opinion.
THE WANDERING SUNBEAM.
BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.
A little wandering sunbeam
Came sliding down the sky;
To seek another home below,
It left its home on high.
On baby Mary's head it lit--
Our gentle little one;
Her eyes grew blue as heaven's hue,
Her ringlets like the sun.
Its home it made with her; and since,
Though quiet as a mouse,
Her smile is like the day: she is
Our sunbeam in the house.
FOURTH OF JULY AT BEAVER BROOK.
BY ADA CARLETON STODDARD.
"Not a fire-cracker," Mr. Marden had said, looking around on his
half-dozen boys--"not a single fire-cracker, nor pin-wheel, nor rocket
this year, boys. You come pritty nigh burnin' up the hull town last
Fourth, an' I don't want to run no more sech risks. Enj'y yourselves as
well's you can other ways 'n that. Now mind!"
That was how and why--because of this interdiction of everything that
goes to make a Fourth of July different from a fourth of August or any
other day--the boys happened to think of going up the river fishing.
They were down on the river-bank, lying at full length on the green
grass, when Jed Harden said, meditatively, tossing a pebble into the
water, "There'll be no fun staying here, boys, 'thout we can fire off
things."
Bud Rose laughed. He could never be serious. "It's because we fired off
Jennings's barn last Fourth that everybody's so down on our celebrating
this year," said he. "I wonder how the old thing got afire, anyhow?"
"Easy enough," rejoined Jed; "there was a heap of straw all round it,
and I don't s'pose we were over 'n' above careful. The old shanty wasn't
worth ten cents, but it came near burning up everybody else's
buildings."
"So it did. After all, I don't blame folks much. There ain't such a
sight of fun in snapping crackers, anyhow."
"But what shall we do?"
Charley Stevens looked up then. All this time he had not spoken, but lay
gazing out on the river. "I move we go fishing up on Beaver Brook,"
said he. "Start before daylight, and stay till after dark."
"Second the motion. Hooray!"
All was animation now. The boys sat bolt-upright. Charley laughed.
"Moved and seconded that we, the stirring youth of Brayton, celebrate
to-morrow by going fishing. All who favor this will please say--"
"Ay!"
"The motion is unanimously carried," said Charley, shaking back his
hair.
I think it was myself. So would you if you could have heard that roaring
assent. There was no half-way work with the Brayton boys. They were all
on hand the next morning, with their lunch baskets, not exactly before
daylight, but sufficiently early; and they could not resist the
temptation to give several prolonged whoops as they shoved the old scow
out from shore.
"That'll let 'em know we're 'round," laughed Charley Stevens. "There,
boys, back up. I've left my pails."
"What pails?"
"Why," said Charley, "I promised to save some of the smallest fish, if
they weren't hooked too much, for Laurie's aquarium, and I brought along
a couple of pails to keep 'em alive in. There they are on the bank.
Backwater."
"Nonsense!"
But Charley was firm; and Jed and Bud and Vet, who were taking the first
turn at the paddles, pulled a rod or two back to the shore, not without
a little grumbling, and brought away the pails. Afterward they all had
very good reason to remember and be thankful for this. Then they pulled
steadily away up the river, through the light fog which the rays of the
morning sun had not yet scattered, trolling their lines, and catching a
few fish by the way.
"I would have brought a frying-pan," said Dean Marden, pulling in a
speckled trout, "but father said 'twouldn't do to make a fire this
weather. Everything's dry as tinder."
"And Beaver Brook isn't more'n two miles from the village, through the
woods," said Charley, meditatively. "Wind blows right that way, too."
"It's four miles by the river, if it's an inch," said Vet Adams; for the
river certainly made a wide detour.
"It's crooked as a ram's horn," declared Jeff Gammon, wiping the
perspiration from his face. "A fellow has to pull all the way round
Robin Hood's barn to get anywhere."
Charley laughed. "We're almost to the mouth of the brook now," said he.
"There's the old pine."
And in a few minutes the scow, propelled by three pairs of stout arms,
swept grandly around the point of land and into Beaver Brook, on one
side, just as a light birch-bark canoe, holding two men, shot out on the
other side.
"Indians!" exclaimed Charley, in a tone of great disgust. "There's a
camp of 'em down the river somewhere. We won't get any fish here, boys."
Charley was right. They fished for half an hour, waiting patiently for a
nibble, which they did not get.
"We'll have to go further up the brook," said Charley; and accordingly
the old scow was once more set in motion.
How pleasant it was! They ran along in the shade of the willows that
skirted the brook, their paddles dipping lazily, and their fishing-lines
trailing in the deep still water. It was very warm in the sun, but there
was a smart breeze blowing, and a prospect of showers later on.
Suddenly Charley felt a jerk on his line that, taking him unawares,
nearly pulled him off his seat.
"Gracious! boys, hold on," he said, in an excited whisper. "I've got a
ten-pounder."
It was not half of that, nor had Charley got his fish; but the paddles
were quickly and quietly shipped. Charley pulled in a nice trout, and
Bud Rose another.
"Ain't they beauties!"
"We're right in a school of 'em," said Bud, rebaiting his hook. "I say,
fellows, ain't this a long chalk better'n fire-works?"
For no matter how many times a country boy may have been a-fishing, nor
how many fish he may have caught, the sport must always be exciting.
An exclamation of alarm from one of their number, as Bud finished
speaking, startled the boys; and they were a good deal more startled,
and not a little provoked, to see Charley catch up one of the heavy
paddles and plunge it into the water with a long sweeping stroke, the
impetus of which sent the scow forward a dozen feet.
"Now look here!"
"Boys," cried Charley, flushed and anxious in a minute, "we may have the
fire-works yet. See there!"
Around a bend in the stream a thin blue line of smoke was seen curling
up through the trees, and even as the boys gazed, it appeared to
increase in volume and density.
"The Indians must have left it!" exclaimed Charley, hurriedly. "Boys--"
There was no need nor time for words. Instantly the two remaining
paddles were seized, and the scow was headed up and around the bend. It
came to them all in a flash how strong the wind was blowing from the
west; that the woods of Dunn Township, altogether proprietors' land,
adjoined Brayton, extending to the top of the hill that overlooked the
village; and each boy's heart turned pale at the prospect.
"It's all black growth, too," groaned Charley, "and full of old dry
tops, where they've been lumbering year after year--just a regular
tinder-box. This wind'll carry fire from it a mile anyway. Pull, boys,
pull!"
And they pulled. But the fire was getting under good headway when they
reached the spot. The smoke was rolling up blacker and thicker, and
through it the boys could see the red flickering tongues of flame.
"Take the pails--your hats--anything that'll hold water," cried Charley,
"and wet your jackets--wet yourselves all over."
[Illustration: "PAILFUL AFTER PAILFUL OF WATER WAS DASHED UPON THE
FIRE."]
He was obeyed. Pailful after pailful of water was dashed upon the fire,
which had been built beside an old dry pine stub; and they were really
subduing it, when a sudden tempestuous flurry of wind scattered the
burning embers in all directions; and presently, before the boys were
able fairly to realize that the mischief had been done, a dozen tiny
puffs of smoke started up around. In reality everything was dry as
tinder.
"We've got to fight it--fight it hard, boys," said Charley, between his
gritted teeth. "I'd like to wring the necks of those Indians."
Well, and how they battled the fire that scorching July day! They
stamped it out; they smothered it with earth; they dashed water over it;
they stifled it with their wet jackets, blistering faces, hands, and
feet without for a moment minding the pain. More than once they were
sure they had conquered, and made the woods ring with a shout of
triumph, only to see, almost before the echoes died away, another puff
of smoke starting up, and another. Their throats were parched, and
rattled when they tried to speak, and their eyes were smarting and
inflamed with the smoke.
"It's no use, boys; we _can't_ do it," one or another would say; and
then they would fall to work with greater vigor than before, if that
were possible.
It was no boys' play, I can tell you. For two long hours they fought the
flames, with blistering hands and faces begrimed with smoke and cinders.
And when they saw the fire was gaining inch by inch, they worked still.
"We'll do all we can," panted Charley. "Oh, boys, why _won't_ it rain!
The thunder-clouds all go round. Oh, boys!"
As he spoke, a long fiery tongue lapped at the foot of a dry tree, and
the flames went up, up, to the top, with a hissing, rushing roar which
turned the boys' hearts sick with dread.
"It's gone," said Charley. "We can't do any more."
But at the same moment came a growl of distant thunder. A dense, black
cloud was growing in the west. Through it there darted a vivid gleam of
light.
"Thunder and lightning!" yelled Bud. "Up, boys, and at it again! We'll
have plenty of help before long."
So it proved. The cloud swept over the sky with surprising rapidity, and
in a very short time the rain fell in sheets. And out in the storm, the
thunder crashing, and the lightning playing about them, stood ten
smoke-blackened, drenched boys, with little rivers of rain wearing
channels down their sooty faces, hurrahing with might and main. If a few
tears of thankfulness and relief mingled with the rivers of rain, I do
not think any boy need have been at all ashamed of them.
"Well," said Charley, "we've had our Fourth-of-July fire-works with a
vengeance." This was when the rain had nearly ceased falling, and the
boys had embarked for home.
"We've had the fire anyhow," laughed Bud, plying his paddle leisurely.
"And I'm sure we've had the work."
"You don't suppose 'twill start up again?", asked Jed Marden, looking
behind a little anxiously, as the old scow moved slowly down the stream.
"No," answered Charley, and he drew a deep breath of relief; "it can't
after such a soaking. But 'twas a close shave, I tell you, boys."
So the towns-people thought when they heard the story.
"'Twas a fust-rate day's work for us," said Mr. Marden at the corner
grocery next morning. "Nothin' on earth would ha' saved the place ef the
fire'd come through there. It's somethin' to brag about. I'm proud o'
the boys--I am so."
"They've paid up for burning Jennings's old barn," said Mr. Stevens,
carefully weighing out four ounces of tea.
"So they hev," assented Mr. Marden.
And so the good folks of Brayton have each and every one of them
resolved that next year the boys shall have such a Fourth-of-July
celebration as Brayton has never yet seen.
THE BABIES' PROCESSION.
BY W. A. ROGERS.
The gay parade of little folk shown in our picture takes place every
Fourth of July at Dayton, Ohio--a pretty town on the banks of the Miami
River.
It originated, we believe, in the brain of a patriotic little
nurse-maid, who, with two or three companions; on a Fourth of July some
years ago, trimmed their carriages with flags and streamers, and gayly
tripped around the block in Indian file. The babies were delighted, and
the nurse-maids flattered at the attention they received on every hand,
and not one little boy on the entire route so far forgot himself as to
fire a cracker under the babies' carriages or throw a torpedo at their
protectors.
Every year, with one exception, the little procession has wended its way
along the sidewalk, with constantly increasing numbers, the pioneer
babies taking the lead.
But on a hot summer day one year, when the little carriages were almost
ready, and busy hands were putting on their holiday attire, one of the
three children fell ill and passed away. Its empty carriage told so
mournful a story that the other nurses sadly put by the flags and
trimmings, and the flowers and wreaths drooped and withered.
The next year, when the flowers were blooming over the silent little
pioneer, all the baby carriages in town were put in commission at least
a week before the Fourth. Every scrap of nickel plate was burnished to
the highest degree of polish, and lingering roses on the later bushes
were carefully guarded to preserve them to grace the occasion.
In the cool of the evening, when the small boys were about tired of
exploding mines, disfiguring their faces, and making that awful din
incident to the day, and were beginning to count up their sky-rockets,
pin-wheels, and red lights, the gay procession moved down the broad
flagged walk.
At the head was the pretty nurse who had originated the affair, pushing
before her a wicker carriage trimmed with roses, and gay with flags and
emblems and gilded stars, from the wheels to the lace-trimmed canopy.
Nestling in its gorgeous carriage was a somewhat bewildered but very
happy baby. A tiny boy, as guard of honor, accompanied each little
carriage, carrying in his hand a wand to charm away stray fire-crackers
from their path.
Porticoes and balconies were crowded with the babies' friends as the
procession passed by and faded into a pretty recollection of silvery
laughter, waving flags, crowing babies, and happy nurse-maids and
children.
[Illustration: THE BABIES' FOURTH-OF-JULY PROCESSION.]
HOW JOHNNIE WENT TO SCHOOL.
BY MARY A. PORTERFIELD.
Little John worked in a barrel factory in the thriving town of E----, in
Pennsylvania.
Piling staves or rolling barrels all day long is not very enjoyable
work, but Johnnie did not grumble: no, indeed, he was too happy to get
even the hardest and dullest work to do. He wanted to go to school, and
his aunt had said if he could save money enough to buy books and
clothes, he might go. He was delighted with this permission, and
clattered down-stairs, three steps at a time, to hunt up Pat, his friend
and confidant, who would double his happiness by sharing it.
Pat was a newsboy on the railroad, a cheery, good-natured Irish lad,
whose mother had died years ago, when he was but a blue-eyed baby. The
new mother that came into the little whitewashed cabin by the railroad
was too busy with her pigs, her garden, and her own little ones to pay
much attention to Pat at first; though by-and-by she thought there was
no room for him in the little home. Poor Pat! he had a hard time finding
any place where there was room for him. At last Johnnie persuaded his
aunt to let the forsaken Irish boy share his bed. They had been firm
friends, sharing their boyish griefs and joys with the complete sympathy
of childhood; they were brothers in heart, if not in name.
Johnnie and Pat were industrious, contented, and happy. During the day
they worked on the cars and in the factory, but in the evening the kind
aunt taught them the common-school studies. Both boys eagerly longed for
the time when they could enjoy fuller advantages for education.
Pat saw his way but dimly, but Johnnie's happiness seemed near at hand.
It was a touching sight to see the two boys once or twice a week bring
out their store of savings. No miser ever thrilled at the sight and
touch of heaps of gold as those two boys at their paltry handful of
silver and copper.
It was about a month before school began, and yet Johnnie had not saved
quite the desired amount.
One evening he came rushing home waving his hat and dinner pail to his
aunt, who stood in the doorway.
"Oh, auntie, I have enough now," he shouted joyfully.
Her motion for silence and the look on her face lowered his glad voice.
"What is the matter? Are you ill? Has anything happened to Pat?" he
hurriedly asked.
"Come in and sit down, and I will tell you," she replied.
A strange sickening odor of some drug filled the house; there was an
unusual stir in the front room. Johnnie's heart sank within him. He
listened with terror-stricken face to the terrible news. An accident on
the road; Pat was hurt; they were amputating his arm; they feared he
would die.
His face grew whiter and whiter as each detail of the horror grew upon
his mind. He buried his face in his hands, and sat motionless a long,
long time.
After a time he went softly into the house, into the room where Pat lay
still unconscious.
"Pat, dear Pat," he sobbed, laying his wet face against the one
colorless hand.
Here he remained until he heard the doctor's step in the hall, when he
withdrew to the shadow of the curtain, dreading yet longing to hear his
words. How his heart leaped with joy to know that Pat might live, though
a cripple. His dear, dashing, frolicksome Pat a cripple!
All night long Johnnie sat with his eyes on the pallid young face. He
was trying to think out some plan for helping him. A firm, happy look
dawned on his grave, thoughtful face. He seemed to have solved a part of
his hard problem.
Toward morning Pat opened his eyes and looked around in a dazed sort of
way. He tried to rise, but was too weak. Slowly he recalled the
accident, the pain, and the darkness. What came then? Looking around in
a helpless, wistful manner, he saw Johnnie's big eyes shining on him
through falling tears. He moved his left hand around to find the right
one. Alas! it was gone. Turning his face to the wall, the hot tears
slipped quickly down from his closed eyes.
It was a long day for the boys, Johnnie at his toilsome labor in the
factory, and Pat at home thinking, thinking, thinking, trying to find
some gleam of brightness, some way of self-help in the future.
Going home that night Johnnie bought an orange and a picture for his
friend. He endeavored to be more than usually cheerful in his manner
that evening. Pat was trying too, but it was such a faint smile that he
gave that Johnnie had hard work to keep back the tears.
"But I did," he triumphantly said to his aunt. "I never mean to make Pat
feel badly any more if I can help it. Oh, auntie"--this very
eagerly--"may I let Pat take my money and go to school? I can wait a
little longer, and Pat will help me in the evenings."
His aunt touched his sunshiny head tenderly. "You know best, my dear
boy. It is your money. Use it to satisfy your own heart."
It was some time before Pat was well again, but after the first few
days' struggle he never murmured. He seemed to accept and make the best
of his circumstances. Every evening Johnnie remembered to bring him some
token of his love--a banana, a paper, a bunch of gay flowers, or a box
of bonbons; for his money was now all for Pat--his dear helpless Pat.
At last the eventful day arrived when Pat was to be up and dressed.
Johnnie started home with more than usual speed, eager to see and
congratulate him.