Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 34. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 22, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RECESS AT THE ACADEMY.--DRAWN BY A. B. SHULTS.]
BABY, BEE, AND BUTTERFLY.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
[Illustration]
Baby, Bee, and Butterfly,
Underneath the summer sky.
Baby, bees, and birds together,
Happy in the pleasant weather;
Sunshine over all around,
In the sky, and on the ground;
Hiding, too, in Baby's eyes,
As he looks in mute surprise
At the sunbeams tumbling over
Merrily amid the clover,
Where the bees, at work all day,
Never find the time for play.
Happy little baby boy!
Tiny heart all full of joy;
Loving everything on earth,
As love welcomed him at birth;
Ever learning new delights,
Ever seeing pleasant sights;
Taking each day one step more
Than he ever took before.
Shine out, sunbeams, warm and bright,
Lengthen daytime, shorten night,
Till so wise he grows that he
Spells _baby_ with a _great big B_.
AN AMERICAN SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.
BY M. LOCKWOOD.
One hundred and twenty years ago there lived a plain, honest farmer in
the beautiful town of Woodstock, in the province of Connecticut, by the
name of Eaton. He belonged to the fine, intelligent New England stock,
and did his duty like a man in the state of life to which God had been
pleased to call him, working on his farm in summer, and teaching school
in winter; for he needed all he could earn to put bread in the mouths of
his thirteen children, who were taught early to help themselves, after
the fashion of their stalwart Anglo-Saxon forefathers. One of Farmer
Eaton's boys, named William, was born February 23, 1764, and was a
high-spirited, clever, reckless little chap, keeping his mother
continually in a state of anxiety on his account; indeed, if she had not
been so used to boys with their pranks and unlimited thirst for
adventures, I think Bill would have been the death of her, for she never
knew what he would be about next. For all his love of sport and out-door
amusement, the boy was so fond of reading that he nearly always managed
to conceal a book in his pocket when he went out to work in the fields
or woods, and often, when left alone, or when his companions stopped for
rest or meals, Bill would steal time to read. When his elders caught him
at it he would often get soundly scolded for not being better employed,
but the very next chance he would be at it again.
One Sunday, when he was ten years old, he was returning from church, and
passing a tree laden with tempting red cherries, climbed up in his usual
reckless fashion to help himself; but either the branch broke or he lost
his footing, for he fell to the ground with such violence that he
dislocated his shoulder, besides being so stunned that he lay senseless
for several days after he was picked up and carried home. The neighbors
came in to offer their services when they heard of the accident, for
though they no doubt shook their heads and remarked, "I told you so," "I
knew how it would be," they were, all the same, very kind to the poor
little chap who lay there, white and death-like, for so many long hours.
A neighbor, who was a tanner by trade, was sitting by his bed when at
last he opened his eyes. I suppose the tanner was glad enough to see the
boy come to life again; but all he said was, "Do you love cherries,
Bill?"
"Do you love _hides_?" spoke up Bill, as quick as a flash.
You see, he came to the full possession of his senses at once after his
long sleep, and wasn't going to let himself be taken at a disadvantage
by any tanner in the land.
When Eaton was twelve our country declared itself free and independent,
and all true patriots rose up to defend, by sword or whatever other
means was in their power, the sacred cause of liberty.
Our young friend Bill fairly burned with desire to go off and do
something great. His soul was on fire with patriotic ardor. How could he
stay quietly in Woodstock, and lead a humdrum life, when the soldiers of
the tyrant were threatening all the Americans held most dear? But his
friends at home did not encourage his practical patriotism. He was told
that he must stay at home, and work on the farm, and get ready for
college; the country would get on very well without him; and so he did
stay for four years, and the war seemed no nearer an end than ever. At
last one night he could stand it no longer; so he ran away, and joined
the nearest camp, where he enlisted. But the pride of the
sixteen-year-old boy received a blow: they made him servant to one of
the officers, and in this menial position he was obliged to stay. He
found that he was far from being his own master now. He behaved so well,
though, that he was placed in the ranks after a while, and in 1783 was
made a sergeant, and discharged.
He went home, and taught, to support himself, while he prepared for
college; for he had no father now to help him along. He entered
Dartmouth College, and graduated honorably, though he had lost five
years for study out of his young life. Not long after his graduation,
while he was teaching again, he was given a captain's commission in the
army for his service during the Revolution. A soldier's life suited his
bold character far better than the quiet occupation of country teacher.
Then he married, and went first west, then south, on military service,
and saw plenty of wild life, and made enemies as well as friends, for
the best of us can not expect to please everybody, and Captain Eaton had
too strong a character not to make some people, who did not think as he
did, very angry.
When he was about thirty-five years old, trouble rose between the United
States government and some of the countries of Africa, and the President
sent Eaton out to Tunis as consul. Tunis is one of the Moorish kingdoms
of Africa that border on the Mediterranean Sea, and were called "Barbary
States." The other Barbary States were Morocco, Algiers, and Tripoli.
For a long time these countries had been nests of pirates, who made
their living by preying on the commerce of Christian nations, and making
slaves of their seamen, so that the black flags of their ships were the
terror of the Mediterranean. These robbers had the daring to demand
tribute of European nations, which many of them paid annually for the
sake of not being molested, and lately they had tried to extort money
from the United States on the same plea. Eaton managed so cleverly and
successfully with the Bey, or ruler, of Tunis, that he made a very
satisfactory arrangement with him, and then returned home: but the other
agents did not manage so well, and at last war was declared, for the
United States had no idea of being cowed and threatened by these
pirates and murderers--far otherwise! The memory of her recent
successful struggle with the greatest nation of the earth was too fresh
to make it possible that an American ship should voluntarily lower its
flag before a Moorish marauder. But what we would not do voluntarily we
had to do by compulsion. The frigate _Philadelphia_, sailing in African
waters, under Captain Bainbridge, was captured by the Bey of Tripoli,
and towed into the harbor of that town. Her crew was carried off into
slavery by the pirates, some languishing in hopeless imprisonment,
others toiling their lives away under the burning sun of Africa.
Captain Decatur soon after sailed into the harbor in a vessel that he
had captured from the Tripolitans, and retook and burned the
_Philadelphia_; but, alas! hero as he was, he could not rescue his
unfortunate countrymen. A few months later, in 1805, Eaton was sent back
to the Barbary States as Naval Agent, and first stopped in Egypt. Here
he made up his mind that he would bend all his energies toward rescuing
the captives at Tripoli. He found that the rightful ruler of Tripoli,
named Hamet Caramelli, had been driven away from his dominions by his
brother Yusef, and was in Alexandria. Eaton offered to assist him to
recover his throne, and collected a little army of five hundred men,
most of them Mussulmans, a few Greek Christians, and nine Americans.
With these followers he and Hamet marched across the desert toward
Derne, in the kingdom of Tripoli. Eaton had not lost his boyish love of
adventure yet, you see. This was just one of the bold, daring
undertakings that he may have dreamed of in those early days when he
stole away from his work to read with eager delight stories of wild
venture and perilous escape in the peaceful shades of the forest around
Woodstock. Doubtless these desert marches now entered upon far exceeded
all his young imagination had pictured them.
It was a perilous journey, for the Arab sheiks and their followers, who
made up most of his army, sometimes behaved in a very mutinous manner,
and it took all Eaton's force of will and strict discipline to keep them
in any sort of order, for Hamet showed very little decision of
character, and proved that he was not very well fitted to be a ruler of
men.
They were liable to be attacked by brigands from the mountains, too, so
that ceaseless vigilance was needed. Some friendly Arab bands joined
them on the road; so, when they reached Derne, Eaton found himself at
the head of quite an army. Here he was met by two American ships, and
with their help he bombarded the town, and took it by assault, driving
the wild Arabs who were defending it back to the mountains. Now Eaton
was in a situation to dictate his own terms to the usurper Yusef Bey,
since he had brought Hamet Caramelli triumphantly into his own city of
Derne, and had driven all enemies before him. He had laid his plans to
march on Tripoli, drive off the usurper, and deliver his poor captive
countrymen at the edge of the sword, when suddenly his successful career
was brought to an end in rather a mortifying way. Yusef, frightened out
of his defiance, consented to come to terms with Colonel Lear, American
Consul-General at Algiers. If Colonel Lear had not been too hasty in
concluding a treaty which forced the United States to pay sixty thousand
dollars ransom money, when not a cent should have been given, and left
the cruel Yusef safe on his throne, General Eaton might have marched on
Tripoli with his victorious army, restored Hamet, and let the captives
go in triumph.
Most people agreed that but for Eaton's promptness and bravery the
troubles might have lasted much longer; and when he returned to America,
soon after, he was received with great distinction by his countrymen,
who made him quite an ovation. The Massachusetts Legislature voted him
ten thousand acres of land in the district of Maine. The remainder of
his life was passed in his pleasant home at Brimfield, Massachusetts,
where he died June 1, 1811, at the age of forty-seven.
Aaron Burr tried to draw Eaton into his famous conspiracy, but Eaton was
a firm patriot, and refused with horror to play the traitor. Wishing to
make his true sentiments known, once for all, he gave this toast at a
public banquet, in Burr's presence: "The United States--palsy to the
brain that shall plot to dismember, and leprosy to the hand that will
not draw to defend our Union!"
THE HARE AND THE BADGER.
A Story from the Japanese.
BY WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS.
A good while ago there lived near the Clack-clack Mountains an old man
and his wife, who, having no child, made a great deal of a pet hare.
Every day the old man cut up food and set it out on a plate for his pet.
One day a badger came out of the forest, and in a trice drove away the
hare, and eating up his dinner, licked the plate clean. Then, standing
on his hind-legs, the badger blew out his belly until it was as round as
a bladder and tight as a drum, and beating on it with his paws to show
his victory, scampered off to the woods. But the old man, who was very
angry, caught the badger, and tying him by the legs, hung him up head
downward under the edges of the thatch in the shed where his old woman
pounded millet. He then strapped a wooden frame to hold fagots on his
back, and went out to the mountains to cut wood.
The badger, finding his legs pain him, began to cry, and begged the old
woman to untie him, promising to help her pound the millet. The tired
old dame, believing the sly beast, like a good-hearted soul laid down
her pestle and loosened the cords round the beast's legs. The badger was
so cramped at first that he could not stand; but when well able to move,
he seized a knife to kill the old woman. The hare, seeing this, ran away
to find the old man, if possible, and tell him. The badger, after
stabbing the old woman, crushed her to death by upsetting the bureau
upon her, and then threw her body into the mortar, and pounded her into
a jelly. Setting the pot on to boil, he made the woman's flesh into a
mess of soup, and ate all he could of it. Then the badger, by turning
three double somersaults, turned himself into an old woman, looking
exactly like the one he had just eaten. All being ready, he waited till
the husband came home tired and hungry.
Soon the old man came back, thinking of nothing more than the hot supper
he was soon to enjoy. Throwing down his fagots, he came into the house,
and while he warmed his hands at the hearth, his wife (as he supposed)
set the mess of soup and millet, with a slice of radish, before him on a
tray. He fell to, and ate heartily, his wife (as he supposed) waiting
dutifully near by till her lord was served. When the meal was finished
he pulled out a sheet of soft mulberry paper from his bosom and wiped
his old chops, smacking them well, as he thought what a good supper he
had so much enjoyed. Just then the badger took on his real shape, and
yelled out: "Old fool, you've eaten your own wife. Look in the drain,
and you'll find her bones." And he puffed out his body, beat it like a
drum, whisked his tail scornfully, and ran off.
Almost dead with grief and horror, the old man gathered up the bones of
his wife, and decently buried them. Then he made a vow to take revenge
on the badger. Just then the hare came back from the mountains, and
after condoling with the old man, said he would also take revenge on the
badger.
[Illustration]
So the hare buckled on his belt, in which he kept his flint and steel,
and made ready a plaster of red peppers.
Going into the forest, he saw Mr. Badger walking home with a load of
fagots and brush on his back. Creeping up softly behind him, the hare
set the bundle on fire. The badger kept on, until he heard the crackling
of the burning twigs. Then he jumped wildly, and cried out, "Oh, I
wonder what that noise is!"
"Oh, this is the Clack-clack Mountain; it always is crackling here,"
said the hare, looking down from the top of the hill.
The fire grew more lively, and the badger became scared. He fell down,
and threw out his fore-paws wildly.
[Illustration]
"Katchi-katchi" (clack-clack), went the dry fagots, as the red-hot coals
flew about.
"What can it be?" said Mr. Badger.
"This mountain is called Katchi-katchi (Clack-clack); don't you know
that?" said the hare, coolly standing on the bridge, and leaning on his
axe.
"Oh! oh! oh! help me!" howled the badger, as the blazing twigs began to
burn the hair off his back. And running through the woods to a stream
near by, he plunged in, and the fire was put out. But his running had
only increased the fire and burning, and his back was all raw. When the
hare found the badger at home in his house, he was howling in misery,
and expecting to die from his burn.
"Let me take a look at your burn, Mr. Badger," said the hare; "I have
some famous salve to cure it"--as he pretended to be very pitiful, and
held up a bowl of what seemed to be fine salve in one paw, while in the
other was a soft brush of fine hair. Then the hare clapped on the
red-pepper plaster, and ran away, while the badger rolled in pain.
By-and-by, when the badger got well, he went to see the hare, to have it
out with him. He found the hare building a boat. "Where are you going in
that boat?" said the badger.
"I'm going to the moon," said the hare. "Come along with me. There's
another boat."
So the badger, thinking to catch some fish by going on the water, got
into the boat, and both launched away.
Now the boat in which Mr. Badger rowed was made of clay, which soon
began to melt away in the water. Seeing this, the hare lifted his
paddle, and with one blow sunk the boat, and the badger was drowned.
The hare went back and told the old man, who was glad that his wife had
been revenged, and more than ever petted the hare to the end of his
life.
[Begun in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 31, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER IV.
Some time in the middle of the night Joe Sharpe woke up from a dream
that he had fallen into the river, and could not get out. He thought
that he had caught hold of the supports of a bridge, and had drawn
himself partly out of the water, but that he had not strength enough to
drag his legs out, and that, on the contrary, he was slowly sinking
back. When he awoke he found that he was very cold, and that his blanket
felt particularly heavy. He put his hand down to move the blanket, when,
to his great surprise, he found that he was lying with his legs in a
pool of water.
Joe instantly shouted to the other boys, and told them to wake up, for
it was raining, and the tent was leaking. As each boy woke up he found
himself as wet as Joe, and at first all supposed that it was raining
heavily. They soon found, however, that no rain-drops were pattering on
the outside of the tent, and that the stars were shining through the
open nap.
"There's water in this tent," said Tom, with the air of having made a
grand discovery.
"If any of you fellows have been throwing water on me, it was a mean
trick," said Jim.
All at once an idea struck Harry. "Boys," he exclaimed, "it's the tide!
We've got to get out of this place mighty quick, or the tide will wash
the tent away."
The boys sprung up, and rushed out of the tent. They had gone to bed at
low tide, and as the tide rose it had gradually invaded the tent. The
boat was still safe, but the water had surrounded it, and in a very
short time would be deep enough to float it. The tide was still rising,
and it was evident that no time should be lost if the tent was to be
saved.
Two of the boys hurriedly seized the blankets and other articles which
were in the tent, and carried them on to the higher ground, while the
other two pulled up the pins, and dragged the tent out of reach of the
water. Then they pulled the boat farther up the beach, and having thus
made everything safe, had leisure to discover that they were miserably
cold, and that their clothes, from the waist down, were wet through.
Luckily, their spare clothing, which they had used for pillows, was
untouched by the water, so that they were able to put on dry shirts and
trousers. Their blankets, however, had been thoroughly soaked, and it
was too cold to think of sleeping without them. There was nothing to be
done but to build a fire, and sit around it until daylight. It was by no
means easy to collect fire-wood in the dark; and as soon as a boy
succeeded in getting an armful of driftwood, he usually stumbled and
fell down with it. There was not very much fun in this; but when the
fire finally blazed up, and its pleasant warmth conquered the cold night
air, the boys began to regain their spirits.
"I wonder what time it is?" said one.
Tom had a watch, but he had forgotten to wind it up for two or three
nights, and it had stopped at eight o'clock. The boys were quite sure,
however, that they could not have been asleep more than half an hour.
"It's about one o'clock," said Harry, presently.
"I don't believe it's more than nine," said Joe.
"We must have gone into the tent about an hour after sunset," continued
Harry, "and the sun sets between six and seven. It was low tide then,
and it's pretty near high tide now; and since the tide runs up for about
six hours, it must be somewhere between twelve and one."
"You're right," exclaimed Jim. "Look at the stars. That bright star over
there in the west was just rising when we went to bed."
"You ought to say 'turned in,'" said Joe. "Sailors never go to bed; they
always 'turn in.'"
"Well, we can't turn in any more to-night," replied Tom. "What do you
say, boys? suppose we have breakfast--it'll pass away the time, and we
can have another breakfast by-and-by."
Now that the boys thought of it, they began to feel hungry, for they had
had a very light supper. Everybody felt that hot coffee would be very
nice; so they all went to work, made coffee, fried a piece of ham, and,
with a few slices of bread, made a capital breakfast. They wrung out the
wet blankets and clothes, and hung them up by the fire to dry. Then they
had to collect more fire-wood; and gradually the faint light of the dawn
became visible before they really had time to find the task of waiting
for daylight tiresome.
They decided that it would not do to start with wet blankets, since they
could not dry them in the boat. They therefore continued to keep up a
brisk fire, and to watch the blankets closely, in order to see that they
did not get scorched. After a time the sun came out bright and hot, and
took the drying business in charge. The boys went into the river, and
had a nice long swim, and then spent some time in carefully packing
everything into the boat. By the time the blankets were dry, and they
were ready to start, the tide had fallen so low that the boat was high
and dry; and in spite of all their efforts they could not launch her
while she was loaded.
"We'll have to take all the things out of her," said Harry.
"It reminds me," remarked Joe, "of Robinson Crusoe that time he built
his big canoe, and then couldn't launch it."
"Robinson wasn't very sharp," said Jim. "Why didn't he make a set of
rollers, and put them on the boat?"
"Much good rollers would have been," replied Joe. "Wasn't there a hill
between the boat and the water? He couldn't roll a heavy boat up hill,
could he?"
"He could have made a couple of pulleys, and rigged a rope through them,
and then made a windlass, and put the rope round it," argued Jim.
"Yes, and he could have built a steam-engine and a railroad, and dragged
the boat down to the shore that way, just about as easy."
"He couldn't dig a canal, for he thought about that, and found it would
take too much work," said Jim.
"But we can," cried Harry. "If we just scoop out a little sand, we can
launch the boat with everything in her."
[Illustration: TOM MAKES A CALCULATION.]
The boys liked the idea of a canal; and they each found a large shingle
on the beach, and began to dig. They dug for nearly an hour, but the
boat was no nearer being launched than when they began. Tom stopped
digging, and made a calculation. "It will take about two days of hard
work to dig a canal deep enough to float that boat. If you want to dig,
dig; I don't intend to do any more digging."
When the other boys considered the matter, they saw that Tom was right,
and they gave up the idea of making a canal. It was now about ten
o'clock, and they were rather tired and very hungry. A second breakfast
was agreed to be necessary, and once more the fire was built up and a
meal prepared. Then the boat was unloaded and launched, and the boys,
taking off their shoes and rolling up their trousers, waded in the water
and reloaded her. It was noon by the sun before they finally had
everything in order, and resumed their cruise.
There was no wind, and it was necessary to take to the oars. The
disadvantage of starting at so late an hour soon became painfully
evident. The sun was so nearly overhead that the heat was almost
unbearable, and there was not a particle of shade. The boys had not had
a full night's sleep, and had tired themselves before starting by trying
to dig a canal. Of course the labor of rowing in such circumstances was
very severe; and it was not long before first one and then another
proposed to go ashore and rest in the shade.
"Hadn't we better keep on till we get into the Highlands? We can do it
in a quarter of an hour," said Tom.
As Tom was pulling the stroke oar, and doing rather more work than any
one else, the others agreed to row on as long as he would row. They soon
reached the entrance to the Highlands, and landed at the foot of the
great hill called St. Anthony's Nose. They were very glad to make the
boat fast to a tree that grew close to the water, and to clamber a
little way up the hill into the shade.
"What will we do to pass away the time till it gets cooler?" said Harry,
after they had rested awhile.
"I can tell you what I'm going to do," said Tom; "I'm going to get some
of the sleep that I didn't get last night, and you'd better follow my
example."
All the boys at once found that they were sleepy; and having brought the
tent up from the boat, they spread it on the ground for a bed, and
presently were sleeping soundly. The mosquitoes came and feasted on
them, and the innumerable insects of the summer woods crawled over them,
and explored their necks, shirt sleeves, and trousers legs, as is the
pleasant custom of insects of an inquiring turn of mind.
"What's that?" cried Harry, suddenly sitting up, as the sound of a heavy
explosion died away in long, rolling echoes.
"I heard it," said Joe; "it's a cannon. The cadets up at West Point are
firing at a mark with a tremendous big cannon."
"Let's go up and see them," exclaimed Jim. "It's a great deal cooler
than it was."
With the natural eagerness of boys to be in the neighborhood of a
cannon, they made haste to gather up the tent and carry it to the boat.
As they came out from under the thick trees, they saw that the sky in
the north was as black as midnight, and that a thunder-storm was close
at hand.
"Your cannon, Joe, was a clap of thunder," said Harry. "We're going to
get wet again."
"We needn't get wet," said Tom. "If we hurry up, we can get the tent
pitched and put the things in it, so as to keep them dry."
They worked rapidly, for the rain was approaching fast, but it was not
easy to pitch the tent on a side-hill. It was done, however, after a
fashion, and the blankets and other things that were liable to be
injured by the wet were safely under shelter before the storm reached
them.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
NEW YORK PRISON-SHIPS.
On the Long Island shore, where the Navy-yard now extends its shops and
vessels around Wallabout Bay, there was in the time of the Revolution a
large and fertile farm. A number of flour mills, moved by water, then
stood there. The flat fields glowed with rich crops of grain, roots, and
clover. Their Dutch owners still kept up the customs and language of
Holland; at Christmas the kettles hissed and bubbled over the huge
fires, laden with olycooks, doughnuts, crullers; at Paas, or Easter, the
colored eggs were cracked by whites and blacks, and all was merriment.
The war no doubt brought its difficulties to the Dutch farmers; they
were sometimes plundered by both parties, and they had little love for
King George. They lived on in decorous silence, waiting for the coming
of peace, remembering how their ancestors in Holland had once fought
successfully for freedom against the Spaniards and the French. But in
front of the quiet farm at Wallabout, and anchored in the bay, were seen
several vessels, decayed, unseaworthy, and repulsive. They were the
prison-ships of New York. Here from the year 1776 a large number of
American prisoners were confined until the close of the war, and the
tragic tales of their sufferings and fate lend a melancholy interest to
the Wallabout shore.
The largest of the prison-ships--the old _Jersey_--was crowded with
miserable captives. She was an old man-of-war, worthless, decayed; her
low decks and dismal hold were converted into a jail; her crowded
inmates were only thinned by the hand of death. The old _Jersey_ may
well be taken as one of the best symbols of the terrors of war. Her
miserable captives pined away for months and years, deprived of all that
makes life tolerable. In the chill and bitter frosts of winter no fires
warmed her half-clad inmates; in the hot summer they faded away beneath
the pitiless heat. Disease preyed upon them, yet no physician, it is
said, was suffered to visit them. They were clothed in rags and tatters;
their food was so scanty and often so repulsive that they lived in
continual starvation. The fair youth of Connecticut and Rhode Island,
the young sailors of New York and New Jersey, confined in these floating
dungeons, were the sacrifices to the ambition of King George. They died
by hundreds and even thousands during the war; the whole shore was lined
with the unmarked graves of the patriot dead; the prison-ships were the
scandal of the time, and their starved inmates seldom bore long the
pains of the merciless imprisonment. It is said that the bones of eleven
thousand dead were found upon the shore, and reverently buried in a
common tomb.
Yet the prisoners of the old _Jersey_ and the other ships were not left
always without sympathy and aid. Often a boat was seen sailing from the
rich farms on the Wallabout, laden with provisions for the famished
patriots. The Dutch farmers from their own diminished resources gave
bountifully to the sufferers. The ladies of the household worked warm
stockings with the busy knitting-needle; the spinning-wheel was never
idle; the fair Dutch damsels, demure and prudent, blushing with the rich
complexions of Amsterdam, were never weary of their charitable toil; and
many a poor prisoner was saved and strengthened by the gifts of his
unknown friends. As the war advanced, too, the successes of the
Americans seem to have convinced the royal chiefs that they were at
least deserving of tolerable treatment. Some of the worst abuses of the
system were removed. Hospital-ships were provided; the sick were
separated from the healthy; the _Whitby_, the most infamous of the
floating jails, was abandoned. Yet still, an observer relates, the dead
were carried away every morning from the old _Jersey_, and still the
horrors of captivity in the prison-ships exceeded all that had been
known in every recent European war.
Several curious escapes are related. Once, in 1777, as a boat hung
fastened to the old _Jersey_ unnoticed, three or four prisoners let
themselves down into it quietly, cast off the rope, and drifted away
slowly with the tide. It was evening, and the darkness saved them. Their
escape was discovered, and guns were fired at random after them; but
they floated unharmed along the East River, passed what are now the
Fulton and South ferries, and reached by a miracle the New Jersey shore.
Here they found friends, and were safe. At another time, in the cold
winter of 1780, fifteen half-clad, half-famished prisoners escaped in
the night on the ice; others who followed them turned back, overpowered
by the cold. One was frozen to death. It is almost possible to see in
fancy the miserable band of shivering fugitives fleeing over the ice of
the restless river in the deep cold of the winter's night, chased by the
fierce winds, half lost in the blinding snow. They made their way to the
Connecticut shore. A very remarkable escape from the Old Sugar-House is
related of a Boston prisoner. He dug a passage under Liberty Street from
the prison to the cellar of the house on the opposite side of the way.
The difficulty of making the excavation will be plain to every one who
looks at the labors of a party of workmen opening a trench for gas-pipes
or water. Yet the Boston boy burrowed under-ground until he found
himself free.
The prison-ships were retained in use until 1783. Several were burned at
different times, either by accident or by the prisoners in their
despair. At the close of the war the remaining ships were all sunk or
burned. A few years ago the wreck of the old _Jersey_ could still be
seen on the Wallabout shore.
THE TIGER.
The royal tiger of Asia is an animal celebrated for its beauty and its
agility, cunning, and prodigious strength. Its skin is a bright tawny
yellow, with glossy black stripes running downward from its back. Its
tail, which is long and supple, is ringed with black, and its large head
is marked in a very handsome manner. It is like a great cat. Its puffy
cheeks are ornamented with white whiskers, and its big paws are like
those of a pussy magnified fifty times. Its motions are very graceful,
and whether lying down, its nose on its paw, sleeping, or walking
through the paths of its native jungle with soft cat-like tread, it
appears formed of muscle and sinew, without a bone in its body, so
gracefully does it curve and twist itself as it moves.
The tiger is not considered a courageous beast by hunters, who say that
if it is faced boldly, it will turn and slink away among the bushes, if
it can. But if it can attack a hunter from behind, it will spring upon
him, filling the air with its savage growls, and probably kill him with
the first blow of its mighty paw.
The strength of this creature is almost incredible. It will break the
skull of an ox, or even that of a buffalo, with the greatest ease. A
story is told of a buffalo belonging to a peasant in India, which, while
passing through a swamp, became helplessly entangled in the mire and
underbrush. The peasant left the buffalo, and went to beg his neighbors
to assist him in extricating the poor beast. When the rescuing party
returned, they found a tiger had arrived before them, and having killed
the buffalo, had just shouldered it, and started to march home to its
lair with the prey. The tiger was soon dispatched by the peasant and his
friends, and his beautiful skin was made to atone in a measure for the
murder of the buffalo, which, when weighed, tipped the scales at more
than a thousand pounds--a tremendous load for so small an animal as a
tiger to shoulder and carry off with ease.
The tiger is very troublesome to the inhabitants of certain localities
in India, as it attacks the herds, and makes off with many a fat
bullock; and when unable to find other provender it will even attack the
huts of the natives, sometimes tearing away the thatch, and springing in
with a loud roar on a startled family. Instances are rare, however, of
tigers attacking human beings, except when surprised and driven to
self-defense. In some portions of the country they are very abundant,
and may be heard every night roaring through the jungles in search of
deer and other beasts upon which they prey. Even the savage wild boar of
India does not terrify this queen of cats, and often bloody battles
occur between these two powerful beasts.
As a mother the tiger is very devoted, and will fight for its pretty
kittens to the last extremity. A story is told of an English officer
who, while hunting in India, came upon the lair of a tiger, in which a
tiny kitten, about a fortnight old, was lying all alone. Thinking that
the mother was probably among the beasts killed by his party, the
officer took the kitten to the camp, where it was chained to a pole, and
amused the whole company with its graceful gambols. A few hours later,
however, the whole camp was shaken by terrible roars and shrieks of
rage, which came ever nearer and nearer. The kitten heard them, and
became a miniature tiger at once, showing its teeth, and answering with
a loud wail. Suddenly there leaped into the camp inclosure a furious
tigress with glaring eyes. Without deigning to notice the robbers of her
baby, she seized the little thing in her teeth, snapped the small chain
which held it with one jerk, and briskly trotted off with it into the
jungle. Not a man in the camp dared move, and no one was malicious
enough to fire at the retreating mother that had risked her life to
regain possession of her baby.
[Illustration: A ROYAL BENGAL TIGER.]
Any one who has watched the feeding of caged tigers in a menagerie can
easily imagine how terrible a hungry tiger would be, were he running
free in his native jungle. As supper-time approaches, the tigers begin
to roar and growl, and march restlessly up and down the cage. When the
keeper approaches with the great pieces of raw beef, their roaring makes
everything tremble. With ferocity glaring in their eyes, the tigers
spring for the food, and begin to devour it eagerly. They often lie down
to eat, holding the meat in their fore-paws like a cat, rolling it over
and over while they tear it in pieces, growling savagely all the while.
The royal tiger is found only in Asia; for the beast called a tiger in
South America and on the Isthmus of Panama is properly the jaguar, and
its skin is not ornamented by stripes, but by black spots. It is not so
powerful as its royal relative, but very much like it in its habits.
Like the tiger, it is an expert swimmer, and as it is very fond of fish,
it haunts the heavily wooded banks of the great South American rivers,
and is a constant terror to the wood-cutters, who anchor their little
vessels along the shore.
The crocodiles and the jaguars are at constant war with each other. If a
jaguar catches a crocodile asleep on a sand-bank, it has the advantage,
and usually kills its antagonist; but if the crocodile can catch its
enemy in the water, the jaguar rarely escapes death by drowning.
Jaguars are not as plentiful on the Isthmus of Panama as formerly,
before the scream and rumble of the locomotive disturbed the solitudes
of the dense tropical forest. Still, large specimens are occasionally
killed there, and their beautiful skins bring a high price when brought
to market.
BICYCLING.
BY THE CAPTAIN.
One of the prettiest and most interesting sights ever seen in the gay
city of Newport was the parade of bicyclers last Decoration-day, where,
among the one hundred and fifty riders, were to be seen the uniforms of
twenty-five crack clubs.
The illustration of the procession on next page shows it on Bellevue
Avenue while passing the quaint and beautiful Casino Building. First of
all rides the commander, Captain Hodges, of the Boston Bicycle Club, and
directly behind him, riding three abreast, are the six marshals of the
procession, who act as his aides. Then come the men of the New York
Club, in gray and scarlet, riding in column of fours, and followed by
the long line of glittering steel and gay uniforms that stretches for
nearly a mile along the pleasant street.
Crowds of people have gathered to watch the procession, and their
cheers, as some particularly well-drilled club passes, cause the men to
ride with great care, and to preserve their lines so well that they move
with the steadiness and precision of a body of cavalry.
Of all the riders in this long procession, the youngest was probably the
best. Theodore R----, or "the young captain," as he is called, is but
fourteen years old, and looks much younger. He lives in Philadelphia,
and has practiced riding the bicycle in a rink in that city until his
performances upon it are as wonderful as those of a circus rider on his
horse.
In the picture of "the young captain" he is represented as mounted on
his own machine, of which the driving-wheel is but forty-two inches in
diameter. His most wonderful riding is, however, done upon a bicycle
twelve or fourteen inches higher than this, and of which he can but
barely touch the pedals as they come up. Thus he keeps the machine in
motion by a succession of little kicks or pushes. He rides bicycles so
tall that to gain the saddle he has actually to climb up the backbone of
the machine after he has set it in motion with a vigorous push.
"The young captain" is a very bright boy, and excels in all games and
feats of skill, while at the same time he is a good scholar, and stands
well in all his classes.
Since the great Newport meet of bicyclers, or "wheelmen," as they are
now generally called in this country, a number of letters containing
questions about bicycles have been written by boys anxious to become
riders, and sent to YOUNG PEOPLE. In the following hints to young riders
I will try and answer all these questions:
Any active boy of ten years of age and upward may become a wheelman.
It is best to learn to ride on an old-fashioned wooden machine, or
"bone-shaker," or on a bicycle so low that the rider may touch the
ground with his toes. By this means he will learn to maintain his
balance without getting any serious falls.
Anybody who can ride a "bone-shaker" can ride a bicycle, though in the
latter case he must learn to mount his machine before he can ride it.
To learn the "mount" take your machine by the handles, give it a running
push, place your left foot on the step, and, rising from the ground,
maintain your balance as long as possible in that position without
attempting to gain the saddle. After trying this a dozen times or more,
try to take your seat in the saddle, not with a spring, but slide in
easily, and do not let your body lean forward or you may pitch over the
handles.
A beginner should have his saddle set well back on the spring. Although
this position gives less power, it is much safer.
In going up hill lean well forward, and transfer the entire weight from
the saddle to the pedals. Do not be ashamed to dismount in going up
hill, but do so in every case rather than exhaust yourself.
In going down hill lean back as far as possible, and keep your machine
under control. A little practice in back-pedalling, or pushing against
the pedal as it comes up rather than as it goes down, will enable you to
take your machine down very steep hills at ordinary walking pace. If
your machine does escape from your control, throw your legs over the
handles, and "coast," as you are less liable to get a bad fall while in
this position than in any other.
Keep to the right of the road as much as possible. Always keep to the
right when you meet a team, foot-passenger, or other bicycle, and in
overtaking any of these always pass to the left. Dismount and walk past
any horse that becomes frightened at your bicycle.
Always carry a light when riding at night.
Be careful not to use your whistle or bell more than is absolutely
necessary, otherwise you will become a nuisance, and as such will not be
a welcome addition to the ranks of wheelmen.
Remember that while you have rights for which you are bound to stand up,
others have equal rights, which you are equally bound to respect.
In selecting a bicycle, be sure that it fits you perfectly. Do not
gratify a mistaken ambition by trying to ride a wheel that is too large
for you. The larger the wheel, the more difficulty you will find in
driving it up hill.
As soon as you own a bicycle, make yourself familiar with every part of
it, and especially with all its adjustments.
Never lend your bicycle.
Always clean and adjust it yourself. If it gets broken, send it to none
but a first-class machinist for repairs.
[Illustration: FIRST GRAND MEET OF AMERICAN WHEELMEN.--DRAWN BY W. P.
SNYDER.]
THE PIG'S PENNY.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
It was the pig did it.
The bigger that pig grew, the more he squealed, and the less he seemed
to like his pen.
Ben knew it, but for all that he wondered how it came to pass that he
should find that pig in the village street, half way down to the tavern.
"Out of the pen into the barn-yard, and out of that into the street when
the gate was open. Won't I have a time getting him home!"
There was little doubt of that, for the pig felt that it was his duty to
root as he went, and he refused to walk quietly past any good
opportunity to thrust his snub-nose into something.
Ben worked, and so did the pig.
"Hullo! What's that?"
The pig had turned up a clod of earth with something sticking on it, and
Ben sprang forward to pick it up.
"It's a cent!"
It was round; it was made of copper; it was a coin of some kind; but it
was black and grimy, and Ben rubbed hard to clean it.
"I never saw a cent like that before. I can't even read what it says on
it."
"What have you found, Ben, my boy?"
"Guess it's a kind of a cent. The pig found it."
All the boys in the village knew old Squire Burchard, only they were
half afraid of him. It was said he could read almost any kind of book,
and that was a wonderful sort of man for any man to be.
"The pig found it? I declare! I guess I'll have to buy it of you."
"Don't you s'pose it'll pass?"
"Well, yes, it might; but it'll only buy a cent's worth. I'll give you
more than that for it."
"Going to melt it over and make a new cent of it?"
"No, Ben, not so bad as that. I'll keep it to look at. It's a very old
German coin, and I'm what they call a numismatist."
Ben listened hard over that word for a moment, and tried to repeat it.
"Rumismatics--I know; it's a good deal like what father says he has
sometimes. Gets into his back and legs."
"Not quite, Ben; but it makes me gather up old coins, and put them in a
glass case, and look at them."
"Father's is worse 'n that; it takes him bad in rainy weather."
"Well, Ben, I'll give the pig or you, just as you say, a quarter of a
dollar for that cent."
Ben's eyes fairly danced, but all he could manage to say was, "Yes, sir.
Thank you, sir. Guess I will."
"There it is, Ben. It's a new one. I don't care much for new ones.
What'll you do with it?"
Ben hesitated only a moment, for he was turning the quarter over and
over, and thinking of just the answer to the squire's question.
"It's a puppy, sir. Mrs. Malone said I might have it for a quarter, and
father said I couldn't buy it unless I found the money."
"It'll be the pig's puppy, then? All right; but you can't make pork of
him."
The pig was driven home in a good deal of a hurry, without another
chance given him to root for old coins; and when Ben's father came in
from the corn field that night, there was Ben ready to meet him with the
puppy.
"Got him, have you?"
Ben had to explain twice over about the old cent and the Squire.
"Oh, the pig did it. Well, Ben, I don't see what we want of another dog;
though that is a real pretty one. Too many dogs in this village,
anyhow."
The next day Ben's father went to town with a load of wheat, and Ben
went with him.
He had not owned that puppy long enough to feel like leaving him at
home, so the little lump of funny black curls and clumsiness had to go
to town with him.
Ben's father was in the store, selling his wheat, and Ben was sitting on
top of the load in the wagon, when a carriage with a lady in it was
pulled up in the street beside it.
"Is that your puppy, my boy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Will you sell it? I want one for my little boy."
"It's a real nice puppy--"
"What will you sell him for?"
Ben did not feel at all like parting with his new pet, but he knew very
well what his father thought about it. Still, it might save him the
puppy if he asked a tremendous price for it.
"I'll take five dollars, ma'am."
"Bring him to me, then. It's just such a dog as I thought of buying."
It seemed to Ben a good deal as if he were dreaming; but he did as he
was told, and climbed back to his perch on the heaped-up bags of wheat
to wait for his father.
It was not long before he had sold the wheat and came out.
"Why, Ben, where's your puppy?"
"There he is, father."
"Why, if that ain't a five-dollar bill! You don't say so!"
Ben explained, and added, "The pig did it, father."
"Well, yes, the pig did it. It just beats me, though."
"He won't know what to do with a five-dollar bill."
"Nor you either. But soon's I can throw off this load we must drive on
up town. There's to be a horse auction."
Ben knew what that meant, for his father knew all about horses, and was
all the while buying and selling them. So it was not long before the
wagon was empty, and Ben and his father made their way to where the
horses were to be sold.
"There's a good many of 'em," said Ben's father, "but the whole lot
isn't worth much. I guess there isn't anything here I want."
Not many people were bidding for the horses, and they were indeed a
poor-looking lot; but pretty soon a gray horse was led out that limped
badly, and was as thin as if he had been fed on wind. One man bid a
dollar for him, and another bid two, and there was a good deal of fun
made about it; but Ben's father had very quietly slipped down from the
wagon, and taken a careful look at the lame horse.
For all that, Ben was a little surprised when the auctioneer's hammer
fell, and he shouted, "Sold! for five dollars, to--What's your name,
mister?"
"Ben Whittlesey."
Ben's father said that. But it wasn't his name. His name was Robert.
"Ben," said his father, when he came back to the wagon, "hand me that
five-dollar bill. If I can get that horse home, I'll cure him in a
fortnight. There's no great thing the matter with him."
There was trouble enough in making the poor lame animal limp so many
miles, and they got home after dark; but that was just as well, for
nobody saw the new horse, or had a chance to laugh at him or his owner.
"It's the pig's horse," said Ben.
Ben's father was as good as his word about curing the lameness, and
plenty of oats and hay, and no work, and good care, did the rest. The
man who sold the gray for five dollars would not have known him at the
end of two weeks.
It was just about two weeks after that that Ben's father drove the
pig's horse to town and back in a buggy, and with a nice new harness on.
He stopped at the blacksmith's shop on his way home, and Mr. Corrigan,
the blacksmith, seemed to take a great fancy to the gray.
"Just the nag I want, Mr. Whittlesey; only I've no ready cash to pay for
him."
"I don't sell on credit, you know," said Mr. Whittlesey. "Anything to
trade?"
"Nothing that I know of. Unless you care to take that vacant lot of
mine, next the tavern. Tisn't doing me any good. I had to take it for a
debt, and I've paid taxes for it these three years."
"Will you swap even?"
"Yes, I might as well."
There was more talk, of course, before the trade was finished, but it
came out all right in the end. Before the next day at noon Mr. Corrigan
owned the pig's horse; but the deed of the town lot was made out in the
name of Ben Whittlesey, and not of the pig.
"Father," said Ben, at the tea table, "mayn't I let that pig out into
the road every day?"
"No, Ben; all the pigs in the village can't root up another cent like
that."
"He did it."
"Well, Ben, he did and he didn't. Do you know how he got the town lot
for you?"
"Why, yes. Don't I?"
"Not quite. You saw him turn up the cent, and knew what to do with it;
he didn't."
"Yes, father."
"And Squire Burchard saw the cent, and knew what to do with it; you
didn't."
"Yes, father."
"And the lady saw your puppy, and knew what to do with it, and you
didn't, nor I either. And I saw the gray horse, and knew what to do with
him; the rest didn't."
"But I don't know what to do with the pig's town lot."
"No, nor Mr. Corrigan didn't, nor I either; but the man from town that's
just bought the old tavern is going to build it over new, and wants to
buy that lot to build on. I tell you what, Ben, my boy, there isn't much
in this world that's worth having unless somebody comes along that knows
what to do with it."
"Ben!" suddenly exclaimed his mother, as she looked out of the window,
"there's that pig out in the garden!"
"Jump, Ben," said his father. "If he gets into your patch of
musk-melons, he'll know just exactly what to do with them."
Before Ben got the pig out of the garden, the pig learned that Ben knew
exactly what to do with a big stick.
MISS VAN WINKLE'S NAP.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.