"There!" exclaimed Nan, jumping up, "_that_ old thing's done at last.
Come on, Marian! come, Philip!"
"Don't knock everything over," growled Philip, slowly getting on his
feet, while Marian put on her hat and jacket before a cracked mirror
hung between the windows. Nan never required to see herself when she
dressed. She was only a minute getting into an old woollen coat, and
fastening a felt hat down over her wavy locks, after which she began a
vain search for her gloves.
"There's mother calling," exclaimed Marian. "It's for you, Nan."
Nan heard the voice sounding down the hall, and darted, out, while
Philip uttered another exclamation of disgust.
Nan never could overcome her dislike to the shop. She could hardly have
told you _why_ it was, but the butter and cheese and eggs in which Mrs.
Rupert dealt were unpleasant to her, and as she ran down the dark hall,
it was with a little shiver of dislike and of dread lest her aunt wanted
her to "mind" the shop during her absence. Marian rather liked to
perform this office, but Nan could never see any "fun" in it, and was
always ready enough to change places with her cousin on holidays when
they were all day at home. Before Nan reached the shop door she heard
voices in pleasant though shrill tones, and going in, was a little
startled by seeing a fashionably dressed young lady in earnest
conversation with her aunt.
It was a scene Nan never forgot; the twilight of the cold spring day was
just falling, and her aunt's stout figure, bending above a cheese, was
in strong contrast to that of her visitor, a tall, slender young lady
in a rich dress of dark silk, with beautiful furs, and long-wristed gray
gloves. She had a handsome, delicate face, a little disdainful in
expression, but very refined, and as Nan entered she turned lovely blue
eyes toward her.
Nan half drew back, with her hand still on the door.
"Come in, child," said her aunt, in her most excited tones. "Don't hang
back that way. Here's a lady wants particular to see you."
"To see _me_!" Nan gasped. She had never in her life had a special
visitor before, but the stranger made things easy at once for her. She
went up to little Nan, holding out her beautifully gloved hands.
"How do you do, my dear?" she said, in a soft, sweet voice. "I am your
second cousin Phyllis."
"You--I--" Nan began, and felt as if the little shop, cheeses and all,
was dancing about her. Could this beautiful lady be one of those who
were "rolling in money"?
"Yes, dear," said the lady again. "I have come especially to see you."
She turned to Mrs. Rupert, who was still standing with a knife plunged
into the cheese, and staring as hard as Nan could at the visitor.
"Perhaps I had better call again in the morning--there is so much to
say, and it is late now."
"Oh, 'm," began Mrs. Rupert. "I'm sure we'd be glad enough to see you
any time. Perhaps it might be as well to-morrow. Where was it you said
you was staying?"
"At Mrs. Grange's," the lady answered, looking again at little
bewildered Nan. "My name is Miss Rolf, and I live at Beverley." The name
made Mrs. Rupert's heart jump. Beverley was the town in which Nan's
grandfather had lived and died. Surely this meant _something_; just
what, Mrs. Rupert hardly knew.
"Well, Nan Rolf!" she said, as soon as the lady had departed. "There's
fortune in the wind for you; just you wait and see."
"Oh, Aunt Lydia!" exclaimed Nan. "I wonder _what_ it can be?" But Mrs.
Rupert could say no more; she could only look wise and shake her head,
while Nan darted away to give Marian and Philip her wonderful piece of
news.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE SLIGHTED STRANGER.
A STORY FROM PLUTARCH.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
Athens was keeping holiday; with song and rose
Her fair youths lounged beneath her porticoes
Discussing Sophocles, or Cæsar, or the place
Sparta and Corinth took in the last race.
The circus held a crowd of idlers bright and gay
With expectation eager, as to-day
Each had his favorite horse or wrestler, each was wise,
And knew exactly who would win the prize.
The proud Athenians, with insolent disdain,
Sat by themselves; the Spartans, poor and plain,
Took lower places; they but came to see
The races run, or hear some tragedy.
Each waited for the moment, some with jest and gibe,
And some, like the Athenians, with still pride,
As sure of nothing wonderful, but quite content
To pass all blunders with a calm contempt.
Just then into the crowded circus slowly came
An aged Lydian, with long wandering lame.
He bowed to the Athenian youths; they surely knew
He was their guest, and what to him was due.
But no one said, "Be seated," and all coolly saw
The slighted stranger to the Spartans go;
_They_ rose with one assent the aged man to meet,
And every youth cried, "Stranger, take my seat!"
Then with the dignity that years and wisdom give,
The old man answered, "Long may Sparta live
To teach Athenian youths 'tis not enough to say,
"Give place to age, honor the head that's gray"--
"'Tis not enough to know what it is right to do,
Unless the action make the precept true;
Old Athens to young Athens nobly preaches,
But Sparta _practices_ what Athens teaches."
THE BATTLE IN THE DARK.
HOW GENERAL JACKSON RECEIVED THE BRITISH.
BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.
When the British succeeded in taking Lieutenant Jones's little gun-boats
on Lake Borgne, and making a landing, after the manner described to you
two weeks ago, they supposed that the hardest part of their work was
done. It was not far from their landing-place to New Orleans, and there
was nothing in their way. Their army numbered nearly twenty thousand
men, and the men were the best soldiers that England had. Many of them
were Wellington's old veterans.
[Illustration: GENERAL JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS.]
It seemed certain that such an army could march into New Orleans with
very little trouble indeed, and everybody on both sides thought
so--everybody, that is to say, but General Jackson. He meant to fight
that question out, and as the Legislature and many of the people in the
city would do nothing to help him, he put the town under martial law,
and worked night and day to get together something like an army.
On the 23d of December, 1814, the British arrived at a point a few miles
below the city, and went into camp about noon. As soon as Jackson heard
of their arrival he said to the people around him, "Gentlemen, the
British are below; we must fight them to-night."
He immediately ordered his troops forward. He had made a soldier of
everybody who could carry a gun, and his little army was a curiously
mixed collection of men. There were a few regulars, in uniform; there
were some Mississippi troopers, and Coffee's Kentucky and Tennessee
hunters, in hunting-shirts and jean trousers; there were volunteers of
all sorts from the streets of New Orleans--merchants, lawyers, laborers,
clerks, and clergy-men--armed with shot-guns, rifles, and old muskets;
there were some criminals whom Jackson had released from prison on
condition that they would fight; there was a battalion of free negroes,
who were good soldiers; and finally there were about twenty Choctaw
Indians.
With this mixed crowd Jackson had to fight the very best troops in the
British army. Only about half of his men had ever heard a bullet
whistle, and less than half of them were drilled and disciplined; but
they were brave men who believed in their General, and they were about
to fight for their country as brave men should. When all were
counted--backwoodsmen, regulars, city volunteers, negroes, Indians, and
all--the whole army numbered only 2131 men! But weak as this force was,
Jackson had made up his mind to fight with it. He knew that the British
were too strong for him, but he knew too that every day would make them
stronger, as more and more of their troops should come.
The British camp was nine miles below the city, on a narrow strip of
land between the river and a swamp. Jackson sent a gun-boat, the
_Carolina_, down the river, with orders to anchor in front of the camp
and pour a fire of grape-shot into it. He sent Coffee across to the
swamp, and ordered him to creep through the bushes, and thus get upon
the right flank of the British. He kept the rest of his army under his
own command, ready to advance from the front upon the enemy's position.
But no attack was to be made until after dark. The army was kept well
out of sight, and the British had no suspicion that any attack was
thought of. They did not regard Jackson's men as soldiers at all, but
called them a _posse comitatus_ of ragamuffins--that is to say, a mob of
ragged citizens--and the most they expected such a mob to do was to wait
somewhere below the city until the British soldiers should get ready to
drive them away with a few volleys.
So the British lighted their camp fires, stacked their arms for the
night, and cooked their suppers. They meant to stay where they were for
a day or two until the rest of their force could come up, and then they
expected to march into the town and make themselves at home.
Night came on, and it was exceedingly dark. At half past seven o'clock
there came a flash and a roar. The _Carolina_, lying in the river,
within a few hundred yards of the camp, had begun to pour her broadsides
into the British quarters. Her cannon vomited fire, and sent a
hail-storm of grape-shot into the camp, while the marines on board kept
up a steady fire of small-arms.
The British were completely surprised, but they were cool-headed old
soldiers, who were not to be scared by a surprise. They quickly formed a
line on the bank, and, bringing up some cannon, gave battle to the saucy
gun-boat.
For ten minutes this fight went on between the Americans on the river
and the British on shore, then Jackson ordered his troops to advance.
His columns rushed forward and fell upon the enemy, again surprising
them, and forcing them to fight on two sides at once. Coffee, who was
hidden over in the swamp, no sooner heard the roar of the _Carolina_'s
guns than he gave the word to advance, and rushing out of the bushes,
his rough Tennesseeans and Kentuckians attacked still another side of
the British position.
Still the sturdy British held their ground, and fought like the brave
men and good soldiers that they were. It was too dark for anybody to see
clearly what was going on. The lines on both sides were soon broken up
into independent groups of soldiers, who could not see in what direction
they were marching, or maintain anything like a regular fight. Regiments
and battalions wandered about at their own discretion, fighting whatever
bodies of the enemy they met, and sometimes getting hopelessly entangled
with each other. Never was there so complete a jumble on a battle-field.
Whenever two bodies of troops met, they had to call out to each other to
find out whether they were friends or foes; then if one body proved to
be Americans and the other British, they delivered a volley, and rushed
upon each other in a desperate struggle for mastery.
Sometimes a regiment would win success in one direction, and just as its
enemy on that side was driven back, it would be attacked from the
opposite direction. Coffee's men were armed with squirrel rifles, which
of course had no bayonets; but the men had their long hunting-knives,
and with no better weapons than these they did not hesitate to make
charge after charge upon the lines of gleaming bayonets.
The British suffered terribly from the first, but their steadiness was
never lost for a moment. The mad onset of the Americans broke their
lines, and in the darkness it was impossible to form them again
promptly; but still the men kept up the fight, while the officers, as
rapidly as they could, directed their detached columns toward protected
positions.
Retreating slowly and in as good order as they could, the British got
beyond the range of the _Carolina_'s guns by nine o'clock, and finding a
position where a bank of earth served for a breastwork, they made a
final stand there. It was impossible to drive them from such a position,
and so, little by little, the Americans withdrew, and at ten o'clock the
Battle in the Dark was at an end.
Now let us see what Jackson had gained or lost by this hasty attack. The
British were still in a position to threaten New Orleans. They had not
been driven away, and the rest of their large army, which had not yet
come up, was hurrying forward to help them. They had lost a great many
more men than Jackson had, but they could spare men better than he
could, and they were not whipped by any means. Still, the attack was
equal to a victory for the Americans. It is almost certain that if
Jackson had waited another day before fighting he would have lost New
Orleans, and the whole Southwest would have been overrun.
For by making this night attack he showed the British that he could and
would fight, and they, finding what kind of a defense he meant to make,
made up their minds to move slowly and cautiously. They waited for the
rest of their force to come up, and while they were waiting and getting
ready, Jackson had more than two weeks' time in which to collect troops
from the country north of him, to get arms and ammunition, and to throw
up strong fortifications. When the British made their grand attack on
the 8th of January, 1815, they found Jackson ready for them. His army
was increased, his men were full of confidence, and, best of all, he had
a line of strong earth-works to fight behind. It is commonly said that
his fortifications were made of cotton bales, but that is an error. When
he first began to fortify, he used some cotton bales, and some sugar
which it was thought would do instead of sand; but in some of the early
skirmishes it was found that the sugar was useless, because it would not
stop cannon-balls; while the cotton was worse, because it took fire, and
nearly suffocated the men behind it with smoke. The cotton and sugar
were at once thrown aside, and the battle of New Orleans was fought
behind earth-works. In that battle the British were so badly worsted
that they gave up all idea of taking New Orleans, which, a month before,
they had believed it would be so easy to capture.
"TO COVENTRY."
BY ADA CARLETON STODDARD.
It was down at the old Towle dam that the trouble began, on a still
Saturday when the clouds hung close and soft and gray, threatening rain.
It was just the right kind of an afternoon for fishing, so the four
lively boys who went climbing about over rocks and decaying timbers to
drop a line every now and then in some dark, inviting nook, agreed
without a shadow of doubt.
"There ain't a place on the Duxnekeag stream where the trout like to
stay so well," remarked Wat Emerson, in a satisfied under-tone.
Mel Berry glanced fondly toward the edge of the stream where a dozen
nice trout strung on an alder twig were anchored in a shallow pool.
"We never come here that we don't get a good mess," said he. "See, Wat,
I'm going to try 'em down there."
"I was just going there myself," said Clint Parsons, who had been
quietly winding up his line.
"You didn't say so."
"But I meant to all the same."
"Well, it's my chance, of course, now," said Mel, with quite a little
air of victory; "I said so first."
So he did; and so, without another word, he baited his hook daintily and
went forward. There was an aperture in the earth-work of the dam, over
which a timber had fallen, and this upon another, leaving a space
scarcely wide enough to admit the head and shoulders of a good-sized
boy; but Mel stretched himself flat and wormed himself partially under
the timber, and dropped his hook down into the still, shadowy water
below. It was seized on the instant. Mel, startled and joyful, caught a
glimpse of what seemed to him the largest fish he had ever seen. He
pulled on his line, gently at first, and then with all the strength he
could muster. The water was splashed into foam.
"Grab hold of my feet, boys!" yelled Mel in great agitation. "He'll have
me in head first. He's a whale--a reg'lar whale; but I'll get him if the
hook holds on, and it ought to--it's my biggest one."
The hook held; the boys, who were watching, almost wild with excitement,
seized Mel's feet; there was a short, sharp struggle between fish and
boy, and then a shout as Mel, red-faced and triumphant, emerged from his
voluntary imprisonment.
"Hooray! I've got him! Look, boys! I'll bet a six-pence he'll weigh over
three pounds. He pulled like a savage."
"Wouldn't wonder," said Clint, as they all gathered around to take a
good look at the fish, which was truly an unusually large one. "I'm glad
you've got him, Mel, but I wish 'twas me, because I've promised Judge
Holden's wife a mess, and I've only got seven. She said she'd give me a
dollar for a good big string."
"Well, I wouldn't sell this catch for a good deal more'n one dollar,"
returned Mel, and he held up for an admiring view the fish with its
shining speckled sides. "He's quiet enough," said he, "since I rapped
him with my jackknife handle."
"Isn't he a beauty?"
Yes, he was a beauty, but the boys didn't care to say so more than once
or twice, and presently Mel carried his prize off to where his string of
trout was floating, and placed it with the rest. But the afternoon's
luck seemed to have turned with the taking of the large fish, for during
the next hour scarcely a nibble rewarded the patience of the anglers.
"This never'll do," said Clint Parsons at last. "I'm going up the stream
a little ways. Don't any of you fellows come."
He set off over the stones on his bare brown feet, with his fishing-rod
across his shoulder, turning as he went a merry brown face back toward
the group on the old dam.
"I wouldn't sell _my_ fish," said Mel, shaking his line gently, "but
Clint is always thinking of money."
"He has to," returned Eb; "his folks are awful poor since his father
died, you know. But I like him, though, first-rate."
"So do I. He's smart as chain-lightning, too, and he's always ready to
help a fellow when he gets stuck on one of those doubled-up, mixed-up,
complex, compounded, connected-by-the-word-'of' fractions."
"And you're the fellow that's always getting stuck," laughed Eb.
Only Mel said nothing, though he frowned slightly as he went on drawing
his hook carefully back and forth through the water. In truth, he and
the boy who had just disappeared behind a clump of alder were not always
on the best of terms. At this moment there were some very bitter
thoughts afloat in Mel's mind. It seemed to him that Clint, who had
lived in Barham but little more than a year, was surely usurping his own
place in the hearts of his boy friends, as he had already done in his
classes at school.
Mel spoke at last, beginning to wind up his line. "The fish won't bite
here now," said he. "We might as well go down the stream, since Clint
has forbid us going up."
"He was only in fun," said Eb; but all the same, having first assured
themselves that their trout were safe, and likely to remain so, they
strolled off down the stream, fishing as they went.
No doubt the fish had become wary, for our three friends met with little
success. Clint was waiting for them when they returned, standing on the
highest point of the old dam, and he swung his straw hat vigorously as
soon as he discovered them.
"I've got one to match yours," cried he to Mel, displaying, as he spoke,
his string of trout, to which he had added four or five, one of them an
uncommonly fine one. "Isn't _he_ a beauty, now?"
"Larger than Mel's, _I_ think," said Eb, examining the fish critically.
"That string ought to fetch more than a dollar, Clint."
Mel came up at this moment with a very black face. "I think this joke's
been carried far enough," said he. "I came pretty near losing all the
rest of my fish by means of it. You left the stringer loose."
Clint turned upon him like a flash. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"You know well enough what I mean," cried Mel. "My fish is gone, and of
course I know this is the one. Eb and Wat'll say so too, won't you,
boys?"
"I thought it looked larger than yours," said Eb, his eyes growing big
with amazement, "but I don't know."
"Well, _I_ know," said Clint, slowly, "that I caught this fish in the
deep hole under the big willow, and I thought then 'twas a mate for
Mel's."
"Pretty close mate," said Mel, with a little sneer.
"It's well played, Clint," laughed Wat, "but you see you can't fool me.
You'd better own up, now, like a good boy."
Clint's face glowed with sudden fire. "I've told you the truth, whether
you believe it or not," said he. "But Mel can have my fish if he wants
it."
[Illustration: "THE THREE WALKED AWAY UP THE PATH."]
"No," said Mel, briefly; "if it's worth taking, it's worth keeping.
Come, boys, let's go." And then the three walked away up the path which
led through the woods to the highway, leaving Clint standing alone there
with clinched hands and a swelling heart, and tears of angry
mortification burning in his eyes.
And that was how the boys of Barham came to send Clint Parsons to
Coventry.
"When he's a-mind to own up, and say he's sorry and won't do such a
thing again," said they, "we'll take him back."
But there wasn't the least danger of Clint's confessing, if indeed he
had anything to confess. He went about his daily duties as usual, and if
his merry whistle was a whit less merry because of the changed
atmosphere, made manifest by averted eyes and cold side-glances and
covert allusions to "that scaley trick," not one of the forty boys in
Barham knew it.
* * * * *
It was the next Saturday, just a week after the loss of the big trout,
when old Davy Parmalee came to saw wood for Mr. Berry; and Mel, for want
of anything more important to occupy his attention, went out to watch
him work and talk with him a little. And Davy was quite ready to rest
his saw in the log and himself on it.
"Now did any o' ye boys be down to the old dam a-fishing last Saturday a
week?" he asked. "Did any o' ye hook a big trout and drop him again?"
"No-o," said Mel, catching his breath. "I don't think any of us did."
"Well, I found sech a one floatin' front o' my camp in an eddy, a Sunday
mornin'," said Davy, "an' I guessed likely 'nough one o' ye boys lost
him. He was a whopper, I tell ye, and hooked through the jaw. Must 'a
ben somebody lost him. Anyhow, he made me a good solid breakfast."
"I wouldn't wonder," said Mel; and then he stood studying the earth at
his feet for a long, long time.
"Davy," said he at length--"Davy, if you won't tell anybody else what
you've just told me, I'll give you a pound of the best tobacco we've got
in the store."
And the old man answered, briskly puffing away at his black clay pipe,
"I ain't no call to tell it nowhere's I knows on; an' I won't ef ye say
so. I'll be gretly obliged to ye for the 'backer, too."
"For it might have been somebody else that lost the fish," Mel reasoned
with his conscience. "Anyhow, I can't own up 'twas mine--the boys would
all be down on me so, and puff Clint Parson's up to the sky.
I--can't--do--it. I don't believe 'twas mine anyway--I don't!"
So he passed it by and kept the secret; and so time went on, bringing
the long summer vacation to a close.
"We ought to do something out of common to-morrow to end up with," said
Mel, who, with a baker's dozen of his chums, was eating early apples on
the shady side of Mr. Gerry's orchard wall. "What shall it be?"
"We might go fishing," said somebody.
"Mel won't; he's afraid of losing his biggest trout."
"No, I'm not," said Mel, quite soberly. "I say, fellows, what if Clint
Parsons didn't take that fish after all?"
"Then I'd say we'd used him awfully mean," declared Wat Emerson, tossing
a sops-o'-wine core over the wall. "And we'd be a set of scoundrels, and
you'd be the biggest one amongst us, Mel."
"But he did, didn't he?"
"Looks about like it," answered Mel. "Say we go up on Tank's Island and
cook our own dinners. Uncle Ben Sperry's bateau'll hold us all, and
there's a sandy bottom at the head of the island--just the place for a
swim."
"But it isn't half a mile from the Falls."
"Well, there isn't any danger; let's go."
"Don't tell any of the other fellows," said Mel; "the bateau won't hold
any more."
But next morning they found the party was to be increased by two,
because Mel could not withstand the pleadings of his small twin
brothers.
"Both of 'em won't take up much room," said Mel; "and mother's put in
some extra food for them."
The day was fair as a late summer day could be; and the boys made the
island without a bit of difficulty. It was much less than half a mile to
where the Meduxnekeag tumbled over a high rocky ledge, and the current
set strongly in that direction; but there were six pairs of stout arms
working at the oars and paddles, and the bateau went straight from the
mainland to the island. When it was reached and the boat made fast, the
boys immediately set about kindling a fire; and then they scattered
around to wait while Eb prepared dinner, which he did with scarcely a
mishap.
Eb had just announced that everything was ready, when they all heard a
loud ringing call:
"Help! Help, here! Help!"
"It sounds--like Clint Parsons!" cried Wat; and just at that moment it
seemed to Mel Berry that his heart stopped beating.
"Oh, boys!" he screamed, "where are the twins! I haven't thought-- Oh,
Eb!"
But Eb was already running with all possible speed down the island to
the spot where the boat had been left; and after him presently raced a
crowd of wild-eyed boys, each of whom felt instinctively that the boat
was gone, the Berry twins were gone, and that the boat and the Berry
twins had gone together.
It was just as they expected. As they reached the shore they saw the
boat swinging with the current far down the stream, and only a short
distance above the Falls. It was making no progress, however, and the
boy whose cry for help they had heard was standing erect in the bow; and
very soon the boys on the island saw that a line was attached to the
boat and made fast to a large old elm-tree on the river-bank.
At that moment a cheery voice came over the water:
"All--right! Haul--us--ashore!"
"It _is_ Clint," cried Eb, throwing off his vest in a hurry. "Boys, I'm
going to take my swim now."
He plunged into the stream, followed by one boy and another until there
was a line of bobbing heads between the island and the shore. As soon as
they reached the mainland they went plunging along the bank until they
came to the elm-tree, and there they seized the tow-line and began
pulling in the bateau hand over hand, aided now by a pair of oars at the
other end of the line.
How they worked!--worked with set teeth, and scarlet, sweaty faces,
because the heavy boat pulled so hard against the stream. But they
gained slowly; the line slackened, and coil after coil was twisted about
the elm-tree; it was at any rate only a question of time. So the moment
came when Clint Parsons, brown-faced and bare-footed, as on that
memorable Saturday afternoon, handed the Berry twins out of the bateau,
and stepped out after them, and every boy on the bank there stood
breathless, and wondered in his heart what Mel would do and say.
They had not long to wait. Mel's face flamed, and he hesitated, but only
for an instant, before he caught Clint's hand.
"Oh, Clint," he cried, chokingly, "how can I ever thank you! To think of
it all, and now you've risked--Oh, Clint, you've risked your life--" and
then he broke down, and began to cry, because he could not help it.
"No," said Clint, as the other boys gathered around with eager
questions, "I didn't risk my life. I wasn't really in any danger. I saw
the boys just about as soon as they got the boat adrift--you see, I was
picking rocks in Mr. Barrow's pasture there--and I didn't know what to
do until I remembered seeing this tow-line hanging up in the granary. So
I got it as quick's I could, and swam out, and headed the boat off. I
nearly missed it, and I'm as glad as any of you that I didn't. But I'd
have been safe enough anyway. It wasn't any risk. The twins were having
a nice time," Clint laughed, looking down at the brace of black-eyed
six-year-olds. "They didn't think much about the Falls."
"But without you they would have gone over," and Mel shuddered at the
horrible thought.
"Never mind; they're all right now, and don't say anything more about
it."
"I've got more'n that to say," said Mel, suddenly and steadily. "I
suppose you'll all hate me, but I can't help it; I've tried to tell you
time and again, but I couldn't, I was such a coward. Boys, Clint didn't
take my fish, and I've known he didn't ever since the week after I lost
it. Old Davy Parmalee found it floating in the stream, and I hired him
not to say anything about it. And--and I hope you'll forgive me, Clint,
and all of you."
Clint's sun-browned face was all aglow. "I'm glad you've told," said he.
"I knew you would some time. But I never would myself, though I knew,
because I was going across lots by your father's back yard the day you
and old Davy were talking about the fish."
"Oh, Clint!"
"Why didn't you tell?"
"You wouldn't have believed, me if I had," said Clint, with a sunny
smile. "So I waited for Mel to get ready to tell. I knew he would some
time."
"I feel like a dreadful wretch," said Mel, trying to laugh, but making a
miserable failure of it, "and I'm--"
"I'll tell you what," put in Eb Gerry, "let's shake hands all around and
call it square, and never say another word about it."
"Agreed."
So that was the way it ended. The boys shook hands until their arms were
lame, and laughed and cheered uproariously; and Clint got leave of
absence for the rest of the day, and they all went back to the island
again--all but Mel, who had, he said, to go home with the twins.
But the boys thought there was something more in the wind, and they were
sure of it when Mel met them as they were going home with a score of
boys harnessed into his father's carriage, which was fairly covered with
green waving boughs. And into the carriage, in spite of all his
remonstrance, the merry crowd lifted Clint Parsons. And they trotted
away with him in triumph to the village, where everybody laughed and
cheered them, though a good many people didn't quite know what it was
all about.
So they brought Clint back from Coventry with a coach and a good many
more than four; and I do not know that there are two better friends in
Barham this minute than Clint Parsons and Mel Berry.
MARK OUTRIGGER MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.
BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.
Few guides among the Rocky Mountains are more popular than Mark
Outrigger. On the occasion I am going to tell you about, he, with his
brother Julius, had been conducting a party of Eastern surveyors through
one of the most difficult passes to Fort L----. Upon the evening before
a stray wapiti, badly spent, if not wounded, by the pursuit of some
far-distant sportsman, had staggered across the very path of the party.
The condition of the splendid creature was too much of a temptation for
Mark, in spite of the hour of the day. Hastily shouting out to his
brother a rendezvous where he might be looked for to rejoin them in the
morning, Mark bounded up and along the hill-side after the staggering
quarry.
But the wapiti was by no means so utterly exhausted as Mark had
imagined, and was, moreover, plainly husbanding its strength. But a
capital opportunity for a shot presently offered. The young hunter came
to a stand-still, and embraced it. The wapiti leaped up, plunged wildly
a few feet further into a tangle of furze, and then dashed headlong down
into a little ravine which the tangle outlined. Mark sped after, leaped
down the precipitous descent in turn, and there found his unhappy victim
breathing its last, after a gallant but vain struggle against fate. Mark
drew his knife and ended its sufferings.
It was dark enough by this time. Mark was thoroughly tired out. He
decided not to do anything until morning, but make himself comfortable
as best he could. He clambered up out of the shallow ravine, where a few
ripples did duty for a little stream, and having walked some distance
along the rocky slope above to a sheltered spot between two bowlders, he
lit a roaring fire, cooked his supper, so opportunely overtaken, and
slept the sleep of a very tired man.
When morning came, his first waking thought was about the dead wapiti.
It would be a load that elk, and at least a five-mile tramp over a rough
road lay ahead of him. He turned down to the ravine, and followed the
tinkling brook. Presently, beyond a little point, the dead animal
appeared, but, utterly to Mark's consternation, it lay there in the very
act of being most critically examined by a third party--a grizzly bear
of splendid size and wonderfully unamiable countenance. Mark used to
continue the story somewhat as follows:
"Well, sir, I do declare that for once I was dumfounded! I really didn't
know whether to get ready for a scrimmage with him so early or not. I
hadn't met with many grizzlies then, and never before or since with so
old and big a one. As he sat there on his hunkers sniffing the wapiti's
carcass he looked the size of an elephant. I could see plain as you
please the long claws on his pads, and likewise his big red tongue when
he licked the wapiti's head once or twice. As to his teeth, I didn't
look for them, but I was pretty positive they were all there. And, you
see, unless a man fires at a grizzly from out of his parlor window,
there is generally no place to take to if things happen to go contrary.
"All of a sudden what does the great ugly beast do but get up from his
squatting position, and begin to drag the elk a few yards further down
the ravine. Now that was just going a little too far. Me to lose my
game, after all my trouble in fetching it down! I'm not quite a
good-humored-enough fellow for that, so I drew up, took a pretty fair
aim at his shoulder, and let fly.
"Of course his back was three-quarters to me when I fired. My ball just
nipped him enough to let him know I was there--'twas a kind of a
visiting-card. Down fell the wapiti and round the bear whisked,
surprisingly spry for so lumbering a creature. With his red eyes and the
dashes of red blood from the wapiti's carcass, he made a bad-looking
brute to stand facing a man, I can tell you. He caught sight of me
directly, even standing there like a stone man amongst the lot of dwarf
trees and bowlders. Then he shook himself and snarled, and started
straight up the ravine for me.
"I won't say that I stood my ground, or anything about not being afraid.
I ran back a little off the edge of sand and stones and was exceedingly
scared. The bear came panting and growling and lumbering up, snapping
his teeth, which I could see plain enough now. I let fly for the second
time, taking for a mark the white horseshoe on his breast.
[Illustration: MARK OUTRIGGER IN THE CLUTCHES OF THE BEAR.]
"To this day I can't ever think of what happened just as I fired that
shot without a shiver. A mole, or some other burrowing little beast, had
dug a part of his tunnel right under my right foot. At the minute that I
fired my foot went clean down through the roof of his house, poor
fellow, and my ankle turned. I fell sidewise, my gun going off in the
air as I threw out my arms, dropping the piece at the same second.
Before I could wrench out my foot or struggle round into any sort of a
position to defend myself, or grasp my gun to tackle him with the stock
of it, the bear was at my side.
"He seized me in his jaws just here--see?--gave me a horrible shake, and
then dropped me. I thought I felt every bone in it crunched in the bite.
"I can't truthfully say that I recollect thinking of anybody or
anything, unless that it was certainly all over with me, and that my
knife was so twisted round in my belt that it seemed as if I never could
get it out. Meanwhile the bear, after that first crushing bite, stood
still, breathing straight down into my face and growling like an old
lion. He had one of his paws planted flat on my chest--like this, and
standing completely over me from the waist downward.
"But by this time I had gripped my knife firmly underneath me. So I
dragged out my arm and whipped the blade, point upward, into his body,
as near to where his heart would be as I could judge. My eyes I kept
tight shut; and until this movement, mostly under him, I had not
stirred. I wrenched myself out at the same time from under his great
paw, and fairly rolled two or three feet beyond him.
"Such a howl of fury and torment as he gave when he felt me moving and
then got the benefit of the stab! I knew that it would be a very short
matter after this for one or the other of us. Torn and bleeding all
over, with his teeth snapping around my head and his claws tearing into
my flesh--you can see the marks to-day--I fought as I believe never a
hunter fought before, dodging his blows and striking at him again and
again. Once I got up on one knee--an awful sight I must have looked--and
gave him a stab across his face that left him only one eye for the
battle.
"But the next second down I went, flat and breathless, struck full on
the side by his huge paw. I managed to give a last rip, as wild as you
please, with my knife. 'It's all up surely with me this time,' I
recollect saying to myself, in a very dim sort of fashion. I lay there
unconscious, bleeding from twenty wounds, and utterly in my enemy's
clutches.
"How long this state of affairs lasted I've no means of telling. About
half an hour, maybe. But it appeared to me that I had been dead and
buried a week when gradually I began to feel myself a living man. After
a few seconds more, in which everything seemed black and spinning around
me, I was able to keep my eyes open a bit.
"'Well, I'm not killed yet, I guess,' thinks I, 'after all, unless
there's a Rocky Mountains in t'other world as well as in this one.' Just
then I felt the blood on my hands and neck. 'Good gracious! that bear!'
I thought in a jiffey. I propped myself up weakly on my elbow, and gave
a very cautious glance first on one side, then on the other--and lo!
there a couple of paces off lay a pile of fur without motion or sound.
The bear it was. My very last blow had saved my life by penetrating
exactly to his heart, and over he must have plumped just at the minute I
did.
"How I stanched my wounds and gashes and contrived to join my brother
Julius and the rest of the party I can't detain you to describe here.
Enough to say that I did, with both my pelts too, though the bear's was
badly gashed, of course. If, however, you've a mind to come into the
house yonder, I'll give you one of the biggest bear's claws that you
ever saw in your life, and you can have a breastpin for your little girl
made out of it."
[Illustration: "CLEAR THE TRACK!"--FROM THE PAINTING BY J. C. BROWN.]
THE ANT COUNTRY.
BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.
Of late years scientific men have been calling our attention to the
habits of certain familiar animals and insects, about which we believed
we knew all there was to know. We could hardly believe, for instance,
that common black ants are a very enlightened and intelligent nation;
that they have a queen, who governs them, a body of soldiers who protect
the community, nurses whose sole business it is to take care of and feed
the little ones, and a class of workers who provide the food and build
the dwellings for the ant people.
It is also a curious fact, which some of our readers may not know, that
ants keep cows, very much as human beings do. The cows in this case are
certain small green bugs, no larger than the head of a pin, which live
upon the leaves of a plant like the blackberry. Instead of milk, these
ant cows give a sweet fluid like honey, of which the ants are very fond.
The ants keep these cows upon their proper leaves, treating them very
kindly, and driving off all insects that might do them harm. They watch
them constantly, and at certain times in the day milk them, and carry
the milk, or rather honey, into the common dwelling, where it is stored
up for future use.
All these facts any child may learn with very little trouble; and there
is hardly any more interesting occupation than watching a hill of these
active little people, taking care not to disturb them. Among other
experiments, place a small piece of cake a short distance from the hill,
and observe what follows. First, one ant, who appears to be exploring
the neighborhood, comes upon the cake. He will stop, approach it more
closely, touch it with his feelers, and after he has satisfied himself
that it is fit for use, bite off as large a piece as he can carry.
Now follow him carefully on his homeward journey. He will almost always
be sure to meet a companion out upon a similar expedition. The loaded
ant will permit the other ant to touch and smell of his prize. He will
then lay his load aside for a moment, and you will notice the two
putting their heads close together as if conferring over a great secret.
It is not known how these little creatures manage to communicate their
thoughts to each other, but they evidently have the power to do so in
some manner; for you will see the two ants rub their heads together and
then separate, the loaded one continuing on to the hill, while the other
one goes straight toward the rest of the cake. He has no doubt received
accurate directions, perhaps like--"The sweet stuff, such as I have
here, lies beside the round stone, to the left of the alder bush, near
the brook. There is plenty of it, and only one of those great human
beings in sight. But he appears to be asleep, so you need not mind him."
The ant who is hurrying toward the cake will probably meet with others
of his tribe, and the same rubbing of heads will take place between
them, after which the whole of them will hurry toward the cake. Very
soon there will be hundreds of these little fellows running backward and
forward with pieces of cake in their jaws, and if the lump you have
placed upon the ground is not too large, they will soon carry every
morsel of it away.
If you chance to see any number of ants climbing up or down a shrub,
such as a blackberry or rose bush, you may be sure that the ants have a
cow pasture somewhere upon it. If you carefully follow one of the
climbers, he will lead you to the spot. There you will see a dozen or
twenty very small bugs quietly feeding upon the leaves. You will notice
that the ants seem to be very busy among them, touching this one,
pushing that one, and altogether appearing to take a great interest in
their herd. The cows do not seem to suffer in the least. They look fat
and lazy, and appear to regard the ants very much as real cows do human
beings.
You may perhaps be fortunate enough to see a fight between ants. I say
fortunate, because you may watch an ant-hill a whole day and not
perceive a single dispute between the inhabitants. Ants, though very
brave, are, like all brave people, not quarrelsome. They never seem
jealous or ill-tempered, and it must be some very grave cause which sets
two ants of the same tribe fighting. A fight with them is a very serious
matter, since it always means death to one or both parties.
The combatants are never interfered with by the rest of the tribe. They
evidently consider it a matter between the two who are fighting, and the
duel is allowed to go on to the end. Ants in their battles use legs and
jaws. The latter are enormously powerful for the size of the creature;
as powerful in proportion as if a man were provided with a pair of steam
shears, and could cut off iron bars two inches thick. They grasp each
other with their jaws, pulling and hauling with all their strength. Once
having taken hold they never let go. The end of the fight is generally
the gradual exhaustion and death of both rivals. Often, however, one of
the ants will pull the other apart, that is, tear off his head, which he
bears triumphantly away with him. Where he puts it, or what he does with
it, remains for some sharp-eyed observer to determine, for no one has
ever yet found out.
The hill-ants, as they are sometimes called from the shape of their
nests, are fond of building in the woods, and especially under fir and
hemlock trees, because the needle-like leaves which fall to the ground
afford convenient material for the construction of their homes. These
little hills are full of passages and chambers, which communicate with
each other. It is difficult to examine them, as they fall to pieces if
the nest is opened.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.