[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 101. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, October 4, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THEY ARE TALKING LEAVES."]
THE TALKING LEAVES.
An Indian Story.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER I.
"Look, Rita! Look!"
"What can it mean. Ni-ha-be?"
"See them all get down and walk around."
"They have found something in the grass."
"And they're hunting for more."
Rita leaned forward until her long hair fell upon the neck of the
beautiful little horse she was riding, and looked with all her eyes.
"Hark! they are shouting."
"You could not hear them if they were."
"They look as if they were."
Ni-ha-be sat perfectly still in her silver-mounted saddle, although her
spirited mustang pony pawed the ground and pulled on his bit as if he
were in a special hurry to go on down the side of the mountain.
The two girls were of about the same size, and could not either of them
have been over fifteen years old. They were both very pretty, very well
dressed, and well mounted, and they could both speak that strange,
rough, and yet musical language, but there was no other resemblance
between them.
"Father is there, Rita."
"Can you see him?"
"Yes; and so is Red Wolf."
"Your eyes are wonderful. Everybody says they are."
Ni-ha-be might well be proud of her coal-black eyes, and of the fact
that she could see so far and so well with them. It was not easy to say
just how far away was that excited crowd of men down there in the
valley. The air was so clear and the light so brilliant among those
snow-capped mountain ranges that even things far off seemed sometimes
close at hand.
For all that, there were not many pairs of eyes, certainly not many
brown ones like Rita's, which could have looked as Ni-ha-be did from the
pass into the faces of her father and brother, and recognized them at
such a distance.
She need not have looked very closely to be sure of one thing
more--there was not a single white man to be seen in all that long,
deep, winding green valley.
Were there any white women?
There were plenty of squaws, old and young, but not one woman with a
bonnet, shawl, parasol, or even so much as a pair of gloves. Therefore
none of them could have been white.
Rita was as well dressed as Ni-ha-be, and her wavy masses of brown hair
were tied up in the same way with bands of braided deer-skin; but
neither of them had ever seen a bonnet. Their sunburned, healthy faces
told that no parasol had ever protected their complexions; but Ni-ha-be
was a good many shades the darker.
There must have been an immense amount of hard work expended in making
the graceful garments they both wore. All were of fine antelope-skin,
soft, velvety, fringed, and worked and embroidered with porcupine
quills. Frocks, and capes, and leggings, and neatly fitting moccasins,
all of the best, for Ni-ha-be was the only daughter of a great Apache
chief, and Rita was every bit as important a person, according to Indian
notions, for Ni-ha-be's father had adopted her as his own.
Either one of them would have been worth a whole drove of ponies, or a
wagon-load of guns and blankets, and the wonder was that they had been
permitted to loiter so far behind their friends on a march through that
wild, strange, magnificent land.
Had they been further to the east or south or north it is likely they
would have been kept with the rest pretty carefully, but Many Bears and
his band were on their way home from a long buffalo-hunt, and were
already, as they thought, safe in the Apache country, away beyond any
peril from other tribes of Indians, or from the approach of the hated
and dreaded white men. To be sure, there were grizzly bears, and wolves,
and other wild animals to be found among those mountain passes, but they
were not likely to remain very near a band of hunters like the one now
gathered in that valley.
Great hunters, brave warriors, well able to take care of themselves and
their families, but just now they were very much excited about
something.
Something on the ground.
The younger braves, to the number of more than a hundred, were standing
back respectfully, while the older and more experienced warriors
carefully examined a number of deep marks on the grass around a bubbling
spring.
There had been a camp there not long before, and the first discovery
made by the foremost Apache who had ridden up to that spring was that it
had not been a camp of his own people.
The prints of the hoofs of horses showed that they had been shod, and
there are neither horseshoes nor blacksmiths among the red men of the
Southwest.
The tracks left by the feet of men were not such as can be made by
moccasins. There are no heels on moccasins, and no nails in the soles of
them.
Even if there had been Indian feet in the boots, the toes would not have
been turned out in walking. Only white men do that.
So much was plain at a mere glance, but there were a good many other
things to be studied and interpreted before Many Bears and his followers
could feel satisfied.
It was a good deal like reading a newspaper. Nobody tears one up until
it has been read through, and the Apaches did not trample the ground
around the spring until they had searched out all that the other
trampling could tell them.
Then the dark-faced ferocious-looking warriors who had made the search
all gathered around their chief, and, one after another, reported what
they had found.
There had been a strong party of white men at that spot three days
before. Three wagons drawn by mule-teams. Many spare mules. Twenty-five
men who rode horses, besides the men who drove the wagons.
"Were they miners?"
Every warrior and chief was ready to say "No," at once.
"Traders?"
No, it could not have been a trading party.
"All right," said Many Bears, with a solemn shake of his gray head.
"Blue coats. Cavalry. Come from Great Father at Washington. No stay in
Apache country. Go right through. Not come back. Let them go."
Indian sagacity had hit the nail exactly on the head, for that had been
a camp of a United States military exploring expedition looking for
passes and roads, and with instructions to be as friendly as possible
with any wandering red men they might meet.
Nothing could be gained by following such a party as that, and Many
Bears and his band began at once to arrange their own camp, for their
morning's march through the pass had been a long and fatiguing one.
If the Apache chief had known a very little more, he would have sent his
best scouts back upon the trail that squad of cavalry had come by, until
he found out whether all who were travelling by that road had followed
it as far as the spring. He might then have learned something of special
importance to him.
Then at the same time he would have sent other scouts back upon his own
trail, to see if anybody was following him, and what for. He might have
learned a good deal more important news in that way.
He did nothing of the kind, and so a very singular discovery was left
for Rita and Ni-ha-be to make without any help at all.
As they rode out from the narrow pass, down the mountain-side, and came
into the valley, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to
start their swift mustangs on a free gallop. Not directly toward the
camping-place, for they knew well enough that no girls of any age would
be permitted to approach very near to warriors gathered in council. Away
to the right they rode, following the irregular curve of the valley,
side by side, managing the fleet animals under them as if horse and
rider were one person.
So it came to pass that before the warriors had completed their task the
two girls had struck the trail along which the blue-coated cavalry had
entered the valley.
"Rita, I see something."
"What is it?"
"Come! See! Away yonder."
Rita's eyes were as good as anybody's, always excepting Apaches' and
eagles', and she could see the white fluttering object at which her
adopted sister was pointing.
The marks of the wheels and all the other signs of that trail, as they
rode along, were quite enough to excite a pair of young ladies who had
never seen a road, a pavement, a sidewalk, or anything of the sort; but
when they came to that white thing fluttering at the foot of a mesquit
bush they both sprang from their saddles at the same instant.
One, two, three--a good deal dog's-eared and thumb-worn, for they had
been read by every man of the white party who cared to read them before
they were thrown away, but they were very wonderful yet. Nothing of the
kind had ever before been imported into that region of the country.
Ni-ha-be's keen black eyes searched them in vain, one after another, for
anything she had ever seen before.
"Rita, you are born white. What are they?"
Poor Rita!
Millions and millions of girls have been "born white," and lived and
died with whiter faces than her own rosy but sun-browned beauty could
boast, and yet never looked into the fascinating pages of an illustrated
magazine.
How could any human being have cast away in the wilderness such a
treasure?
Rita was sitting on the grass, with one of the strange prizes open in
her lap, rapidly turning the leaves, and more excited by what she saw
than were Many Bears and his braves by all they were discovering upon
the trampled level around the spring.
"Rita," again exclaimed Ni-ha-be, "what are they?"
"They are talking leaves," said Rita.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
BITS OF ADVICE.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
A STITCH IN TIME.
The other day a poor woman who lives near my house came running in in
great excitement. "Oh," she exclaimed, "Mrs. Marjorie, I am in so much
trouble! I have just lost all the money I had in the world, between my
house and the corner. I must have dropped it in the street. What shall I
do?"
The only thing I could advise was that she should insert an
advertisement of her loss in the paper; and as she did not know how to
write, I wrote one for her. Then I said, "How came you to lose your
pocket-book? Was there a hole in your pocket?"
She showed me a rip between the lining and the outside of her dress, and
said she supposed she had slipped her money through that instead of into
the right place. "I've been meaning to sew that for a week," she said,
very sadly.
I felt too sorry for her to tell her that experience had taught her a
very dear lesson, but it did seem hard that the savings of two months
should have been lost for want of a stitch in time.
The homely old proverb says, "A stitch in time saves nine." Please think
of it when you are studying your etymology, and are not sure about a
derivation. It will take only a few seconds to look it up now, but it
may save you much trouble at examination-day to be sure on the subject.
Think of it, too, when your little playmate passes you coldly; and when
you feel that you have given offense to your teacher or mother, a frank
word of apology, a kind, forgiving look _in time_, may save you from
many hours of regret and distress. A great many tangled and troublesome
things in this world would be set right speedily if everybody believed
in a stitch in time. You may apply this principle to everything in life,
and it will never fail you. A great poet, Mr. Tennyson, says,
"It is the little rift within the lute
That by-and-by will make the music mute."
A very tiny leak, if not repaired, will cause the great ship to go down
in the midst of the sea. Any small wrong thing may be corrected or
mended while it is small, but every day that it is left alone it will
grow larger and stronger. One weed is easier to pull up than ten are.
Don't forget the stitch in time, wherever you may be.
THE CALL OF THE CROW.
Caw! caw! caw!
Over the standing corn
The cheery cry is borne--
Caw! caw! caw!
Caw! caw! caw!
Into the school-room door,
Over the clean-swept floor--
Caw! caw! caw!
Caw! caw! caw!
The crow he is free to fly,
But the boy must cipher and sigh--
Caw! caw! caw!
Caw! caw! caw!
And I wish I could go with him
Where the woods are wild and dim--
Caw! caw! caw!
GALILEO IN THE CHURCH AT PISA.
One day Galileo, a young student of medicine at Pisa, saw the great
bronze chandelier of the cathedral swing to and fro. He watched it
carefully, and found that it moved regularly. It always came back to the
same place. He thought he could imitate it, and suspended a weight to a
string, and thus formed the first pendulum. His invention has never
ceased to be of use to every one. The pendulum was attached to the works
of a clock, and has from that moment continued the chief means of
measuring time. It rules every family, directs the business of cities,
and tells when to go to school and when school is out. The great clock
in the City Hall and the clocks in all the steeples and towers are
guided by Galileo's pendulum. The wooden clock we buy for two or three
dollars, and the costly French clock that ticks on the mantel, owe their
chief value to the invention of the young student. The pendulum,
wherever it swings to and fro, seems to speak of Galileo.
[Illustration: GALILEO IN THE CHURCH AT PISA.]
He was born at Pisa in 1564, the same year with Shakspeare. His father
was poor, and wished to apprentice him to the wool trade. But Galileo
showed a strong love for mechanics and mathematics; he professed to
study medicine at the University of Pisa, but was always busy with
mechanical experiments. He worked incessantly with his tools and books,
and produced a great number of inventions, more, perhaps, than any other
man. From youth to extreme old age he was constantly in his workshop,
and labored while others slept. One of his inventions was the
thermometer that measures the heat or cold of every land. It is used to
mark the temperature of the highest mountains, and is plunged into the
depths of the sea; tells the boiling-point and the freezing-point, and
governs in the house and the factory.
At last, in 1609, Galileo invented the telescope. It had been thought of
in Holland, but never brought to any perfection. Galileo caught up the
idea, and produced the remarkable instrument that brings distant things
near. Until that time no one had supposed men could see beyond a certain
limit, and the sailor on the ocean and the travellers by land could look
only a few miles before them. Galileo's first telescope was made of
lead, small and imperfect, but it was polished and perfected with his
wonderful skill and industry. It filled all Italy and Europe with an
intense excitement. Men came in crowds to look through the first
telescope. At Venice, where Galileo was staying, the merchants climbed
to the top of the highest tower to see their ships far off on the water
two hours before they could have been seen without the telescope.
Galileo was enriched with honors and a large salary. He went to
Florence, and was received with wonder and delight by great crowds of
his countrymen.
Next came a still more startling discovery. Galileo turned his telescope
to the skies, and saw things that had never before been witnessed by
mortal eyes. The Milky Way dissolved into a bed of stars; Jupiter showed
its four satellites, Saturn its rings; the moon seemed covered with
mountains, seas, and rivers. The heavens seemed revealed to man, and
Galileo soon after, startled by his own discoveries, published his
"Message from the Stars." In this pamphlet he describes the wonders of
the skies he was the first to see. It was read all over Europe, and the
people and the princes heard with awe the account of the new heavens.
Many persons denied that there was any truth in the narrative; it was
looked upon as a kind of "Moon hoax" or "Gulliver's Travels"; some said
it was an optical delusion, and Galileo was attacked by a thousand
enemies.
His health was always delicate, and he was always kept poor and in debt
by a worthless son and an idle brother. His life, so prosperous, ended
in misfortune. His telescope proved to him that the world moved round
the sun, and he ventured to say so. Unfortunately the Inquisition and
nearly every one else believed that the sun moved round the earth.
Galileo was forced to say that he was mistaken. He was tried at Rome,
condemned, and obliged on his knees to confess his error, and during the
last years of his life was kept a prisoner in his own house near
Florence. He passed his time in constant work, studying the moon, and
making instruments. At last he became blind. Here Milton visited him,
and looked upon him with veneration. He died in 1642, and was buried
privately in the church of Santa Croce, at Florence.
Galileo was of a pleasant countenance, always cheerful. His hair was of
a reddish tinge, his eyes bright and sparkling until they became dimmed
like Milton's. His figure was strong and well formed. It was said of him
that no one had ever seen him idle. He was never weary of improving his
telescope. The first one he made only magnified three times, a second
eight times, and then he made one that magnified thirty times. It is the
men who are never idle that help themselves and others.
[Illustration: MAKING READY TO EMBARK.]
[Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.]
TIM AND TIP;
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.
CHAPTER X.
BILL THOMPSON'S TENT.
Hardly had the boys ceased to talk of their grand hunt, when they were
thrown into the greatest excitement by news which Bill Thompson had
called them together to impart. This is what he said, when at least a
dozen were present behind the same barn that had been ornamented with
the skin of Tip's victim:
"Fellers, my father has just brought home a great big tent--a reg'lar
canvas one--an' he says we may take it, an' all go off campin' for a
week. What do you think of that?"
For some moments it was impossible to learn just what the boys did think
of it, for they all attempted to talk at once, and some, who could not
speak as loud as the others, began to cheer, until Tip, who of course
had been called into council with the others, barked loudly at the
confusion of sound. Although Bill knew that his companions were almost
beside themselves with joy at the news, it was fully ten minutes before
the noise had subsided sufficiently for him to learn that fact from
their words.
Bobby Tucker was positive he and Tim would be allowed to go with the
party, because his father had told them they might enjoy themselves in
their own way until the summer term of school began, and the majority of
those present were equally certain they could go. Those who had any
doubts on the matter started off at once to gain the desired permission,
and in a short time it was decided that just an even dozen--eleven boys
and Tip--would make up the party. Then the serious work began.
It was necessary to decide where they should go, how they were to get
there, and how a supply of provisions could be obtained.
Bobby Tucker was sure he could get a bushel of potatoes as his share,
and a large piece of pork as Tim's. Bill Thompson owned three of the
hens in his father's flock, one of which he agreed to carry, in order
that at least one "big" dinner might be served, and he also agreed to
get three dozen of eggs. Jimmy Newcomb, whose father kept a store, was
certain he could get a large supply of crackers, and a small supply of
candy. Another of the party promised butter, pepper, and salt; another
agreed, in the name of his mother, to have some gingerbread and pies,
and so the list of provisions was made, up, thus settling the last
question first.
Where the camp should be pitched was a more difficult matter to decide.
Some were in favor of going in the same direction as that taken on the
bear-hunt; but this was voted down at once by Bill Thompson, who,
because he was the party furnishing the tent, had great weight in the
discussion.
"We want to go 'way off where we can't get back for a good while," he
said, decidedly. "An' besides, we must go where nobody lives, so's we
can find more bears for Tip."
Then another of the party suggested getting a horse and cart, and going
as far into the interior of the island as possible; but this Bill
objected to on the ground that they would then be obliged to follow some
road, which would still keep them within the range of civilization.
"Can't we get a boat, an' go 'way round to the other side of the island,
where nobody lives?" asked Tim.
"That's the very thing," said Bill, decisively--"that's the very thing;
an' Jimmy Newcomb can get the one his father keeps at Dunham's wharf."
All three of the questions having thus been settled, the boys went over
to Bill Thompson's to view the tent which was to afford them their
highest idea of enjoyment. It was found to be quite large enough to
shelter the entire party, being fully twelve feet square, and complete
in everything save pegs and stakes, which could easily be made before
starting, or after they should arrive on the spot where it was to be
pitched.
It was some time before the boys had gazed sufficiently upon this canvas
house so wonderfully come into their possession, and they would probably
have spent more time in admiration of it had there not been some little
doubt as to whether Jimmy Newcomb's father had the same idea regarding
the loan of his boat as his son.
It was thought best to have an interview with Mr. Newcomb at once, and
the entire party marched down the village to a point almost opposite the
store, and waited there while Jimmy went in to ask the important
question.
He remained inside so long that every boy's face began to grow sad, for
each moment he was there seemed to tell that he was not succeeding in
the project.
"I guess his father won't let him have it, an' he's stayin' there to
coax," said Bill, sadly; but he had hardly spoken when Jimmy appeared.
He could not wait until he crossed the street before he imparted the
joyful news, but waved his hat even while he stood on the threshold of
the door, and shouted at the highest squeak of his voice:
"It's all right, boys; we can have her as long as we want if we're
careful not to get her stove up."
In the twinkling of an eye every one of those boys had started at full
speed toward Dunham's wharf, that they might look at the craft which was
to carry them on their journey. They had all seen the boat at least a
hundred times before, but now that she was theirs for a while, she
seemed like a new one.
Since the boat was ready, and the tent nearly complete for pitching,
Bill Thompson proposed that each one should spend that day getting ready
for the trip. The time set for the start was seven o'clock on the
following morning, and every one was expected to be on hand promptly at
that hour. Tim, Bobby, and Bill promised to make the tent pegs and
stakes, and it was decided that if any important question should come up
meanwhile, they could meet behind Bobby Tucker's barn that night to
discuss it.
With this agreement the conference broke up, and during the remainder of
that day, when any of the towns-people saw a boy running at full speed,
or staggering under a load of bed-clothing, they knew he was one of the
party who were going out camping for a week.
It would not be surprising if the mothers of those boys lost their
temper several times during the following ten hours, so numerous were
their wants, and such vague ideas did they have as to the amount of
provisions necessary for a week's stay in the woods. But greatly to the
delight of both the boys and their parents, the day came to a close, as
all days will, and a very happy party met in the rear of Mr. Tucker's
barn.
Each one had secured the articles promised, while some had been able to
do even more. Bobby had found a flag, rather the worse for wear, to be
sure, but still showing enough of the stars and stripes to allow one to
see what it had been, and this was looked upon as the crowning triumph
of all.
Tim, Bobby, and Bill had worked hard at the tent pegs, but had made only
about half the required number. This, however, was not considered
important, since the remainder could be made after they arrived at the
camping place.
When the party broke up that night it was with the understanding that
each one would be at the wharf as early as possible, and it was hard
work for any of them to get to sleep that night. But nearly all of them
were up and dressed before the sun had any idea that it was time for him
to show his face in the east.
It was hardly half past six when everything, from the tent to Bill
Thompson's live hen, was in the boat, packed snugly. The flag was raised
at the stern on a thin slab of drift-wood, held in place by Jimmy
Newcomb, who was given the position of helmsman, owing to the fact that
his father owned the boat. The remainder of the party were to take turns
at rowing, and when the boat was pushed away from the wharf, four oars
were worked as vigorously as the boys at the end of them knew how.
Bill Thompson started a song, in which all joined; Tip barked until
there was every danger that he would become hopelessly hoarse; and the
old hen cackled and scolded as if she knew just what her fate was to be.
There was only one settlement on Minchin's Island, and it was the plan
of the party to row around the coast until they reached a point as
nearly opposite the village as possible. The distance was fully ten
miles; but no one thought the labor would be too great if, by dint of
hard rowing, they could reach a place that was uninhabited, and each one
was ready to take his turn at the oars whenever another was tired.
Now Bill Thompson was a great stickler for discipline, and although he
had said nothing about it when the details of the voyage were under
discussion, he had a plan which he began to carry into execution as soon
as the journey was fairly commenced.
"Now we've got to do this thing right," he said, as he braced himself in
the bow, where he could have a view of all hands. "We must choose
different ones to do different things, so's we'll know what we're about.
We've got to have cooks, an' I nom'nate Tim Babbige an' Bobby Tucker to
take care of the victuals, an' do the cookin'."
Bill paused as if for some one to second the proposition, and Jimmy
Newcomb said, not very properly to be sure, according to the rules laid
down for the election of gentlemen to office, but still quite decidedly
enough to show he meant it, "That settles it," and Tim and Bobby were
considered elected to the responsible offices of cooks and guardians of
the food.
"Now I go in for makin' Jimmy Newcomb captain of the ship, an' he must
boss the job when we're out on a trip, an' when we're landin'."
This time Tim, being already one of the most important officers of the
expedition, considering it necessary to assist in the election of some
of the others, said quickly, "That's jest the thing."
After Bill had appointed certain of the boys to cut wood and bring
water, he said, with just a shade of hesitation in his voice, as if he
was troubled with bashfulness,
"Now somebody's got to be captain of the huntin', an' if you boys are
willin' I'll do that; an' whatever kind of wild animals we scare up, I
promise to be the first one to rush in an' cut their throats after Tip
has caught 'em."
This was considered as a sort of oath of office, and each member of the
party made some sign of agreement in Bill's self-election, feeling
perfectly satisfied that he should fill what was looked upon as a
dangerous position.
After they had rowed at least three hours, different members of the crew
insisted that they must have gone entirely around the island, and were
then proceeding toward home; but Jimmy quickly put a stop to any
grumbling. Both he and Bill knew when they were about opposite the
village, for they had been there several times with Captain Thompson,
and they were both equally positive that they had yet some miles to go
before gaining the extreme end of the island.
It was about eleven o'clock, and nearly every boy was tired out with his
work at the oars, when Jimmy ordered them to stop rowing, and pointed
inshore.
The view which presented itself was a lovely one. Two points of rocks
projected some distance into the sea, forming a little harbor, at the
head of which was a smooth shelving beach of sand. Just back of the
beach was a dense grove of pine-trees, and through them led a narrow
path, now so covered with vines and weeds as to show it had not been
used, by man at least, for some time.
Jim had no need to ask what his companions thought of camping there, for
each one appeared delighted with it, and the boat was pulled up to the
beach.
Bill Thompson was the first to leap ashore, and even though he was only
the chief huntsman, he assumed full charge of the expedition, so far as
landing and setting up the tent were concerned.
A cleared spot in the grove about fifty yards from the beach was
selected as the site of the tent, and then they wished that the pegs had
all been made before they started, for the canvas could not be put up
until they were done. Bill and two others set about this important work,
while Tim and Bobby bustled around to get something to eat, and Jim made
sure the boat was anchored securely.
The first thing done by the two cooks was to tie Bill's hen by her leg
to a tree, and then it was found necessary to fasten Tip some distance
from her, since he showed a decided inclination to treat her as he had
the woodchuck.
Then the more skillful work of building the fire-place was begun, and
this Tim took charge of, while Bobby unpacked the kettle and spider, got
the potatoes ready for cooking, and made himself generally useful.
Tim made rather a good job of the fire-place, and after he had finished
it to his satisfaction he cut three forked sticks on which to hang the
kettle, but immediately afterward found that they had forgotten to bring
a chain, and would be obliged to suspend the pot by a rope, thereby
running some risk of its burning.
Meanwhile the wood and water carriers had done their part of the work,
and the cooks found plenty of material close at hand for the beginning
of their cooking operations. The potatoes were put on to boil, and
thanks to the generous fire underneath them, gave promise of speedily
being ready to do their allotted duty in the dinner which the hungry
boys were anxiously expecting.
Bill had finished making his tent pegs, and by the time Tim had
succeeded in hanging the kettle, the tent was up, needing only the
delicate operation of setting the stakes properly to make it a large and
habitable dwelling.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A TYROLESE NATIONAL DAY.
Napoleon has many sins to answer for, but there is no one deed of his
for which he has been more justly blamed than for the killing of Andreas
Hofer, the Tyrolese patriot. From 1363, when Tyrol by inheritance came
to belong to Austria, the Tyrolese had never wavered in their devotion
to the house of Hapsburg, and therefore when in 1805, by the Peace of
Presburg, Austria was forced by Napoleon to cede Tyrol to Bavaria, a
thrill of indignation stirred the hearts of the sturdy mountaineers at
being against their will forced to change rulers; and when they found
that the mild rule to which they had been accustomed was exchanged for
severe impositions, taxes, and drafting to fight against their friends
the Austrians, it is no wonder they revolted against their oppressors.
The Tyrolese are a nation of marksmen, and though ready to fight when
occasion requires, they will not endure regular military service such as
Bavaria then demanded (being obliged to furnish a certain number of men
for the French armies), and, besides, rather prided themselves on their
ignorance of military manoeuvres. They have a rhyme--
"You say 'tis luck alone when those
Unskilled in tactics beat their foes,
But better 'tis without to win
Than with these tactics to give in,"
and their encounters with the French and Bavarians during the year 1809
only served to confirm them in this belief.
The Archduke John of Austria had been much in Tyrol, and had endeared
himself to the people, and when the cession in 1805 forced him to quit
the country, he disbanded his Tyrolese army, promising them, however,
that if the time should ever come when it would be safe to try and
recover their liberty, he would send them word, and become their leader;
he also promised to keep up intercourse with the chief Tyrolese, and his
favored correspondent was our patriot, Andreas Hofer.
Hofer was an innkeeper in the Passeyr Valley, as his ancestors had been
before him, a wine dealer, and horse drover, all of which occupations
brought him in contact with people of every rank in life. A Tyrolese
innkeeper is a very important person, often serves as a banker for the
neighboring settlements, and his house is always the place appointed for
political meetings. Hofer's inn was called the "Sand House," and he was
known and trusted from one end of Tyrol to the other. He was born in
1767, and was forty-one when chosen leader of the Tyrolese forces.
The Archduke in January, 1809, sent word that he would like to confer
with Hofer and other tried friends, and they accordingly went to receive
his orders. He directed them to hold themselves ready, promised that
they should have due notice when a general rising was to be made, and
desired Hofer to let the different districts know, in order that the
suddenness of the revolt in so many places at one time might arouse all
Germany. The signal was to be the floating of sawdust on the streams,
and though more than two months passed before the plan could be carried
out, and many were necessarily in the secret, there was never a
suspicion excited in the minds of the enemy.
Within three days (from March 31) the whole of Tyrol was in arms, and
Hofer captured at Innsbruck and Hall over eight thousand French and
Bavarian prisoners; within the next fortnight the whole province was
free, and over ten thousand French and Bavarian troops destroyed. The
defeat of Austria at Wagram by the French caused a demand that the
Austrians should evacuate Tyrol, and though three separate armies were
sent against them, Hofer and his brave countrymen routed them all, and
Tyrol declared herself free, formed an independent government, and Hofer
was declared absolute Dictator.
For some time the Tyrolese fought against a superior foe. In the last
battle the women bore arms alongside the men, and nearly four hundred
were killed by the enemy's cavalry; but finding resistance vain, Hofer
disbanded his forces. Refusing all requests to leave the country and
seek refuge in Austria, he went to a lonely hut on the mountain, some
miles above his inn. Here, though he remained for over two months,
supplied by the peasantry with food, no reward could induce his
countrymen to betray him; but one Douay, a traitor, and no Tyrolese,
offered to lead a band to the place, and on the 27th of January two
hundred men were sent to capture him. They reached his hut after dark,
and when he was aware of their presence, he submitted to be ironed, and
with his wife, daughter, and little son was marched to Botzen amidst the
taunts of the French and the tears of his countrymen. He retained his
cheerfulness, though worn with privation, believing that not even
Napoleon could condemn him. He was taken under strong escort to Mantua,
it not being deemed safe to keep him in Tyrol, and tried by a
court-martial. The majority of his judges voted he should be imprisoned;
two, that he should be liberated; but Napoleon, then at Milan, sent word
that he should be shot within twenty-four hours. Hofer received the news
with calmness; and on February 20, 1810, at eleven o'clock, he was led
out to execution.
[Illustration: "THE NAUGHTY BOY."--FROM THE PAINTING BY C. T. GARLAND.]
ANDREW JACKSON WASHINGTON JONES.
[Illustration: AS BLACK AS BLACK COULD BE.]
Andrew was quite as black a little colored boy as if he had been well
painted, and his mammy was in the habit of telling him that he was as
lazy as he was black, a fact which Andrew Jackson never took the trouble
to deny.
He had not a very clear idea of the proper definition of the word lazy;
but even though he never made any attempt to correct the error into
which his mother had fallen, he believed he could point out at least a
dozen boys who were really indolent, while he was only what might be
called tired.
He looked upon such work as carrying wood and water as something
especially adapted to cultivate the muscles of older people, but
decidedly injurious to boys of his age. Therefore whenever he saw
anything at home which indicated the possibility of his being set at
work, he always had immediate and urgent business which called him as
far away as he felt able to walk, and he could go a long distance,
however warm the day, when he believed he was fleeing from labor.
But one day Andrew Jackson Washington Jones's father came home with a
very long and stout willow switch in his hand, and told the ever-tired
little darky that it was his intention to "use it upon his back, shuah,"
if a certain pile of wood was not split and into the shed by sunset.
Andrew would have turned pale if his skin had not been quite so dark,
for from the way his father spoke, he was quite certain he would be just
cruel enough to carry his threat into execution; and he went out by the
wood-pile wondering which would be the hardest--to do the work or
receive the promised whipping.
He had just made up his mind that he would rather have the willow cut up
by his back than to cut that pile of wood with the dull axe, while all
the other boys were out cat-fishing; and he was already smarting from
anticipation when another and more horrible thought came to him. He
would probably not only be obliged to feel the willow, but to do the
work also, and he was discouraged.
"Daddy'll lick me fo' a fac', an' mammy will tear round drefful till
it's done," he said, musingly, and he shivered at the thought. "Dar's
gwine to be no rest fo' dis chile till dat yere wood am cut."
If Andrew had only ceased discussing matters with himself then, and set
to work in earnest on that unlucky wood-pile, all would have been well,
and one little colored boy would not have been missing from home that
night. But he continued the discussion until he had decided to do the
task, and afterward concluded that he could, by trying remarkably hard,
catch just one cat-fish, and yet have the wood in the shed before the
sun got through work and went to bed.
"Keep remembrancin' dis yere switch," cried his mother, when she saw him
feel of the axe, then put his best bone clappers in his pocket, and
start in the direction of the wharves.
Andrew nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders as if he had it ever
before his eyes, but hurried on.
If he had attacked the wood-pile with half the energy that he started
for the cat-fish, all would have been well with both him and the wood,
for he walked along at a really rapid rate, considering how tired he
always was.
At the wharves he saw none of his friends, but a steamer was there
taking on freight, and to Andrew's mind it would be quite as interesting
to examine her as to catch three or even four cat-fish.
His wanderings on board, unchecked by any of the officers because there
was a possibility he might be a passenger, led him to the furnace-room,
which was entirely deserted. A cozy seat made of rough boards was just
beside the open door of the furnace, from which the heat was escaping in
very welcome quantities, and Andrew popped into it, smiling as he
thought of the difference between cutting the wood and sitting there
where he was so thoroughly comfortable.
"Talk 'bout dat yere wood-pile," he muttered, and then he was sound
asleep, while the light of the glowing coals played about his face,
causing it to assume all shades from a light bronze to an intense black.
[Illustration: ASLEEP IN THE FURNACE-ROOM.]
No boy ever slept more soundly than did Andrew Jackson Washington Jones
then, and none ever awoke more quickly than he when a heavy hand was
laid upon his shoulder, and he was pushed on to the iron floor in
anything rather than a gentle manner.
"G-'way from me, g'way--" and then he stopped speaking that he might
open his mouth wide with astonishment as he saw a man, a very big, stout
man, looking at him angrily.
"What are you doing here?" asked the big party, whom Andrew would have
known to be the fireman, if he had been better acquainted with steamboat
life.
"I's gwine cat-fishin' fur a spell," said the boy, his eyes opening wide
as he closed his mouth to speak.
"Cat-fishin'! Perhaps you're runnin' this craft, and are goin' to take
her out on a fishin' cruise?"
The sneer which accompanied the words was lost on the boy, as, suddenly
thinking of the neglected work, he replied, in a dazed sort of way:
"Daddy's gwine to lick me now fo' a fac'."
"He won't do it half as quick as I will," roared the fireman, evidently
enraged by the astonished way in which the boy stared at him, his eyes
seeming to increase in size each moment.
Before Andrew Jackson Washington Jones had any idea as to what was about
to be done, the man had seized him by the collar of his jacket, and he
felt blows compared with which those from the willow switch would have
been pleasure.
"Now shovel over that coal," shouted the man, as he released his hold of
Andrew Jackson's collar so suddenly that the boy spun around against the
iron-clad sides of the room like a top in a box.
"Mammy says I's to come right back," blubbered Andrew, as he rubbed coal
dust over his face in his efforts to wipe his eyes.
"It'll be quite a spell before you do get back, for the steamer left the
dock ten minutes ago."
"Den I mus' shinny along, fur I carn't stay here," said Andrew,
hurriedly, as he started toward the door.
"Come back here," and the man made sure he would obey by catching him by
the jacket, and pulling him toward him. "Didn't you hear me say that the
boat had left the dock? We're two miles away by this time."
"Wha--wha--wha'll I do?" and Andrew Jackson burst into a fresh flood of
tears, as the most lonely feeling he ever had in his life came over him.
"You'll take hold of that shovel and exercise it as lively as you know
how," replied the man, and from the way in which he spoke Andrew did not
think it prudent to make any objections.
Shovelling coal in the hot furnace-room of a steamer is work by the side
of which almost any other seems like mere play, and if Andrew Jackson
Washington Jones could suddenly have been carried back to that wood-pile
he would have attacked it with an energy that would have astonished his
mother.
But he was not there, which was his own fault, and he was obliged to
shovel coal, which was the fault of the ill-natured fireman, both of
which facts made of Andrew Jackson as miserable a little colored boy as
ever strayed into mischief for the sake of a few cat-fish.
For nearly two hours--and he would not have been surprised had he been
told two days had passed--he shovelled coal, while the perspiration
rolled down in streams from his face, and to add to his misery he lost
his valued clappers through the grating. Then the fireman said:
"Now, then, boy, we're going to stop pretty soon, and you'd better get
on deck if you want to go ashore; for you're only about twenty miles
from home now, and at the next stopping-place you'll be fifty miles
away."
Andrew dropped that shovel as if it had suddenly become hot, and when
the steamer stopped he was the first person who landed, having
carelessly stepped on the mate's foot, and been thrown ashore by him
before the gang plank was out.
The moment he was fairly on his feet he started up the pier toward the
town at a speed that would have persuaded his mother he had a fit, could
she have seen him, and it was not until he got into the very centre of
the village that he attempted to form any plan as to the future.
There he was, twenty miles from home, without any money, and his
clappers lost. His hands were blistered, his clothes covered with
cinders and coal dust, and he was more thoroughly hungry and tired than
he ever remembered being before.
He looked down the road which a gentleman told him led to his home, and
as he thought of that wood-pile twenty miles away, it seemed as if it
would have been happiness indeed if he could only be there cutting it up
and carrying it into the shed. He was hungry too, wonderfully hungry,
but fortunately an old lady gave him two doughnuts and three crackers
after she heard his story, and then she told him he was a cruel, wicked
boy for not having done as his father had commanded him.
He knew it was necessary for him to trudge along if he ever wanted to
get home, and every lazy bone in his body rebelled against the exercise.
He walked and walked until he thought he must have gone fully a hundred
and seventeen miles, and yet there was no sign of a town, while it had
grown as dark as it well could be on a moonlight night.
He sat down by the side of the road to rest, but he heard so many
strange noises, and fancied he saw so many horrible things, that he was
forced to go on again, although his legs were so tired it seemed as if
they would drop from his body, and his feet were very sore.
There was one thing he could do, which was to cry, and he set about that
work with more real energy than he had ever set about anything before.
He roared so that the woods fairly rang with the echoes, and the night
birds peered out very carefully to see what the matter was. But all his
crying did not take him one inch nearer home, and the sound of his own
voice actually frightened him.
After he had walked what ought to have been another hundred miles, and
thought he should surely die from fatigue, he heard sounds in the rear
which caused his heart to stand almost still, while he expected every
moment to be killed and scalped.
No such fearful fate awaited him, however, for the horrible noise he
heard was simply the driver of an ox-team singing to cheer himself on
his journey.
It was singular how sweet that music sounded after Andrew knew what it
was, and he ran back to meet the team rather than wait for it to come to
him.
The oxen and the man were going directly past his home, though it would,
of course, be some time before they reached there, and the boy who went
for cat-fish rather than chop wood was to be allowed to ride over all
level places in the road, and down hill. Up hill he must walk, for the
load was heavy, and the patient oxen had about all they could draw
without him.
If the driver of that team was to be believed, Andrew Jackson had walked
about four miles; but the boy felt certain that either the man was
mistaken or was wickedly concealing the truth.
The journey was not ended until noon of the next day, and it surely
seemed as if it had been all up hill, so often was Andrew called upon to
get down and walk.
His father and mother were both out hunting for him when he arrived
home, and the way he made that wood fly, tired and hungry though he was,
should have been a caution to any lazy boy. It was all cut and in the
shed when his parents got home, but nevertheless the willow switch was
well worn, and from that day forth Andrew Jackson Washington Jones was
nearly, if not quite, cured of being lazy.
THE BOY WHO COULD NOT BE HURT.
BY DAVID KER.
I.
Many many years ago, about the time that Hendrick Hudson was smoking his
first pipe with the Manhattan Indians on the site of New York, a group
of school-boys were assembled one quiet summer evening in front of a
house in the quiet little Swedish village of Hornelen.
"That's where the nest is, up there by the corner of the highest
window," said one. "But who's to get it?"
"Oh! can't you really, Karl?" piped a poor little pale-faced cripple in
the centre of the group. "That's just the egg I've been wanting ever so
long. _Can't_ you get it somehow?"
"I wish I could, little one, if only for _your_ sake; but I've tried it
twice, and got nothing but a good tumble for my pains."
"And so has Austrian Moritz here--haven't you, old fellow?" cried
another, clapping the shoulder of a slim, dark-haired boy, who was
spending his holidays at Hornelen with one of his father's Swedish
friends.
"True enough," said Moritz von Arnheim, with a grimace. "But here comes
Johnny Banner, and _he'll_ do it if any one can."
"Hurrah for the boy who can't be hurt!" shouted several voices, as a big
square-built lad, with a bold, bluff, sunburned face, joined the group.
"Why, Johnny, man, how dusty you are!"
"And so would _you_ be, if you'd just been run over by a wagon," grunted
Johnny.
"Run over by a wagon!" echoed the boys, staring.
"Just so. You see, I was up in the big elm yonder, having a swing on one
of the boughs, when Farmer Jansen, not seeing me, let fly at a rook that
had perched there, and put a charge of shot through my cap. Look here;"
and he held up the riddled cap to view.
"Another escape, I declare," laughed Moritz. "We shall have to call you
'Jack-of-Nine-Lives,' at this rate."