Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 25. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, April 20, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
SIM VEDDER'S KITE.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
The kite fever visited Hagarstown every year, and caught all the boys
over five before it subsided. It generally crept in slowly, a boy and a
kite at a time; but this year it came as if a big wind brought it.
Yesterday there had been three kites up at one time in the main street,
and Squire Jones's pony had been scared into a canter. The Squire, and
Mrs. Jones, and the three Misses Jones, and Aunt Hephzibah had all been
in the carry-all at the time, and they had all screamed when the pony
began to canter. So the Squire had told the boys he "could not have any
more of that dangerous nonsense in the streets," and they had all come
out to Dr. Gay's pasture, on the side-hill, to-day, and they had eight
kites among them.
"Sim Vedder's coming, boys," said Parley Hooker. "He's been making a
kite."
"He?" exclaimed Joe Myers. "He's a grown-up man. What does he know about
kites?"
"There he comes now, anyway."
They all turned toward the bars and looked, for not one of them had sent
up his kite yet.
"Oh, what a kite!"
"It's as tall as he is."
"No, it isn't. He's carrying it on his shoulder."
"It's just an awful kite."
Sim Vedder was the man who worked for Dr. Gay, and he was as thin as a
fence rail. So was his face, and his hooked nose had a queer twist in it
half way to the point.
He was coming with what looked like an enormous kite trying all the
while to get away from him.
All the boys wanted to ask questions, but they didn't know exactly what
to ask, so they kept still.
"Kiting, are you? Well, just you let me look at your kites, and then you
may look at mine. One at a time, now. Keep back. Make that kite
yourself, Parley?"
"Yes, I made it."
"Had plenty of wood around your house, I guess. Your sticks are bigger
than mine, and your kite is only two feet high, and mine's five. Look at
it."
He turned the back of his kite toward them as he spoke, and they saw
that the frame-work of it was made of a number of very slender slips of
what looked like ash or hickory wood.
"Mine's made of pine," said Parley. "And yours'll break, too."
"No, it won't. Well, maybe yours'll fly. Set it agoing. There's plenty
of wind."
Parley obeyed, and, mainly because there was indeed a good deal of wind,
his heavy-made kite began to go up.
"Joe," said Sim Vedder, "hand me that kite of yours."
"Mine's a di'mond. I don't know how to make any other."
"Do you suppose it'll stand steady, with those fore-bands so close
together? No, it won't. Up with it, and see how it'll wiggle. Bob Jones,
is that yours?"
The third kite was meekly handed to him, for the more the boys stared at
Sim's big kite, the more they believed he knew what he was talking
about.
"It isn't a bad kite, but those fore-bands are crossed too low. It'll
dive all over."
"There's plenty of tail, Sim. It can't dive."
"Tail!--and a bunch of May-weed at the end of it! How's a kite of that
size to lift it all? I'll show you," replied Sim.
He was unfastening the fore-bands as he spoke, and now he crossed them
again over his little finger, and moved them along till the kite swung
under them, almost level.
"That'll do. Now I'll tie 'em hard, and you can cut off your May-weed.
There'll be tail enough without it. When I was in China--"
"Was you ever in China?"
"Yes, I was. That was when I was a sailor. I saw kites enough there.
They spend money on 'em, just as we do on horses; make 'em of all shapes
and sizes. Don't need any tails."
"Kites without tails?"
"Well, some of 'em have, and some of 'em haven't. It's a knack in the
making of 'em. I've seen one like a dragon, and another like a big
snake, and they floated perfectly. Only a thin silk string, either."
"String's got to be strong enough to hold a kite," said Parley Hooker.
"Look at yours."
"Yes, mine's strong; it's made of fine hemp. But it isn't any heavier
than yours. What do you want of a rope, with a kite of that size?"
"It isn't a rope."
"It's too heavy, though. Besides, you've tied pieces together with big
knots in them. You can't send up any travellers."
"What's that?"
"I'll show you. Some call 'em messengers."
Just then Parley exclaimed, "Sim! Sim! mine's broke! it's coming down!"
"Broke right in the middle, where you notched your big sticks together."
"Just where it needs to be strongest," said Joe, knowingly.
"No, it doesn't. Look at mine."
It was the biggest kite they had ever seen, and it came down square at
the bottom; but it was not a great deal wider than Parley's. The curious
part of it was the cross-sticks and fore-bands. What did he need of so
many?
"So many?" said Sim. "Why, the bands take the strain of the wind. If you
put it all on the sticks, they'd bend or break. Don't you see? There's a
band tied every two inches, and they all come together out here in the
centre knot. It just balances on that."
"Your tail's a light one."
"It's long enough, and it spreads enough to catch the wind. It isn't the
mere weight you want in a tail, if your kite's balanced. The wind blows
against the tail as hard as anywhere else."
"Won't yours ever dive?"
"Of course it will, with a cross puff of wind; but it'll come right up
again. That won't happen very often. I'll send her up. You wait and
see."
The other kites were all up now, except Parley's broken one, and most of
them were cutting queer antics, because, as Sim explained, their
fore-bands were tied wrong, and their tails "did not fit them."
"The Chinese could teach us. But, the way we make kites, there's as much
in the tail as in anything else."
"Oh, but our kites are covered with paper, and you've put some old silk
on yours."
"Of course I have. It isn't much heavier. The Chinese use thin paper
that's as good as silk. It won't wet through."
"Wet? Oh, Sim, it looks as if a storm is coming now."
So it did, and Sim's big kite was going up, up, up very fast, and he was
letting the strong brown string run rapidly off from a sort of reel he
held in his hand.
"Pull in your kites, boys," shouted Parley. "Let's cut for home."
"I want to see Sim fly his."
"You all pull in yours, and we'll go into the cattle shed. It's only a
shower. I can fly mine from the door."
The shed was close at hand, and the door was a wide one. In three
minutes more, just as the first drops came down, there was quite a crowd
of boys behind Sim, as he stood a little inside, and watched his kite.
His reel was almost empty now, and the big kite looked a good deal
smaller than when it started.
"How steady it is!"
"It pulls hard, though."
"There comes the rain."
"Thunder and lightning too."
Sim had fastened his wooden reel against the door-post, on a hook that
was there, but he kept his hand on the string.
"I declare, boys! Feel of that! The string's wet, and it's making a
lightning-rod of itself."
Parley and Joe and Bob, and two or three others, felt of it at once.
"Lightning? Why, Sim," said Bob, "I know better than that. I've had an
electric shock before."
"That's all it is," said Parley.
"Well," replied Sim, "didn't you ever hear of Dr. Franklin? We're doing
just what he did. He discovered electricity with a kite. A wet kite
string was the first lightning-rod there ever was in the world."
"Lightning?" exclaimed Bob. "Don't you bring any in here. I won't touch
it again."
"Did lightning ever strike anybody when he was flying a kite?" asked
Joe.
"Not that I ever heard of," said Sim. "But it's beginning to pour hard.
I'll reel in my kite till the storm's over."
He unhooked his reel as he spoke, but it was well he took a good strong
hold of it. The wind must have been blowing a gale up where the kite
was, and the string was a very strong one for its size.
"I declare! Why--"
But the next the boys knew, Sim Vedder was out in the rain, with that
kite tugging at him. He would not let go, and he could not stop himself,
and the sloping pasture before him was all down hill. On he went, faster
and faster, till his foot slipped, and down he went full length. He held
on, though, like a good fellow, and there he lay in the wet grass, with
the rain pouring upon him, tugging his best at his big kite.
The wind lulled a little, and Sim began to work his reel. Slowly at
first, then faster; and about the time the rain stopped, the wind almost
died out, and the wonderful kite came in.
"There isn't a stick of it broken," said Sim, triumphantly, "nor a
fore-band. That's because they were made right, and put on so they all
help each other."
"Oh, but ain't you wet!" exclaimed three or four boys at once.
Well, yes; he was, indeed, very wet.
TWO NARROW ESCAPES.
BY UNCLE NED.
One evening last winter the children called upon their uncle Ned, who is
a sailor, and just home from India, for a story. He willingly granted
their request, and at once proceeded to tell them of a narrow escape he
once made, as follows:
"At the time of the occurrence I was staying at a small village called
Yealah, in India, with a young friend in the civil service, who had a
bungalow there. We used to amuse ourselves picking up shells on the
beach in the cool of the evening, and later, sitting out enjoying the
breeze and smoking our cheroots. One evening, however, our conversation
was interrupted by a herd of buffaloes rushing past us at full speed,
which we imputed to their being chased by a tiger. On the following
morning our surmise proved correct, and we learned that a tiger had
carried off a buffalo within two or three hundred yards of where we had
been sitting on the previous evening. My friend, who was a keen
sportsman, resolved to track the tiger; and I accompanied him, with a
number of natives, who took care to keep at a safe distance in the rear.
Following the broad track through the jungle, we soon arrived at the
spot to which the tiger had dragged his prey, and here we found the
mangled remains of the buffalo, but the tiger had betaken himself
elsewhere to enjoy his siesta after gorging himself. We proceeded on
cautiously; but as the jungle got very thick and tangled, my friend
decided it would be imprudent to proceed any further, and we halted. We
brought the butts of our rifles to the ground, and being of a botanical
turn, I stooped to pick up a flower. At that moment a tremendous roar
echoed through the forest, and seemed to stun me. I staggered a little,
as if from a blow; but recovering myself, grasped my rifle, for I
immediately guessed it was the tiger. My friend, with an exclamation,
'What an escape!' dashed away to the right, and I was about to follow, I
knew not exactly whither, when he made his appearance, to my intense
satisfaction.
"His first exclamation was, 'The brute has got away. Just like my luck.'
And then he added, 'What a lucky escape you had!'
"'What do you mean?' said I.
"'Why, don't you know that, as you stooped down to pick the flower, that
tiger sprang at you, and missed you by a few inches?'
"I confess a cold sweat broke out over me, and I inwardly thanked the
Almighty for my providential escape.
"As my story is rather a short one, I will tell you another of a lucky
escape I witnessed; though first I should mention that soon after this
affair my friend paid with his life for the temerity with which he
tracked tigers in the jungle.
"The brig to which I belonged was proceeding from Rangoon, and one
evening, after having come to an anchor abreast of a small inlet just
above Elephant Creek, at the mouth of the Irrawaddy, I accompanied the
skipper and a friend in the boat up the inlet to a small village to
procure a supply of fruit. On our return my companions expressed their
determination to bathe; but as I did not feel inclined to do so, I
seated myself in the stern, and taking out of my pocket one of Scott's
novels, amused myself with reading until they should have completed
their bath.
"About five minutes had elapsed, and the skipper was alone in the water,
when my attention was aroused by shouts and screams from the villagers,
who were hurrying down to the water's edge. Turning round, I saw my
captain, for whom I had no great affection, exerting every muscle to
gain the bank, from which he was still at a considerable distance. Not
seeing anything to account for the hubbub, my first impression was that
a child had fallen into the water, and that he was swimming to the spot
of the accident to save it. In an instant I directed the Lascars to
'give way' with the oars, and seizing the helm, steered as nearly as I
could guess in the direction to which the gestures of the Burmese
appeared to point. Before I reached the point the skipper disappeared
beneath the water; but, full of the preconceived impression, I imagined
that he was diving in search of the child. A few strokes and we were at
the spot, but it was not until the Lascar crew lashed their oars
violently into the water that the truth flashed upon me. It must be an
alligator that was pursuing him; and soon all doubt was removed, when
the master, a few moments later, rose at a short distance from us in a
spot where he could feel the bottom, and ran quickly ashore, his
shoulder bleeding profusely. The whole transaction occupied a very short
time, and the wounded master was conveyed on board the brig with all
dispatch.
"On inquiry I learned that the alligator had been first seen by the
Burmese, who gave instant notice of his approach, as before described,
and the warning was as quickly comprehended by the captain. All his
exertions to escape were, however, unavailing, and he felt himself
seized a little below the shoulder. By a convulsive effort he succeeded
in shaking off his cruel antagonist, and again struck out. The animal,
however, again advanced, and seizing him nearly by the same place,
dragged him under the surface for an instant or two, when the splashing
of the oars compelled him to relax his hold. On examination it proved
that the arm, although severely lacerated, was not so much injured as to
incur the necessity of amputation; and being placed under medical care
at Rangoon, the skipper was soon enabled to resume his duties."
[Begun in No. 19 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, March 9.]
ACROSS THE OCEAN; OR, A BOY'S FIRST VOYAGE.
A True Story.
BY J. O. DAVIDSON.
CHAPTER VII.
TOWED BY A WHALE.
"Have you ever seen a whaler, lad?" asked old Herrick, as Frank came on
deck the next morning. "Well, here's one for you _now_, anyway!"
There, sure enough, on the very edge of the great weed prairie which was
now almost left behind, lay a large vessel, with her sails hanging
loosely against the masts. Alongside of her floated a huge black and
white mass, which a second glance showed to be the carcass of a whale,
while the thick black smoke that rose from between her masts told that
the work of "trying out" the oil was going briskly forward. This was
just the sight for Austin, who, in the long winter evenings at home, had
devoured every account and engraving of the whale-fishery that he could
lay his hands on. He was still gazing, when Herrick touched his arm.
"See them two boats yonder, my boy? They've struck another whale, or my
name ain't Herrick."
The whaler's boats were about three miles off, pulling as if for life
and death. The other end of the line attached to each was under water,
but the disturbance of the surface showed that some large object was in
violent motion below. Suddenly both crews "backed water," while a man
leaped into the bow of each boat, axe in hand, ready to cut the rope
should the whale attempt to drag them under.
The next moment the huge black body broke through the seething foam with
a lash of its tail, which, as Herrick said, "sounded like a church tower
a-fallin' flat on an acre o' planks." In flew the boats, one on each
side, up sprang the harpooners, whiz went the well-aimed weapons, and
the wounded whale, giving a leap that set the whole sea boiling, turned
and came right down upon the _Arizona_, as if taking _it_ for the
assailant.
[Illustration: TOWED WITH THE SPEED OF A LOCOMOTIVE.]
Frank turned pale in spite of himself, for the charge of this moving
mountain seemed able to crush the strongest ship like an egg-shell. But
just as it was about to strike the bow, the monster turned again, and
made for the distant whaler, towing the two boats after it with the
speed of a locomotive.
"Bully for you, mates!" shouted a harpooner, as they flew past. "Ye've
turned the critter for us, and now she'll tow us aboard without our
pulling a stroke!"
* * * * *
On the sixteenth night of the voyage, Frank was sitting on the
fore-hatch, admiring the brightness of the moon. Eight bells (8 P.M.)
had just been struck, when the ship's officers were seen crowding
together on the after-deck with an appearance of considerable
excitement. Before any one could guess what was the matter, one of the
men uttered a cry of astonishment, and pointed upward.
[Illustration: THE ECLIPSE.]
The moonlight had become suddenly obscured, not by mist or clouds, but
by a huge circular shadow, which moved steadily across the bright disk,
blotting it out inch by inch.
"It's a 'clipse, that's what it is," said one; "and I heerd Mr. Hawkins
say this minute as some feller ashore, months and months ago, said it ud
come this very day and hour. Queer, ain't it, for any land-lubber to be
so 'cute?"
The darkness steadily increased, till the men could barely see each
other's faces; and with the unnatural gloom, a solemn silence fell upon
one and all. Not a word was spoken, not a sound heard, save the rush of
the steamer through the great waste of black waters. But the return of
the light at length unchained all tongues, and many a quaint comment was
made upon what they had just seen.
"Guess the moon's got one side bright and t'other dark, and when she
slews round, she brings the dark part broadside on."
"Not much, I reckon; it's them wet clouds goin' back'ard and for'ard
over her that spile her polish, same way as the spray rusts our
b'ilers."
"Shouldn't wonder; for a book-l'arned feller told me once that the sun
hisself's all black inside, and them spots ye see on him's jist the
black a-showin' through the gildin', like a darky's skin through the
holes in his shirt."
* * * * *
The signs of their approach to land now became unmistakable. The sea
took a greenish tinge; numerous vessels were seen heading the same way
as themselves; and various birds, of a kind never met far from shore,
came fluttering around them. Frank, too much excited to go below,
perched himself in the rigging, and strained his eyes to catch the
earliest glimpse of Europe. But Africa came first, in the shape of the
Tangier Light; nor was it till 4 A.M. that the haze lifted, and a huge
dark mass was seen looming on the port bow, the sight of which made the
boy's heart leap, for it was the Rock of Gibraltar.
[Illustration: THE ROCK OF GIBRALTAR.]
As the dawn brightened, all the grand features of the scene came forth
in their full splendor. The long purple range of the African mountains,
ending in the bold headland of Ceuta, far away to the southeast; the
wide blue sweep of the bay, with the dainty little white town of
Algeciras planted on it, like an ivory carving; the flat sandy neck of
"neutral ground" between the Rock and the mainland, with all its
countless memories of war, from the old-world battles of Spaniard and
Saracen to the day when the combined fleets of France and Spain swept it
with the fire of 1800 cannon; the bristling masts of the harbor; the
long gray curve of Europa Point; the mighty fortress itself, with the
narrow eyes of levelled cannon peering watchfully through the terraced
rocks that loomed against the bright morning sky like a thunder-cloud;
the blue Spanish hills, wave beyond wave, melting at last into the warm,
dreamy horizon; and right in front the white houses of Gibraltar,
huddled together along the base of the cliff, as if (to quote old
Herrick) "they'd been playin' snow-sled, and all slid down in a
heap"--all were there.[1]
[Illustration: A GIBRALTAR FRUIT BOAT.]
To get into Gibraltar Harbor is no easy matter; but the _Arizona_,
following in the wake of an English mail-steamer, reached her berth at
last, and had barely cast anchor when she was surrounded by a perfect
fleet of "shore-boats" freighted with oranges, figs, bananas,
cocoa-nuts, monkeys,[2] parrots, and everything else that any sailor
could be expected to buy.
The screams of the parrots, the chattering of the monkeys, the bumping
of the boats against each other, the clatter of the oars, the angry
outcries of the boatmen, in Spanish and broken English, whenever a
monkey or a parrot fell overboard, or a fruit basket got upset, made a
deafening uproar. An English man-of-war, anchored close by, was
similarly beset; and a mischievous sailor had just lassoed a monkey out
of the nearest boat, against which outrage both Jocko and his master
were protesting with all the power of their lungs. Frank lost no time in
buying a stock of oranges, and tossed a quarter to the tall, black-eyed
boatman, whose embroidered jacket, brown handsome face, and round flat
hat with a jaunty cockade on one side of it, made a very striking
picture. The Spaniard rang it on a knife-blade, tested it with a hard
bite from his strong white teeth, and then tied it up in the
handkerchief around his head, with a bow and a "Gracias, senor" (thanks,
sir), worthy of any grandee in Spain.
"What a fine fellow!" cried Frank, enthusiastically.
"Ay, ain't he?" growled an old tar who overheard him. "If I'd a loose
tooth in my head, I'd yank it out 'fore comin' here, for fear some o'
them 'fine fellers' ud steal it!"
"You don't say!"
"Fact; and that's why we never let none on 'em aboard. I guess the old
sayin's true enough, 'The Spanish wines steals all heads, the Spanish
women steals all hearts, and the Spanish men steals everything.'"
The captain, purser, and doctor had gone ashore with the ship's papers;
but to the no small dismay of the crew (who had expected a long stay in
port) a signal was suddenly reported to "up anchor" at once. So the
chain-cable was passed around the capstan, the bars manned (for the
convenient fashion of getting up the anchor by steam was not yet adopted
by the _Arizona_), and to work they went.
The slack of the chain came in easily enough; but to "break" the anchor
out of the mud was a harder matter. Up came more men--up came even the
"trimmers and heavers" from the engine-room; the bars bent with the
pressure of six sturdy fellows apiece, but the anchor never budged. The
perspiration rolled down the bronzed faces of the sailors, and their
brawny chests heaved like bellows with the strain; but all to no
purpose.
Suddenly a "flaw" of wind made the vessel heel, bringing more pressure
on the chain. The crew made a desperate effort, and seemed about to
conquer, when snap went a bar. The capstan spun back, the men were
dashed along the deck like nine-pins, and one poor fellow, jammed
between the chain and the hawse-pipe, had his hand cut in two as if by
an axe.
"Hello, Yankee Doodle!" shouted a voice from the British ship, "can't
git up yer mud-hook, eh? Shall we send a boy down to lift it for yer?"
Frank's eyes flashed fire at the taunt, and the roar of laughter that
followed. Forgetting everything in the passion of the moment, he sprang
upon the capstan, and shouted:
"Mates, are we going to let that Britisher laugh at us? Not much!
Come--all together; now!"
The excited men answered with a deafening cheer, and bent to their work
like giants. One tremendous heave, and up came the anchor at last. Round
and round they spun, leaping over the cable, which was now coming
rapidly in; and while Frank cheered and waved his cap like a madman,
they ran the anchor up "chock-a-block," just as Captain Gray and his
officers came up the side.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Most engravings of Gibraltar give a very imperfect idea of its
position, which may be best conveyed by representing the Spanish coast
as a door, and the Rock as the knob of its handle. The latter's seaward
face is a pretty close copy of the Hudson Palisades.
[2] The Rock of Gibraltar is the only spot in Europe where monkeys are
found running wild.
THE ROYAL BLACKSMITH.
BY FLETCHER READE.
There was born one day in the grandest palace that ever the sun shone
upon a child whose life was for many years a sad and weary one. He was a
cripple from his birth; and the Queen his mother, whose heart was so
full of pride that there was no room left in it for love, hated the
innocent babe, and refused to take him in her arms.
He, poor fellow, would no doubt have been as handsome as any of us if he
had been consulted about the matter; but as no one asked him whether he
would prefer being ugly or beautiful, he could hardly have been to blame
for coming into the world with one leg longer than the other.
The Queen, however, did not stop to think of this. The longer she looked
at him, the more angry she became, until at last, when no one was
looking, she snatched him from his cradle, and threw him out of the
window.
Down through the blue air fell the baby boy; still down and down, till
he reached the sea. Stretching out their arms as if to welcome such a
royal playfellow, the waves clapped their white hands, until the little
Prince crowed and cooed for joy.
Far away beneath the waves lived two nymphs named Eurynome and Thetis,
who, when they heard what had happened, decided to adopt the child.
Hastening to his assistance, Thetis took him in her arms, and the two
hurried along under the sea until they reached the home which they had
made for themselves in one of the loveliest of the ocean caverns.
Here the boy lived for many years, but he could not forget his old home
among the mountains of Olympus.
"I shall never be happy," he said to himself, "until I regain my
rightful place among the sons of Zeus."
He had already displayed great skill in carving, and the little grotto
of Thetis was like a piece of wonderland, fitted and furnished with all
manner of curious ornaments made by the lame boy, Hephaestus.
As he grew older he resolved to turn his talents to account, so he made
friends with the Old Man of the Sea, an elderly gentleman of uncertain
temper, who spent his time in sailing over the ocean in an enormous
shell drawn by sea-horses.
To him Hephaestus brought a trident, hoping that the gift would induce
him to offer the young exile his assistance in making peace with the
Queen.
Now this trident was a magical three-pronged spear, with which the owner
could still the waves in their wildest fury. It was therefore almost
invaluable to the old sailor; but although he accepted the gift, and
praised the workmanship, he forgot to thank the workman, and sailed
grandly away.
It was not long after this that the lame Prince, walking one day through
the woods, fell in with a band of wandering musicians.
Some were dancing; others were singing; and as he examined them more
closely, he saw that they had legs and hoofs and even long ears like
goats.
While he stood looking with wondering eyes at these fantastic beings,
the leader of the band suddenly approached him, and said,
"What aileth thee, my brother? Tell me thy trouble, that I may make thee
glad again, for I can not abide a sorrowful countenance."
"I am called Hephaestus," replied the Prince; "but I know not who you may
be, to call me brother."
"You will be wiser when you are older," laughed his new friend. "It is
enough for you to know now that I am a son of Zeus. But I like not the
solemn grandeur of the court, so I live in the woods, keeping holiday
all the year. These fauns and satyrs are my friends; and if you will
join our company, I can promise you a merry life and a long one."
But Hephaestus shook his head.
"I can never be happy," he said, "until I have won the love of the
Queen-mother. To do that I must show her that I have gifts quite as
valuable as beauty; but I have no one to plead my cause, and I, alas! do
not know the way to Olympus."
"If that is all your trouble," answered the merry man of the woods, "set
your heart at rest, for I myself will present you at court."
With these words, the good-natured Bacchus threw the skin of a wild
beast over his shoulders, and the two travellers became the best of
friends as they journeyed together along the road which lies between the
wooded heights where the satyrs dance, to the hill where the Olympian
palace hides half its rosy towers among the clouds.
The Queen at first would not recognize her son; the unhappy Prince hung
his head, and the assembled courtiers laughed long and loud at the
awkward silence of the youth.
Bacchus, however, was not to be frightened by laughter, however
inextinguishable, and he pleaded his brother's cause so well that the
Queen finally consented to overlook his ugliness, and ordered that a
palace be built for him.
"All I ask," said the Prince, "is a workshop, a pair of bellows, and a
forge."
"Then you are not my son, after all," exclaimed the Queen. "You are
nothing but a poor blacksmith."
"'Tis true I am a blacksmith," he answered, "but I will show you that I
am no common workman."
Concealing her astonishment, the Queen ordered his request to be
granted, and Hephaestus, glad but silent, limped away.
Day after day found him at his work; and at length one morning, when the
King and Queen were sitting in their banqueting hall, the doors were
thrown open, and there appeared at each entrance a golden table laden
with nectar and ambrosia.
One by one the tables walked across the hall as if they had been alive,
and close behind followed Hephaestus, supported on either side by lovely
maidens, fashioned, like the tables, out of gold.
To the King he presented a golden sceptre and thunderbolts, which no one
but Zeus himself could hold.
"Thou art indeed our son," cried the King. "Choose what thou wilt, and
it shall be given thee."
Looking around the court, the eyes of Hephaestus rested at last on
Venus--a Princess so beautiful that she was supposed to have been made
of sea-foam.
"Grant me, O Zeus, that I may have this lady for my wife," said
Hephaestus.
The request was granted almost before it was asked, and the wedding
which followed was one of the most brilliant that had ever taken place
in the country of Olympus.
Venus, however, was as false as she was beautiful, and Hephaestus was
often unhappy; but he consoled himself as best he could by keeping
perpetually at work, sometimes making a brazen shield for one friend, or
forging a suit of armor for another.
So it came to pass that the lame boy Hephaestus, exiled from his father's
court on account of his ugliness, became the world-renowned royal
blacksmith, honored by all for his patient endurance of wrong, for his
matchless skill, and for his loving service.
THE BLUE GROTTO.
BY JAMES B. MARSHALL.
"Did you ever see any blue-colored people?" asked Miss Bertha, aged ten,
shortly after my introduction to that young lady at Naples. I was forced
to confess that, though my acquaintances had shaded from white to black,
and brown to red, I had never been fortunate enough to boast of a blue
one.
"Oh, I saw 'most a hundred the other day!" said she, triumphantly. "Then
did you ever see a silver-colored man?"
"A silver-colored man? Miss Bertha dear, I have an idea that you have
been to fairy-land."
"He was a real silver-colored man," said she, very earnestly.
"I suppose he was the King of the fairy-land you went to."
"Oh no, he wasn't; he was a big boatman. But it was just like
fairy-land; it was splendid!--really, just splendid!"
It proved that the dear little enthusiast had been, a few days previous,
on a visit to the Island of Capri to see the famous Blue Grotto; since
which she had been startling people with her descriptions of blue folks
and a silver man.
Seeing that I couldn't have a better guide than Miss Bertha, the next
morning we and a jovial party went on board of the tiny steamer that
plies between Naples and the eighteen miles distant Island of Capri,
hollowed under the cliffs of which the Blue Grotto is situated. The Bay
of Naples, you know, is called the most beautiful in the world, and a
sail across it is a lovely thing in itself. There are such glorious blue
skies overhead, and such clear blue waters underneath, that the steamer
appears to bear one through the air between two skies. Then, close to
Naples, is seen that wonderful volcano, Vesuvius, with always a cloud of
smoke curling lazily out of its crater. And, besides, the white houses
of Naples are so built on a hill-side, the streets climbing to the top,
that a few miles away that too is a handsome sight. Miss Bertha told me
that they were the marble steps to the giant's palace, whose bird was
carrying us to the enchanted island to show us the giant's jewel-room.
Capri then looked like a distant light-house, merely a brown rock rising
out of the sea.
As we went bobbing over the waves it grew higher and higher, which Miss
Bertha explained was the correct thing for it to do, until, when the
steamer anchored a little distance from its cliffs, it rose straight up
from the water to a dizzy height. A flock of little skiffs crowded
around the steamer for the passengers, and Miss Bertha, taking charge of
me, led me into one.
"But the Grotto, where is it?" I asked, staring at the huge cliffs,
straight at which our red-sashed boatman was rowing us as if to
destruction.
Skiff after skiff ahead of us was seen to be swallowed up in the cliffs
in the most amazing way, and not an opening in the rocky wall to be
seen. "You mustn't be afraid," said my sweet little guide, assuringly:
"it won't hurt;" and she gave me her hand, that--perhaps I shouldn't
tell--trembled a little, and directly its mate stole into my grasp.
"Lie low down," said our boatman, when the skiff was within a few feet
of apparently smashing against the cliff.
"And shut your eyes tight," said Miss Bertha, screwing up her eyes so
tight that she showed all of her pretty white teeth in the funniest way.
The skiff scratched and bumped on the rocks a few times, and then
floated clear.
The bright sky was gone, the gulls flying about the cliffs were gone,
the steamer was gone, and the cliffs themselves were gone: we had
slipped under them, through a tiny opening, and were in the Blue Grotto.
The blue roof rose high above us, and there was ample room within the
Grotto for many times the numerous blue skiffs filled with blue-haired
blue people, all dressed in blue clothes, and breathing blue air. That
is just the way we appeared. The water was lighter-colored than the air,
and when a boatman jumped overboard, his every action being distinctly
seen, he seemed to be flying in air, and not diving in water. It gave
one a weird crawly feeling to see him, and when he came to the surface
it seemed to be the most natural thing for him to tumble back to us
after capering around in the sky. Then he crawled out on a rock to allow
the water to drain off his clothes, and then it was that Miss Bertha's
promise of a silver man was made good. He stood there a moment,
appearing like a burnished silver statue, and the trickling drops as
they fell from him sparkled with silvery glitter.
An oar splashed in the water sent the drops flying into the blue air, to
glimmer there in silver brightness a moment, like a patch of the starry
Milky Way on a frosty night.
"Isn't it lovely!" said Bertha, clapping her hands joyfully; "and you
can get a whole handful of silver by just reaching for it, but you can't
keep it." She grasped the blue water as she spoke, and it escaped
through her fingers in glittering drops, as if a handful of coins was
melting in her palm. Whatever is held in the water assumes, for the
time, this silver-color, and the blades of the oars shone as though the
Capri boatmen were so rich that they had made them of pure silver.
For hundreds of years the Grotto was known to exist somewhere under the
cliffs of the island, but so small is the entrance that it was not
rediscovered until this century. It can not be entered except the sea
around the island is very calm; and as all the beautiful effects are due
to the refraction of light, the bright mid-day sun should be shining
without.
THE ALBATROSS.
[Illustration: A SKIMMER OF THE SOUTHERN SEAS.]
Far away in the desolate South Seas there lives a large and beautiful
bird called the albatross, the giant member of the petrel family. The
wandering albatross (_Diomedea exulans_) is the largest of its tribe.
Specimens have been captured measuring four feet in length, and with an
expanse of wing from ten to fourteen feet. The body of this bird is very
large, its neck is short and stout, and its head is armed with a
powerful hooked beak from six to eight inches long. It is snowy,
glistening white, its long wing-feathers tipped with black.
Its mighty strength of wing renders it the admiration of all navigators,
who fitly name it the lord of the stormy seas. In the desolate regions
where it lives the sailors hail its appearance with delight, as it comes
sailing around the ship with majestic, careless flight, rising, sinking,
now swooping down to seize some cast-off mouthful of food, now poising
high above the mast-head, moving with the ship at the most rapid speed,
and yet with scarcely a perceptible movement of its gigantic wings.
In storm or calm the albatross is master of the wind and waves. Sailors,
straining every nerve to guide the laboring, struggling ship through
tempestuous seas, look up, and see far above their heads the albatross
calmly breasting the gale, its majesty unruffled, and its great
out-stretched wings as motionless as on a still, sunny day. Its strength
of flight is marvellous, and is said to be superior to that of any other
bird. Sailors have captured these royal inhabitants of southern polar
regions, and marked their glistening breasts with spots of tar, that
they might distinguish them and determine their power of endurance; and
in several instances the same bird has followed a ship under full sail,
before the wind, for seven days and longer, circling round and round,
and apparently taking no rest, its sharp eye always watchful for any
refuse of food cast overboard by the sailors.
The albatross is very voracious, and easily caught, as it is neither
cunning nor shy. As it lives in desolation, and has little to do with
men, it knows nothing of trickery, nor dreams of the plots laid against
its royal freedom. An interesting account is given of the capture of an
albatross by an officer of a French ship. It was a sunny, windy day, and
the vessel was speeding along near the dreary Tierra del Fuego, when a
great shadow like a cloud passed over the deck. On looking up, the
officer saw an immense albatross, its white breast glistening like snow,
floating aloft with wide-spread wings. Wishing to examine the bird more
closely, he gave orders for its capture. Fastening a piece of fat pork
to a strong hook attached to a line, a sailor threw it overboard, and
allowed full forty yards of cord to run out. The albatross soon descried
the tempting morsel, and sweeping down in graceful circles to seize it,
was soon securely hooked. The only show of resistance it made to being
drawn on board was to extend its wings, and utter loud discordant cries.
Once on deck, its grace and majesty vanished. It showed no fear, and the
hook, still fastened in its beak, did not seem to annoy it; but no
landsman could have been more awkward than was the albatross on the
smooth rocking deck. It staggered and waddled clumsily, and tried in
vain to lift itself with its wings. It showed considerable temper, and
snapped furiously at all who approached, and the captain's dog, which
came trotting up, full of curiosity over the strange visitor, received a
terrible blow from the hooked beak, which sent him howling with pain to
the most distant corner of the deck. As the officer was desirous to
preserve the beak, breast, wings, and feet of this magnificent creature
as souvenirs, he ordered the sailors to kill it, although he states that
it impressed him as though he were commanding the execution of some
royal personage.
The albatross is an expert swimmer, and floats on the waves like a piece
of cork, riding in undisturbed serenity over the lofty foaming crests of
stormy billows. It is not, however, a good diver, and is obliged to
subsist on whatever food comes to the surface. It might be called the
vulture of the seas, for dead fish, floating carcasses of whales, and
other sea refuse form its main diet.
The habits of the albatross during the breeding season are still
partially veiled in mystery, as the desolate mossy headlands of Tristan
d'Acunha, Inaccessible Island, and other lands lying far to the
southward, where the albatross makes its nest, are visited only at rare
intervals. The island of Tristan is circular, and almost entirely
volcanic, and on the summit of its cliffs, which rise a thousand feet
above the sea, on broad dreary plains of dark gray lava, the albatrosses
gather some time during November, and prepare themselves nests.
Selecting some space free from tussock-grass, the bird scrapes together
a circle of dried grass and clay, in which it lays one egg about the
size of a swan's, white, with a band of small brick-red spots round one
end. But few naturalists have been able to visit these great breeding
warrens, and none have determined how the albatross lives and feeds its
young during its absence from the ocean. It is certain that the great
bird rarely leaves its nest, for there is a wicked little robber gull
ever on the watch to break and eat the egg, should the mother-bird
desert it for a moment.
The young, when hatched, are snow-white, and covered with a soft woolly
down. A traveller once climbed up the dangerous precipice of Tristan
d'Acunha, and saw these young helpless things lying in the nests, while
several hundred pair of parent birds were stalking awkwardly about. They
all snapped their beaks with a great noise, and ejected from them an
offensive oil--their only means of defense. The same traveller visited
the place five months later, when he found all the young albatrosses
sitting in their nests as before, but the old birds had all disappeared.
It is supposed that an albatross must be a year old before it can fly;
and as the parents depart some time in April for their ocean hunting
grounds, and are never seen to return until the breeding season again
comes round, it is astonishing what feeds and supports the young until
they are able to hunt for themselves. Naturalists wonder over this
point, and advance many different theories, but as yet no facts have
been discovered in regard to the diet of the young and helpless bird.
The albatross was formerly regarded with superstitious reverence by
sailors, who considered this majestic companion which came around the
ship in desolate icy seas as a bird of good omen; and to kill one was
considered a crime that would surely be punished by disaster and
shipwreck. Coleridge, the English poet, has written a wonderful poem on
this superstition, called the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," to which
Gustave Dore, a French artist, has drawn a series of illustrations
picturing the lonely frozen ocean, and the majestic, lordly albatross
which the unhappy sailor shot with his cross-bow, thereby bringing
misfortune and death on the goodly ship and its crew.
[Illustration: "KITTY, YOU CAN'T HAVE MY APPLE."--ENGRAVED FROM A
PICTURE BY F. DIELMAN, BY PERMISSION OF R. E. MOORE, AMERICAN ART
GALLERY, NEW YORK.]
A BEAR STORY.
BY EMILY H. LELAND.
A good many years ago, when the century was young, there came to live in
the big forests of Northern Vermont a man and his wife and their little
boy. Partly because they liked to be high up out of the fogs and damp,
and partly because there was little else but hilly land in that part of
the country, they built their cabin at the top of a nice baby mountain,
which was covered at the back with an immense orchard of maples and
butternuts, but which was quite bare and steep at the east side, and had
rocks cropping out which the farmer thought would be fine for building a
good stone house with some day.
It was long, hard work starting a farm in a place where there was
nothing but woods; but after a year or so had passed by, and enough
trees had been cleared away to make room for a corn field and a potato
patch, and a little chicken-house and cow-shed had been added to their
log-cabin, the young farmer used to sit down before their rough stone
fire-place, with its bright crackling fire, and trot his boy to sleep
upon his knee, while he watched the pretty young mamma putting away the
supper things, thinking all the time what a rich and happy man he was.
And when at last a pig-pen was joined to the cow-shed, and two cunning
little pink-nosed pigs had been bought of a neighbor five miles away,
and placed in it, he felt richer and grander than many a man does
nowadays who owns a railroad.
And how they grew, those pink-nosed pigs! They had a southern exposure,
good drainage, plenty of dry leaves and moss for bedding, and an
abundance of milk, with an occasional handful of cracked corn or a pint
of mashed potatoes. How could they help growing? The farmer took great
delight in feeding them, and his wife would sometimes ask him, with a
laugh, "Now, Stephen, which do you love the most--the pigs or our little
'Lisha?"
Elisha was the baby's name. They hadn't thought of such names as Carl
and Claude and Clarence in those days.
One fine moon-lit night, late in the fall, after the corn had been
husked and carried into the loft, and some of the big yellow pumpkins
had been cut into strips and hung on long poles near the kitchen ceiling
to dry, and others had been stored away for the cow's luncheons and the
Thanksgiving pies, and the potatoes were safe in the cellar, and the
onions hung in long strings above the mantel-shelf, this young farmer
covered up the glowing coals in the fire-place with ashes, so they
would keep bright and hot for the morning fire, and went to bed feeling
quite well prepared for winter, for he had that day "banked" the house
clear up to its queer little windows, and made the cow-shed and pig-pen
and hen-house very cozy with loads of hemlock and spruce boughs.
He was just dozing off to sleep, when all at once there sounded through
the still, frosty air a long and terrible squeal from the pig-pen.
The farmer did not wait for it to end, but bounced out of bed, tore away
the clumsy fastening of the door, and rushed out with a war-whoop that
could have been heard a mile away if there had been anybody to hear it.
As he rushed he caught up a corn stalk that happened to lie in his way.
A corn stalk was a foolish thing for him to pick up, but people seldom
stop to think twice in such moments. He was around by the pig-pen in no
time, and there he saw a great burly _something_ just lifting one of his
dear little pigs over the top of the pen. He rushed upon him, and struck
him over the head with the corn stalk. There was a joint in the corn
stalk nearly as hard as a crust of bread, and the _something_ seemed to
almost feel it through his thick fur, for he turned about and looked at
the farmer, as if saying,
"What do you want of _me_?"
And there he was--a great, black, full-grown bear!
"Drop him! drop him!" yelled the farmer; and he brought the corn stalk
down upon the bear's nose. The bear dropped the pig very quickly, but he
grabbed the man in place of it, and then commenced a grand wrestling
match. The farmer was a strong man, and he was "fighting for the right."
The bear was strong too, and being a little tired of wild honey and
beech-nuts, he had made up his mind to have a little spring pig for his
family's supper. As they pushed and pulled this way and that, the bear
tripped against a stump, and down they came, bear and man, to the
ground; and being near the steep hill-side, in about ten seconds they
began rolling down, over and over, and faster and faster, bumping over
rocks and hummocks, but never letting go, and never stopping until the
bottom of the hill was reached.
And then--
Up got Mr. Bear, and made off down the valley at a slow trot, never
stopping to say "good-night" or anything. And up got the farmer, and
scrambled up the hill as fast as his bruised legs could carry him, and
feeling of his ribs as he went, expecting to find half a dozen of them
at least punching out through his night-gown. But they were not.
At the door he was met by his wife keeping guard with the birch broom
over her sleeping boy.
"Oh, Stephen! what _was_ it?" she said, in a shivering whisper.
"Oh! nothing but a bear, nothing but a bear," said the farmer.
But the little pigs slept in the hen-house for the rest of the night,
and the next day they had a stout log roof built over their heads.
PROFESSIONAL DIVERS.
One of the diver's earliest experiences is a disagreeable "roaring"
sensation in the ears for some time after his first descent; but this is
little felt after he becomes accustomed to his work. It is caused by the
air pressure, which increases with depth. From the same cause the diver
often experiences a sensation amounting to earache, which any one may
test for himself by descending in a diving-bell. With regard to the mode
of working, it is noteworthy that, instead of moving gradually outward
after reaching the bottom, the diver usually gropes at once to the full
length of his tether in the required direction, and then works slowly
back to the starting-point. He considers this the safer method, partly
because it leaves him at the finish directly at the place whence he has
to rise.
The length of time during which a diver can remain under water depends
very much upon his own strength and experience, the steady care with
which the air-pump is managed, and other circumstances. M. Frendenberg
states that in the repair of the well in the Scharley zinc mines, in
Silesia, two divers descended to a depth of eighty-five feet, remaining
down for periods varying from fifteen minutes to two hours. Siebe,
another authority on the subject, relates that in removing the cargo of
the ship _Cape Horn_, wrecked off the coast of South America, a diver
named Hooper made seven descents to a depth of no less than two hundred
and one feet, and at one time remained down forty-two minutes--supposed
to be the greatest diving feat ever achieved.
JOE.
BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Bright brown eyes and tangled hair,
Rosy cheek beneath the tan,
Fearless head on shoulders square--
That is Joe, the little man,
Helping mother all he can.
Father is away at sea
(Oh, the vessel tarries long!):
Lonely would the cottage be,
Many a weary day go wrong,
But for Joe, with shout and song.
Rough the weather, fierce the gales,
Wild the nights upon the shore:
Oft the dear wife's courage fails,
When she hears the breakers roar,
Lest her sailor come no more.
Joe, with lion heart and leal,
Tells her it is safe outside;
That the deep sea does not feel
All the troubles of the tide;
That the good ship safe will ride.
Mother heeds her comforter:
He is only eight years old,
But his earnest words to her
Are as rubies set in gold--
Precious with a worth untold.
MR. THOMPSON AND THE BUMBLE-BEE.
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
"Buzz, buzz-z, buzz-z-z," scolded old Mr. Bumble-Bee, flying around Mr.
Thompson's head. Mr. Thompson didn't understand him, however, and only
brushed at him impatiently, and said, "Get out!" in a tone anything but
sociable; but the old bee kept flying around just the same, and
complained in his drowsy voice: "Buzz, buzz-z, buzz-z-z. I wish you
would go away. I want to get into my house, and I don't want you to see
me. My family are in there, and we are making bread to-day, and unless I
get home with the flour, my wife will scold awfully. Buzz, buzz-z,
buzz-z-z."
But in the mean time Mr. Thompson had fallen asleep, and the old bee sat
down on the fence rail and watched him. "Hum, hum, hum," he murmured. "I
guess that he has gone to sleep. I don't see what men want to stay awake
for, anyway; they are not half so much trouble when they are asleep. And
only listen how nicely he can buzz through his nose!--he really seems to
be quite like a sensible bee."
Now Mr. Thompson says he did not go to sleep at all; he says that he
only closed his eyes, and in a few minutes he could understand every
word that the old bee said.
"He's a pleasant-looking man," buzzed the bee. "I wonder if he likes
honey?"
Mr. Thompson answered through his nose that he was very fond of it.
"Sensible, too," said the bee, who thought (all bumble-bees do) that
anybody who agreed with him must be sensible. Then, turning to Mr.
Thompson, the bee murmured, in a more pleasant hum, "If you like honey,
try some of this." As he said it he alit on Mr. Thompson's lips, and
pressed some of the honey he had with him into his mouth.
Mr. Thompson began to grow smaller, and as he shrunk in size, his light
alpaca duster became gauzy, and formed itself into wings. Just as he had
begun to wonder how long it would take him to shrink into nothing, the
bee said, "There, I guess that will do."
Mr. Thompson stretched himself, and found to his surprise that he was in
reality nothing more than a large black bumble-bee. He shook his wings,
arose, and, flying around for a few moments, settled on the fence rail.
He has since told me that if it is true, as Mr. Darwin says, that men
were evolved from the lower orders of animals, they made the greatest
mistake of their lives when they left off their wings.
"Well," remarked the old bee, "you look quite presentable. Won't you
drop in and take dinner with me? My wife would be delighted to see you."
Mr. Thompson thought how much he resembled a certain highly respectable
old gentleman who was wont to invite his friends to his humdrum dinners,
and buzz them unmercifully in the same drowsy way. But as he did not
like to offend his new friend, he answered, politely, that he would be
most happy, and followed him under the rail into a round hole that was
the door of the bumble-bee's house.
They entered a long cylindrical corridor, or, as the old bee expressed
it, "arched at the top, sides, and floor." It was lined with the fibres
of the wood, and was as soft as velvet. After walking some distance
along the hall, they reached a part where it widened into a sort of
parlor. Here Mrs. Bumble-Bee was seated, resting from the labor of
bread-making.
"Well, you are home at last," she buzzed, angrily. "I'll be bound you
forgot the flour."
"Why, my dear, don't you see it? I have it here," answered Mr. Bee,
soothingly, pointing to two little yellow bundles on his legs.
After greeting her guest, Mrs. Bee excused herself on the score of
domestic duties, and busied herself in carrying the flour, or pollen,
into the corridor above. Soon she returned, and after they had made a
meal of bee-bread and honey, Mr. Bumble-Bee proposed to show his guest
through his mansion. They passed through several long corridors, so
constructed that the rain could not beat into the living-rooms, as Mr.
Bee explained. One end of one of the upper galleries was securely walled
up, and in another compartment lay three or four worm-like insects
almost covered with bee-bread.
"What is this room used for?" inquired Mr. Thompson.
"This is the nursery," answered Mr. Bee, proudly.
"Ah, indeed! And what are those white, ugly-looking grubs?"
Mr. Bee looked aghast for a moment, but his surprise quickly turned into
indignation, as he buzzed, angrily: "Grubs! grubs! ugly-looking grubs!
Those, sir, are my children, sir, and I flatter myself that a more
charming family does not exist. Grubs, forsooth! Out of my house, base
insulter!" And before Mr. Thompson could apologize, Mr. Bee had pushed
him out, and stung him on the end of his nose.
He fell, and as he dropped from the rail he began to grow larger, and
when he reached the ground he had assumed his natural proportions. He
found himself lying in the same place beside the fence that he had
occupied when the bee first spoke to him.
When he related the story to his friends, some one suggested that he had
dreamed the whole adventure. He gently touched his inflamed and swelled
nose, and answered, in a grieved tone, "I suppose I dreamed this too."
This argument was unanswerable, and Mr. Thompson is now engaged in
writing a lecture on the habits and customs of the bumble-bee. Among
other things he says, "Bumble-bees only consider those people sensible
who agree with them"; and again, "Bumble-bees invariably think their own
children the most beautiful and interesting creatures in existence."
Which facts, if they are true, show the great superiority of men over
bumble-bees.
THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.
BY EDWARD CARY.