The creek now broadened into what is called Sheepshead Bay,

[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

* * * * *

VOL. II--NO. 82. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR

CENTS.

Tuesday, May 24, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per

Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF CARUS.]

A STORY OF THE COLOSSEUM.

BY MRS. LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

In the days of the Emperor Caracalla the Colosseum had ceased to be used

for terrible conflicts between man and beast. But the young student

Valentinian could not forget that eighty thousand spectators at a time

had looked down from its seats, only a few years before, to see

Christian martyrs given to the lions to be torn in pieces.

And Valentinian was a Christian. The persecutions had ceased. No more

cruel Emperor than Caracalla had ever occupied the throne of Rome; but

his cruelty found its victims in his own family and among his political

enemies, and the Christians were overlooked and forgotten. Even

Caracalla may have been sick of the blood spilled in assassinations,

executions, and battle; and so, as a mere change of scene, ordered that

the sports at the Colosseum should be of a bloodless character. At any

rate, chariot races were now the vogue, the population of Rome were now

all "horsy" men, and betting was the popular way of gaining or losing

their fortunes.

The Emperor, as reigning over and above all like the air, chose white to

mark his horses; the steeds of the soldiers were designated by red

badges and trappings--red, the appropriate color of Mars, of blood and

flame; the sailors of course chose blue; and the landed proprietors,

farmers, citizens, etc., grouped under green. When the enthusiasm

extended thus to all classes, it was impossible that Valentinian should

not feel it too. He was a soldier's son, and though he felt that it

would be a crime even to enter the building in which the martyrs had

been murdered, he could not repress a throb of exultation when the

scarlet-spangled horses were led out with shoutings as victors in the

race.

Valentinian loved a fine horse, and, boy though he was, he owned one

that had long been the envy and admiration of the different racing

fraternities of Rome. Those who knew the animal's history did not wonder

that Valentinian and his mother, the stately lady Placidia, had refused

a noble's ransom for the magnificent creature. It was the beginning of

the warm season, and Placidia had removed to her summer villa in shady

Præneste. Valentinian still remained in Rome to prosecute his studies,

but in the cool of the evening the youth would frequently drive out to

see his mother, and the horse on every such visit was certain of being

decorated with garlands by the fair hand of its mistress. On one of

these occasions Rufinus accompanied his friend. Valentinian knew that

the visit was not prompted by any fondness for his mother, for the lady

Placidia did not regard Rufinus as a sufficiently refined companion for

her son, and the dislike was mutual. He gave Rufinus credit for a

feeling of good-fellowship toward himself, and for an appreciation of a

moonlight ride to Rome. But Rufinus had a deeper motive on this

occasion; he had determined to persuade Valentinian to join in the

races, and he thought wisely that the long, solitary ride would give him

a good opportunity for persuasion. He began skillfully by praising his

friend's horse, and then spoke with some surprise of the affection that

Placidia lavished upon it.

Valentinian replied that Carus deserved all the love and distinction

that he received, for he was indeed a hero; and then he told how as a

war-horse he had followed the Roman standards with honor throughout all

the late disastrous campaign in Britain, and though he had fled with the

legions from the battle on the river Carun, where Fingal and his

Caledonian troops sang their exultant chant of victory in the ears of

the cowardly Caracalla, it was not his fault, for he was only a horse.

When Carus had felt his master, Valentinian's father, fall wounded upon

his neck, the feeble hands entwined in his mane, and the warm life-blood

bathing his glossy side, the faithful animal, who until then had rushed

on inflamed with all the fury of conflict, joined the general retreat,

and paced swiftly but carefully from the battle-field. The Captain of

the Legion, whose stiffening fingers were tangled in Carus's mane, did

not hear the loud boast of the Britons, and when Carus knelt at the door

of his tent, and other soldiers of the great "King of the World" (as

Ossian calls the Roman Emperor) lifted the rider from the steed, the

Roman heart had poured out all its blood on British soil; the brave

Centurion was dead.

At the death of his father, the Emperor Severus, Caracalla gave up the

war in Britain, and, impatient to assume his new dignities, hurried back

to Rome. The war-horse Carus was brought back too, and entered the

imperial city marching riderless at the head of its dead master's troop.

As the army approached the gates of Rome, the broad imperial highway

became more and more crowded. The return of the army was known, and the

citizens of Rome, small and great, swarmed out in vehicles, on horses,

or on foot, soldiers and slaves, the aristocracy and the beggars, old

families of Rome and foreigners.

Painfully the army forced its way through the surging crowd, attending

Caracalla, who so little deserved this enthusiastic welcome, to the

porch of the imperial palace "the house of Cæsar." Then the cohorts,

with the exception of the imperial body-guard, returned to the great

Prætorium camp outside, the city walls. One knight, a member of the

Equites that the master of Carus had so lately commanded, led the

Centurion's horse to the aristocratic street of the Carinæ, which ran

along the slope of the Esquiline Hill, until he reached a house whose

portal was decorated with laurel, and where, from the swarms of entering

guests, pastry-cooks, and musicians, one might judge a feast was in

progress. As the knight paused at the door, a boy bounded into the

street, and sprang upon the back of the war-horse, lavishing upon the

noble creature the most eager caresses. At the same moment a stately

Roman matron appeared at the door, and greeted the knight, while a glad

eager light shone in her eyes.

"Welcome, my good Galerius," said the lady. "Where is my husband? Is he

detained at the palace with the young Emperor?"

"Nay, madam," replied the knight, gravely, "thy husband was happy in

knowing no Emperor but Severus."

Then the unhappy lady knew that her husband would never come to the

welcoming feast which she had prepared, and the young Valentinian

slipped from his father's horse to hide the tears which would come, but

which he as a Roman felt were womanish and shameful.

Rufinus, though a mere cub of a young man, with very little

susceptibility, seemed touched by this story. "Where did your father get

Carus?" he asked. "He is certainly not of the common Italian breed,

neither does he resemble the light, swift African barbs."

"No," replied Valentinian. "He is a much heavier and more powerful

animal. My father captured him from a Goth at the battle of Lyons, where

his own horse had been killed under him. Some of our Roman jockeys

affect to despise the Gothic horses as big and lumpish, but they are

swift."

"They are the best horses for chariots," replied Rufinus. "The Equites

have one set of four which they will enter for the next race. They are

black as night, like Carus there, and are, so far as I know, the only

other Gothic horses in Rome. How fine they will look in their red

trappings! They are sure of winning. I have invested all my ready money

in bets, and I shall quadruple them all."

A few days later the following note was handed to Valentinian:

"LOVED VALENTINIAN,--I am ruined. The races are lost beforehand.

One of the Gothic horses has fallen lame. The team is pledged for

the race; we can only supply its place with a Roman beast, for we

know not of another Gothic horse to be obtained in Rome, and there

is no time to send to the provinces, else would we do it, for the

entire military order are interested; some, like myself, have

staked their all, and now see ruin stare them in the face. We have

sent in a petition, through the Empress Julia, to have the races

postponed until we can obtain another horse from Gaul, but there is

very little hope.

"_Later._--The Emperor has refused to postpone the races; he sees

here an opportunity to curb the rising power of the army, which he

has long feared. If many are in my desperate condition, the tyrant

may tremble. Does he not know that in Rome it is the army that

creates or dethrones the Emperor? Meantime I am lost. Farewell.

Thy frantic

"RUFINUS."

A wave of pity swept across Valentinian's compassionate heart, and he

sat down to write a hopeful, encouraging letter to Rufinus. When he had

finished it, a sentence from a letter written to the Roman and other

Churches, when persecution had scattered the members of the first

Christian Church at Jerusalem, flashed through his mind: "If a brother

or sister be naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto

them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give

them not those things which are needful, what doth it profit?"

Valentinian pushed the letter from him impatiently. How could he give

Rufinus the things which were needful? He could not pay his betting

debts and those of the whole army. "What am I to do?" he asked aloud,

and as an answer a gentle neigh floated up from Carus's stable. If he

lent his horse to the military club, the reds would probably gain the

race. What could be plainer? He would have nothing to do with bets and

bribes; he would not even see the race; surely every brotherly and

Christian instinct called upon him to rescue his friend's honor and

fortune, and that of the class to which his father had belonged. Was it

because he was so very sure of his duty that he did not drive out and

consult his mother? Perhaps, instead, it was a haunting suspicion that

she might not consider this a call of duty. He gave himself no time to

doubt, or even to think, but went at once to the Prætorian Prefect with

his offer.

Carus was accepted, the Prefect in his first burst of gratitude offering

Valentinian an important post in the army. This the youth declined; his

education had another aim, and he knew that it would break his mother's

heart to see him a soldier.

The morning of the races dawned at last. Valentinian had determined not

to attend them, and when Rufinus came with a band of gay young knights,

he refused to see them. From his window he could see the populace

flocking toward the Colosseum; and finding at last that he could not

read, he determined to take a walk to the suburbs. As he passed over the

Palatine Hill, he turned to enjoy the beautiful prospect--"with palaces

adorned, porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts, statues and trophies,

and triumphal arcs." Alas! the most prominent object of all was the

"gladiators' bloody circus," just at the foot of the hill; and

forgetting all his resolutions, he hurried to it, and entered among the

last.

He was so late that he could not find a seat in the circle near the

front, where he properly belonged, and he mounted to the upper tiers,

where he sat, crowded by such companions as beggars and slaves. He

looked for the first time upon the place where so many martyrs had

poured out their lives for their faith. He could just make out the

openings, closed with gratings, through which the wild beasts had been

admitted.

His thoughts were snatched suddenly from the martyrs and the past. At

the extreme left of the arena stood four four-horse chariots ready for

the start. He could tell the colors of the horses, but not, at this

distance, that of the trappings which distinguished the class to which

they belonged. The four milk-white steeds prancing impatiently before

the gilded car must be the Emperor's, and now, as the driver mounts and

takes the reins, the roar of applause that circles around the seats

tells that Caracalla is to drive in person. There are four bay horses:

these he knows have been imported from Asia by the sailors' club; but

the horses attached to both of the remaining chariots are black, and he

can not tell which belongs to the land-holders and which to the

soldiers. The signal for the start is given. The horses will be going

away from him for the first quarter of the race, then they will approach

him for half the distance. They keep nearly the same pace, and it seems

to him, at this distance, a very slow one. Ah! one chariot has fallen

behind; it stopped suddenly; there must have been some accident. One of

his neighbors suggests that a wheel has come off; but now they can not

even tell the color of the horses. The other three chariots are

approaching, but how slowly! Surely, if he were driving Carus there, he

could out-strip them all. Nearer, nearer, and now he knows that the

chariots just abreast are drawn, the one by black and the other by white

horses. The chariot gradually falling behind is drawn by black horses

too. The merchant-men will lose the profits of their last voyage, for it

was their chariot that halted at the outset.

Now the two that are leading the way are just in front of him, and

Valentinian realizes that they are really tearing along at a fearful

rate. It is only the distance which made them appear to move slowly. The

Emperor is bending far forward, lashing his white coursers terribly. He

is driving them across the track of the blacks at his side, and is

striving to gain the inside of the track. What a cloud of dust! He can

make out nothing but a general scramble. Another loud roar echoes from

the massive walls. What a frantic waving of scarfs, and eager movement

on the seats below! Valentinian can not understand it at all, and a

slave at his side explains that Caracalla has cut across the track of

the other chariot, and overturned it on his way. Yes, there he emerges

from the whirlpool of dust, and sweeps swiftly along alone toward the

goal.

No, not alone, for though one set of black horses lie kicking and

struggling upon the sand in inextricable confusion, the exploit has

consumed time, and the other set of blacks come skimming serenely along,

their driver standing erect and motionless as a statue, the steeds

gaining, gaining upon the Emperor without any apparent effort. The

imperial jockey looks behind him, and again leans forward and lashes his

own horses more furiously: evidently he fears for the result. They are

neck to neck now, and the goal is only a few yards off. The white horses

are galloping frantically, but the steady pace of the blacks carries

them ahead by more than three chariot lengths, and the race is won. And

won by black horses. How the sun glares, for the awning does not extend

over this part of the amphitheatre. If he could only tell whether Carus

is one of the victorious four, or one of the four that are being led

away after their ignominious tumble! What a noisy hubbub! The spectators

are starting to their feet and leaving their seats. "I have lost!" "I

have won!" shout the slaves around him. "How do you know whether you

have lost or won?" he shrieks. "Have you no eyes?" bawls a sturdy

Ethiopian; "there is the color of the winners," and Valentinian, at the

end of the course, sees a flag displayed--a scarlet flag. As he hurries

down the staircases a soldier's hand is clapped upon his shoulder, other

soldiers seize his legs, and he is lifted to a seat upon their shields,

and borne unwillingly, in the midst of loud acclamations, to the course.

His giddy brain reels with all this excitement: if he can only once get

Carus and lead him away, he will never, never enter this place again.

What is this?--a crowd of men about a fallen horse. Some one is wiping

drops of blood from the animal's nostrils with a sponge; there are more

red drops upon his foam-flecked sides--no, they are only the scarlet

spangles. "Sunstroke?" asks one of the men. "Perhaps so," replies the

man with the sponge. "He wasn't used to racing," remarks the driver; "I

had to hold him in all the way, and when we stopped, he just dropped:

lucky thing he didn't do it two minutes before."

Valentinian pushed them all aside, and fell in an agony of grief upon

the neck of the dead horse. It was Carus. There is little left to tell.

Valentinian's mother did not mourn over the death of the horse as much

as her son had feared. "He has died in a good cause," she said, "if he

has taught you the evils of racing and betting. O that all the youths of

Rome might learn the same lesson!"

[Illustration: A LITTLE COQUETTE.]

THE MYTHOLOGY OF GREECE AND ROME.

I.--THE GODS OF OLYMPUS.

There were many forms of false worship in ancient times, when the

knowledge of the one true God was preserved by the people of Israel

alone. Almost every nation had its own system, differing from every

other--its own gods, its own legends, and its own orders of

priesthood--and learned men disagree as to the manner in which these

systems grew up and spread. It is acknowledged that the worship of one

God prevailed from the earliest times in the East, which was the cradle

of the human race, until after the great dispersion, of which we are

told in the Sacred Scriptures, which took place after the Deluge.

As time rolled on, all the races of mankind, with one exception,

gradually lost the knowledge of the one God; and as the worship of some

kind of superior being is a natural instinct of the human soul, they

found objects of adoration in nature, choosing those first, probably,

which struck the imagination by their splendor or grandeur, or which

exerted the greatest amount of good or evil on the race of man.

Sun-worship was one of the earliest forms of false religion. The worship

of the moon and stars, of fire and water, was also introduced at a very

early period. In later times men came to believe in a multitude of gods,

who controlled all parts of external nature. When the thunder rolled and

the lightning flashed, they ascribed these manifestations to some god

who ruled the sky. The rising and setting of the sun and moon seemed to

indicate presiding deities of these celestial objects. The sea, lakes,

rivers, were believed to have gods of their own. The varying seasons

were thought to be under the government of unseen deities; and in this

way men at length came to believe in a multitude of gods of various

degrees of superiority to the human race.

As men without Divine revelation can not form a conception of a pure

spiritual being, they imagined their gods to possess the forms of men or

women, and even of beasts. The ancient Greeks assigned human forms to

their deities, but believed them to be superior to the weakness and

imperfections of man, and to exceed him in power and knowledge. At the

same time they were believed to have the same kind of nature as mankind.

They had human passions and appetites. Their celestial abodes were

similar in form to those of man, and like the dwellers on the earth they

stood in daily need of food and repose. Magnificent chariots, drawn by

horses or other animals of celestial breed, conveyed them through the

clouds, or over earth and sea. The clothing and arms of the gods were

fashioned like those of mortals, but of superior material and

workmanship. No heathen system contained the idea of an eternal

deity--without beginning and without end. According to most systems of

mythology, the gods were born, and some systems assigned a limit to

their duration.

The gods of Greece and Rome were all of the human form, but immeasurably

superior in size and power. The helmet of the goddess Minerva would, we

are told, cover the footmen of a hundred towns. When Juno was about to

take an oath, she laid one hand on the earth, the other on the sea. The

voices of Neptune and Mars were as loud as the shout of nine or ten

thousand men. The gods, however, could increase or diminish their size,

take the form of particular men, or of any animals, and make themselves

visible or invisible at pleasure. Their bodies were of a finer nature

than those of men, and instead of blood their veins were filled with a

celestial fluid called _ichór_. They could be wounded by mortal weapons,

but not slain. Their food was called ambrosia, and their drink nectar.

Olympus, a lofty mountain of Thessaly, was regarded by the early Greeks

as the dwelling-place of the gods; but in later times it seems to have

been elevated to some celestial region. It is thus described in the

Odyssey:

"Olympus, where they say the ever-firm

Seat of the gods is, by the winds unshaken,

Nor ever wet with rain, nor ever showered

With snow, but cloudless æther o'er it spreads,

And glittering light encircles it around,

On which the happy gods aye dwell in bliss."

All the dwellings of the gods upon Olympus were of brass or copper. The

gods had different ranks and offices. Jupiter (Zeus) was king of the air

and clouds; the sea was the realm of his brother Neptune (Poseidon);

the under-world that of Pluto (Aidés). The earth and Olympus were common

property, but Jupiter as eldest brother, exercised a supremacy, and his

power was the greatest.

The other inhabitants of Olympus were Juno (Héra), the wife of Jupiter;

Apollo, the god of music and archery; his sister Diana (Artemis), the

goddess of the chase; and their mother, Leto; Venus (Aphrodité), goddess

of love, Mars (Arés), the god of war; Minerva (Pallas-Athéné), goddess

of prudence and skill; Mercury (Hermeias), the god of gain; Vulcan

(Hephæstos), celestial architect and smith, and a few others. Lesser

gods were sometimes bidden to attend at consultations on Olympus.[1]

[1] _We shall use the familiar Latin names, giving the Greek forms in

parenthesis when they first occur._

[Began in No. 80 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, May 10.]

THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."

BY W. L. ALDEN,

AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," ETC.

CHAPTER III.

The port watch did as they were ordered; that is, after having put

everything in order, they stretched themselves lazily on the seats, and

let Charley and Joe manage the boat. The tide was now running up the

creek, and Joe, using one oar as a pole, rapidly poled the boat on her

way. The creek wound in and out through the meadow, and the boat

constantly ran aground, so that it was by no means easy work either to

find the channel or to keep in it. Half a dozen bridges were passed,

under one of which the passage between the piles was so narrow that had

it been two inches narrower the _Ghost_ would have found her way

effectually stopped. Charley and Joe frequently changed places, one

steering while the other poled, and thus managed to work the boat

through the creek without getting too tired. Poling a boat where the

bottom is muddy is no joke, as Joe found after he had fallen overboard

twice. There was no trouble in putting the oar on the bottom, or in

pushing the boat along, but when he tried to pull the oar out again, it

would sometimes stick firmly in the mud, and try its best to pull him

overboard. Harry and Tom did not lift a finger to help Joe out of the

water when he fell into it, because, as they said, it was their duty not

to interfere unless the Captain should call all hands. The water was not

over two feet deep, so that Joe was not in any danger, but he was not

very well pleased at the way in which Harry and Tom laughed, and he

announced that if the port watch intended to laugh every time the

starboard watch fell overboard, he should consider it the duty of the

latter to drip all over the former.

The creek now broadened into what is called Sheepshead Bay, which is

merely an arm of Jamaica Bay, and Charley ran the boat into a small

dock, where half a dozen men cheerfully helped the boys to step the

mast. The mainsail and jib were hoisted and trimmed, and the _Ghost_

began to thread the channel between the islands that are so plentiful in

Jamaica Bay. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and for the last hour a

steady sea-breeze had been blowing, that carried the boat along at the

rate of six miles an hour. Joe changed his clothes, ate a biscuit, and

enjoyed the relief from the hard labor of poling. Presently Charley

called him to take the helm while he studied the chart, in order to find

the way to the place where they meant to drag the boat across to

Hempstead Bay. The chart was of great use in helping him to find the way

among the islands in the western part of the bay; but when the _Ghost_

finally reached the broad open water, it was no longer needed, for the

houses of Far Rockaway came into sight, and served as landmarks. At

twelve o'clock the port watch took charge of the deck, and an hour later

the bow of the boat was run ashore at the eastern extremity of the bay,

the sails were furled, and lunch was made ready.

The boys had intended to drag the boat over the sandy strip of land

between Jamaica Bay and the entrance to Hempstead Bay. They had all said

that as the distance between the two bays was only a few rods, it would

be easy to get the boat across; but as yet nobody had suggested how it

was to be done. When they came to look the matter in the face, they

found that what they had proposed to do was quite impossible. The boat

would have to be dragged at least twenty rods through deep sand, and not

even a team of horses could have performed the feat. "It's no use

talking about it," said Tom; "it can't be done. If the _Ghost_ isn't

sailed into Hempstead Bay, she will never get there."

"Then she shall sail!" exclaimed Charley.

"Have we got to go all the way back to New York Bay and sail outside of

Coney Island?" asked Harry. "The _Ghost_ is a good boat, but I don't

want to go to sea in her."

"We needn't go back to New York Bay. Look at this chart. Here you see

Rockaway Inlet. The steamboats come through it into Jamaica Bay. Now

from Jamaica Inlet to the entrance to Hempstead Bay, which isn't a

regular inlet, but just a channel between Rockaway Beach and the bar

outside of it that is all above water at low tide, isn't more than three

or four miles. We'll sail back to the inlet, run out of it, and run into

Hempstead Bay without a bit of trouble. There's a good steady breeze,

and the sea is almost as quiet as the bay. There won't be the least

danger in doing it."

"All right," said Harry. "We'll start right away, and get into the other

bay as soon as possible. It looks easy enough, but we must be sure to do

it before dark."

They all went on board, and the sails were again set. The wind was

nearly ahead all the way to the inlet, and the _Ghost_ made slow

progress. They were nearly opposite the last of the Rockaway Beach

hotels, when Joe said, "I must have a drink of water."

This was a very simple remark, but it recalled to everybody the

recollection of the fact that there was not a drop of water on board the

boat. The boys had drank coffee at their breakfast and at supper the

night before, and it had so happened that nobody had wanted a drink of

water until Joe mentioned the subject. Not only did they all instantly

discover that they were terribly thirsty, but they were ashamed to find

that they had started on a cruise on the Atlantic--for after passing

through the inlet they would really be on the broad ocean--without a

drop of water.

"You made the coffee," said Charley to Harry. "Where did you get your

fresh-water from?"

"Out of two bottles," replied Harry, "that I filled with ice-water

before we started from Harlem."

"And is that all the water you intended to take?"

"Well, we didn't think much about it, I guess," Harry replied. "But we

can go ashore here at the hotel and fill the bottles again."

"Bottles won't do," said Charley. "We must have a cask of water if we're

going to cruise on the ocean. Head her for the steamboat landing, Tom,

and we'll try to get a water cask."

The only thing that the landlord of the hotel could let the boys have

was an empty ten-gallon beer keg. Before it could be used for

fresh-water, it had to be rinsed about a dozen times with cold water,

and then scalded with hot water. Even then the water with which the boys

filled it tasted unpleasantly of beer, but, as Charley assured his

companions, any water that was not positively unwholesome would be very

welcome if they were to find themselves perishing of thirst. Harry's

bottles were filled with drinking water, and with this and the beer cask

the boys returned to the boat.

"Does anybody know what provisions we have on board?" inquired Charley.

"Well," said Harry, "I can remember pretty well what we bought, for I

bought nearly everything myself, and have got the bill somewhere. Then

there is a lot of cake and sandwiches and things that we brought from

home with us the day we started."

"Would you mind making out a list of them, and keeping an account of

what we use and what we buy?" said Charley. "I'd like to know every day

just what provisions we've got to depend upon, and then I can take the

responsibility of seeing that we don't run short of food, as we did of

water. We must remember that we're making a regular cruise, and not

sailing up and down the river for pleasure."

"All right," replied Harry. "You shall have the list the first time I

get a chance to make it. I believe as much as you do in having

everything ship-shape."

They were now nearing the inlet, and Charley began to feel anxious about

the wind. As nearly as he could judge from the chart, the wind, as it

was blowing from the south-west, would enable them to sail out of the

inlet, but it was quite possible that the channel might lie in such a

direction as to prevent the _Ghost_ from making the attempt until the

wind should change. It was nearly four o'clock, the time when the

excursion steamers were starting for New York, and it was necessary to

keep a look-out for them, for the steamboat channel was narrow and

winding, and though the _Ghost_ might apparently be quite out of the

path of an approaching steamer, it was always possible that the steamer

would suddenly swing round and head directly for the sail-boat. The

steamers, however, all passed safely on their way, and disappeared as

they rounded the further point of the beach, and passed out of the

inlet.

The boys were in excellent spirits, and did not feel the slightest

uneasiness about their expected sail on the Atlantic. It seemed the

easiest thing in the world to run out of the inlet, and to coast along

the beach until they should be once more in the safe shelter of the bay.

Never were boys more astonished than they were to find, when they came

within sight of the inlet, that across it stretched a line of white

breakers through which it seemed absurd to think of sailing a boat.

"That can't possibly be the inlet," said Harry. "There isn't any channel

through those breakers."

"It's the inlet, sure enough," replied Charley; "but it looks as if

there was a bar right across it."

"Perhaps the bar is put up at night, and they forgot to take it down

this morning," suggested Joe.

"How could anybody put a bar across a big inlet?" asked Tom, seriously.

"Charley means there's a sand-bar under the water," said Harry.

"Tom, did you ever see a joke in your life?" asked Joe.

"No, and nobody else ever saw a joke. What do you think a joke looks

like? Is it round or square?"

"Joe's are usually flat," said Harry. "But what's the use of talking in

this way? What we want to do is to get out of that inlet."

"Let go all your halyards, Joe, and then drop the anchor overboard.

We'll stop here awhile, and make up our minds what to do," ordered

Charley.

The _Ghost_ was soon riding quietly at anchor in three feet of water.

Charley looked carefully at the line of breakers, wondering where the

channel could possibly lie. Suddenly it occurred to him that the

breakers were not caused by a bar, but by the tide, which was running

out of the bay, meeting the swell of the ocean. "There's a channel there

somewhere, deep enough for big steamboats, and if we only knew just

where it was, we'd try it," said Charley, after studying the matter for

some time.

"Shall we get through the breakers without getting full of water?"

inquired Tom.

"I don't know. I suppose we'll have to take our chances. Boats do go

through the inlet every day, and I never heard of one getting swamped."

"Let's wait here until we see some boat go in or out. We can see how she

gets through, and where the channel is," suggested Tom.

The idea was a good one, and the boys all agreed to wait. In the course

of half an hour a fishing-boat no larger than the _Ghost_ made its

appearance, coming from the direction of Canarsie, and bound out of the

inlet. The boys watched her closely, and noticed just what course she

took. When she reached the breakers, she passed through them as easily

as if she was in smooth water, only a little spray flying over her bow,

and not a drop apparently entering her cockpit.

"Pshaw! we've been waiting here for nothing," exclaimed the Captain.

"Hoist that mainsail, the port watch. Up with the anchor, the starboard

watch. Now run up the jib, Joe, and one of you fellows haul in the

jib-sheet. Look out for your heads, everybody, when the boom swings

around."

[Illustration: AMONG THE BREAKERS.]

The _Ghost_, turning her head toward the inlet, ran straight for the

breakers. The boys had confidence in their Captain and in the boat; but

it did seem rather nervous work to sail straight into the curling and

breaking seas. Charley himself began to fear that he had made a mistake,

but it was now too late to draw back.

"Come aft here, everybody!" he exclaimed. "We must keep her head as high

out of the water as we can. Now, boys, hold on to something, and don't

be frightened. It will all be over in a minute."

The _Ghost_ was now flying with the wind and tide, and in another moment

she was in the rough water. She drove her nose straight into a curling

sea that broke on her deck with a crash as if it would stave it in. A

shower of spray flew all over the boat, and half a hogshead of water

poured over the wash-board into the cockpit. But the good little boat

did not seem to mind it. The danger was passed almost in a second, and

the _Ghost_ was now fairly at sea in smooth water, and Charley was

easing the main-sheet, and heading her to the eastward.

"There! we did it, you see," cried Charley, exultingly. "Only," he

added, "I don't want to do it again."

"We're as wet as we used to be in the _Whitewing_," said Joe; "and I'm

afraid everything on board is as wet as we are."

"Then don't lose any time in bailing her out," said Charley. "Get a

couple of tin pans and bail, while one of you pumps. We'll have the

water out in no time."

It took, however, a good deal of time to pump the boat dry, and Charley

secretly admitted to himself that had the _Ghost_ shipped another such

sea, she would have been in a dangerous situation.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BELL COUNTS HER CHICKENS.

BY AMANDA SHAW ELSEFFER.

"Aunt Lena, come look at my chickies;

They have a house all to themselves;

It's very much bigger than Dickie's;

They sleep in a row on the shelves."

"And how many have you?" asked Auntie.

"I'll count them," said dear little Bell.

"There's Speckle, and Top-knot, and Bantie,

And that little lame one is Nell;

"And papa calls this _Coach-in-China_,

The greediest one of the lot;

And that one we named for old Dinah,

Because it's as black as a pot;

"And Brownie, and Whitey's her mother,

And Yellow-legs there by the door,

And Shanghai, and Prince, and another,

And Graywing, and Dot, and one more;

"And there, you see, 'way in the corner,

Is Patsy--we call her Cross-patch--

And Ned says she looks like a mourner,

But I know she's going to hatch.

"And so I have five that are hidden,

But Patsy knows what she's about,

And won't come away if she's bidden

Until she can bring them all out.

"I do hope that one is a Bantie,

And don't you want one for Elaine?"

"Well, how many have you?" "Why, auntie,

I s'pose I must count them again."

THE BRAVEST MAN IN THE REGIMENT.

BY DAVID KER.

"So you want me to tell you a story about a brave man, little people?"

said Colonel Graylock, as his half-dozen nephews and nieces, tired with

their afternoon's play, gathered around his arm-chair by the fire.

"Well, I've seen plenty of them in my time, but the bravest man I ever

knew was a young Ensign in our regiment, whom we used to call 'Gentleman

Bob'--and right well he deserved the name, though not as we meant it.

"Soldiering's a very different thing now from what it was in my young

days, and men have learned--what it's a pity they didn't learn

sooner--that a man may make none the worse officer for being a gentleman

and a Christian. Henry Havelock taught us that pretty fairly, but in the

rough old times it was a very different thing. Then the harder an

English officer drank, and the louder he swore, and the more he bullied

his men, and the readier he was to fight a duel or to join in any low

frolic, the better his comrades liked him, and I'm afraid we were much

the same as the rest.

"So you may fancy what we thought when a man like 'Gentleman Bob' came

among us, who was always quiet and sober and orderly, and instead of

brawling and rioting like the rest of us, spent all his spare time over

dry scientific books that we knew nothing about, and read a chapter of

the Bible every morning and evening. How we did laugh at him, and make

mock of him, to be sure! But the provoking thing was that he never

seemed to mind it one bit, and he was so good-natured, and so ready to

do any one a good turn when he could, that it certainly ought to have

made us ashamed of ourselves; but it didn't, more's the pity.

"But before long something _did_ make us ashamed of ourselves, and this

was it. Our Colonel was in a great hurry one day to find out the

whereabouts of a village that wasn't marked on his map, and none of us

could help him, when, lo and behold! forward stepped 'Gentleman Bob,'

with a neat little map of his own drawing, and there was the very place,

just where it should be. The Colonel looked at it, and then at us, and

said, grimly, 'It's not often, gentlemen, that the youngest officer of a

regiment is also the smartest: let this be a lesson to you.'

"You may be sure this reproof made us none the more merciful in talking

against poor Bob; and perhaps we might have done something more than

talk but for a thing that happened one night at mess. Our junior

Captain, a rough, bullying kind of fellow, was going to empty a glass of

wine over Bob's head, when the Ensign grasped his wrist, and overturned

the wine upon him instead, and the wrist was black and blue from that

squeeze for many a day after.

"About a month after this, one of our men, who used to have fits of

madness every now and then, from an old wound in the head, came flying

along with a big knife in his hand, slashing at everything within reach.

Some cried to shoot him, but Bob said, quietly, 'A man's life is worth

more than that: let me try.' And in a moment he had seized the fellow's

knife-hand, and tripped him so cleverly that he was down before we could

call out; and then some of the men came up and secured him.

"Of course we could say nothing against Bob's pluck after that; but all

this was a trifle to what was coming. A few days later came one of the

greatest battles of the war, and we were so hard pressed on the left

(where my regiment was) that at last there was nothing for it but to

fall back. We formed again under cover of some thickets, but even there

we had enough to do to hold our ground, for the enemy had brought up

several guns, and were giving it to us pretty hot.

"Suddenly, between two gusts of smoke, one of our wounded, lying out on

the open plain, was seen to wave his hand feebly, as if for help. It was

one of our Lieutenants, who had been harder than any one upon 'Gentleman

Bob,' and his chance was a poor one, for it seemed certain death to try

and reach him through such a pelt of shot, while if a bullet didn't

finish him, the scorching sun was pretty sure to do it.

"All at once a man was seen stepping out from the sheltering thicket,

and that man was 'Gentleman Bob.' He never looked to right or left, but

went straight to where his persecutor was lying helpless, and tried to

raise him. At first the French banged away at him like fury, but when

they saw what he was doing, several officers called out. 'Ne tirez pas,

mes enfants' ('Don't fire, my boys'), and raised their caps to him in

salute. Bob lifted the wounded man gently in his arms, and shielding him

with his own body, brought him back into our lines; and such a cheer as

went up then I never heard before or since."

"And did that horrid Lieutenant die, uncle?"

"Luckily not," answered the Colonel, laughing, "for I'm sorry to say the

'horrid Lieutenant' was no other than myself."

"Oh, uncle! were you ever as naughty as that?" lisped a tiny voice, in

tones of amazement.

"But what became of 'Gentleman Bob'?" asked an impatient boy.

"He's now my respected brother-in-law, and your papa," said the

Colonel, exchanging a sly look with a fine-looking man on the other side

of the room, who had been listening to the story with a quiet smile.

"And now that you've had your tale, go and say good-night, for it's high

time for by-by."

THE STORY OF PALAI.

BY E. MULLER.

Grandma Meronne sat in her garden, near Morges, on Lake Geneva, telling

stories to Gustave Meronne and an American boy from the school at

Geneva.

"Just out there," said Madame Meronne, pointing to the shining blue

water, "there lived a boy a long time ago."

"Where, Grandmère?" asked Rob Grayson. "Over at Evian or Thonon?"

"No; just out there on the water. His house was built far out from

shore, on a sort of wooden pier, with a long narrow pathway, on piles,

leading to land. There was a whole village of such houses, built of

logs, with piazzas all around, and carefully barred up on the land side

to keep out the bears and wolves and hyenas."

"Hyenas! Oh, Grandmère! how can you?" exclaimed Gustave.

"Yes, hyenas. This was long ago, I said; and the boy's name was Palai.

He was brave and hardy from his babyhood, and even when he could only

creep, his mother had to tie a string to him, and fasten him to the

house, or he would have crept on land or into the water, for he would

not stay quiet a moment. When he could run about, his father showed him

how to make a knife out of stone, and many an hour's hard work Palai had

rubbing his knife on a great stone slab which lay in the middle of the

house on purpose to sharpen things on. His father gave him a hollow bone

of a deer to make a knife-handle, and then Palai was allowed to go on

shore, and watch the cows and sheep at pasture. He was expected to keep

off bears and wolves--yes, and hyenas, Gustave--with no weapons but a

wooden club and this stone knife, which, by-the-way, was nothing like

your knives, but more like a carpenter's chisel, as its sharp edge was

at the end instead of the side. In summer Palai enjoyed his

pasture-watching, and busied himself making more knives and spears, and

pretty beads from bones and colored stones found along the lake.

"These were Palai's pleasant hours; but in winter, when the cattle were

driven close to the lake, and Palai and other boys had to spend long

cold nights watching for wild animals, it was not so pleasant. Palai's

grandma--yes, Gustave, he had a grandma--used to tell him of the

fearful beasts she had heard of in her youth, some of which her

grandfather had seen. He had seen a bird so large that its legs

alone were taller than he, and one of its eggs held as much as a

hundred and forty hen's eggs. This was a Dinornis, and Palai wished he

could have gone bird nesting after such eggs. Then there was a great

dragon--the Labyrinthodont--which had been seen by Palai's grandma's

great-grandfather; and the Dinotherium, a beast twice as large as an

elephant, and many other fearful creatures. Palai never said 'Oh,

grandma!' when she related these wonders. He had seen the huge bones of

some of these creatures lying among the caves and rocks on the hills,

and he wished constantly to meet and kill some great animal, for he was

very brave. 'Never mind, Palai,' his grandmother said, 'these great

beasts may have left this country, but there is always something great

to be done, if one is brave.' When Palai was about fourteen, his father

allowed him to go hunting with him to kill a cave-bear--an animal nearly

twice as large as the bears we see now.

"Palai and his father each carried a club, tied to the waist by

deer-skin strings, a knife, and a long wooden spear with a stone head.

It was a great honor for a boy to be allowed to hunt the cave-bear; only

very brave men attacked this beast, so Palai felt proud."

[Illustration: PALAI AND JURASSA.--DRAWN BY F. S. CHURCH.]

"But he knew the danger, and that he might never come home again, so he

gave presents to all his friends and relations to remember him by. To

his mother he gave a new distaff and stone spinning weights which he had

made; to his grandmother he gave a wolf-skin to make a warm robe; and to

his friend Jurassa--a nice little girl who lived in the next house--he

gave a long string of pretty beads, which he had cut and polished just

for her.

"'I won't forget you, Palai,' said Jurassa. 'But do something brave.'

"'I will,' said Palai.

"The country was not fair and smooth as it is now; great rocks were more

frequent than grassy fields. The Bernese Alps were always covered with

snow to their very base, as the top of Mont Blanc is now; and in the

thick dark forests lived wild beasts which were as eager to find the

hunters as the hunters were to find them.

"'Palai,' said his father, 'this bear is of the fiercest; it carried off

two of our cows.'

"'I do not fear,' said Palai.

"'This is not play, like killing a wolf in the flock, or crossing the

lake in your canoe. You must kill or die.'

"'I do not fear,' said Palai, who knew that his father was trying his

courage, as was the custom among hunters.

"Two other hunters joined them, and before long they had climbed the

hills, and found the cave-bear at home. Palai's dog, a thin wolfish

creature, with long stiff hair, gave the alarm; but before they could

throw themselves behind trees, this fearful monster sprang from his

cave, and threw down Palai's father. Palai rushed forward, and struck

the beast with his club, and the other hunters shouted and struck it

with their spears, till it turned on them. Then they ran away. You can

not blame them; they thought Palai's father was dead, and it was no use

throwing their lives away. But Palai did not run. As the bear rose to

grasp him, he threw himself under it, and stabbed furiously at its

heart, killing it almost instantly, so that it fell upon him. When the

other hunters saw this, they came and dragged Palai out, nearly

smothered; and great was their rejoicing, till they found that Palai's

father, for whom he had risked his life, was dead.

"Palai's father was a kind of chief among the villagers, so there was

great mourning among the people, which prevented their being very glad

over the death of the terrible bear. But as soon as their mourning was

over, Palai learned that he was to be chief, young as he was, for no

other hunter in the village had ever tried to stab a cave-bear by

getting under it--and on his first hunt, too. Then all the people

brought to his house presents of skins and grain, stone knives and

kettles, bone beads, and woven cloths, and canoes, so that he was the

richest as well as the bravest in the village. Then his mother and

grandmother were proud of him, and so was Jurassa."

"And is that all?" asked Rob.

"That is all I know of Palai," answered Grandma Meronne.

"I never heard you tell such a queer story, Grandmère," said Gustave.

"Half fairy story, and half made up."

"No, it is not half 'made up,'" said Grandma Meronne. "When you are old

enough to read about the Lake-Villages of Switzerland, and how many

things were found in one house, you will believe me."

"But the dragons, the Laby-- _Oh_, Grandmère!" exclaimed Gustave,

incredulously.

"They all lived, my Gustave, as surely as you do; but their lives were

in the Neozoic Age."

[Illustration: A LONG-AGO BABY--DRAWN BY F. S. CHURCH.]

HOW TINKER BRADLEY FOUND THE NORTH POLE.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

The winter had been a long one and very hard. The ice on Deacon Potter's

mill-pond had been wonderfully hard, and had staid so until the first

week in March. Then it began to grow slushy, and the skating was gone,

but the winter hung round in one way and another until after the 1st of

April.

It was just as all the old folks said, nevertheless. When so hard a

winter as that was did at last break up, it went in a hurry, and the

spring followed it like a ready-made coat, only needing to be picked out

and put on.