fear I should make some mistake in regard to its geography or history or
manners, and besides don't think it's anybody's business just where a
story happened--in a country a long way off--perhaps that country never
existed except in somebody's head, who knows? Besides, a country that is
in your head is just as good as one that is on the map. At least it's as
good for a story. Well, in this country there was a village known as the
village of shoemakers, because nearly all the people made shoes. Peg,
peg, peg, could be heard from one end of it to the other, from morning
till night. It was a perfect shower of hammers. Into this town came one
day a peasant lad of twelve years of age, with a blue blouse and a queer
red flannel cap. He had travelled many a weary mile, and he asked at
every shop that he might learn the shoemakers' trade. At last he was
taken into the shop of a hard master, who was accustomed to beat his boys
severely. But when the master went out, the new boy in the red flannel
cap did not throw bits of leather about as the rest did, but attended to
his work and said nothing, even when the leather was thrown at his own
red cap. And somehow he always got more work done than the rest. And the
master never beat Hugo, the boy in the red flannel cap. The other boys
said it was because of the charm that he wore round his neck. For Hugo
wore an old copper coin suspended like a school-boy's medal. The master
paid a little something for extra work, and for some reason, the boys
said on account of his charm, Hugo always had more than the rest. He did
not spend it, but once a year a man with a red flannel cap like Hugo's
appeared and received all the boy's pay for overwork, and then went away.
The boys made up their minds that Hugo had some sort of witchcraft in his
copper coin. After some years his apprenticeship expired, and Hugo became
a journeyman, working in the same quiet way and doing more work than any
other man in the village, though he did not work any faster. Meantime
several of his brothers, each with the same quiet way, had appeared, and
sat down to work in the same shop. Each of them wore the red flannel cap
with a tassel, and each of them had a copper coin about his neck. Hugo
had disappeared for a few days once, and had brought back a wife. His
brothers lived in his house. Soon he set up a shop. As the other
shoemakers were afraid of his charm, he had neither apprentice nor
journeyman except his brothers. Fortunately there were no less than ten
of them, all with red flannel caps and blue blouses, and wearing copper
coins about their necks. But Hugo's shop turned out more than any other.
The dealers over the border, when there was an order to be quickly
filled, always said, "Send to Hugo, he wears a charm."
At last there came a war. The king of the country in which the "village
of shoemakers" was, sent a herald into the town, who proclaimed that if
the village would furnish a certain number of shoes for the army by a
given day, the young men should be exempt from conscription; but that if
the village failed, every man in the town, young and old, should be
marched off into the army. There was a great cry, for the task appeared
to be an impossible one. Whether it was a superstitious reverence for
Hugo's charm, or that in trouble they naturally depended on him, certain
it is that the crowd by common consent gathered before the shop-door of
the silent shoemaker in the blue blouse and red flannel cap. For so busy
had Hugo been that he had not heard the herald's proclamation.
"Neighbors," said Hugo, "this is a great waste of time. We have a very
few days to do a great work, and here is one hour wasted already. Every
journeyman and apprentice is here idle. Let every one of them return to
their benches and go to work. Let the masters step into my little house
here to consult." The journeymen hastened off, the masters divided the
work between them, and Hugo was put in charge of the whole village as one
great shop. He did not allow a man to be seen on the street. He set the
women at work doing such work as they could. He did not allow a shop to
close until far into the night. But as the last day given by the king
drew near, the masters were about to give up, for it was found that every
shop was falling behind its proportion. But Hugo sternly told them to
hold their men in their places. When the last night came, he did not
allow a man to sleep. When morning came he made the women count the shoes
from each shop, but kept the men at work. As the accounts were made up,
it was found that each shop fell behind. The men quit work in despair at
last, and women were crying in the streets. Hugo's shop came last. It was
found that he and his brothers had made just enough over their share to
make up the deficiency. The whole village hailed him as their deliverer,
and everybody said that it was because of his charm.
When the war was over the king came to the village to thank the shoemakers
for their aid. All but Hugo appeared before him. When he heard of Hugo's
conduct he sent for him. "They tell me," said the king, "that you are the
man who had the required number of shoes done. They say that you and your
ten brothers wear charms. Tell me your secret."
Hugo, holding his red flannel cap in his hand, began: "Sire, when I was a
lad my father had many children. I left my mountain home, and came here
to earn something to help support them. These my ten brothers came after
me. When each one left, our good mother hung a copper coin about his
neck, and said, 'Remember that you are going to a town where there is
much idleness among the shoemakers, masters and men. Whenever you are
tempted to be idle or to be discouraged, remember what I tell you, KEEP
PEGGING AWAY!' Behold, sire, the charm by which we have succeeded, by
which we saved the village from your wrath, and your land from
destruction."
And after that there might have been seen in the king's employ, in
various affairs of importance, ten men in blue blouses and red flannel
caps, wearing each a copper coin about his neck.
When Sampson had stammered his way through this story, the boys agreed to
meet for the winter in Tom Miller's house.
Modern Fables.
FLAT TAIL, THE BEAVER.
A colony of beavers selected a beautiful spot on a clear stream, called
Silver Creek, to build themselves a habitation. Without waiting for any
orders, and without any wrangling about whose place was the best, they
gnawed down some young trees and laid the foundation for a dam. With that
skill for which they are so remarkable, they built it so that it would
protect them from cold, from water, and from their foes. When it was
completed, they were delighted with it, and paddled round joyously in the
pond above, expressing their pleasure to each other in true beaver style.
In this colony there was one young beaver, by the name of Flat Tail. His
father, whose name was Mud Dauber, had been a celebrated beaver, who,
having very superior teeth, could gnaw through trees with great rapidity.
Old Mud Dauber had distinguished himself chiefly, however, by saving the
dam on three separate occasions in time of flood. He had done this by his
courage and prudence, always beginning to work as soon as he saw the
danger coming, without waiting till the damage had become too great to
repair.
But his son, this young fellow Flat Tail, was a sorry fellow. As long as
old Mud Dauber lived, he did pretty well, but as soon as his father died
Flat Tail set up for somebody great. Whenever any one questioned his
pretensions, he always replied:
"I am Mud Dauber's son. I belong to the best blood in the colony."
He utterly refused to gnaw or build. He was meant for something better,
he said.
And so one day in autumn, when the beavers were going out in search of
food for winter use, as Flat Tail was good for nothing else, they set him
to mind the dam. After they had started, Flat Tail's uncle, old Mr.
Webfoot, turned back and told his nephew to be very watchful, as there
had been a great rain on the head-waters of Silver Creek, and he was
afraid there would be a flood.
"Be very careful," said Webfoot, "about the small leaks."
"Pshaw," said Flat Tail, "who are you talking to? I am Mud Dauber's son,
and do you think I need your advice?"
After they had gone the stream began to rise. Little sticks and leaves
were eddying round in the pool above. Soon the water came up faster, to
the great delight of the conceited young beaver, who was pleased with the
opportunity to show the rest what kind of stuff he was made of. And
though he disliked work, he now began to strengthen the dam in the middle
where the water looked the most threatening. But just at this point the
dam was the strongest, and, in fact, the least in danger. Near the shore
there was a place where the water was already finding its way through. A
friendly kingfisher who sat on a neighboring tree warned him that the
water was coming through, but always too conceited to accept of counsel,
he answered:
"Oh, that's only a small leak, and near the shore. What does a kingfisher
know about a beaver dam anyway! You needn't advise me! I am the great Mud
Dauber's son. I shall fight the stream bravely, right here in the worst
of the flood."
But Flat Tail soon found that the water in the pond was falling. Looking
round for the cause, he saw that the small leak had broken away a large
portion of the dam, and that the torrent was rushing through it wildly.
Poor Flat Tail now worked like a hero, throwing himself wildly into the
water only to be carried away below and forced to walk up again on the
shore. His efforts were of no avail, and had not the rest of the Silver
Creek beaver family come along at that time, their home and their
winter's stock of provisions would alike have been destroyed. Next day
there was much beaver laughter over Flat Tail's repairs on the strong
part of the dam, and the name that before had been a credit to him was
turned into a reproach, for from that day the beavers called him, in
derision, "Mud Dauber's son, the best blood in the colony."
Don't neglect a danger because it is small; don't boast of what your
father did; and don't be too conceited to receive good advice.
THE MOCKING-BIRD'S SINGING-SCHOOL.
A lady brought a mocking-bird from New Orleans to her home in the North.
At first all the birds in the neighborhood looked upon it with contempt.
The chill northern air made the poor bird homesick, and for a few days he
declined to sing for anybody.
"Well, I do declare," screamed out Miss Guinea-fowl, "to see the care our
mistress takes of that homely bird. It don't seem to be able to sing a
note. I can make more music than that myself. Indeed, my voice is quite
operatic. Pot-rack! pot-rack! pot-rack!" and the empty-headed Miss
Guinea-fowl nearly cracked her own throat, and the ears of everybody
else, with her screams. And the great vain peacock spread his sparkling
tail-feathers in the sun, and looked with annihilating scorn on the dull
plumage of the poor mocking-bird. "Daddy Longlegs," the Shanghai rooster,
crowed louder than ever, with one eye on the poor jaded bird, and said:
"What a contemptible little thing you are, to be sure!" Gander White,
Esq., the portly barn-yard alderman, hissed at him, and even Duck
Waddler, the tadpole catcher, called him a quack.
But wise old Dr. Parrot, in the next cage, said: "Wait and see. There's
more under a brown coat than some people think."
There came a day at last when the sun shone out warm. Daddy Longlegs
crowed hoarsely his delight, the peacock tried his musical powers by
shouting Ne-onk! ne-onk! and Duck Waddler quacked away more ridiculously
than ever. Just then the mocking-bird ruffled his brown neck-feathers and
began to sing. All the melody of all the song-birds of the South seemed
to be bottled up in that one little bosom. Even Miss Guinea-fowl had
sense enough to stop her hideous operatic "pot-rack," to listen to the
wonderful sweetness of the stranger's song. Becoming cheered with his own
singing, the bird began to mimic the hoarse crowing with which Daddy
Longlegs wakened him in the morning. This set the barn-yard in a roar,
and the peacock shouted his applause in a loud "ne-onk!" Alas! for him,
the mocking-bird mimicked his hideous cry, then quacked like the duck,
and even Miss Guinea-fowl found that he could "pot-rack" better than she
could.
The Shanghai remarked to the peacock that this young Louisianian was a
remarkable acquisition to the community; Gander White thought he ought to
be elected to the city council, and Miss Guinea-fowl remarked that she
had always thought there was something in the young man. Dr. Parrot
laughed quietly at this last remark.
The very next day the mocking-bird was asked to take up a singing-school.
The whole barn-yard was in the notion of improving the popular capacity
to sing. And Daddy Longlegs came near breaking his neck in his hurry to
get up on a barrel-head to advocate a measure that he saw was likely to
be popular.
But it did not come to anything. The only song that the rooster could
ever sing was the one in Mother Goose, about the dame losing her shoe and
the master his fiddle-stick, at which Professor Mocking-bird couldn't
help smiling. Mr. Peacock, the gentleman of leisure, could do nothing
more than his frightful "ne-onk!" which made everybody shiver more than a
saw-file would. Gander White said he himself had a good ear for music,
but a poor voice, while the Hon. Turkey Pompous said he had a fine bass
voice, but no ear for tune. Dr. Parrot was heard to say "Humbug!" when
the whole company turned to him for an explanation. He was at that moment
taking his morning gymnastic exercise, by swinging himself from perch to
perch, holding on by his beak. When he got through, he straightened up
and said:
"In the first place, you all made sport of a stranger about whom you knew
nothing. I spent many years of my life with a learned doctor of divinity,
and I often heard him speak severely of the sin of rash judgments. But
when you found that our new friend could sing, you all desired to sing
like him. Now, he was made to sing, and each of the rest of us to do
something else. You, Mr. Gander White, are good to make feather beds and
pillows; Hon. Turkey Pompous is good for the next Thanksgiving day; and
you, Mr. Peacock Strutwell, are good for nothing but to grow tail-feathers
to make fly-brushes of. But we all have our use. If we will all do our
best to be as useful as we can in our own proper sphere, we will do
better. There is our neighbor, Miss Sophie Jones, who has wasted two
hours a day for the last ten years, trying to learn music, when nature
did not give her musical talent, while Peter Thompson, across the street,
means to starve to death, trying to be a lawyer, without any talent for
it. Let us keep in our own proper spheres."
The company hoped he would say more, but Dr. Parrot here began to
exercise again, in order to keep his digestion good, and the rest
dispersed.
THE BOBOLINK AND THE OWL.
Having eaten his breakfast of beech-nuts, a bobolink thought he would
show himself neighborly; so he hopped over to an old gloomy oak tree,
where there sat a hooting owl, and after bowing his head gracefully, and
waving his tail in the most friendly manner, he began chirruping
cheerily, somewhat in this fashion:
"Good-morning, Mr. Owl! what a fine bright morning we have."
"Fine!" groaned the owl, "fine, indeed! I don't see how you can call it
fine with that fierce sun glaring in one's eyes."
The bobolink was quite disconcerted by this outburst, but after jumping
about nervously from twig to twig for a while, he began again:
"What a beautiful meadow that is which you can see from your south
window! How sweet the flowers look! Really you have a pleasant view, if
your house is a little gloomy."
"Beautiful! did you say? Pleasant! What sort of taste you must have! I
haven't been able to look out of that window since May. The color of the
grass is too bright, and the flowers are very painful. I don't mind that
view so much in November, but this morning I must find a shadier place,
where the light won't disturb my morning nap."
And so, with a complaining "Hoo! hoo! hoo-ah!" he flapped his melancholy
wings and flitted away into the depths of a swamp.
And a waggish old squirrel, who had heard the conversation, asked the
bobolink how he could expect any one to like beautiful things who looked
out of such great staring eyes.
The pleasantness of our surroundings depends far more upon the eyes we
see with, than upon the objects about us.
THE END.
-----------------------------------
THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY.
By EDWARD EGGLESTON,
Author of "The Hoosier Schoolmaster," etc.
_With full page Illustrations._ 1 vol., 12mo $1.00
Mr. Eggleston is one of the very few American novelists who have
succeeded in giving to their work a genuine savor of the soil, a
distinctively American character. His _Roxy, Hoosier Schoolmaster,
Circuit Rider_, and the rest, are home-spun and native in all their
features. The scene of the stories is the _Western Reserve_, and the
characters are types of the pioneers of the early part of this century,
in the territory now comprised in Indiana and Ohio.
_The Hoosier School-boy_, as its title shows, belongs to the same
locality, and depicts some of the characteristics of boy life, years ago,
on the Ohio, characteristics, however, that were not peculiar to that
section only. The story presents a vivid and interesting picture of the
difficulties which in those days beset the path of the youth aspiring for
an education. These obstacles, which the hero of the story succeeds by
his genuine manliness and force of character in surmounting, are just
such as a majority of the most distinguished Americans, in all walks of
life, including Lincoln and Garfield, have had to contend with, and which
they have made the stepping stone to their future greatness. Mr. Bush's
strong and life-like illustrations add much to the attractiveness of the
book.
"Edward Eggleston's new story is a thoroughly excellent one to be put
in the hands of a boy whose parents wish him to become a manly,
high-minded American citizen."--_Philadelphia Bulletin._
"A particularly wholesome volume. There is a delightful absence of
the goody-good in it, and the incidents are all natural and true to
life."--_Madison_ (Ind.) _Courier_.
"Nobody has pictured boy-life with greater power or more fidelity
than Mr. Eggleston. This story is one of his best--it should be in
the hands of every boy."--_Hartford Times._
"It has all the peculiarities of its author; his careful reproduction
of nature, his vivid descriptions, and the naturalness of his
characters, drawn, as they must have been, from
life."--_Indianapolis News._
-----------------------------------
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers,
743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
-----------------------------------
THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD.
OF GREAT RENOWN IN NOTTINGHAMSHIRE.
Written and Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE.
One volume, 4to, full embossed leather, antique,
from the author's designs $4.50
Cheaper edition, 1 vol., small quarto, cloth $3.00
There is something thoroughly English and home-bred in these episodes in
the life of the bold outlaw. His sunny, open air nature, his matchless
skill at archery, his generous disposition, his love of fair play, and
his ever present courtesy to women, form a picture that has no
counterpart in the folk-lore of any other people. The simple ballad
English has been most successfully preserved in Mr. Pyle's easy prose,
and, as regards the text, this edition is in all respects the most
complete and in every way the most desirable that has ever been issued.
But it has other claims to notice in the admirable illustrations which
Mr. Pyle has strewn profusely throughout his book. These pictures set
forth most graphically every eventful scene in the narrative, and they
are in perfect keeping with the story, even to the smallest detail; as
specimens of figure-drawing they form the most admirable and artistic
series that an American artist has created for many years. In them the
persons of Robin Hood, Little John, Will Stutely, the Sheriff of
Nottingham, Allan-a-Dale, Queen Eleanor, Friar Tuck, and all the rest,
become as familiar as their names and characteristics.
"A volume that stands at the head of books for the young, both in the
attractiveness of its letter-press, and singular beauty, variety, and
antique character of its illustrations. * * * It is a book of varied
delight, a credit to the author, illustrator and publisher, and will
please every boy who has taste and likes to see a thorough piece of
work."--_Hartford Courant._
-----------------------------------
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers,
743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
-----------------------------------
THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED.
By JAMES BALDWIN.
With a series of superb illustrations by Howard Pyle.
One volume, square 12mo $2.00
"To wise parents who strive, as all parents should do, to regulate
and supervise their children's reading, this book is most earnestly
commended. Would there were more of its type and excellence. It has
our most hearty approval and recommendation in every way, not only
for beauty of illustration, which is of the highest order, but for
the fascinating manner in which the old Norse legend is
told."--_The Churchman._
"What more calculated to inspire the courage, to elevate the
imagination, to mould the conduct of youth, than these reproductions
of the heroic legends of the old Norse and German
folk?"--_Minneapolis Tribune._
"No more delightful reading for the young can be imagined than that
provided in this interesting book, and the manner of the recital is
so graceful that older readers will derive from it scarcely less
pleasure."--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._
"The story is told simply and strongly, preserving the fire and force
of the original, and not losing the subtle charm of the old fable
with all its pathetic beauty."--_Brooklyn Union-Argus._
"It is a good, strong story; it comes in among the mass of juvenile
books like a wind blown from Northern woods."--_Philadelphia
Sunday-School Times._
-----------------------------------
THE STORY OF ROLAND.
By JAMES BALDWIN.
With a series of illustrations by R. B. Birch.
One volume, square 12mo $2.00
This volume is intended as a companion to _The Story of Siegfried_. As
_Siegfried_ was an adaptation of Northern myths and romances to the wants
and the understanding of young readers, so is this story a similar
adaptation of the middle-age romances relating to Charlemagne and his
paladins. As Siegfried was the greatest of the heroes of the North, so
too was Roland the most famous among the Knights of the Middle-Ages.
While _The Story of Siegfried_ exemplifies the sublime old-world spirit
of the Gothic nature myths, its counterpart, _The Story of Roland_, is
less remote, and the incidents, though equally wonderful, are of a more
human character and appeal with greater force to our sympathies.
Mr. Birch has contributed a number of spirited illustrations that bring
clearly before the eye the forms of Roland and his friend Oliver, of
Ogier, the Dane, and other famous knights and paladins, as well as the
scenes of their wondrous exploits and adventures.
-----------------------------------
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers,
743 & 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
-----------------------------------
THE AMERICAN BOY'S HANDY BOOK;
Or, What to Do and How to Do It.
By DANIEL C. BEARD.
Fully illustrated by the author. One volume, 8vo $3.00
_Mr. Beard's book is the first to tell the active, inventive and
practical American boy the things he really wants to know; the thousand
things he wants to do, and the ten thousand ways in which he can do them,
with the helps and ingenious contrivances which every boy can either
procure or make._ The author divides the book among the sports of the
four seasons; and he has made an almost exhaustive collection of the
cleverest modern devices,--besides himself inventing an immense number
of capital and practical ideas--in
SPRING. AUTUMN.
------------------ ------------------
Kite-Making, Trapping,
Fishing, Taxidermy,
Aquarium-Making, Home-made Hunting
Etc. Apparatus, etc.