[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 76. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, April 12, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BABES IN THE WOOD--A TABLEAU.]
HOW SHALL I MAKE A LIVING?
"What business shall I follow?" is the question every young man and boy
asks himself; "how shall I make a living?" and the best answer is, "By
learning some useful trade." Nearly all the good men who have succeeded
in life have begun in this way. Benjamin Franklin went to Philadelphia
from Boston. He was a printer by trade, very skillful and industrious.
But when he reached Philadelphia, tired, feverish, and weak, he had only
a few pence to spend. He bought three pennies' worth of rolls at a
baker's, and as he could not eat them all, carried a part under his arm.
As he passed a house in Market Street he saw a young lady on the stoop,
who was afterward his wife. He soon found employment at a printer's, and
attracted the notice of the neighbors by working late at night when
others were asleep. "That young man," they said, "is sure to succeed."
He drew business from his rivals, and made money. He studied, and became
a fine writer; he never ceased to work. He drew the lightning from the
skies with a kite, and he aided in forming our republic. He lived to a
great age, in good health, useful to his fellow-men, prosperous, and
happy, because he had learned a trade.
George Washington was poor in his youth. He went to a country school,
and then learned to be a surveyor. As a boy he was always ready to work,
and passed his youth in the wild woods of Virginia measuring land. When
he became a man he defended his country and made it free. He was always
fond of farming, and passed his later years in that pursuit. The habits
of labor and accuracy he had formed in his youth made him what he was.
Had he never learned to be a surveyor, he would probably never have been
of use to his fellow-men.
Another of these useful Americans was Robert Fulton. Almost every one
travels on steamboats or crosses the ferries; but how few remember who
it was that first made the steamboat a common thing. Robert Fulton was
its real inventor. He became a mechanic when he was a boy, and was never
tired of visiting workshops. Afterward he learned to draw and paint, but
all his life he was still a mechanic, inventing useful machines. He
improved canals, and made boats that moved under water. At last, in
1807, he built the first steamboat that was successful. One night the
people on the banks of the Hudson were startled by the sudden appearance
of a fiery monster, whose panting breath sounded along the shore. It
seemed to breathe out great clouds of fire and smoke. It shook the
smooth surface of the water, and sailed against wind and tide. It was
evidently a demon. The sailors on board the sloops of Esopus fled from
it as it came along: nothing like it had ever been seen before. But it
was only the _Clermont_, Fulton's first steamboat, that had begun its
trips between Albany and New York. The first voyage was made in about a
day and a half; the sloops sometimes spent a week or two in getting to
Hudson.
The advantage of a trade is that it exercises the body and makes the
mind active. It produces a sound mind in a sound body. Franklin was fond
of swimming, and would sometimes float for a long time in the Delaware.
He found that he wanted change after setting type. The machine-shop, the
engineer's room, or the carpenter's and mason's occupation, probably
give sufficient exercise, but even this should be varied. One of the
best employments for young men is farming. They may go out to the great
West and settle on the rich lands that are offered them by the
government, and help to feed the Europeans, or they may take a small
farm of a few acres near a city and raise vegetables and fruits. They
should first learn how to farm by beginning early to work for some
intelligent farmer. There is no occupation pleasanter than this if well
understood, and none that produces a more certain profit. Manufactures
of different kinds also offer a sure employment for the young and
strong, and stores and counting-houses are everywhere open.
Among the famous inventors are Arkwright, Watt, and Whitney, all of whom
were brought up in workshops. Arkwright invented a machine for spinning
cotton; he was a poor workman, laboring at his trade, and at first all
his efforts to complete his invention failed. He was very poor, but he
was never discouraged, and at last his spinning-jenny was used in every
factory in England, and made his fortune. Watt, a young engineer, worked
upon the steam-engine until he made it a useful and wonderful machine.
From a poor boy he became a member of the once famous firm of Boulton &
Watt. Whitney, born in Connecticut, invented the cotton-gin after long
labors; it brought American cotton into use at once, and made the nation
and Whitney rich together. These are only a few of the remarkable men
who have risen to great usefulness in trade. Among the noted citizens of
New York nearly every one has been trained in a workshop. Astor,
Vanderbilt, Stewart were skillful workmen in their different
occupations; Peter Cooper was a careful mechanic. It is easy to see how
much better off every young man or boy would be if he had a regular
trade.
But he should never forget that at the same time he should get as much
knowledge as he can. Knowledge teaches men to be gentle, honest, pure,
and bold, and, well used, it leads them to the surest success in life.
The boy that learns most is sure to be the most valuable to his
employers. It was because he studied mechanics so carefully, as a boy,
that Fulton invented the steamboat; because he learned, in his youth, to
write well and think, that Franklin became useful to every one. Every
boy and young man should spend two or three hours each day in study. He
should love history, poetry, and perhaps music, and in his conduct avoid
everything that is gross and vile. In this way he is certain to lead a
happy, prosperous life, useful to all around him. He will make a good
son and father, brother, friend, and citizen.
INDIAN CORN: A LEGEND.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
The unwritten and sometimes pictorial literature of the North American
Indians abounds with much poetic thought. The creations of their dark
minds in meagre language often assume the forms of really beautiful
legends, especially those which relate to the origin of created
things--thunder, wind, and rain; the sun, moon, and stars; beasts,
birds, and fishes; grain, fruit, and flowers; and the races of men.
These constitute the fabric of their narrow mythology.
One of these legends tells us that a youth, the son of a sachem living
on the borders of one of our great lakes was impelled by a thirst for
wisdom to go far into the forest, where hunters seldom trod, to a sunny
savanna, to fast and pray in solitude. It was early in May, when
song-birds had just returned with the south wind, and were beginning to
warble their love ditties.
There the youth built for himself a lodge, and covered it with the
odorous sprays of the balsam-fir, leaving a wide opening for the
admission of light. He painted his face in sombre colors, and like the
old Christian hermits, who sought the favor of Heaven by penitential
humiliation in the solitude of the desert, this pious barbarian prince
sought light and knowledge in this lonely spot, in humble obeisance of
body and soul before the Master of Life. To the Great Spirit he prayed
for some bounteous gift for the benefit of his race.
Day and night this youth fasted, until, famished and weak, he lay down
in his lodge at noonday, and slept. Toward evening he awoke, and looking
up through the opening in the boughs above him into the blue depths of
the heavens, he saw descending from the azure vault the form of a
beautiful young man robed in a bright green garment, his head adorned
with plumes of green and gold colors. Standing at the door of the lodge,
this embodied spirit said:
"Arise, faithful boy, and come forth. Only by wrestling with me can you
obtain the coveted blessing which you seek. I am Oneasti [Maize], a
child of the Sun, and a friend of mankind."
The weak youth obeyed. The evening sunlight spread a delicious glow over
the dark forest and the little prairie, casting long shadows from the
woods across the springing grass and the timid flowers, then first
beholding the face of their great King and Creator. So soon as the youth
touched his celestial visitant, moral strength that gave promise of
victory in the contest thrilled his whole being. For an hour they
wrestled, when the dusky prince, with bodily strength exhausted, retired
to his lodge for repose.
The next day Oneasti again summoned the youth to the wrestling. Greater
than before was his moral strength, and Hope bade him persevere. Again,
on the third day, did the wrestlers contend, with the same result, when
Oneasti said:
"To-morrow will be the seventh day of your fast, and the last time I
shall wrestle with you. You will triumph over me, and gain your wishes.
As soon as you have thrown me on the ground, strip off my garments, and
bury me on the spot in soft fresh earth. When you have done this, leave
me for a while, but come occasionally to visit my grave, and keep the
noxious weeds from growing upon it. Once or twice cover me with fresh
earth."
Oneasti then vanished, but the next morning he stood at the door of the
lodge, and again summoned the young prince to combat. Long they
contended. In the struggle the strength of the youth continually
increased, until he threw Oneasti on the ground. Then he faithfully
obeyed the instructions of his celestial friend. Carefully removing the
tender greensward, he laid the body of the vanquished in the earth, and
covered it with fresh, well-pulverized mould. Then he returned to his
home, his face radiant with joy as the undoubted heir to a great
treasure.
The young prince soon returned, and was delighted to see the green
plumes of the heavenly stranger springing up from the earth through the
soft mould, but contending with unsightly weeds for the privilege of
light and air. These incumbrances to growth were removed, and the earth
around was kept fresh and clean. In due time the youth was charmed by
the vision of a stately plant, taller than himself, surmounted with
tassels of flowers of clustered spikes, and bearing delicious fruit
incased in sheaths of long leaves, and lined with silk. When the frost
season approached, this fruit became hard, golden-hued grain, containing
most nutritious food for man and beast. The plant gracefully waved its
long leaves and golden tassels in the autumn wind.
"Come," said the young prince to his parents, on a soft October day,
"and I will show you a great blessing from the Master of Life."
They followed him to the sunny savanna, where hoar-frost lay hidden in
shaded nooks. They pounded the golden grains, and made cakes from the
flour thereof.
"It is _Men-du-min_, the grain of the Great Spirit," said the father.
They invited their friends to a feast on the excellent grain, and there
were soon great rejoicings among many nations because of the boon. It
was Maize. When Europeans came, centuries afterward, they called it
_Indian Corn_. It proved to be as great a blessing to them as it had
been to their barbarian neighbors. To-day it is the food of thousands of
Christians and pagans, civilized men and savages, from the Gulf of
Mexico far toward the frigid zone. It is indeed _Men-du-min_--the grain
of the Great Spirit.
NEXT SUMMER.
BY LAURA LEDYARD.
Beautiful things there are coming this way
Nearer and nearer, dear, every day--
Yes, closer and closer, my baby.
Mischievous showers and faint little smells
Of far-away flowers in far-away dells
Are coming in April, my baby.
Sly little blossoms that clamber along
Close to the ground till they grow big and strong
Are coming in May, little baby.
Roses and bees and a big yellow moon
Coming together in beautiful June,
In lovely midsummer, my baby.
Pretty red cherries, and bright little flies,
Twinkling and turning the fields into skies,
Will come in July, little baby.
Feathery clouds and long, still afternoons,
Scarce a leaf stirring, and birdies' soft croons,
Are coming in August, my baby.
Glimpses of blue through the poppies and wheat,
And one little birthday on fast-flying feet,
Will come in September, my baby.
EASTER-EGGS.
BY MARY A. BARR.
The giving of an egg as a mark of friendship or love is almost as old as
the ark, of which it is a symbol; for the ancients used it as a sign of
resurrection, and brought eggs to the altars of their gods as gifts.
Placed on the Passover table of the Jews, it means the destruction of
the whole race and its resurrection. The Druids used it in their
ceremonies, and the Persians present it at the New Year. A Russian will
salute you on Easter morning with "Christ is risen," and offer you his
Easter-egg; and what is still stranger, the Mohammedan will do the same.
And, my dear little readers, when you break your egg at breakfast, you
are doing just what the Greek and Roman boys and girls did centuries
ago, for they began the first meal of the day with eggs; and egg-cups
resembling ours have been found in Pompeii; only they preferred the egg
of the pea-hen or Egyptian goose.
Easter-Monday is the proper time for the presentation of peace eggs, and
to prepare them is always a work of love; for if they are given as
reminiscences of ourselves, then we should be very careful that they are
both tastefully and appropriately made; and if they are intended as a
means of instruction (as they first were), then don't be tempted to put
Cupids or ridiculously grouped flowers or fruits on what should be plain
and yet well done. For instance, I once saw an Easter-egg with a text
from the Bible on one side, and a Cupid throwing kisses on the other,
and it was painted by a person who ought to have known better.
When you are preparing them, stop and think what will be most suitable
for sister Lucy or brother John. An egg with butterflies and flowers
would be utterly thrown away on Lucy, who is three years old; she would
much rather have one that is striped with many colors. But sister Ann,
who is eleven, would prize one with butterflies, forget-me-nots, and
rose-buds; while John, who is fourteen, would like his with a horse,
dog, bat and ball, bicycle, or almost anything that represents his
pleasures.
All these are easily done if you are at all skillful with your brush or
pencil, and if not, then you may know of some one who would be glad to
make a few cents preparing them for you. I know of one little girl only
twelve years old who made seven dollars last year painting Easter-eggs
for ten cents apiece.
And there are lots of other ways, too. Eggs boiled in logwood will be a
rich purple, and then you may scratch with a penknife any design you
like. You can wrap an onion-skin around them, and they will be
beautifully mottled, or a piece of chintz, or anything that is
bright-colored and will fade. I have one that was colored with ribbons
in this way that is very pretty.
Another way of preparing the eggs is to plunge them into hot water for a
few moments, and then to write with tallow a name or draw an ornament on
the shell. The egg is then boiled in water containing any colored dye or
solution, and the color will not attach itself to the shell in any part
which has been covered with grease, and consequently all ornaments will
appear white. An egg with a text of Scripture on one side, and the
flower that is sacred to Easter-Monday--that is, the star-of-Bethlehem,
or marsh-marigold--drawn on the other with tallow, and then dyed purple
with logwood, would make a very pretty gift for your Sunday-school
teacher.
Sometimes the surface of the egg is divided into spaces, to be filled up
according to the taste and skill of the designer. One may contain the
name and age, another a landscape, the third a good wish, the fourth, if
you have so divided it, a likeness or flower. In some parts of England
eggs simply dyed and dotted with tallow are presented to the Junior
Class at college, and in Germany they have a way of adorning eggs with
foliage, all in transparent work, which is cut out with aqua fortis. In
Rome, the Easter-eggs are carried to the parish priest, who blesses
them, and sprinkles them with holy water, and on Easter-day at dinner
the cloth is adorned with sweet herbs and flowers, and the first thing
eaten are the blessed eggs; they are painted by the nuns, and sold in
the streets.
In New York, fancy candy eggs are to be had in the confectioners'; but
those we make ourselves are worth twice as much, even if we are not
artists enough to decorate them alone, but are forced to use
decalcomanie, chintz, or onions.
There are some Easter-eggs that have come down to us in history; and who
can be sure that the ones you are making this year may not lead to great
things. So, children, be careful that if you give an Easter-egg, it
bears no sorrowful or unhappy memory, and that in after-years you will
not be ashamed to own it as yours.
[Illustration: OLD EASTER-EGG NOW IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.]
Not many of you can give a silver one, as Charles the Second did to one
of his favorites, nor will there be many who can make them as beautiful
as that shown in the engraving, which is copied from one in the British
Museum, that was presented to a lady of high rank nearly two hundred
years ago. It was sawed open, the inside of the shell being cleaned and
dried, and then lined with gold paper, and decorated with the figures of
saints done in silk. It opens and shuts, and is tied together with green
ribbons. But if this is beyond your power or skill, you can at least
make an Easter offering of your own design that will be much more
acceptable to your friends.
[Illustration]
A PASSING CLOUD.
BY M. J.
A little cloud went slowly sailing
Across the sunny sky;
A woful little-wind went wailing
Through the tree-tops high:
A sudden sunbeam danced across the shadows,
And so the shower went by.
A little frown came stealing after
A gusty little sigh;
A pearly tear-drop drowned the laughter
Of a merry eye:
A sudden smile danced in the baby dimples,
And so the shower went by.
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A DAY OF FREEDOM.
Toby ran at the top of his speed over the rough road, and the monkey,
jolted from one side to the other, clutched his paws more tightly around
the boy's neck, looking around into his face as if to ask what was the
meaning of this very singular proceeding.
When he was so very nearly breathless as to be able to run no more, but
was forced to walk, Toby looked behind him, and there he could see the
bright lights of the circus, and hear the strains of the music as he had
heard them on the night when he was getting ready to run away from Uncle
Daniel, and those very sounds, which reminded him forcibly of how
ungrateful he had been to the old man who had cared for him when there
was no one else in the world who would do so, made it more easy for him
to leave those behind who had been so kind to him when he stood so in
need of kindness.
"We are goin' home, Mr. Stubbs," he said, exultantly, to the
monkey--"home to Uncle Dan'l an' the boys, an' won't you have a good
time when we get there? You can run all over the barn, an' up in the
trees, an' do just what you want to, an' there'll be plenty of fellers
to play with you. You don't know half how good a place Guilford is, Mr.
Stubbs."
The monkey chattered away as if he were anticipating lots of fun on his
arrival at Toby's home, and the boy chattered back, his spirits rising
at every step which took him further away from the collection of tents
where he had spent so many wretched hours.
A brisk walk of half an hour sufficed to take Toby to the woods, and
after some little search he found a thick clump of bushes, in which he
concluded he could sleep without the risk of being seen by any one who
might pass that way before he should be awake in the morning.
He had not much choice in the way of a bed, for it was so dark in the
woods that it was impossible to collect moss or leaves to make a soft
resting-place, and the few leaves and pine boughs which he did gather
made his place for sleeping but very little softer.
But during the ten weeks that Toby had been with the circus his bed had
seldom been anything softer than the seat of the wagon, and it troubled
him very little that he was to sleep with nothing but a few leaves
between himself and the earth.
Using the bundle in which was his riding costume for a pillow, and
placing the lunch Mrs. Treat had given him near by, where the monkey
could not get at it conveniently, he cuddled Mr. Stubbs up in his bosom,
and lay down to sleep.
"Mr. Lord won't wake us up in the mornin', an' swear at us for not
washin' the tumblers," said Toby, in a tone of satisfaction, to the
monkey; "an' we won't have to go into the tent to-morrow, an' sell sick
lemonade an' poor pea-nuts. But"--and here his tone changed to one of
sorrow--"there'll be some there that'll be sorry not to see us in the
mornin', Mr. Stubbs, though they'll be glad to know that we got away all
right. But won't Mr. Lord swear, an' won't Mr. Castle crack his whip,
when they come to look round for us in the mornin', an' find that we
hain't there?"
The only reply which the monkey made to this was to nestle his head
closer under Toby's coat, and to show, in the most decided manner, that
he was ready to go to sleep.
And Toby was quite as ready to go to sleep as he was. He had worked hard
that day, but the excitement of escaping had prevented him from
realizing his fatigue until after he had lain down, and almost before he
had got through congratulating himself upon the ease with which he had
gotten free, both he and the monkey were as sound asleep as if they had
been tucked up in the softest bed that was ever made.
Toby's very weariness was a friend to him that night, for it prevented
him from waking, which, if he had done so, might have been unpleasant
when he fully realized that he was all alone in the forest, and the
sounds that are always heard in the woods might have frightened him just
the least bit.
The sun was shining directly in his face when Toby awoke on the
following morning, and the old monkey was still snugly nestled under his
coat. He sat up, rather dazed at first, and then, as he fully realized
that he was actually free from all that had made his life such a sad and
hard one for so many weeks, he shouted aloud, revelling in his freedom.
The monkey, awakened by Toby's cries, started from his sleep in
affright, and jumped into the nearest tree, only to chatter, jump, and
swing from the boughs when he saw that there was nothing very unusual
going on, save that he and Toby were out in the woods again, where they
could have no end of a good time, and do just as they liked.
After a few moments spent in a sort of jubilee at their escape, Toby
took the monkey on his shoulder, and the bundles under his arm again,
and went cautiously out to the edge of the thicket, where he could form
some idea as to whether or no they were pursued.
He had entered the woods at the brow of a small hill when he had fled so
hastily on the previous evening, and looking down, he could see the spot
whereon the tents of the circus had been pitched, but not a sign of them
was now visible. He could see a number of people walking around, and he
fancied that they looked up every now and then to where he stood
concealed by the foliage.
This gave him no little uneasiness, for he feared that Mr. Lord or Mr.
Castle might be among the number, and he believed that they would begin
a search for him at once, and that the spot where their attention would
first be drawn was exactly where he was then standing.
"This won't do, Mr. Stubbs," he said, as he pushed the monkey higher up
on his shoulder, and started into the thickest part of the woods; "we
must get out of this place, an' go further down, where we can hide till
to-morrow mornin'. Besides, we must find some water where we can wash
our faces."
The old monkey would hardly have been troubled if they had not had their
faces washed for the next month to come; but he grinned and talked as
Toby trudged along, attempting to catch hold of the leaves as they were
passed, and in various other ways impeding his master's progress, until
Toby was obliged to give him a most severe scolding in order to make him
behave himself in anything like a decent manner.
At last, after fully half an hour's rapid walking, Toby found just the
place he wanted in which to pass the time he concluded it would be
necessary to spend before he dare venture out to start for home.
It was a little valley entirely filled by trees, which grew so thickly,
save in one little spot, as to make it almost impossible to walk
through. The one clear spot was not more than ten feet square, but it
was just at the edge of a swiftly running brook, and a more beautiful or
convenient place for a boy and a monkey to stop who had no tent, nor
means to build one, could not well be imagined.
Toby's first act was to wash his face, and he tried to make the monkey
do the same; but Mr. Stubbs had no idea of doing any such foolish thing.
He would come down close to the edge of the water, and look in; but the
moment that Toby tried to make him go in, he would rush back among the
trees, climb out on some slender bough, and then swing himself down by
his tail, and chatter away as if making sport of his young master for
thinking that he would be so foolish as to soil his face with water.
[Illustration: BREAKFAST IN THE WOODS.]
After Toby had made his toilet, he unfastened the bundle which the fat
lady had given him, for the purpose of having breakfast. As much of an
eater as Toby was, he could not but be surprised at the quantity of food
which Mrs. Treat called a lunch. There were two whole pies and half of
another, as many as two dozen doughnuts, several large pieces of cheese,
six sandwiches with a plentiful amount of meat, half a dozen biscuits
nicely buttered, and a large piece of cake.
The monkey had come down from the tree as soon as he saw Toby untying
the bundle, and there was quite as much pleasure depicted on his face,
as he saw the good things that were spread out before him, as there was
on Toby's, and he showed his thankfulness at Mrs. Treat's foresight by
suddenly snatching one of the doughnuts, and running with it up the
tree, where he knew Toby could not follow.
"Now look here, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, sternly, "you can have all you
want to eat, but you must take it in a decent way, an' not go to cuttin'
up any such shines as that."
And after giving this command, which, by-the-way, was obeyed just about
as well as it was understood, Toby devoted his time to his breakfast,
and he reduced the amount of eatables very considerably before he had
finished.
Toby cleared off his table by gathering the food together, and putting
it back into the paper as well as possible, and then he sat down to
think over the situation, and to decide what he had better do.
He felt rather nervous about venturing out when it was possible for Mr.
Lord or Mr. Castle to get hold of him again, and as the weather was yet
warm during the night, his camping-place everything that could be
desired, and the stock of food likely to hold out, he concluded that he
had better remain there for two days at least, and then he would be
reasonably sure that if either of the men whom he so dreaded to see had
remained behind for the purpose of catching him, he would have got tired
out, and gone on.
This point decided upon, the next was to try to fix up something soft
for a bed. He had his pocket-knife with him, and in his little valley
were pine and hemlock trees in abundance. From the tips of their
branches he knew that he could make a bed as soft and fragrant as any
that could be thought of, and he set to work at once, while Mr. Stubbs
continued his antics above his head.
After about two hours' steady work he had cut enough of the tender
branches to make himself a bed into which he and the monkey could
burrow, and sleep as comfortably as if they were in the softest bed in
Uncle Daniel's house.
When Toby first began to cut the boughs he had an idea that he might
possibly make some sort of a hut, but the two hours' work had blistered
his hands, and he was perfectly ready to sit down and rest, without the
slightest desire for any other kind of a hut than that formed by the
trees themselves.
Toby imagined that in that beautiful place he could, with the monkey,
stay contented for any number of days; but after he had rested a little,
played with his pet a little, and eaten just a trifle more of the lunch,
the time passed so slowly that he soon made up his mind to run the risk
of meeting Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle again by going out of the woods the
first thing the next morning.
Very many times before the sun set that day was Toby tempted to run the
risk that night, for the sake of the change, if no more; but as he
thought the matter over he saw how dangerous such a course would be, and
he forced himself to wait.
That night he did not sleep as soundly as on the previous one, for the
very good reason that he was not as tired. He awoke several times, and
the noise of the night-birds alarmed him to such an extent that he was
forced to waken the old monkey for company.
But the night passed, despite his fears, as all nights will, whether a
boy is out in the woods alone or tucked up in his own little bed at
home. In the morning Toby made all possible haste to get away, for each
moment that he staid now made him more impatient to be moving toward
home.
He washed himself as quickly as possible, ate his breakfast with the
most unseemly haste, and taking up his bundles and the monkey once more,
started, as he supposed, in the direction from which he had entered the
woods.
Toby walked briskly along, in the best possible spirits, for his running
away was now an accomplished fact, and he was going toward Uncle Daniel
and home just as fast as possible. He sang "Old Hundred" through five or
six times by way of showing his happiness. It is quite likely that he
would have sung something a little more lively had he known anything
else; but "Old Hundred" was the extent of his musical education, and he
kept repeating that, which was quite as satisfactory as if he had been
able to go through with every opera that was ever written.
The monkey would jump from his shoulder into the branches above, run
along on the trees for a short distance, and then wait until Toby came
along, when he would drop down on his shoulder suddenly, and in every
other way of displaying monkey delight he showed that he was just as
happy as it was possible.
Toby trudged on in this contented way for nearly an hour, and every
moment he expected to step out to the edge of the woods, where he could
see houses and men once more. But instead of doing so, the forest seemed
to grow more dense, and nothing betokened his approach to the village.
There was a great fear came into Toby's heart just then, and for a
moment he halted in helpless perplexity. His lips began to quiver, his
face grew white, and his hand trembled so that the old monkey took hold
of one of his fingers and looked at it wonderingly.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
AN ENCHANTED SHIP; OR, THE DUTCH CAPTAIN'S DEVICE.
BY DAVID KER.
"Sail on the starboard bow!"
"What is she?" asked Captain Martin Pieterszoon, looking anxiously in
that direction; for in the Eastern seas, two hundred years ago, every
strange sail was a terror to the captain of a well-laden Dutch
merchantman.
"Can't quite make her out yet," answered the look-out at the mast-head;
"looks like a brigantine--very rakish cut altogether."
The Captain's face darkened, and his lips tightened. They tightened
still more a few minutes later, when the look-out hailed again, "She's
an armed brigantine, bearing right down upon us."
Every face among the crew seemed to _harden_ suddenly, but no one spoke.
Indeed, what need was there of words? All on board understood in a
moment what was before them. They were about to be attacked by pirates,
and there was not a single cannon--not even an old musket--aboard the
vessel.
It was a terrible moment for them all--more terrible still for the poor
Captain. For years he had been toiling and saving, bearing every kind of
hardship, and facing every kind of danger, until he made enough money to
become part owner of the ship that he commanded. He had made three
successful trips in her, and was now going home for good, to settle
himself in a snug little house on the great canal at Amsterdam, with
rosy-cheeked Gredel Voort, his old neighbor's only daughter, for his
wife. And now, all in a moment, he found himself face to face with a
hideous peril, which threatened him with the loss of all he had in the
world, and his life to boot.
The crew stood looking moodily at the approaching vessel, which came
sweeping over the bright blue sea with its huge white sails outspread
like the wings of a swan--a perfect picture of beauty, though it brought
death along with it. Some of the bolder spirits were already beginning
to mutter to each other that it would be better to set fire to their own
ship, and die like men, than be flung into the sea like dogs, when the
Captain's gloomy face suddenly lighted up as nobody had ever seen it
light up yet, and he burst into such a loud, hearty laugh that the
doomed men stood amazed to hear him.
"Cheer up, lads," he cried, still laughing; "all's not over with us yet.
Come, knock the head out of that cask of butter, and smear the deck with
it--sharp, now!"
The men only stared blankly at him, thinking he had gone mad, and even
the stolid mate opened his heavy mouth in amazement.
"Do you hear?" shouted the Captain. "Look sharp, will you? there's no
time to lose. Grease the whole deck fore and aft, and the rigging too as
high as you can reach. We'll give these rascals a slippery job of it,
anyhow."
_Then_ the sailors began to understand, and the shout of laughter that
broke forth would have mightily astonished the pirates had they been
within hearing. In a twinkling the deck was greased until it fairly
shone, bulwarks and all.
"Now, boys," cried the Captain, "on with your sea-boots, and put sand on
the soles to keep you from slipping, and then each of you take a
handspike, and be ready."
The pirate was now so near that they could see quite plainly the rabble
of gaunt, sinewy Malays, woolly-headed negroes, and sallow, black-haired
Portuguese that crowded her decks. A few minutes more, and she ran
alongside, and almost before the two vessels had touched, three wild
figures leaped from the pirate's rigging upon the merchantman's deck.
But it was a very unlucky jump for all three. The first man spun across
the slippery deck as if it had been a skating rink, and went right out
into the sea on the other side. The second tumbled head-foremost down
the hatchway into the cook's galley, where the black cook considerately
piled a heap of iron pans on him to keep him quiet.
"Aha, Massa Pirate," said he, grinning, "dis ship no de _Flying
Dutchman_, him de _Sliding Dutchman_!"
The third pirate had leaped on board as fiercely as if he meant to kill
the whole crew at one blow; but the only man he hurt was himself, for he
hit his head such a whack against the mast that he almost knocked his
brains out, and fell down roaring with pain. All this so frightened the
other pirates that they thought the ship must be bewitched, and rushing
back to their own vessel with a howl of dismay, made off as fast as
possible.
For many years after, one of the familiar sights of Amsterdam was a
portly old gentleman with a jolly red face, at sight of whom the boys
used to begin singing,
"Captain Martin Pieterszoon
Made his ship a buttered bun,"
and his wife was never tired of showing the huge silver butter-dish
presented to him in honor of his repulse of the pirate with a cask of
butter.
INDIAN CHILDREN.
Although Indian children have their games and good times as well as
their more civilized brothers and sisters, they also have much hard work
to do, and are taught to help their poor tired mothers almost as soon as
they learn to walk. One of the principal duties of Indian children is
that of supplying their camp or village with water. These camps are
always near a river or stream, for of course wandering tribes of Indians
can not have wells or cisterns, and from the river the children must
carry up to the lodges all the water used in cooking.
In this work they call to their aid their playmates, the dogs, always
plentiful in Indian villages. To the collars of the dogs are fastened
two long light poles, one on each side, that drag on the ground some
distance behind them. On these poles, about half way to the ground, is
fixed the kettle or earthen jar that is to be filled with water, and
then the dogs are driven down to the river.
Some of the larger boys have ponies, to which they attach heavier poles
in the same way that the light ones are fastened to the dogs, and on
which they can carry as much as a barrel of water at a time.
At the river-side the children have great fun while filling their
various jars and kettles; they duck and splash each other, run, scream,
laugh, and often forget entirely that the village is waiting for its
daily supply of water, until the shrill voice of some squaw mother warns
them that they are neglecting their duty, and if they do not attend to
it at once they will have to suffer the consequences.
[Illustration: GETTING WATER FOR THE VILLAGE--DRAWN BY W. M. CARY.]
The sketch for the accompanying picture was made in Dakota one bright
morning last summer, and represents the children of a Sioux village near
Fort Berthold, going down to the Missouri River with their dogs and
ponies for a supply of water. These dogs look more like wolves than the
dogs to which we are accustomed, and to strangers or those whom they
regard as enemies they are very savage, but with their little Indian
masters they are very patient, and from them will bear any amount of
abuse.
The jars that the children are filling are made by their mothers from
the clay of the river-banks, and resemble in shape those borne on the
heads of the Egyptian women who carry water on the banks of the Nile.
SO VERY STRANGE.
BY CHARLES BARNARD.
It was the office-boy who heard it all. He told it to the janitor, and
the janitor told it to the night-watchman. Both of them said they never
heard anything like it.
"Ghosts and spooks and spirits ain't anything to it," said the watchman.
"You ought to know," said the janitor. "You prowl about here all night."
"I never heard a single book say a thing, much less a lot of letters."
Then the office-boy had to tell the whole story all over again.
The letters had come up from the office, and were laid on the desk ready
for the editor of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, when the office-boy came into
the room. All the letters had been cut open, and lay in a heap on the
desk, and the boy was just going to take one up, when he heard a thin,
rustling, papery voice speak right out, and say, "Can't you let a fellow
out?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy, opening the door.
There was no one there. Besides all that, the doors were all unlocked,
and any one who wished to do so could get out. The office-boy thought it
was very queer, and he went back to the desk and sat down.
"Oh, come now, I say! Do let a fellow out."
The office-boy jumped right out of the chair, and said, "Yes, sir."
Well! Of course you won't believe it. There was nobody there. The
office-boy sat down again, and said, in a solemn manner, "I swan!"
"Oh!" cried a very thin crickling voice, "I never expected to come to
such a place to hear such dreadful words."
The office-boy blushed deeply, and then began to take the letters out of
their envelopes and lay them open on the table ready for the editor.
Each time he did so some one said, "Thank you; you're very kind; much
obliged," in the politest manner possible.
"Guess these letters come from that beautiful country where all the
children say, 'Yes, marm,' and 'Thank you,' and 'If you please.'"
And then the whole thing went on in the most startling way. Every letter
had something to say. Talk! Letters talk? To be sure. When you read a
letter, does it not tell you something? Anybody can understand
everything they say the moment you look them in the face. When the
office-boy heard all the letters talking at once, he puckered up his
mouth, and tried to whistle, but his lips only made up a round O of
surprise. He didn't say a word, but tried to remember what the letters
said.
"I came from Chicago, and I want to find a boy or girl who will trade
postage stamps for minerals."
"I've got a new wiggle. I'd show it to you if I could only unfold
myself. I'm too stiff. It's awful cold up here, isn't it?"
"Cold? It's nothing to Chicago. I nearly froze to death in the postal
car. It's as much as I could do to keep my ink from freezing, and as for
the mucilage on the envelope, it was quite stiff, and full of little
crackles. I did think it would be warmer in New York."
"It was so warm in Oclahama, Mississippi, when I left, that the ink
wouldn't dry."
"I'm nine years old, and I came all the way from Des Moines."
"You ought to be pretty yellow by this time."
"It isn't me. It's my writer. She's a girl, and she says she didn't like
the 'Moral Pirates.'"
At this every one of the letters gave a thin groan, and the office-boy
sat right up and said, "My!"
The letters didn't seem to mind this singular remark, for they all began
to talk at once.
"I've got two Mexican and one Peru stamp, and some sea-shells. I live in
Philadelphia, and I'm ten years old."
"Any fellow want some iron ore? I've come from Marietta, Ohio, and I'll
exchange it for real Indian arrow-heads."
"Here I've come all the way from Strasburg, in Alsace, with a new
puzzle. I'm sure nobody can read it."
"Yes, they can. It's in English."
"We take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE in Germany. I'm nine years old."
"How can you talk about travelling? I've been shut up in four different
mail-bags for nearly two months. I came all the way from Samarang,
Java."
"I thought there was a dreadful smell of coffee in the mail-bag," said
a letter from Buffalo.
"Coffee!" said the postal card from Java, in a thin straw-board sort of
voice--"coffee! I was made out of grass that grew next to a coffee
plantation, and one day, just before I was cut down--"
"Gracious me!" said a piping voice that sounded as if it was made of
rice-straw. "Did they cut you down?"
"No! It was the grass. That's before I was born. Well, I was a-saying,
before I was interrupted, that--"
"Oh, do let 'er alone," said a note from Detroit.
"Ah!" cried all the letters; "let 'er alone. That will do for Detroit."
"Now I came from Manitoba," said a letter that had a crackling voice, as
if the ice was breaking. "There's not a house for sixteen miles, and
it's very lonesome in winter. We have plenty of ice and snow, and the
thermometer stays down near zero so much of the time that they do say it
has cold feet. Sometimes we do not see any one for a week; but we do not
care."
Just then the editor came in, and the office-boy jumped up and said,
"Good-morning, sir; nice lot of letters to-day."
Perhaps you don't believe this story: it's true, for all that. At any
rate, the last part is true; for every day there comes to Harper's Young
People a great pile of letters from boys and girls in all parts of the
civilized world.
[Illustration: A LITTLE TAILOR]
[Illustration: THE YOUNG ART STUDENT.]
MY PIG.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
I don't say that I didn't do wrong, but what I do say is that I meant to
do right. But that don't make any difference. It never does. I try to do
my very best, and then something happens, and I am blamed for it. When I
think what a disappointing world this is, full of bamboo canes and all
sorts of switches, I feel ready to leave it.
It was Sue's fault in the beginning; that is, if it hadn't been for her
it wouldn't have happened. One Sunday she and I were sitting in the
front parlor, and she was looking out of the window and watching for Mr.
Travers; only she said she wasn't, and that she was just looking to see
if it was going to rain, and solemnizing her thoughts. I had just asked
her how old she was, and couldn't Mr. Travers have been her father if he
had married mother, when she said, "Dear me how tiresome that boy is do
take a book and read for gracious sake." I said, "What book?" So she
gets up and gives me the _Observer_, and says, "There's a beautiful
story about a good boy and a pig do read it and keep still if you know
how and I hope it will do you some good."
Well, I read the story. It told all about a good boy whose name was
James, and his father was poor, and so he kept a pig that cost him
twenty-five cents, and when it grew up he sold it for thirty dollars,
and he brought the money to his father and said, "Here father! take this
O how happy I am to help you when you're old and not good for much," and
his father burst into tears, but I don't know what for, I wouldn't burst
into tears much if anybody gave me thirty dollars; and said, "Bless you
my noble boy you and your sweet pig have saved me from a watery grave,"
or something like that.
It was a real good story, and it made me feel like being likewise. So I
resolved that I would get a little new pig for twenty-five cents, and
keep it till it grew up, and then surprise father with twenty-nine
dollars, and keep one for myself as a reward for my good conduct. Only I
made up my mind not to let anybody know about it till after the pig
should be grown up, and then how the family would be delighted with my
"thoughtful and generous act"! for that's what the paper said James's
act was.
The next day I went to Farmer Smith, and got him to give me a little pig
for nothing, only I agreed to help him weed his garden all summer. It
was a beautiful pig, about as big as our baby, only it was a deal
prettier, and its tail was elegant. I wrapped it up in an old shawl, and
watched my chance and got it up into my room, which is on the third
story. Then I took my trunk and emptied it, and bored some holes in it
for air, and put the pig in it.
I had the best fun that ever was, all that day and the next day, taking
care of that dear little pig. I gave him one of my coats for a bed, and
fed him on milk, and took him out of the trunk every little while for
exercise. Nobody goes into my room very often, except the girl to make
the bed, and when she came I shut up the trunk, and she never suspected
anything. I got a whole coal-scuttleful of the very best mud, and put it
in the corner of the room for him to play in, and when I heard Bridget
coming, I meant to throw the bed-quilt over it, so she wouldn't suspect
anything.
After I had him two days I heard mother say, "Seems to me I hear very
queer noises every now and then up stairs." I knew what the matter was,
but I never said anything, and I felt so happy when I thought what a
good boy I was to raise a pig for my dear father.
Bridget went up to my room about eight o'clock one evening, just before
I was going to bed, to take up my clean clothes. We were all sitting in
the dining-room, when we heard her holler as if she was being murdered.
We all ran out to see what was the matter, and were half way up the
stairs, when the pig came down, and upset the whole family, and piled
them up on the top of himself at the foot of the stairs, and before we
got up Bridget came down and fell over us, and said she had just opened
the young masther's thrunk and out jumps the ould Satan himself and she
must see the priest or she would be a dead woman.
You wouldn't believe that, though I told them that I was raising the pig
to sell it and give the money to father; they all said that they had
never heard of such an abandoned and peremptory boy, and father said,
"Come up stairs with me and I'll see if I can't teach you that this
house isn't a pig-pen." I don't know what became of the pig, for he
broke the parlor window and ran away, and nobody ever heard of him
again.
"I'd like to see that boy James. I don't care how big he is. I'd show
him that he can't go on setting good examples to innocent boys without
suffering as he deserves to suffer."
MY MOTHER'S DÉBUT.
BY B. A. N.
"Tell you a story?" said dear old grandma. "Dear me! dear me! I think
I've told you all I know. Shall I tell you 'Cinderella' over again?
or--"
"No, no, grandma," says a chorus of voices; "tell us something about
when you were young."