Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 48. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, September 28, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
$1.50 per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CHILDREN'S PARADISE.-[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
A CHILDREN'S PARADISE.
In one corner of the Bois de Boulogne is a pretty zoological garden
known as the Jardin d'Acclimatation. The Bois de Boulogne is the
pleasure-ground of Paris, and is one of the most beautiful parks in the
world. It comprises about twenty-five hundred acres of majestic forests
and open grassy meadows, through which flow picturesque streams,
tumbling over rocky cliffs in glistening cascades, or spreading out into
broad tranquil lakes, upon which float numbers of gay pleasure-boats
filled on sunny summer afternoons with crowds of happy children.
But the place where the children are happiest is the Jardin
d'Acclimatation. There are no savage beasts here to frighten the little
ones with their roaring and growling. The lions and tigers and hyenas
are miles away, safe in their strong cages in the Jardin des Plantes, on
the other side of the big city of Paris; and in this charming spot are
gathered only those members of the great animal kingdom which in one way
or another are useful to man.
The Jardin d'Acclimatation has been in existence about twenty-five
years. In 1854 a society was formed in Paris for the purpose of bringing
to France, from all parts of the world, beasts, birds, fishes, and other
living things, which in their native countries were in any way
serviceable, and to make every effort to accustom them to the climate
and soil of France. The city of Paris ceded to the society a space of
about forty acres in a quiet corner of the great park, and the
preparation of the ground for the reception of its strange inhabitants
was begun at once. The ponds were dug out and enlarged, the meadows were
sodded with fresh, rich grass, spacious stalls were built, and a big
kennel for dogs, aviaries for birds, aquaria for fish, and a silk-worm
nursery, were all made ready. A large greenhouse was also erected for
the cultivation of foreign plants. Here the animals were not brought
simply to be kept on exhibition, but they were made as comfortable and
as much at home as possible.
On pleasant afternoons troops of children with their mammas or nurses
crowd the walks and avenues of the Jardin d'Acclimatation. Here, in a
comfortable airy kennel, are dogs from all parts of the world, some of
them great noble fellows, who allow the little folks to fondle and
stroke them. On a miniature mountain of artificial rock-work troops of
goats and mouflons--a species of mountain sheep--clamber about, as much
at home as if in their far-away native mountains. Under a group of
fir-trees a lot of reindeer are taking an afternoon nap, lost in dreams
of their home in the distant North. Grazing peacefully on the broad
meadows are antelopes, gazelles, and all kinds of deer; and yaks from
Tartary, llamas from the great South American plains, Thibet oxen, and
cattle of all kinds are browsing in their particular feeding grounds.
In a pretty sunny corner is a neat little chalet inclosed in a yard
filled with fresh herbage. A cozy little home indeed, and there, peering
inquisitively through the open door, is one of the owners of this
mansion--a funny kangaroo, standing as firmly on its haunches as if it
scorned the idea of being classed among the quadrupeds.
What is whinnying and galloping about on that meadow? A whole crowd of
ponies! Ponies from Siam, from Java, shaggy little Shetlands, quaggas
and dauws from Africa, all feeding and frolicking together, and there,
in the door of his stall, stands a sulky little zebra. He is a very
bad-tempered little animal, and evidently something has gone wrong, and
he "won't play." In a neighboring paddock is a gnu, the curious horned
horse of South Africa. The children are uncertain whether to call it a
horse, a buffalo, or a deer, and the creature itself appears a little
doubtful as to which character it can rightfully assume.
One of the few animals kept in cages is the guepard, or hunting leopard.
The guepard, a graceful, spotted creature, is very useful to hunters in
India. It is not a savage animal, and when taken young is very easily
trained to work for its master. It is led hooded to the chase, and only
when the game is near is the hood removed. The guepard then springs upon
the prey, and holds it fast until the hunter comes to dispatch it. The
guepard in the Jardin d'Acclimatation is very affectionate toward its
keeper, and purrs like a big cat when he strokes its silky head, but it
is safer for children to keep their little hands away from it.
In pens provided with little ponds are intelligent seals and families of
otters, with their elegant fur coats always clean and in order; and down
by the shore of the stream and the large lake a loud chattering is made
by the numerous web-footed creatures and long-legged waders. Here are
ducks from Barbary and the American tropics, wild-geese from every
clime, and swimming gracefully and silently in the clear water are
swans--black, gray, and white--that glide up to the summer-houses on the
bank, and eat bread and cake from the children's hands.
Among the tall water-grasses at one end of the lake is a group of
pelicans, motionless, their long bills resting on their breasts. They
look very gloomy, as if refusing to be comforted for the loss of their
native fishing grounds in the wild African swamps.
Promenading in a spacious park are whole troops of ostriches, their
small heads lifted high in the air, and their beautiful feathers blowing
gracefully in the wind. Be careful, or they will dart their long necks
through the paling and steal all your luncheon, or perhaps even the
pretty locket from your chain, for anything from a piece of plum-cake to
a cobble-stone is food for this voracious bird. A poor soldier, whose
sole possession was the cross of honor which he wore on the breast of
his coat, was once watching the ostriches in the Jardin d'Acclimatation,
when a bird suddenly darted at him, seized his cross in its beak, and
swallowed it. The soldier went to the superintendent of the garden and
entered a bitter complaint; but the feathered thief was not arrested,
and the soldier never recovered his treasure.
What a rush and crowd of children on the avenue! No wonder, for there is
a pretty barouche, to which is harnessed a large ostrich, which marches
up and down, drawing its load as easily as if it were a span of goats or
a Shetland pony, instead of a bird.
There are so many beautiful birds in the aviaries, so many odd fowls in
the poultry-house, and strange fish in the aquaria, that it is
impossible to see them all in one day, and the best thing to do now is
to rest on a seat in the cool shade of the vast conservatory, among
strange and beautiful plants from all parts of the world. And on every
holiday the happy children say, "We will go to the Jardin
d'Acclimatation, where there is so much to enjoy, and so much to learn."
FRANK'S WAR WITH THE 'COONS.
BY GEORGE J. VARNEY.
Last month I spent several weeks at a farm within sight of the White
Mountains. One morning the boy Frank came in with a basket of sweet-corn
on his arm, and a bad scowl on his countenance.
"What is the matter, Frank?" inquired his mother, coming from the
pantry.
Indignation was personified in him, as he answered, "Them pigs has been
in my corn."
"I hadn't heard that the pigs had been out. Did they do much harm?"
"Yes, they spoiled a peck of corn, sure; broke the ears half off, and
some all off. Rubbed 'em all in the dirt, and only ate half the corn.
Left 'most all one side. They didn't know enough to pull the husks clear
off."
Just then the hired man came in, and Frank repeated his complaint of the
pigs.
"They hain't been out of their yard for a week, I know. I heard some
'coons yellin' over in the woods back of the orchard last night. I guess
them's the critters that's been in your corn piece."
"S'pose they'll come again to-night?" inquired the boy, every trace of
displeasure vanishing.
"Likely 's not. They 'most always do when they get a good bite, and
don't get scared."
"I'll fix 'em to-night," said the boy, with a broad smile at the
anticipated sport.
Twilight found Frank sitting patiently on a large pumpkin in the edge of
his corn piece, gun in hand, watching for the 'coons. An hour later his
patience was gone, and the 'coons hadn't come--at least he had no notice
of their coming. As he started from his rolling seat a slight sound in
the midst of the corn put him on the alert. He walked softly along
beside the outer row, stopping frequently to listen, until he could
distinctly hear the rustling of the corn leaves, and even the sound of
gnawing corn from the cob. His heart beat fast with excitement as he
became assured of the presence of a family of raccoons, and he held his
gun ready to pop over the first one that showed itself. There were
slight sounds of rustling and gnawing in several places, but they all
ceased, one after another, as Frank came near. He listened, but there
was nothing to be heard. Then he went to the other side of the piece to
cut off their retreat from the woods. He came cautiously up between the
corn rows to the midst of the piece, but no 'coon was there.
"Pity they will eat their suppers in the dark," muttered Frank, to
relieve his vexation at the disappointment.
He returned slowly to the house, and went up to his room, where he sat
down and read awhile. After an hour or more he became too sleepy to
read; so he laid aside his book, put out the light, and popped into bed.
Just as he was falling asleep he heard several cries over in the woods.
They were half whistle, half scream--a sort of squeal. He sprang up in
bed to listen. The cries ceased, and for several minutes all was
silence. Then there arose a succession of screams, much nearer, and in a
different voice. It was interrupted and broken. It seemed something
between the squeal of a pig and the cry of a child.
Frank said to his father the next morning that "it sounded as if it was
a young one, and the mother was cuffing it and driving it back. At any
rate, the last of the cries sounded as if the little 'coon had turned,
and was going away."
"Very likely," said his father; "the little 'coon was probably hungry
for the rest of his supper, and was going back to the corn sooner than
the old 'coon thought was prudent."
Frank heard no more of the 'coons, and soon went to sleep, but in the
morning he found that more corn had been spoiled than in the first
night. The 'coons had only run off to come back again, and begin their
depredations in a new place. He therefore came to the conclusion that he
must watch all night, and every night, if at all.
The hired man told how some boys where he worked once caught a 'coon by
setting a trap at the hole in a board fence near the corn piece. There
was a wall beside the woods not far from Frank's corn, and there were a
plenty of holes in it, but which particular hole the 'coons came through
nobody could tell.
[Illustration: "FOR A FEW SECONDS THERE WAS A LIVELY BATTLE."]
"I'll find out," said Frank. He went to a sand-bank with the
wheelbarrow, and shovelled in a load of sand. This he spread at the
bottom of every large hole, and on the rocks at every low place in the
wall. In the morning he walked along there, and the foot-prints in the
sand showed where the path of the 'coons crossed the wall. There he set
his steel-trap, and another which he borrowed of a neighbor. In the
morning he went over to see what had happened. One trap was sprung, and
held a few hairs; the other trap had disappeared. It didn't go off
alone, Frank thought; but it had a long stick fastened to its chain that
would be sure to catch in the bushes before it went far. He sprang over
the wall, and peeped round among the knolls and bushes. Suddenly, as he
went around a clump of little spruces, a chain rattled, and a
brownish-gray creature, "'most as big as a bear," as Frank afterward
said, sprang at him, with a sharp, snarling growl, and mouth wide open.
The sight was too much for Frank's nerves, and set them in such a tremor
that he ran away. When he came in sight of his corn he began to grow
angry, and his courage came up again. He now got him a larger stick than
he had first carried, and set out for the animal again. He had
considered that, after all, it could be only a 'coon, though bears had
been heard of in the corn fields further north. Frank and the corn-eater
now met again face to face, and for a few seconds there was a lively
battle, in which mingled the snarling of the 'coon, the rattling of the
chain, and the blows of the stick. At length the 'coon lay still, and
Frank stood guard over him with a broken stick. The next day he ate a
slice of roast 'coon for dinner with great relish.
The traps were set again for the next night, but never a 'coon was in
them in the morning. The cunning fellows evidently considered the place
too dangerous, and chose another entrance. Anyway, the corn was still
going away fast. Frank feared that he wouldn't have enough to fill his
contract with the canning factory unless the family in the house, or the
other family in the woods, left off eating. Something must be done. At
length Frank bought a dog. He made a nice kennel for him in the middle
of the corn field, and tied him there at night. Just after Frank had
fallen into a sound sleep the dog woke him up with his barking. Frank
went out, but could find nothing. The dog woke him twice more that
night, but he didn't trouble himself to leave his bed again. In the
morning he found that the 'coons had destroyed as much corn as before,
but it was all about the edges. The next night they ventured a little
nearer the kennel. The following night the dog was left in the kennel
loose. Probably when the 'coons came he made a charge upon them, and
they turned upon him and drove him away, for he was only a little young
one. He took refuge in the wood-house, where he barked furiously for an
hour or more, and then in occasional brief spells all the
night--whenever he woke enough to remember the 'coons. After this Frank
gave up the defense of the corn, but began to gather it nightly as fast
as the ears were sufficiently full. At length he cut the corn and took
it into the barn, excepting a single bunch. About this bunch he sunk
traps in the ground, and threw hay-seed over them, and placed nice ears
of sweet-corn beside them. The next morning he had another 'coon. The
other trap was sprung also, but it held nothing but a little tuft of
long gray fur. That sly fellow had again sat down on the trencher. From
this time the 'coons troubled Frank's corn no more, having found other
fields where there was more corn and fewer traps. Frank's final conflict
with the 'coons was late in the autumn, when the leaves were nearly gone
from the trees, and the ripe beech-nuts were beginning to drop. He had
fired all his ammunition away at gray squirrels the day before, except a
little powder; but a meeting of crows in the adjoining woods incited his
sporting proclivities, and he loaded his gun, putting in peas for shot,
and started for the locality of the noisy birds. They cawed a little
louder when they discovered the intruder, then began in a straggling
manner to fly away. So when Frank arrived at the scene of the meeting it
had adjourned. Looking about in the trees to see if by chance a single
crow might still be lingering, a slight movement in a tall maple met his
eye.
"Biggest gray squirrel ever I saw," muttered the boy, raising his gun.
The position was not a good one for a shot, as the head, which had been
thrust out over a large branch close to the trunk was now withdrawn, so
that only the end of the nose was visible. Close beside this branch was
another, and between the two a large surface of gray fur was exposed.
"I'll send him some peas for dinner," thought Frank, and fired. He heard
the peas rattle against the hard bark of the tree, but no gray squirrel
came down or went up that he could see. When the smoke cleared away, a
black nose was thrust out over the branch, and two keen eyes were
visible, peering down at the sportsman, as much as to say, "I like peas
for dinner, little boy, but don't take 'em that way."
"That's no squirrel," thought Frank. "I believe it's a 'coon--sure as a
gun. And I haven't got a thing to shoot him with."
He thought of putting his knife into his gun for a bullet, but it proved
too large. Then he looked for some coarse gravel, but did not find any.
Feeling in all his pockets, his fingers clutched a board nail.
"Ah, that's the thing! We'll see, Mr. 'Coon, if you care any more for
board nails than you do for peas."
Loading his gun again, he dropped in the nail instead of a knife for a
bullet. He took careful aim again at the spot of fur between the
branches, and fired. The 'coon was more than surprised this time, and he
certainly forgot to look before he leaped, or he never would have sprung
right out ten feet from the tree, with nothing between him and the
ground, thirty or forty feet below. He struck all rounded up in a bunch,
like a big ball, bouncing up two or three feet from the ground. Frank
started toward the animal, thinking, "Well, that fall's knocked the life
out of him."
He never was more mistaken. When he stepped toward him, the 'coon got
upon his feet at once, and offered battle. Frank now used his gun in
another manner, seizing it by the barrel, and turning it into a war
club. There ensued some lively dodging on the part of the 'coon; but at
length he was hit slightly, when he turned and ran for the nearest tree.
This happened to be a beech, in whose hard, smooth bark his claws would
not hold. He slipped down, and as Frank came up, turned and made a dash
for the boy's legs. Frank met him with a blow of the gun on the head, at
which the 'coon dropped down, apparently lifeless. Another such blow
would have finished him; but Frank was unwilling to give it, for the
last one had cracked his gun-stock. So he shouldered the gun, took the
'coon up by the hinder legs, and started for home. Before he got there
the 'coon had come to his senses again, and made Frank pretty lively
work to keep his own legs safe. As soon as he could find a good stake
Frank dropped his dangerous burden, and before the 'coon could run away,
he was stunned by a blow of the stake.
With this victory the war between Frank and the 'coons ended for the
season. He had been obliged to buy some corn of a neighbor in order to
fill his contract with the canning factory; but the 'coon-skins sold for
enough to make up the money.
[Illustration: "COME ON!"]
[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]
WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?
BY JOHN HABBERTON,
AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."
CHAPTER III.
MUSIC AND MANNERS.
The boys at Mr. Morton's select school were not the only people in
Laketon who were curious about Paul Grayson. Although the men and women
had daily duties like those of men and women elsewhere, they found a
great deal of time in which to think and talk about other people and
their affairs. So all the boys who attended the school were interrogated
so often about their new comrade, that they finally came to consider
themselves as being in some way a part of the mystery.
Mr. Morton, who had opened his school only several weeks before the
appearance of Grayson, was himself unknown at Laketon until that spring,
when, after an unsuccessful attempt to be made principal of the grammar
school, he had hired the upper floor of what once had been a store
building, and opened a school on his own account. He had introduced
himself by letters that the school trustees, and Mr. Merivale, pastor of
one of the village churches, considered very good; but now that
Grayson's appearance was explained only by the teacher's statement that
the boy was son of an old school friend who now was a widower, some of
the trustees wished they were able to remember the names and addresses
appended to the letters that the new teacher had presented. Sam
Wardwell's father having learned from Mr. Morton where last he had
taught, went so far as to write to the wholesale merchants with whom he
dealt, in New York, for the name of some customer in Mr. Morton's former
town; but even by making the most of this roundabout method of inquiry
he only learned that the teacher had been highly respected, although
nothing was known of his antecedents.
With one of the town theories on the subject of Mr. Morton and Paul
Grayson the boys entirely disagreed: this was that the teacher and the
boy were father and son.
"I don't think grown people are so very smart, after all," said Sam
Wardwell, one day, as the boys who were not playing lounged in the shade
of the school building and chatted. "They talk about Grayson being Mr.
Morton's son. Why, who ever saw Grayson look a bit afraid of the
teacher?"
"Nobody," replied Ned Johnston, and no one contradicted him, although
Bert Sharp suggested that there were other boys in the world who were
not afraid of their fathers--himself, for instance.
"Then you ought to be," said Benny Mallow. Benny looked off at nothing
in particular for a moment, and then continued, "I wish I had a father
to be afraid of."
There was a short silence after this, for as no other boy in the group
had lost a father, no one knew exactly what to say; besides, a big tear
began to trickle down Benny's face, and all the boys saw it, although
Benny dropped his head as much as possible. Finally, however, Ned
Johnston stealthily patted Benny on the back, and then Sam Wardwell,
taking a fine winter apple from his pocket, broke it in two, and
extended half of it, with the remark, "Halves, Benny."
Benny said, "Thank you," and seemed to take a great deal of comfort out
of that piece of apple, while the other boys, who knew how fond Sam was
of all things good to eat, were so impressed by his generosity that none
of them asked for the core of the half that Sam was stowing away for
himself. Indeed, Ned Johnston was so affected that he at once agreed to
a barter--often proposed by Sam and as often declined--of his Centennial
medal for a rather old bass-line with a choice sinker.
Before the same hour of the next day, however, nearly every boy who
attended Mr. Morton's school was wicked enough to wish to be in just
exactly Benny Mallow's position, so far as fathers were concerned. This
sudden change of feeling was not caused by anything that Laketon fathers
had done, but through fear of what they might do. As no two boys agreed
upon a statement of just how this difference of sentiment occurred, the
author is obliged to tell the story in his own words.
Usually the boys hurried away from the neighborhood of the school as
soon as possible after dismissal in the afternoon, but during the last
recess of the day on which the above-recorded conversation occurred Will
Palmer and Charley Gunter completed a series of a hundred games of
marbles, and had the strange fortune to end exactly even. The match had
already attracted a great deal of attention in the school--so much so
that boys who took sides without thinking had foolishly made a great
many bets on the result, and a deputation of these informed the players
that it would be only the fair thing to play the deciding game that
afternoon after school, so that boys who had bet part or all of their
property might know how they stood. Will and Charley expressed no
objection; indeed, each was so anxious to prove himself the best player
that in his anxiety he made many blunders during the afternoon
recitations.
As soon as the school was dismissed, the boys hurried into the yard,
while Grayson, who had lately seen as much of marble-playing as he cared
to, strolled off for a walk. The marble ring was quickly scratched on
the ground, and the players began work. But the boys did not take as
much interest in the game as they had expected to, for a rival
attraction had unexpectedly appeared on the ground since recess: two
rival attractions, more properly speaking, or perhaps three, for in a
shady corner sat an organ-grinder, on the ground in front of him was an
organ, and on top of this sat a monkey. Now to city boys more than ten
years of age an organ-grinder is almost as uninteresting as a scolding;
but Laketon was not a city, organ-grinders reached it seldom, and
monkeys less often; so fully half the boys lounged up to within a few
feet of the strangers, and devoured them with their eyes, while the man
and the animal devoured some scraps of food that had been begged at a
kitchen door.
Nobody can deny that a monkey, even when soberly eating his dinner, is a
very comical animal, and no boy ever lived, not excepting that good
little boy Abel, who did not naturally wonder what a strange animal
would do if some one disturbed him in some way. Which of Mr. Morton's
pupils first felt this wonder about the organ-grinder's monkey was never
known; the boys soon became too sick of the general subject to care to
compare notes about this special phase of it; but the first one who
ventured to experiment on the monkey was Bert Sharp, who made so
skillful a "plumper" shot with a marble, from the level of his trousers
pocket, that the marble struck the monkey fairly in the breast, and
rattled down on the organ, while the monkey, who evidently had seen boys
before, made a sudden jump to the head of his master, and then scrambled
down the Italian's back, and hid himself so that he showed only as much
of his head as was necessary to his effort to peer across the
organ-grinder's shoulder.
"Maledetta!" growled the Italian, as he looked inquiringly around him.
As none of the boys had ever before heard this word, they did not know
whether it was a question, a rebuke, or a threat; but they saw plainly
enough that the man was angry, and although most of them stepped
backward a pace or two, they all joined in the general laugh that a
crowd of boys are almost sure to indulge in when they see any one in
trouble, that any one of the same boys would be sorry about were he
alone when he saw it.
The organ-grinder began munching his food very rapidly, as if in haste
to finish his meal, yet he did not forget to pass morsels across his
shoulder to his funny little companion, and the manner in which the
monkey put up a paw to take the food amused the boys greatly. Benny
Mallow thought that monkey was simply delightful, but he could not help
wondering what the animal would do if a marble were to strike his paw as
he put it up. Animals' paws are soft at bottom, reasoned Benny to
himself, and marbles shot through the air can not hurt much if any; the
result of this short argument was that Benny tried a "plumper" shot
himself; but the marble, instead of striking the monkey's paw, went
straight into the mouth of the organ-grinder, who was just about to take
a mouthful of bread.
Up sprang the Italian, with an expression of countenance so perfectly
dreadful that Benny Mallow dreamed of it, for a month after, whenever he
ate too much supper. All the boys ran, and the Italian pursued them with
words so strange and numerous that the boys could not have repeated one
of them had they tried. Every boy was half a block away before he
thought to look around and see whether the footsteps behind him were
those of the organ-grinder or of some frightened boy. Sam Wardwell
stumbled and fell, at which Ned Johnston, who had been but a step or two
behind, fell upon Sam, who instantly screamed, "Oh, don't, mister: I
didn't do it--really I didn't."
On hearing this all the other boys thought it safe to stop and look, and
when they saw the Italian was not in the street at all, they felt so
ashamed that there is no knowing what they would have done if they had
not had Sam Wardwell to laugh at. As for Sam, he was so angry about the
mistake he had made that he vowed vengeance against the Italian, and
hurried back toward the yard. Will Palmer afterward said that he
couldn't see how the Italian was to blame, and Ned Johnston said the
very same thought had occurred to him; but somehow neither of the two
happened to mention the matter, as they, with the other boys, followed
Sam Wardwell to see what he would do. Looking through the cracks of the
fence, the boys saw the Italian, with his organ and monkey on his back,
coming down the yard; at the same time they saw nearly half a brick go
up the yard, and barely miss the organ-grinder's head. The man said
nothing; perhaps he had been in difficulties with boys before, and had
learned that the best way to get out of them was to walk away as fast as
possible; besides, there was no one in sight for him to talk to, for Sam
had started to run the instant that the piece of brick left his hand.
The man came out of the yard, looked around, saw the boys, turned in the
opposite direction, and then turned up an alley that passed one side of
the school-house.
He could not have done worse; for no one lived on the alley, so any
mischievous boy could tease him without fear of detection. He had gone
but a few steps when Sam, who had hidden in a garden on the same alley,
rose beside a fence, and threw a stick, which struck the organ. The man
stopped, turned around, saw the whole crowd of boys slowly following,
supposed some one of them was his assailant, threw the stick swiftly at
the party, and then started to run. No one was hit, but the mere sight
of a frightened man trying to escape seemed to rob the boys of every
particle of humanity. Charley Gunter, who was very fond of pets, devoted
himself to trying to hit the monkey with stones; Will Palmer, who had
once helped nurse a friendless negro who had cut himself badly with an
axe, actually shouted "Hurra!" when a stone thrown by himself struck one
of the man's legs, and made him limp; Ned Johnston hurriedly broke a
soft brick into small pieces, and threw them almost in a shower; and
even Benny Mallow, who had always been a most tender-hearted little
fellow, threw stones, sticks, and even an old bottle that he found among
the rubbish that had been thrown into the alley.
[Illustration: THE ATTACK ON THE ORGAN-GRINDER.]
Suddenly a stone--there were so many in the air at a time that no one
knew who threw that particular stone--struck the organ-grinder in the
back of the head, and the poor fellow fell forward flat, with his organ
on top of him, and remained perfectly motionless.
"He's killed!" exclaimed some one, as the pursuers stopped. In an
instant all the boys went over the fences on either side of the alley,
but not until Paul Grayson, crossing the upper end of the alley, had
seen them, and they had seen him.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
FORDING A RIVER IN CENTRAL ASIA.
BY DAVID KER.
I have heard many complaints made of the impossibility of sleeping in a
railway car, and have wondered much how those who made them would have
fared if compelled to spend, not one night, but twelve or fourteen in
succession, in crossing the roadless plains and hills of Central Asia in
a Russian cart, whose whole progress is a series of jolts that might
dislocate the spine of a megatherium, flinging one at every turn against
the corner of a box, or the broad shoulders of the Tartar driver. The
correct way of preparing for a journey in this primitive region is to
half fill your cart with hay, lay your baggage upon it as a kind of
pavement, and cover the whole with a straw mattress, upon which you
recline, walled in with rolled-up wrappers to keep you from being
absolutely battered to bits against the sides of the vehicle. You then
provide yourself with a hatchet and a coil of rope, as an antidote to
the inevitable coming off of a wheel two or three times a day during the
whole journey, and thus fore-armed, you are, as the Russians
significantly say, "ready to _chance it_."
After a night of such travel as this, with all its attendant bumps,
bruises, and overturns, among the hills on the frontier of Bokhara, my
English comrade and I find ourselves nearing the once famous city of
Samarcand, and getting forward much more easily now that the plain is
fairly reached at last. But what we gain in comfort we lose in
picturesqueness. For several miles our course lies through the wet, miry
level of the rice fields, and we leave them only to emerge upon a wide
waste of bare gravel, amid which the once formidable current of the
"gold-giving Zer-Affshan" has shrunk to a single narrow channel, the
only fine feature of the landscape being the dark purple ridge beyond,
upon which, in June, 1868, was fought the battle that decided the fate
of Bokhara.
But commonplace as it looks, every foot of this region is historic
ground. Here stood the centre of a mighty empire, drawing to itself all
the pomp and splendor of the East, in days when marsh frogs were
croaking upon the site of St. Petersburg, and Indians lighting their
camp fires upon that of New York. The very earth seems still shaking
with the march of ancient conquerors, and one would hardly wonder to see
Alexander's Macedonians coming with measured tramp over the boundless
level, or low-browed Attila, with the light of a grim gladness in his
deep-set eyes, waving on five hundred thousand horsemen with the sweep
of his enchanted sabre. But mingled with these memories comes the
thought of one who surpassed them both--a little, swarthy, keen-eyed,
limping man, known to history as Timour the Tartar, who crushed into one
great whole all the jarring kingdoms of Asia, only that they might melt
into chaos again the moment that mighty grasp was relaxed by death.
* * * * *
"We must get out here, David Stepanovitch!"
The shrill call sweeps away my visions, and I look up to find myself in
front of a tiny hut--a mere speck in that wilderness of gravel--beside
which three or four wild-looking figures are grouped around a huge
_arba_ (native cart), conspicuous by its immense breadth of beam, and
its gigantic wheels, seven good feet in diameter.
Mourad hastily explains that to attempt fording the river in our little
post-cart will be certain destruction to our baggage, and that we must
shift to the arba, which, light, strong, and, thanks to its great
breadth, almost impossible to overturn, seems made for this roadless
region, as the camel is for the desert.
The transfer is soon effected, but it takes some time to secure our
packages against the tremendous shaking which awaits them, and our
careful henchman goes over his work three times before he can persuade
himself to let go. But the reckless Bokhariotes, who care little if we
and all our belongings go to the bottom, provided they get their money,
cut him short by leaping onto the front of the huge tray, and heading
right down upon the river.
We make five or six lesser crossings before coming to the real one, the
Zer-Affshan, like Central Asian rivers generally, being given to wasting
its strength in minor channels; but even these run with a force and
swiftness that show us what we have to expect. At length, after a
comparatively long interval of bare gravel, the two Bokhariotes suddenly
plant themselves back to back, with their feet against the sides of the
cart. The huge vehicle halts for a moment, as if to gather strength for
its final leap, and then rushes into the stream.
And now comes the tug of war. The wheels have barely made three turns in
the water when the great mass trembles under a shock like the collision
of a train, and to our bewildered eyes the river appears to be standing
perfectly still, and we ourselves to be flying backward at full speed.
Deeper and deeper grows the water, stronger and stronger presses the
current. Already the little post-cart following in our wake is almost
submerged, and the water is battering against the bottom of the arba,
and splashing over our feet as we sit. More than once the horses stop
short, and plant their feet firmly, to save themselves from being swept
bodily away, and the roar of the chafing pebbles comes up to us like the
tramp of a charging squadron.
In the midst of the din and hurly-burly, the lashing water, and the
blinding spray, a terrible thought suddenly occurs to me. "By Jove! all
my sugar's in the bottom of my store chest. It'll be all melted, to a
certainty."
"Shouldn't wonder," remarks my friend, with that quiet fortitude
wherewith men are wont to bear the misfortunes of other people.
"However, you can get some more at Samarcand; and, after all, a trunk
lined with sugar will be worth exhibiting at home--if you ever get
there."
For the next few minutes it is "touch and go" with us; but even among
Asiatics nothing can be spun out forever. Little by little the water
grows shallower, the ground firmer, the strain less and less violent,
till at length we come out upon dry land once more, decant the contents
of the arba back into the cart, reward our pilots, and are off again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TUG OF WAR
This is an old English game, which has become a favorite athletic
exercise in almost all countries, as a trial of strength and endurance.
In England it used to be called "French and English," from the ancient
rivalry that existed between the two nationalities. Our picture shows
how the game is played. Care should be taken to have a stout rope, and
the players should be divided so that each party may as nearly as
possible be of equal strength. The party that pulls the other over a
line marked on the ground between them is the winner in the game.
Sometimes a string is tied on the rope, and when the game begins this
string should be directly over the dividing line. It often happens that
the parties are so evenly matched that neither can pull the string more
than an inch or two over the line; and then it becomes a trial of
endurance, and the question is which side can hold out the longer.
Among the Burmese the "tug of war" is a part of the religious ceremonies
held when there is a scarcity of rain. Instead of rope, long, slender
canes are twisted together, and spokes are thrust through to give a firm
hold. The sides are taken by men from different quarters of a town, or
from different villages. Each side is marshalled by two drums and a
harsh wind-instrument, which make a hideous noise. A few priests are
generally seen squatting on the ground near by, chewing the betel-nut,
and reading their laws, which are printed on slips of palm leaf. Every
now and then they give a shout of encouragement. Each side tries to pull
the other over the line, amid shouts and cries of the most vigorous
description. It makes no difference which side wins the day, as victory
to either party is supposed by the superstitious natives to bring the
wished-for rain. Continued drought does not discourage them from
repeating the ceremony time after time; and when the rain comes at last
they firmly believe it is in answer to their incantations.
FOUND IN A FROG.
BY MISS VIRGINIA W. JOHNSON,
AUTHOR OF "THE CATSKILL FAIRIES."
The sun had risen when Gita awoke. She lived at the top of a tall old
house with her grandmother, and both were poor. When she had put on her
thin cotton gown, and smoothed her hair with her small brown hands, Gita
ran down stairs lightly; and these stairs--some crooked stone steps in a
dark passage--would have broken our necks to descend. She came out in a
narrow street with the tall houses almost meeting overhead, and steep
paths or flights of steps leading down to the shore. The town was
Mentone, in the south of France, with the boundary line of Italy not
half a mile distant. At one end of the street was visible the blue sky,
and two churches, yellow and white, on an open square, with towers,
where the bells were ringing.
Gita felt in her pocket for a crust of hard bread, and began to eat.
This was her breakfast, and if she had been richer she would have drunk
a little black coffee with it. As it was, she paused at the fountain,
where the women were gossiping as they drew water in buckets, and placed
her mouth under the spout.
Raphael came along, and greeted her. Raphael, a tall young fellow with
bright eyes, a face the color of bronze, and a little black mustache,
was the son of a merchant who kept goats and donkeys for the visitors
who came here every year. The goats furnished rich milk for the invalids
to drink, while the ladies and children rode the donkeys. Gita found
Raphael very handsome.
He wore a curious straw hat with the brim turned up, a shirt striped
with red, blue pantaloons, and a yellow sash about his waist. One could
see he esteemed himself rather a dandy. In turn Raphael found Gita the
prettiest girl of his acquaintance, with her large black eyes, brown
face, and white teeth. Besides, Gita was amiable, and did not mock at
him when he walked on the Promenade on Sunday with his hat on one side,
and a cigarette in his mouth.
"I have asked the consent of my parents to our marriage," said Raphael.
"They refuse, unless you have a dower of at least a hundred francs. We
must wait."
Gita sighed and shook her head as she pursued her way down to the shore.
In these countries the young people must obtain the consent of their
parents to marry, and the bride should have a dowry. Gita had not a
penny; Raphael's father might as well have asked him to bring the moon
as one hundred francs.
Grandmother was seated under an archway, with her little furnace before
her, roasting chestnuts. Grandmother, a wrinkled old woman, with a red
handkerchief wound about her head, was a chestnut merchant. The sailors,
children, and Italians coming over the border bought her wares, and when
she was not employed in serving them she twisted flax on a distaff.
"Raphael's father needs a dowry of one hundred francs," said Gita, as
grandmother gave her a few chestnuts.
"Ah, if you were a lemon girl!" said grandmother, beginning to twist the
flax.
Gita poised a basket on her head, took a white stocking from her pocket,
and began to knit as she walked away. The women of the country carry all
burdens on their heads. You may see a mother with a mound of cut grass
on her head, dandling a little baby in her arms as she moves along.
Grandmother had been a lemon girl in her day, but Gita was not strong
enough. The lemon girls bring the fruit on their heads many miles, from
the lemon groves down to the ships, when they are sent to America and
other distant lands.
When you next taste a lemonade at a Sunday-school picnic, little reader,
remember how far the lemon has travelled to furnish you this refreshing
drink.
Gita went along the shore knitting, her empty basket tilted on her head.
The blue Mediterranean Sea sparkled as far as the eye could reach, and
broke on the pebbles of the beach in waves as clear as crystal. Soon she
turned back toward the hills, following a narrow path between high
garden walls, passed under a railroad bridge, and entered an olive
garden. She worked here all day, gathering up the little black olives
which fall from the trees, much as children gather nuts in the woods at
home. Other women were already at work; their dresses of gay colors,
yellow and red, showed against the gray background of the trees. A boy
beat the branches with a long pole. Gita began to work with the rest.
She did not think much about the olive-tree, although it was a good
friend. She was paid twenty sous a day to gather the berries from the
ground, which were then taken to the crushing mill up the ravine to be
made into oil. Gita ate the green lemons plucked from the trees as a
child of the North would eat apples, but she loved the good olive-oil
better. When the grandmother made a feast, it was to fry the little
silvery sardines in oil, so crisp and brown.
The olive-tree is a native of Asia Minor, and often mentioned in the
Bible. Some of the trees in the garden where Gita now worked were so old
that the Romans saw them when they conquered the world.
At noon the olive-pickers paused to rest. Gita went away alone, and ate
the handful of chestnuts given her by grandmother. When she returned to
the town at night she would have another bit of bread and a raw onion.
She seated herself on the edge of the ravine, and thought about Raphael
as she munched her nuts. Below, this path traversed the ravine, and
climbed the opposite slope to the wall of a pretty villa, one of the
houses occupied for the winter by rich strangers. Gita looked at the
villa, with its window shaded by lace curtains, balconies, and terraces,
where orange-trees were covered with little golden balls of fruit.
"If I were rich like that I would have soup every day, sometimes made of
pumpkin and sometimes with macaroni in it," she thought.
Then she turned over a stone with her heavy shoe, and it rolled down the
hill. Gita uttered a cry. The stone had covered a hole at the root of
the olive-tree where she sat, far away from the other workers. In the
hole she saw a green frog; she dropped on her knees to look at it more
closely. Yes, it was a green frog. How did it come there? She touched it
with her fingers; the frog did not move or croak. Then she took it out
carefully. The frog was one of those pasteboard boxes which appear each
year in the shop windows of Paris for Easter presents, in company with
fish, lobsters, and shells.
Gita raised the lid. Inside were bank-bills and a lizard. She knew
lizards very well; they were always whisking over the stone walls; but
then those were of a sober brown tint, while this one was white until
she lifted it, when it sparkled like a dewdrop. The lizard was an
ornament made of diamonds. Gita held her breath and closed her eyes. She
believed herself asleep. Soon she rose, took the box in her hand, and
crossing the ravine, began to climb the path to the villa above.
As she reached the door a pony-carriage drove up. A big servant with
many buttons on his coat told her to go away. Gita paused, holding the
box. The pale lady in the carriage, who was wrapped in furs, motioned
her to approach. Quickly the girl ran forward and held out the frog.
"I found it in a hole at the foot of the olive-tree," she explained. "It
must belong to this house."
The lady took the box and opened it, emptying the contents on her lap.
There lay the diamond lizard, and the roll of French bank-notes.
"You see that Pierre was a dishonest servant, although nothing was found
on him," said the lady to those about her. "He must have hidden this box
in the olive grove to return from Nice later and find it."
Gita listened with her mouth and eyes wide open. The lady looked at her
and smiled.
"You are a good girl," she said.
Then she selected one of the bills and gave it to Gita. It was a note of
one hundred francs.
"Now I can marry Raphael!" she cried.
Raphael was standing beside grandmother's chestnut-roaster when both saw
Gita running toward them, her cheeks red, and her eyes flashing like
stars. She had to tell all about the frog, not only to them, but to the
neighbors. As for grandmother, she could not hear the story often
enough. When she had been a lemon girl no such luck had befallen her.
"Who would have thought of finding a wedding dowry in a frog?" laughed
Raphael.
Gita and Raphael are soon to be married in the yellow church on the
hill. The olive-pickers in the grove seek for something beside the dark
berries; they hope to find a green frog under a stone, containing money
and a diamond lizard; but this will never again happen.
JAPANESE LIFE.
The Japanese is the cleanest of mankind. Cleanliness is, so to speak,
more than godliness with him. Though he has no soap, he washes all over
at least once a day--he worships but once a week. His candles are made
of vegetable wax. He uses a cotton coverlet, well stuffed and padded,
for bed-covering and mattress. A sort of stereoscope case--made of
wood--makes his pillow. He resorts to that, and so do his wife and
daughters, that their carefully arranged hair may not be disarranged
during sleep. No head-covering is worn by the Japanese. No nation
dresses the hair so tastefully. Usually it is with the men shaved in
sections. They are coming now to wear it in European fashion. They are
adopting all European customs.
On levee day I saw the reception at the Mikado's palace in Yeddo. Every
one presented had to come in European full dress. That dress does not
become the Japanese figure. He looks awkward in it. His legs are too
short. The tails of his claw-hammer coat drag on the ground, and the
black dress trousers wrinkle up and get baggy around his feet. His
European-fashioned clothes have been sent out ready-made from America or
England, and in no case did I notice anything approaching to a good fit.
Yet he smiled and looked happy, though he could not get his heels half
way down his Wellington boots, and his hat was either too large or too
small for his head. He always smiles and looks pleasant. Nothing can
make him grumble, and he has not learned to swear. He is satisfied to be
paid his due, and never asks for more. As a New York cabman he would be
a veritable living curiosity.
WHERE DID POTATOES COME FROM?
Nobody knows precisely where the potato came from originally. It has
been found, apparently indigenous, in many parts of the world. Mr.
Darwin, for instance, found it wild in the Chonos Archipelago. Sir W. J.
Hooker says that it is common at Valparaiso, where it grows abundantly
on the sandy hills near the sea. In Peru and other parts of South
America it appears to be at home; and it is a noteworthy fact that Mr.
Darwin should have noted it both in the humid forests of the Chonos
Archipelago and among the central Chilian mountains, where sometimes
rain does not fall for six months at a stretch. It was to the colonists
whom Sir Walter Raleigh sent out in Elizabeth's reign that we are
indebted for our potatoes.
Herriot, who went out with these colonists, and who wrote an account of
his travels, makes what may, perhaps, be regarded as the earliest
mention of this vegetable. Under the heading of "Roots," he mentions
what he calls the "openawk." "These roots," he says, "are round, some
large as a walnut, others much larger. They grow on damp soils, many
hanging together as if fixed on ropes. They are good food, either boiled
or roasted."
At the beginning of the seventeenth century this root was planted, as a
curious exotic, in the gardens of the nobility, but it was long ere it
came into general use. Many held them to be poisonous, and it would seem
not altogether unreasonably so either. The potato is closely related to
the deadly-nightshade and the mandrake, and from its stems and leaves
may be extracted a very powerful narcotic. In England prejudice against
it was for a long time very strong, especially among the poor.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 47, September 21.]
"MOONSHINERS."
BY E. H. MILLER.