fire, to boil the coffee. Two crotched stakes were driven firmly in
the ground. A stout rod lay across them, and on this hung the kettle.
A lively fire was burning underneath, the water boiling. In a few
moments the coffee was made.
After washing carefully in the creek,--for everything must be done as
soldiers do,--all sat down in a circle on the ground. The coffee was
served in tin cups; but shall I confess that our soldiers were so
unsoldierlike as to drink it with cream and sugar?
Patrick and Michael partook; but as they were absent directly
afterwards, under pretence of smoking a noon pipe, I fancy they ate
still further rations in the farm-house kitchen. The boys, however,
said it was the best dinner they ever ate in their lives.
They were now ready for a visit from the general. "We will have these
breastworks," said he, "smoothed down in regular shape, and sow
grass-seed upon them, so that in a few weeks there will be a green
slope in place of these unsightly clods."
I assure you that as I look from my window while writing this story,
those slopes appear very pretty, with the merry, sparkling stream
flowing between.
But I must hasten; for you will be anxious to know that the pond,
gates, outlet, and all were done at last. Then came the day upon which
the water was to be let in. A great day it was for the whole
neighborhood. All the boys for a mile round were there to see.
When everything was ready, Mr. Davy, who was up at the dam, hoisted
the gate; the water came rushing through; in a few moments it had
reached the end of its course, and poured over into the pond.
Such a shout as rose from the throats of the forty or fifty boys! It
must have surprised those placid meadows and the great solemn rocks
around. And you would have thought the sleepy old hills had actually
been startled into life, such sounding echoes they sent back in
answer.
The water spread itself thinly at first over the bottom of the pond.
Slowly it rose; the little hollows were filled up, the slight
elevations hidden from sight. Gradually it closed round the tiny green
island which stood out above its surface like an emerald set in
shining silver. By night the pond was full. The water began running
over the top of the gate, making the prettiest little waterfall, and
over it a light spray rose softly towards the evening sky.
Bright and early the next morning there was commotion at the Davys'.
The boys were going to Maxwell's Creek, ten miles away, fishing. Mrs.
Davy was stirring round, preparing their lunch. George and Percy
hurried to the stable.
"Come, Brown Billy," said Percy to the favorite pony; "time to get up
and have your breakfast. We are all going fishing to-day;" and he laid
his hand smartly upon the pony's back.
Brown Billy raised his head, opened his eyes in astonishment to see
the boys so early in his stall; but hearing their merry voices, he
seemed to understand the situation at once, and to be in full sympathy
with them. An extra allowance of oats was put in the manger, and while
the boys were eating their breakfast in the house, Brown Billy
leisurely munched his in the stable. Then, after a draught from the
pump, he was put into the traces. Two casks and a large basket were
lifted in, the luncheon deposited, and soon they were on their way.
The sun was just peeping above the horizon, spreading a crimson glory
over every hill, and tree, and shrub; but this was so familiar a sight
to the Davy boys, that it caused no remark, though they were not
insensible to its beauty.
The scene of their day's sport was a beautiful glen among the hills,
through which the stream, a genuine, untaught child of the woods,
jumped and tumbled at its own wild will, now leaping from precipices
in the loveliest cataracts, then fretting noisily over its stony bed,
and, a little farther on, flowing as smoothly as if it never thought
of foaming or fretting in all its course.
Tommy tied Brown Billy to a tree, giving him a long tether, that he
might pick at the fresh grass.
Trout are the most delicate of fishes, and require careful treatment.
Indeed, they are quite the aristocracy of the finny tribe. Mr. Davy
had given Patrick directions not to allow them to be caught with a
hook, as it could not be taken from their mouths without causing much
pain, and perhaps death.
Patrick chose a place in the stream where the channel was narrow, but
deep, and waded in.
"Now, boys," said he, "yes all go above a little way, wade out into
the sthrame, and bate the wather with yer fish-poles. This will drive
thim down, and I'll see what I can do wid the basket."
The boys pulled off shoes and stockings, and rolled their trousers
above the knees. Clarence sat on the bank, paddling with his bare feet
in the stream. Stepping out into the creek, they hopped from one mossy
stone to another, the water pleasantly laving their feet. Standing in
a row across the stream, they began beating rather gently, at the same
time walking slowly forward, hoping to drive the fish before them.
Presently Patrick brought up the basket, the water streaming from it
as it did from Simple Simon's sieve, and in the bottom, wriggling and
squirming, lay four fine trout. Tommy seized the basket, and in an
instant the fish were within the cask, in their native element again,
though in rather close quarters. The boys hung over the barrel, gazing
at the pretty creatures with intense delight. The sun shone down into
the water, making the bright spots on their sides look like gold.
"Never mind, little trout," said Franky; "you are not going to be
hurt--only moved to our fish-pond."
Do you not think they enjoyed that day far more because there was no
cruelty in their sport?
Their amusement was varied by a delicious lunch, and an occasional
ramble through the woods. Towards evening they drove home, elated with
their success. The cask contained nearly as many fish as could swim.
The second cask was filled with fresh water, to replace that in the
first when it should no longer be fit for the use of the fish. These
delicate little trout are so sensitive to any impurity, that they
could not have remained in the same water during the drive home
without suffering. Indeed, they might have died before reaching the
pond.
My young readers may not know that fish breathe an element of the
water which is a part of air also. In fact, the same element which
sustains us sustains them also, viz., oxygen. Only one ninth part of
water, however, is oxygen, while of air it is one fifth. I dare say
you have all seen goldfishes, shut up in crystal prisons, swimming
their endless round in a quart or two of water. Perhaps you have
observed them lifting their heads above the surface, mouths wide open,
gasping for breath. The oxygen is exhausted from the water, and unless
it be speedily changed their mistress will lose her beautiful pets.
The trout were put into the pond--a small beginning, to be sure; but
it _was_ a beginning. How lonely they must have been at first! What a
boundless ocean it must have seemed to them!
We will hope they found some cosy harbor in the grassy-lined sides of
the island, where they could meet together and talk over their strange
experience of moving. Plenty of company came soon, however; for all
the boys in the neighborhood were interested in stocking the pond.
A boat was in progress in Mr. Davy's tool-house. The boys watched
every inch of its growth, from the shaping of the skeleton frame to
the last dash of the paint-brush. When it was done, the seats put
across from side to side, the coatings of white paint laid on, and
elevated upon four stakes to dry its glistening sides, the boys
thought nothing was ever half so beautiful; but when they saw it upon
the pond, gently rocking from side to side, the oars hanging in the
locks, and lazily swaying to the motion of the water, it seemed to
them more beautiful still.
This is not all a fancy sketch, dear boys and girls. Perhaps some of
the farmer children who read it may persuade their papas to make a
fishing-pond of some unsightly "hollow in the pasture" upon their own
farms.
L. M. D.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE SAVOYARD AND HIS DOG.]
STORIES ABOUT DOGS.
A Newfoundland dog belonging to a gentleman in Edinburgh was in the
habit of receiving a penny each day from his master, which he always
took to a baker's shop and bought a loaf of bread for himself. One day
a bad penny was given him by a gentleman by way of frolic. Dandie ran
off with it to the baker's, as usual, but was refused a loaf. The poor
dog waited a moment, as if considering what to do; he then returned to
the house of the gentleman who had given him the bad coin; and when
the servant opened the door, he laid it at her feet and walked away
with an air of contempt.
Some dogs are fond of music, while others seem not to be affected by
it in the slightest degree. These two anecdotes are related by the
author of a recent volume. He is speaking of a friend: "As soon as the
lamp is lighted and placed on the sitting-room table, a large dog of
the water-spaniel breed usually jumps up and curls himself around the
lamp. He never upsets it, but remains perfectly still. Now, my friend
is very musical, but during the time the piano is being played the dog
remains perfectly unmoved, until a particular piece is played. He will
not take the slightest notice of loud or soft pieces, neither
sentimental nor comic, but instantly the old tune entitled 'Drops of
Brandy' is played, he invariably raises his head and begins to howl
most piteously, relapsing into his usual state of lethargy as soon as
this tune is stopped. My friend cannot account for this action of the
dog in any way, nor can we learn from any source the reason of its
dislike.
"Again, the wife of a hotel-keeper, lately deceased, possessed a pet
lap-dog which delighted in listening to its mistress playing on the
piano; if the usual hour for her daily practice passed by, the dog
would grow impatient, snap and bark, and be perfectly uneasy until the
lady consented to gratify its wishes by sitting down to the instrument
and playing a few tunes. During this operation the dog would sit
motionless on a chair by her side; and when the music was ended, he
would jump down, quite satisfied for that day."
A CHILD'S PRAYER.
Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;
Bless thy little lamb to-night;
Through the darkness be thou near me,
Keep me safe till morning light.
Through the day thy hand hath led me,
And I thank thee for thy care;
Thou hast warmed and fed and clothed me,
Listen to my evening prayer.
[Illustration: {A man jumps from one steam locomotive to another}]
JOHN STOCKS AND "THE BISON."
One winter afternoon, as Archy Douglas sat studying his lessons, Mrs.
Falkoner, the housekeeper, came to invite him to have tea in her room.
While they were at the table, they heard the kitchen bell ring, at
which Mrs. Falkoner seemed surprised, for she said the weather would
incline few people to leave their own firesides.
It turned out, however, to be a visitor for Mrs. Falkoner herself, for
in a few minutes one of the servants came to say a person who called
himself John Stocks wanted to see her, and John presented himself in
the doorway without further delay.
An active man, with the look, at first sight, of the mate of a ship,
he stood gently stamping the snow off his boots on the door mat,
laughing in a low tone, as if he was very much pleased to see the
worthy Mrs. Falkoner, and was enjoying her stare of astonishment to
the full.
"Dear bless me, John, is it really you?" said Mrs. Falkoner, almost
running to meet him. "Whatever wind has blown you here?"
"No wind at all, Mary; nought but the snow," he said, laughing: but
correcting himself, he added, "Ah, well, there was a wind, after all,
for we're fairly drifted up a few miles t'other side of the Junction;
and so I got leave to run over and see you: not often I get the
chance--is it, now?"
All this time he had been taking off his outer coat; and when he was
fairly in the room, Archy found he was a young man, certainly not more
than thirty. He had crisp black hair, a bold, manly face, very red
with exposure to the weather, and at the same time expressive of great
determination of character. But one peculiarity about his face was,
that though so young, his forehead was not only scarred and lined, but
round his eyes and about his mouth it was puckered and wrinkled to a
most extraordinary degree. Archy felt a great curiosity about him,
but was not long left in doubt, for Mrs. Falkoner took care to make
her visitor known to the young gentleman as her youngest half brother
and an engine-driver on the main line.
A remarkably quiet man did John Stocks seem in regard to general
conversation; he said very little about the weather, and less about
things going on in the great world, and anything he did say on these
topics had almost to be coaxed out of him. However, he evidently took
great delight in giving all the family news, even to the most minute
particular.
"Of course you've heard," he said, warming one hand at the fire, "that
Bob's come home from America. Then that old Thompson has given up the
shop."
"Yes; so I heard," said Mrs. Falkoner, pouring out another cup of tea,
not appearing to take very great interest in them. "No accidents on
your line lately, I hope."
"Not much," was the answer, and he again went back to the family news.
"Jenny's got a baby," he said, suddenly, with great glee, as if this
piece of news was far before any other.
This intelligence at least was news to Mrs. Falkoner, and she listened
to all he had to say about it with great interest.
But when Mrs. Falkoner was called away for a few minutes, it became
necessary for Archy to entertain the visitor till her return.
Of course Archy had many questions to put about the railway and the
engines, and dangers and catastrophes. John was excessively civil, and
on this subject was full of intelligence; but when he was asked if his
own engine had broken down in the snow, he became quite horrified, if
not indignant.
"What, master, broke down?" he said. "Not a bit o't. I'd back the old
Bison against a drift twice as heavy. But, d'ye see, when you comes
and finds an engine and seven wagons o' minerals, and another engine,
and wagons besides that all ahead o' ye, and stuck fast, why, I says,
ye must give in. There ain't no use expecting yer engine to drive
_through_ 'em, so must lie by till all's cleared, which won't be for
five hours at least."
"How is it that the line's blocked up now?" asked Archy. "There has
been no more snow all day."
"Ay, that's true, master," said the engine-driver. "But d'ye see, a
mile from the Junction there's a bit of heavy cutting, with a steep
sloping bank on either side. Now, this afternoon there was a slip;
most all the snow drifted there, and part of the bank itself fell in,
and so there is a block-up. As I said afore, the mineral train, she
comes up first, and she sticks fast, and then we has to follow, as a
matter in course. But had my old Bison been afront, he'd have done
differently, I make no doubt."
"Is your engine a much stronger one?" said Archy, greatly amused to
hear how funny it was to call a train she, while he called the engine
he, and by an animal's name, too.
"It's not that he's stronger, sir, but he's got more go in him, has
the Bison. He's an extraordinary plucky engine. I've seen him do
wonderful things when Mat Whitelaw was driver, and me stoker to 'em.
I'll just tell you one on 'em, and then ye can judge what sort o'
stuff the Bison's made o'. It was one day in summer, some two years
ago; we had just taken in water at the junction, and were about to run
back to couple on the coaches, when an engine passed us tearing along
at a tremendous speed on the other line o' rail, but, mark me, without
a driver or stoker, or aught else on it. I thought my mate was mad,
when he got up steam, and off in the same direction; but in a moment
I saw what he was up to. The Bison was going in the chase. 'See to the
brake, John,' was all Mat said, when off we were after the runaway at
full speed. It seemed to me nought but a wild-goose chase; for, d'ye
see, master, we were on another line o' rails altogether. But Mat knew
what he was about, and it was my place to do his bidding. I was always
proud o' the old Bison before that morning, but I never knew till then
what a good engine was, and what was depending on it.
"You would have thought he fairly snorted to his work, going at the
rate o' forty miles an hour we were, and at last we got abreast o' the
runaway engine, and could have passed him, but that would have been
useless. There wasn't another driver on the whole line would have
thought of the thing so quickly as Mat did, nor could have regulated
the speed so nicely to a moment. The two different engines were
running just opposite each other on the two different lines, the
runaway being a good deal worn out now, and going much slower than at
first, when Mat he says to me, hoarsely, 'Jump across. It'll be safer
if I stick here to hold the regulator; but I'll go, if you'd rather
stay.' I had such confidence in Mat Whitelaw, that I could trust my
life with him before any mortal man; and the instant he gave the word,
I jumped, and did it safe. We each put on our brakes, and took breath,
and desperately hot we both were, I can assure you."
"Were you not terribly afraid?" said Archy, who had been almost
breathless during the recital.
"I can't say that we were," said John, coolly; "but I'll tell you I
was frightened enough the next moment, when Mat looked at his watch,
and sees that the down express was due in a few minutes on his line. I
believe that Mat thought more o' the passengers that might be
smashed, and the risk for the Bison, than o' his own safety. He said
it would never do to reverse the engines now; but if we kept on, he
thought there might yet be time to run into the siding at the nearest
station. So on we went once more at increased speed, straight on
ahead, though it was like running into the very face of the danger.
The telegraph had been hard at work, and the station people had been
laying their heads together, and they were at the points. So, when
they heard the whistle, and saw Mat putting on the brake, they at once
opened the points,--not a moment too soon, I can tell you,--and in he
ran into the siding. Now, what Mat did, sir, was what I call about
equal to most generals in war, and as great a benefit to society."
"He must be a brave fellow," said Archy; "and I hope you were both
rewarded for it."
"The company behaved very handsome," was the answer. "Mat got on to
the Great Western line at once; but the worst of it is, he and I are
parted, and the old Bison; he felt his loss as much, if not more than
me."
Mrs. Falkoner, who had come in during the latter part of the story,
now said,--
"But tell the young gentleman what you did your own self, and what the
company thought of your conduct."
"Tuts, Mary," he answered; "I did nought extraordinary; there ain't a
man in the service but could have done the same, had they known old
Bison as well as I did."
"I should like to hear it, John," said Archy, who was standing ready
to leave the brother and sister alone.
"Well, 'cept it be to tell you how I got to be driver of the Bison
myself, it's not worth the listening to. When Mat left, Bill Jones got
to be my mate--the worst driver on the line; at least he couldn't
manage the Bison. He did not understand that engine one bit, and was
constantly getting into trouble, till I was driven almost wild. Bill
would say, 'Bison, indeed! he ought to be called Donkey; it would suit
his kicking ways better.' It was quite true he kicked, but he never
did it with Mat on him, and went along the rails as smooth as oil.
Well, at one part o' the line, there is a gradual long incline, and
one day we were just putting on more steam to run up, when we sees at
the top two or three coaches coming tearing down straight upon us. We
knew there was a heavy excursion train on ahead, and we had been going
rather slow on that account, and this was some of the coaches that had
got uncoupled from the rest. Well, Bill, my mate, no sooner saw it
coming, than says he, 'Jump for your life!' and out he went. But I
knew what a quick engine the Bison was, and, moreover, I saw our guard
had noticed the danger, too, and would work with me; so I reversed
the engine, and ran back, until the coaches came up to us, but did no
further damage save giving us a bit of a shake as they struck on the
old Bison; and so we drove them afore us right up to the station. Bill
was killed, as might have been expected, for he had no faith in the
Bison whatever; and so the company, they came to see I understood that
engine, and they made me driver o' him from that time."
Archy now bade the worthy engine-driver good night, saying that he
should always take a greater interest in engines than ever before, and
that he should have liked very much to have seen such a famous one as
the Bison.
John Stocks evidently took this speech as a personal compliment, and,
in consequence, bade Archy a friendly good by, saying, as he did so,
"that people nowadays talked of nothing but ships and extraordinary
guns, and what not, but to his mind a good engine was before them
all."
MRS. GEORGE CUPPLES.
THE CHILDREN'S SONG.
Merrily sang the children, as their mother softly played;
With eager, outstretched faces a pretty group they made;
Their clear and bird-like voices ran loudly through the air,
Till "Baby" heard the music, and crept from stair to stair,
That she might join the singers, and in their gladness share.
Dear, merry little warblers! I love to hear you, too;
Your fresh, unworldly feelings, your hearts so fond and true,
Give to your songs a sweetness that no other strains possess;
They soothe the harassed spirit when troubles thickly press,
And evoke the warm petition, "O GOD, OUR CHILDREN BLESS!"
[Illustration: PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.]
PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.
How earnest Kate and Constance and Brother Willy look,
Counting up varied treasures, ship, bat and doll and book!
The three are very busy, and very happy too,
Trying to mend up old things to look almost like new.
The book was rather shabby, but Kate with paste and thread
Has made it firm and tidy, and rubbed it clean with bread.
And now, ere she resigns it, she lingers, glancing o'er
The pretty picture pages and well-known lines once more.
Constance has dressed the dolly--you see how nice it looks--
And all its things are fastened with little strings or hooks.
The ship with clean new rigging--Will's work--they eye with pride,
And they have quite a drawerful of other things beside--
Boxes of beads and sweeties, and many a top and ball,
Saved for the coming Christmas; and who's to have them all?
Not their own merry playmates, bright girl and happy lad,
Who'll meet for winter pastime like them well fed and clad.
No; children in close alleys, or the large workhouse near,
Our little friends--obeying Christ's words--will please and cheer.
And their own Christmas pleasures will seem more glad and sweet
For knowing such poor neighbors enjoy for once a treat.
[Illustration: {A man stands over Que, who is asleep on his mailbag}]
QUE.
He was a wee bit of a boy to carry the United States mail on his
back, seven miles, every day. He was only eleven years old, and as
long, to an inch, as the mail bag, which was just three feet and
eleven inches long. When he went along the road, you would sometimes
see him, and sometimes the bag; that was as you happened to be on this
or the other side of him. Many persons' hard hearts have been made to
open a crevice, at sight of the little fellow, to let a little jet of
pity spirt out for him. But "The Point" ran out three miles and a half
to the south of the county road and the stage coach, and the nearest
coach post-office; and because it was only a small point, and sparsely
settled, it couldn't afford a horse for the short distance; and
because it was a short distance, no man, or boy, who was able to do a
full day's work, would break into it to walk the seven miles; and
because it was seven miles, no one who was not well could walk so far
every day, and the year round. So it happened that the job was up for
bids one spring, and the person who would carry the mail from Gingoo
to the Point for the smallest amount of money, was to have it for a
year.
One woman offered to carry it for eighty dollars; another for seventy;
one big boy offered for sixty-five; he'd make the girls at home do the
work, he said,--they hadn't anything else to do,--and he would give
them each a new ribbon to pay for it: and between you and me, I am
very glad that that boy didn't get the job.