interest, till he got an upset, which nearly put an end to his
velocipeding forever.
"Hi, there! Auster's coming!" shouted Tom, as he came rattling down
the long, steep street outside the park.
They stepped aside, and he whizzed by, arms and legs going like mad,
and the general appearance of a runaway engine. It would have been a
triumphant descent, if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one
of the openings, and sent the whole concern helter-skelter into the
gutter. Polly laughed as she ran to view the ruin, for Tom lay flat on
his back with the velocipede atop of him, while the big dog barked
wildly, and his master scolded him for his awkwardness. But when she
saw Tom's face, Polly was frightened, for the color had all gone out
of it, his eyes looked strange and dizzy, and drops of blood began to
trickle from a great cut on his forehead. The man saw it, too, and had
him up in a minute; but Tom couldn't stand, and stared about him in a
dazed sort of way, as he sat on the curbstone, while Polly held her
handkerchief to his forehead, and pathetically begged to know if he
was killed.
"Don't scare mother--I'm all right. Got upset, didn't I?" he asked,
presently, eying the prostrate velocipede with more anxiety about its
damages than his own.
"I knew you'd hurt yourself with that horrid thing. Just let it be,
and come home, for your head bleeds dreadfully, and everybody is
looking at us," whispered Polly, trying to tie the little handkerchief
over the ugly cut.
"Come on, then Jove! how queer my head feels! Give us a boost, please.
Stop howling, Maud, and come home. You bring the machine, and I'll pay
you, Pat." As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself up, and steadying
himself by Polly's shoulder, issued his commands, and the procession
fell into line. First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the
good-natured Irishman, trundling "that divil of a whirligig," as he
disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero,
supported by the faithful Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in
tears, bearing Tom's cap.
LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: "It would have been a triumphant descent, if a big dog
had not bounced suddenly through one of the openings."]
[Decoration]
POLLY ARRIVES.
The train was just in when Tom reached the station, panting like a
race-horse and as red as a lobster with the wind and the run.
"Suppose she'll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one else;
and how ever shall I know her? Too bad of Fan to make me come alone!"
thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream through the depot,
and feeling rather daunted at the array of young ladies who passed. As
none of them seemed looking for any one, he did not accost them, but
eyed each new batch with the air of a martyr. "That's her," he said to
himself, as he presently caught sight of a girl, in gorgeous array,
standing with her hands folded, and a very small hat perched on top of
a very large "chig-non," as Tom pronounced it. "I suppose I've got to
speak to her, so, here goes;" and, nerving himself to the task, Tom
slowly approached the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown her
clothes into rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles,
curls, and feathers was there.
"I say, if you please, is your name _Polly Milton_?" meekly asked Tom,
pausing before the breezy stranger.
"No, it isn't," answered the young lady, with a cool stare that
utterly quenched him.
"Where in thunder is she?" growled Tom, walking off in high dudgeon.
The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time to see a
fresh-faced little girl running down the long station, and looking as
if she rather liked it. As she smiled, and waved her bag at him, he
stopped and waited for her, saying to himself, "Hullo! I wonder if
that's Polly?"
Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half-shy, half-merry
look in her blue eyes, as she said, inquiringly, "This is Tom, isn't
it?"
"Yes. How did you know?" and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking
without thinking of it, he was so surprised.
"Oh, Fan told me you'd got curly hair and a funny nose, and kept
whistling, and wore a gray cap pulled over your eyes; so I knew you
directly." And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner, having
politely refrained from calling the hair "red," the nose "a pug," and
the cap "old."
"Where are your trunks?" asked Tom, as he was reminded of his duty by
her handing him the bag, which he had not offered to take.
"Father told me not to wait for any one, else I'd lose my chance of a
hack; so I gave my check to a man, and there he is with my trunk;" and
Polly walked off after her one modest piece of baggage, followed by
Tom, who felt a trifle depressed by his own remissness in polite
attentions.
LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
[Illustration: "THIS IS TOM, ISN'T IT?"]
KINDNESS TO ANIMALS.
Last month a gentleman related an incident in his early life, showing
how kindness to the brute creation makes them entirely subservient to
our will. Similar experience is familiar to every one of us. This
volume would not begin to contain the proofs which come under notice
every day of our lives. Your dog or your cat understands your
disposition as well as your brother or your sister. Give them a kick
as you pass by, pull their ears or tail whenever you get an
opportunity, and they will shun you as they would the plague. On the
other hand, speak a kind word to them, give them a morsel of food, or
fondle them kindly, and they will soon treat you as a friend.
I have a cat who waits for my coming home every night as regularly as
the sun. And if, perchance, I do not come at my usual time in the
train, she shows her disappointment by mewing. She will roll over as
obediently as you ever saw a dog, at the word of command. After
supper, when I put on my slippers and take the evening paper, puss
takes possession of my lap, and then she seems contented and happy.
Kindness did all this--nothing else. Any cat can be taught to "roll
over" in a week's time. Any cat will be your friend, and love you, if
you will treat her well.
It is precisely thus with wild animals. They know who their friends
are as well as you know yours. They don't need to be told. There is no
end of stories about the elephant, the horse, the dog; about their
docility, and the affection they have for those who treat them kindly.
Even the lion, when brought under the dominion of man, becomes
strongly attached to those who treat him with kindness. An instance of
this is related of one that was kept in the menagerie of the Tower of
London. He had been brought from India, and on the passage was given
in charge to one of the sailors. Long before the ship arrived at
London, the lion and Jack had become excellent friends. When Nero--as
the lion was called--was shut up in his cage in the Tower, he became
sulky and savage to such an extent that it was dangerous even for his
keeper, who was not over kind to him, to approach him.
After Nero had been a prisoner for some weeks, a party of sailors,
Jack being among the number, paid a visit to the menagerie. The keeper
warned them not to go near the lion, who every now and then turned
round to growl defiance to the spectators.
"What! old shipmate!" cried Jack, "don't you know me? What cheer, old
Nero, my lad?"
Instantly the lion left off growling, sprang up to the bars of his
cage, and put his nose between them. Jack patted it on the head, and
it rubbed his hand with its whiskers like a cat, showing evident signs
of pleasure.
"Ah," said Jack, turning to the keeper and spectators who stood
looking on with astonishment, "Nero and I were shipmates, and you see
he isn't like some folks; he don't forget an old friend."
[Illustration: {Jack and the lion are reunited}]
But here's a story of another sort. Some weeks ago a caravan was
exhibiting in Illinois. Among the animals was an elephant, to whom a
mischievous boy had given an apple with tobacco concealed inside. As
soon as the animal discovered the trick, the boy began to laugh at
the joke which he had played on the creature. The elephant, however,
looked angry, and the keeper, having heard of the affair, told the boy
to keep out of his reach, unless he wanted to be hurt.
But, although the lad did not come so near that the elephant could get
hold of him, he hung round in the vicinity. Presently a pail of water
was brought for the elephant to drink. The insulted creature filled
his trunk as full as he could, and seeing a good opportunity, blew the
whole of it upon the boy who had given him tobacco, wetting him from
head to foot. Verdict of the spectators, and of the readers of this
book, "Served him right."
ROBERT HANDY.
[Illustration: {Children playing around a haystack}]
ALL AMONG THE HAY.
All among the buttercups,
All among the hay!
Oh that spring would come again,
With its merry May!
Hasten summer's pleasant days,
Summer's pleasant hours;
Send us back the butterflies
And the pretty flowers.
Yes, bright days will come again,
Winter soon will go,
And the smiling sun shall melt
All this dreary snow.
Then beside the flowing stream
Merrily we'll play,
All among the buttercups,
All among the hay.
THE MOUSE AND CANARY.
A lady, having gone rather early into an apartment in which she had a
fine canary, whose cage hung on the knob of the window-shutter, was
much surprised to find the bird sitting asleep in the bottom of the
cage, side by side with a live mouse, also asleep. On raising the
window-blind, the mouse squeezed itself through between the wires of
the cage and fled. The box of seeds, crumbs, etc., intended for the
canary was found to be cleaned out, doubtless devoured by the strange
companion. On the following evening, while the lady and her husband
were sitting quietly by the fireside, they were still further
astonished at seeing a mouse (no doubt the same one) climbing nimbly
up the shutter and entering the cage between the wires. Thinking it
might do harm to the bird, they tried to catch the mouse, but it made
its escape as before. The cage was then suspended from a nail, so that
the mouse could not gain access. Strange to say, however, on the
following morning the canary was found asleep on the floor of the room
(the cage door having been left open), and a piece of potato beside
him. Most likely the mouse had spent the whole of the night there.
[Decoration]
THE TWO FRIENDS.
A STORY FOR BOYS.
Many years ago two youths, whom we will call only by their Christian
names,--Walter and Sidney,--were at the same boarding-school, at
Mount's Bay, in Cornwall. They were each the sons of captains in the
merchant service; but though they were equals in station, there was a
great difference in their circumstances, for Walter inherited
considerable property. Sidney's father had not been a prosperous man,
and it was as much as he could do to give his boy a good education.
Among the whole school there were no two lads so closely knit in
friendship as Walter and Sidney; they were within a week of the same
age (thirteen) at the time our narrative begins. It is always a
pleasant sight, and also a good example, when two intelligent,
kind-hearted boys become friends. They show to others what a
disinterested and noble thing true friendship is. Thus, in their
lessons and their sports, these boys were helpful to each other. They
shared together every indulgence that the kindness of friends procured
them, and if any added study were imposed, Sidney, who learned easily,
would, after he had swiftly mastered his own lesson, take upon himself
both the office of teacher and companion, and never rest until Walter
was as well up in the task as he himself was. Most certainly the
punishment of one was ever the punishment of both, for, if they were
sharers in each other's joys, they were not the less so in their
troubles. Perhaps the vigilance which each exercised over the other
was the reason why they were comparatively seldom in any very serious
disgrace, and their characters stood high in the school, both with
masters and pupils.
But while in the little world within the walls of the school all went
equally well with the youthful friends, in the great world outside,
heavy troubles came to Sidney's father. The vessel he commanded was
lost near the mouth of the River Mersey, and though the crew were
saved, yet it was judged that some mismanagement caused the disaster,
and Sidney's father lost his certificate, and no owners would again
trust him to command a vessel. The poor man took this so much to heart
that he fell into a bad state of health, and declined so rapidly, that
the week after Sidney received from Liverpool the first intimation of
his father's illness, tidings came that he was dead.
It was in the autumnal quarter, about eight weeks before Christmas,
that the sad letter was received which told Sidney he was now an
orphan. The only aunt the poor boy had, his father's sister, wrote the
account, and she was obliged to add the painful fact that, with the
loss of his father, Sidney would lose the means of further education,
and must look forward to some humble means of earning his daily bread,
with as little delay as possible.
[Illustration: "Why, Sid,--what's this? Dear old fellow, what's the
matter?"]
In his first great grief at hearing of his father's death, all else
seemed trivial. Change of circumstances, hard work, any trouble, would
have been as nothing if his father had been spared to him. But after
the first shock of his sorrow, Sidney admitted that he must leave
school; that it would not be honest, either to his aunt or his
schoolmaster, to remain. Strangely enough, the very week in which
this trouble came to Sidney, his friend Walter was at home for a few
days, joining in the celebration of his father's fiftieth birthday. He
had wanted Sidney to have a holiday also; but the latter, being
already aware of his father's reverses and illness, though having no
fear of any greater grief impending over him, had declined his
friend's kind invitation. So it happened that, while a happy jubilee
was being celebrated in Walter's home, Sidney was suddenly made a poor
orphan.
Never, during the three years that they had been school-fellows, had
the countenances of the two boys showed such a contrast of expression
as when they met in the playground a few minutes after Walter had
alighted at the gate, on his return from the pleasant sojourn at his
home. He was flushed with health and happiness, and ran up, with a
boyish shout of mirth, to greet his friend. Poor Sidney, pale and
choking with the effort to restrain his tears, could only grasp the
proffered hand in silence, and turn away his head, unable to look
up,--almost unable to bear the pent-up grief that throbbed at his
heart, and tightened his chest with a sense of suffocation.
"Why, Sid, what's this? Dear old fellow, what's the matter?" was
Walter's astonished inquiry, when a boy near whispered in his ear the
brief words,--
"His father's dead!"
That explained all; and Walter, twining his arm round his friend, led
him away to a quiet spot, where they could weep together. The greater
grief so completely absorbed Sidney on his first meeting with Walter,
that it was not until the next day that any mention was made between
them of how this bereavement would affect the future. Young and
prosperous as Walter was, he knew well enough how sad it would be for
his friend to lose the advantages of education just at the time when
his studies would be needed to fit him for some pursuit in life.
Meanwhile, as Sidney's aunt had not been able to send the money for
the poor lad to go so long a journey as from West Cornwall to
Liverpool, to attend his father's funeral, there was no immediate
hurry at the school in preparing for the youth's departure. Walter,
therefore, had time to carry out a plan which his affection suggested.
He wrote an urgent letter to his father, filled with praises of
Sidney, and accounts of all the help which his cleverness and conduct
had afforded to him (Walter), and earnestly pleading that he might
have the gratification of paying for a year or more schooling for his
orphan friend, adding, as a concluding argument,--
"You know, papa, that I have forty pounds that aunt Margaret put in
the savings bank for me, to do as I like with; and how could I spend
it better, or so well, as in helping a good clever fellow like Sidney?
It would be a real treat to me--the best I could have; and you
promised to increase my pocket-money: you needn't; I can screw myself
down famously, if you'll only give it to help Sid, who's always been
helping me, I can tell you."
Walter was too earnest, it seemed, to pick and choose his words. He
meant to have corrected and rewritten his letter, but there was no
time; so he sent it, faults and all. And his father, in reading it,
felt the heart-throb that beat in his boy's generous words; and though
a man not at all demonstrative, he was observed to be taken as if with
a sudden cold in his head, to judge by the vigorous use of his pocket
handkerchief; but all he said was conveyed in a single nautical
phrase,--"The youngster is on the right tack."
The day after, the principal of the Mount's Bay School received an
intimation that Sidney was to continue his studies there as long as
he proved diligent; but the name of his patron was not to be told him.
So, to the lad's great satisfaction, he was informed that a friend who
had known his father would, for the present, help him. Walter knew the
truth, but though he felt the intense joy that a good action always
yields to the doer even more than to the receiver, he was careful to
obey his father, and keep the secret.
If Sidney was studious before, he redoubled his diligence now, and in
the year made such great progress, that a Dutch gentleman, who visited
the school, offered him a situation in his office at Rotterdam; and as
Sidney knew that a residence abroad would be a great improvement to
him, and also was eager to enter upon some mode of earning his own
living, he wished earnestly to take the offer. At no time during their
now four years of mutual school-life and friendship would Walter have
heard with patience of Sidney leaving. But a parting now came.
Walter's father had become an invalid, and was ordered to a warmer
climate. The family removed to Florence, in Italy, and, of course,
Walter went with them; his greatest grief being that Sidney could not
accompany them.
With the keenest pangs of youthful sorrow, the two friends parted,
promising to write often, looking forward to meet at no distant
future, for the world did not seem too wide for them, accustomed as
they were, by association, to maritime people and travellers.
It was three months after Walter had left, when Sidney took leave of
his kind master, and the school which had been a home to him, and
went, in cold spring weather, to the Venice of the north--Rotterdam.
When he left he made one request, which his tutor thought it not wrong
to grant. He desired to know the name of the benefactor who had so
munificently helped him; and though he was not very much surprised
when he heard the source from whence the aid had come, and was indeed
glad that his gratitude was due where his friendship had so long been
given, yet it naturally moved him very deeply when he found how Walter
had been the means of effecting this. He also remembered vividly some
acts of self-denial that added to the delicacy of his friend's
silence, and made the action truly noble.
"I can never repay you, dear Walter, nor your kind father; I shall
ever be your grateful debtor," he wrote; "but I will try to employ the
talents you have cultivated, so as not, at all events, to disgrace
your friendship."
Though railways made the continent open to travellers, and the desire
to see his friend Walter never languished, yet years went by and it
was not realized. Some tidings there were of reverse of fortune
through a lawsuit, and of journeyings to different places. The last
that Sidney heard of his friend was in a letter from Madeira, where
his father was lingering on in too weak a state to bear removal.
The desultory, unsettled life that the family had led seemed to have
prevented Walter from making much progress as a sculptor,--a
profession he had thought of while in Italy,--and his letters were
somewhat vague and unsatisfactory as to his future plans.
Then came a long interval with no tidings, and afterwards a returned
letter with the one word DEAD, written under the name of Walter's
father on the superscription.
So, like a pleasant morning that ends in clouds and gloom, the
friendship seemed to end which had so gladdened the youth of Sidney,
and even blended with all the fondest memories of his boyhood. Many
were the prayers he breathed, that one who had been as a brother might
not be entirely lost to him.
As years went on great changes occurred in the firm that Sidney
served. He had risen in the confidence of his employers. They had a
business in Australia, under the care of a partner, who was also a
relative. He died, and as there was a sudden increase of business
facilities at Melbourne, Sidney was sent out, and a share in the
concern was given him. His surname did not appear. He was announced,
as many a junior partner is, by the little word "Co." appended to the
principal name of the firm.
Sidney had been in the colony some three years, and was now a stalwart
young man of twenty-seven, when one day, riding on horseback towards a
suburb of the rapidly growing city of Melbourne, called Brighton, he
noticed a gang of young men working on the road. He knew that many
respectable emigrants had come over during the first excitement of the
gold discoveries. Clerks used only to the pen, students, unsuccessful
professional men, all in the first delirium fever-fit of the gold
fever, had come in the expectation that hands unused to hard toil
could use the pickaxe of the gold-digger, or wash the rubble for the
precious ore. Ah, it was a wild, a fatal delusion! Many a gentleman
and scholar pined to death with hardships and disappointments, while
some, after weeks of sickness, rose to earn their bread by the
humblest manual labor. Working on the roads, for which government pay
was given, was often the resource of those who had been worsted in
every other effort. Unable to help among such numbers of claimants on
sympathy, Sidney had contented himself with joining in the
subscriptions raised for the relief of the sick and destitute: but
now, as he passed along, he felt a desire to speak to the workers in
this gang. As his eye scanned them he saw only a group of thin,
toil-worn, weather-beaten men, with rough beards half hiding their
wasted features. Nothing was more acceptable, as a recreation to the
emigrants, than books, and Sidney had commenced a lending library of
books and publications; so, after a cheerful salutation, he now reined
up his horse, and began to tell them of his plan, and to add, "I have
opened a room, friends, two nights a week,--it is but a rough shed,
but I hope to make it better soon,--as a meeting-place, where a
comfortable, pleasant, and profitable evening may be spent."
"Then," said a man with a strong Irish brogue, "your honor's the great
Dutch merchant."
"Yes, at the Dutch merchant's store; but I am English; my name is
Sidney--"
There was a wild panting sort of cry, and a man in the group fell to
the ground.
"He's in a fit." "He oughtn't to have come." "Poor fellow!" "Fetch
water!" "Give him air!" These were the cries that were uttered.
Meanwhile, throwing his horse's bridle over a post, Sidney dismounted,
and helped to lift in his strong arms the tall but wasted form of a
man from the ground. He was borne to a bank at the side of the road.
Sidney put aside the matted hair that fell over his brow, and taking
the pannikin, which some one had filled with water, he put it to his
lips, wholly unconscious that he had ever seen that face before, until
the eyes slowly opened, and the old expression, the soul-gaze, shone
in them, and the hoarse and altered voice, yet with tones that woke
old echoes, said, "Sidney! Dear friend! Don't--don't you know
me--Walter?"