this wasted, worn skeleton of a man. O, the tide of feeling that
rushed through Sidney's every vein, as he recognized his early
friend--his benefactor! To raise him up, put him on his own horse,
lead him gently to his own home, and, once there, to send for the best
medical skill, and tend him through the illness that supervened, with
a tenderness feminine in its thoughtful gentleness, was Sidney's
privilege.
In the intervals of his illness Walter related that his father had
died at Madeira; that, hoping to obtain a settlement of some claims,
he had visited America; that, waiting to have better news of himself
to communicate, he put off writing from time to time; that he had gone
with a company of adventurous young men to California, and there,
instead of finding gold, spent all his means. Hoping to retrieve his
position, he had come to Australia, and there his lot, though hard,
was only that of hundreds, in the first trying time of mad excitement
and wild adventure. "And I must get to work again. I'm not going to be
here idle much longer," he said, at the conclusion of a conversation
on the past.
"As to work, I've plenty for you to do."
"I can't continue to be a burden on you, Sid. I've no claim."
"You've every claim. As to burdens, you remind me how long I was a
burden on you and your father. Once for all, I say, the help you gave
me fitted me to get my living, and, by God's blessing, to make my way
in life. Share with me in my business."
Walter was beginning to interrupt; but Sidney, raising his hand,
deprecatingly, said,--
"You have still the advantage over me, that you gave me help when I
had done nothing to deserve it of you. I only make a small
repayment--a mere instalment of a great debt. Dear Walter, my good
fellow, let there be no contest between us. Are we not friends? Does
that not mean helpers?"
And so it was. The tie, never broken, was knit again yet more closely.
Brothers in friendship, they ultimately became so in relationship; for
as soon as Walter had a home, he invited a sister to share it with
him, and she, in a few months after her arrival, became the wife of
Sidney. And so the bond of brotherhood prospered, for many years.
PUSS.
Is it not a little more than surprising that the common domestic cat,
an animal which we are better acquainted with than the dog, should be
permitted to grow up with so little instruction? I think so. Almost
every dog has some tricks; many dogs have a great number. Yet how
rarely do you see a cat of which anything more is expected than that
she shall purr when she is petted, play with your ball of yarn, or
growl when you give her a nice dinner.
[Illustration: MUFFY RINGING THE BELL.]
You teach your dog to bark at the word of command, to roll over, to
stand upon his hind feet, and hold up his paws, to jump through a
small hoop, to sing, and a thousand other pretty tricks; but why do
you neglect your cat? You can teach her all these things,--except to
bark,--and quite as easily. Any cat, not more than a year old, can be
taught, in less than fifteen days, to "roll over;" and she learns
other capers quite as freely. Bear in mind that to do this you have to
appeal to the creature's love of food. That is her nature. She cares
nothing for you; it is the dinner she is after. So, when you desire
to teach puss to turn over, take her when she is hungry. Put your hand
upon her back, and turn her over; and then give her a small bit of
meat. Gradually she will require less and less force. She will
understand what you want, and know what must be done in order to be
served. Never disappoint her, but let the food immediately follow
obedience. Other tricks may be taught in the same way. If you wish to
teach her to go through a hoop, you will be obliged at first to take
her up bodily, and put her through. But this will not be for a great
while. She will soon understand what you desire.
I once had a cat which would open any door in the house. She learned
herself! The latch-doors came pretty easy, but the knobs bothered her
a good deal. She persevered, however, and became an expert at either.
I have a cat now--a Maltese--which is a marvel of intelligence. There
seems to be no end to her interesting feats. She is terribly rough at
play; if you impose upon her, you must look out for her claws. She
watches for my coming from the city quite regularly; and as soon as I
sit down to read, she plants herself in my lap. She had some kittens a
few weeks ago. One evening, soon after, as I sat in the rocking-chair,
with my newspaper, puss came into the room with one of her kittens in
her mouth. She placed it carefully in my lap, and immediately went for
the other one.
A neighbor of mine has a cat which rings a bell when she is hungry.
The bell is a small one, and hangs about a yard high, so that Miss
Puss has to exert herself to reach it.
Another cat I heard of recently seems to have discovered a way to get
into the warm kitchen whenever she is accidentally shut out in the
cold.
At the side wall of the house there is a small aperture, of about two
feet square, opening into the kitchen, and intended for the use and
convenience of butchers, bakers, or grocers, who would otherwise have
to go round to the back entrance; inside of this aperture is suspended
a bell, which Miss Muffy must, no doubt, have often seen used by
butchers, bakers, and grocers, to call the attention of cook. She has,
therefore, adopted the same plan; and when tired of her prowlings
about the garden, or hunting for birds in the adjoining wood, she
springs up to the little door, and, with her paw or head, keeps ring,
ring, ringing at the bell until the door is opened, and she gets
admission.
Muffy is not only a very intelligent little cat, but I can tell you
she is also a very good-natured one, too. She submits to being dressed
in the doll's clothes, and will sometimes lie quite still in the
cradle for hours together, and when told to stand upon her hind legs
and give a kiss, does so with a gracefulness hitherto unknown in the
annals of cats.
These funny marks of intelligence in dumb creatures are quite
interesting. As you grow older, you will spend many an hour in trying
to discover where the dividing line between INSTINCT and REASON is. It
is SOMEWHERE. If you hatch some chickens by heat, miles away from any
other fowls, the hens will cackle, and the cocks will crow, all the
same, although no one has taught them. Why is it?
If you could hatch a robin's egg in the same way, far removed from
other birds, the bird would, when grown, build its nest precisely as
other robins do, and of the same material, although it never saw a
pattern in the world. INSTINCT, or, if you prefer, NATURE, teaches all
this. But it is not REASON, as you will know as you grow older.
Just exactly so it is the instinct of a dog or a cat to obey you
whenever you require it. Take notice that you can never teach a dumb
creature by observation. One cat will never learn to turn over by
observing that another one gets its food thereby.
But I will not try to mix you up in this discussion now. You will
reach it soon enough if you live. And when you reach it, you will find
a very difficult, as well as a very interesting question to solve.
ROBERT HANDY.
[Illustration: {The children watch the toy village burning}]
HOLIDAY LUCK.
"Mother, mother!" with a prolonged _er_.
"Mary, where's mother?" and the children raced through the house,
looking into every room on the way.
"Here, Willie; what do you want?"
"O, mother, we are to have a holiday. Miss Mortimer has gone home."
"Isn't it fun!" cried Ada, swinging on her mother's arm.
"That depends upon how you spend it," Mrs. Constant replied.
"Why, a holiday means to have fun, and do just what you please,"
asserted Willie.
"And not get any lessons," said Dolly, snipping the tape with her
mother's scissors.
Mrs. Constant took them from her, and smiled on the excited three.
"I hope you will have a pleasant day, and try to be good."
"Not too good, mother," expostulated Willie.
"No, only don't get into mischief."
"What shall we do first?" asked Ada.
"I don't know," replied Dolly. "Isn't it fun to have one whole day
which is not Christmas or Thanksgiving?"
For a short time the children remained in Mrs. Constant's room,
upsetting her baskets, tangling her silk, and plying her with
numberless questions.
"I think you had better take a run in the garden," she finally said.
"You are so restless and full of holiday, I think the fresh air would
relieve you."
"What a dear mother!" they cried; and having tumultuously kissed her,
they repaired to the garden.
They lived in a country town, and had a large plot of ground at the
back of the house, through the farther end of which flowed a brook.
Each one had his garden bed, and at one side was a summer-house, where
they kept their garden tools and many of their playthings, also a pet
rabbit, named Blackhawk. It was too late in the fall for flowers, only
a few sturdy asters and hardy verbenas being in blossom, and they
played tag, hide-and-seek, and chased each other with handfuls of dead
leaves. While they were thus occupied, their mother called them, and
told them that aunt Clara had sent for her to come and spend the day;
she had sprained her ankle, and wanted some one to sit with her.
"Won't you be home to dinner?" they asked in despairing chorus.
"No; but Mary will take care of you, and you can enjoy yourselves; but
don't do foolish things, or your holiday will be spoiled. Now, you
must all be mother to each other, that I may find you well and happy
when I come home."
For a while after she had gone, they amused themselves being mother to
one another; but Willie made such a failure that they gave it up.
"Let us play with the dolls a little while," suggested Dolly.
The proposition met with favor, and they went to the summer-house. Ada
had a large family of paper dolls, and Dolly of wooden ones. They
played tea party, and dinner, and visiting; but Willie could not
forget that they had a holiday, and he longed to do something unusual.
"You have too many girls, Ada," he cried. "Let us play China, and burn
some up."
A funeral pyre was soon constructed with splinters of wood, Dolly ran
to the kitchen for matches, and Willie turned his jacket inside out,
tied Ada's sack about his neck by the sleeves, put the watering-pot on
his head, and was ready to personate the priest. Ada selected four
victims, who were securely bound with thirty cotton, and laid on the
pile.
"Let us have Blackhawk for the idol," cried Ada.
Blackhawk was brought forth, a string of colored beads put about his
neck, and he was bolstered up in the arm-chair of the Princess
Widdlesbee, Dolly's largest doll. But when the match was struck and
applied with a great flourish, he sprang from his throne, and fled to
the farthest corner.
"The god is displeased; the sacrifice must cease," cried Ada, who
began to feel remorse as her dolls crisped and turned to ashes.
"No," shouted Willie, "I am the priest; I know he means burn all;" and
seizing a brand, he applied it to Dolly's village, which stood near
by. For a moment it was fun to see the flames bursting from the roofs
of houses, and lapping about the fences; but Dolly soon gave a cry of
dismay.
"Susanna and Posy are in the church; I don't want them burned."
"To the rescue!" shouted the heathen priest, snatching the pot from
his head, and running to fill it with water.
But Dolly could not wait, and had already burned a hole in her apron,
and singed her hair, trying to save her favorites. Blackhawk cowered
in the corner, stamping his hind feet, while Ada was pulling apart the
pyre on which her dolls had perished.
"O, Willie, the floor is burned. Hurry, hurry!" cried Dolly.
Willie ran, deluged the burning village, and Dolly seized Susanna and
Posy, free from damage, with the exception of Posy's legs, which were
so long, they lay outside the church door, and were burned off. When
they cleared away the ruins, there was a round, black spot on the
floor, where the village had stood, and the children's hands and
clothes were wet and grimy.
"Do you think mother will care?" asked Dolly, after they had looked
solemnly at one another.
"I don't believe she will as long as we did not burn any more,"
replied Willie, stepping back on the rest of the matches.
They were explosive, and lighted with a snap that made him jump. When
he saw what he had done, he turned the watering-pot over them, and put
his foot on it.
"Now they are safe," he cried. "Let us bury the pieces of the
village."
"No," said Ada. "After I get a carrot for Blackhawk, let us make a
raft of some of them, and put the rest on, and let them float away on
the brook."
This was speedily done, and when the little craft had passed the
boundaries of their garden, Willie proposed they should build a dam,
and some time he would put up a mill. They were hardly fairly at work
when Mary called them to dinner.
Willie took the head of the table, and was rather offended that Mary
did not let him cut the meat.
"At any rate, I'll help the pie," he declared.
Mary prudently cut the pieces before she put it on, and while they
were eating it, Willie very grandly said,--
"You may go now, Mary."
His mother usually dismissed her at dessert, and Willie wished to have
all the privileges of the place he occupied. Mary retired with a
smile, and when the first pieces of pie were disposed of, Willie
offered the girls a second. It was mince pie, very nice and tempting;
and though Ada knew a second piece was not generally allowed, she
thought a holiday might make a difference. Dolly was busy feeding
Prig,--a brisk Scotch terrier, with large, bright eyes, stiff, rough
hair, and a tail about two inches long,--and refused.
After dinner they returned to their dam, Ada and Dolly bringing the
material, and Willie building. But Dolly became dissatisfied, and
insisted on being allowed to work in the water, while Ada deserted
altogether, and played with Blackhawk, whom they had let out.
"Dolly," cried Willie, "won't you go to my room and get my hammer? and
be quick, for I've got to hold this while you are gone."
The dam was nearly finished, and both were much excited with the
success of their work; for the water had collected in quite a pool
above, and would soon flow over in a fine fall. Dolly ran, leaving the
doors open behind her. Back she came, and Willie was carefully
adjusting the last beam, when Ada shouted,--
"Here's Prig, and Blackhawk's out."
All three started, calling Prig, and running after her and Blackhawk
in wild confusion. Prig misunderstood their anxiety, and supposing
they were setting her on the rabbit, joined in the hunt. Poor
Blackhawk tried to escape, but Prig caught him, gave one shake, and
the pretty rabbit lay dead.
"O, you wicked dog!" cried Ada, while Willie and Dolly stood quite
overcome by the misfortune.
Prig saw in a moment she had made a mistake, and when Willie rushed at
her with uplifted hammer, hid behind the summer-house. With loud grief
and many tears, the children raised their dead pet, and laid it on a
bench in the out-house. Its blue eyes were half open, its soft
black-and-white fur wet and rumpled, and they cried and blamed Prig as
they tenderly arranged it on the bench. Ada fairly howled, and Bridget
and Mary ran out to see what was the matter.
"Ay," said Bridget, "and it was Dolly herself left the door open,
though I told her to shut it."
"I didn't know Prig was there," sobbed Dolly.
"It's all Prig's fault," said Willie, "and I'll kill her."
"No, no," pleaded Dolly, with whom Prig was an especial favorite.
A consultation was held over the bench, and it was finally decided
that the case should be referred to Mrs. Constant on her return,
though Willie still vowed vengeance. Prig had crept back, and crouched
in the doorway; but when the children saw her, they drove her away,
throwing stones and calling her the worst names they could invent. She
skulked outside very unhappy, until Willie shut her up in the
summer-house, while the children spent the rest of the long afternoon
over their dead rabbit. Dolly tied the Princess Widdlesbee's best blue
sash about his neck, Willie emptied his toolbox to lay him in, and Ada
spread her best doll's bed-quilt over him. Then they sat and cried
together until Dolly started up, and said,--
"There's mother."
The first thing Mrs. Constant heard when she entered the house was the
cry of,--
"Mother, mother!"
Not with the joyous ring it had in the morning, but with an appeal in
it which told her some trouble had come which mother could best heal.
All told the story separately and together, laying Blackhawk on her
knees, and crying on her shoulder.
"And I'm going to hang Prig for a wicked, bad dog," said Willie, to
conclude. "She is a murderer!" and he fiercely wiped his tears.
"My dear little boy, I don't think poor Prig was to blame at all."
"O, mother!" cried a mournful chorus.
"No; Dolly left the door open, you all excited her, and I begin to
think you were having too much of what Willie calls a holiday."
"But it wasn't her holiday, and she's killed Blackhawk. O-o-o!" and
they all cried again.
Mrs. Constant soothed them, and sympathized.
"Don't cry any more. You will be sick. I would not kill Prig, for then
she would be gone too, and to-morrow you would be sorry. And besides,
she was only trying to do as you wanted her to, and following out her
doggish instinct."
But half convinced, the children went to the summer-house and called
Prig; but she would not come. Then they drove her out, and as she
stood trembling before them, reproached her, and raising their arms,
shouted,--
"Go!"
Prig hesitated a moment, looked from one to another, then with her
tail between her legs, her hair on end, she uttered an unearthly howl,
and fled at full speed, crowded under the gate, and disappeared.
The children went to bed early, as Mrs. Constant thought the
excitement was bad for them, and in the night she was called to the
little girl's room. Dolly was feverish, and ill with a sore throat,
and Ada in great pain. They were sick all night, and in the morning
Mrs. Constant heard about the second piece of pie and Dolly's dam
building. Her sleeves had been wet all the afternoon, and the grief,
added to the pie and wet, had made them both ill.
They were not able to go out that day, and Willie buried Blackhawk
alone, while they watched him sadly from the window. They took their
last farewell of their pet at the kitchen door, and would have given
all their yesterday's sport to have helped Willie with the funeral. He
had meant that Prig should have attended as chief mourner, but she was
nowhere to be found. No one had seen her since her flight, and for
days they could find no trace of her. This added to their discomfort;
for they all loved her, and Ada and Dolly were confined to the house
for some time, and wanted her to play with them.
About a week after, on a rainy night, Bridget found her at the kitchen
door, and with great difficulty persuaded her to come in. She was very
thin and unhappy, and hid from the children, when they, already sorry
for their harshness, were kind to her, and tried to play with her. It
was a long time before she was the lively Prig she used to be, and was
always a little lame in her left fore foot. Something had hurt her in
those days of absence; and though after a while the children forgot
their holiday and the consequences, I am afraid poor Prig never did.
SARA CONANT.
LET HIM LIVE.
When one sees a harmless snake,
Lying torpid, scarce awake,
On a chilly morning,
Is it well his life to take
Without leave or warning?
Pretty brown and yellow snake,
Whom the sun doth gently wake
In the lap of nature,
Here is room for weed and brake--
Room for every creature.
Teach us, Nature, how to love,
Not the flower and bird alone,
Gracious man and woman--
Not the beautiful alone,
Whether brute or human.
Teach us, that we may not wound
Even a striped snake on the ground,
Sunshine all around him!
We will go without a sound--
Leave him as we found him.
MARY R. WHITTLESEY.
MONKEYS.
Before the advent of man, and with him civilization, monkeys were
spread over a much larger portion of the earth than at present. They
lived in the south of Europe, in England, and in France. Except a few
of the Paviane, those of the present time are found only in warm
climates, and are very sensitive to cold.
Monkeys belong to the liveliest and most active of the mammalia. As
everything eatable is acceptable to them, there is always something to
catch, to dig, to gather--insects, fruits, roots, nuts, succulent
herbs, buds, leaves, eggs, &c.
Many stories are told about the orang-outang, or pongo, an inhabitant
of the islands of Borneo and Sumatra. It is the largest of the apes,
being, in some cases, seven feet high.
Vosmarin, a Hollander, kept a tamed pongo for a long time. He says,
"My pongo had rather a sad and downcast look, but was gentle and
affectionate, and very fond of society, preferring those persons who
busied themselves about it. Once it seized a bottle of Malaga,
uncorked it, brought the wine to a secure place, recorked the bottle,
and set it back again. This monkey was very fond of roasted and boiled
meats, and sucked eggs with great delight; however it preferred fruits
to all other food. After drinking, it was in the habit of wiping its
mouth with the back of the hand, as men sometimes do, and it generally
used a toothpick. It made great preparations before going to sleep,
shaking the hay for its bed, and making a bundle for a pillow; it
covered itself with any cloth or garment it could find.
"Seeing me unlock a door, it observed very attentively, then put a
piece of wood in the keyhole, and tried to turn it round. Having been
scratched by a cat with which it was playing, it could never be
induced to touch pussy again. It untied knots easily, and regularly
practised upon the shoes of those who came near. It could lift very
heavy burdens, and made as good use of its hind as of its fore legs;
for example, if it could not reach a thing with the fore hands, it lay
on its back, and drew the object with the hind ones. It never cried
except when left alone. At first the crying resembled the howling of a
dog, then it became rougher, and at last resembled the noise of a
wood-saw. It died of consumption."
Jeffries tells of an orang-outang which was very neat; it frequently
washed the floor with a cloth, after carrying away all remnants of
food. It also washed its face and hands like a man. This animal was
very affectionate towards all who spoke kindly, and often kissed its
owner and waiter.
[Illustration: THE MONKEY.]
The chimpanzee is more like man, in shape, than any other animal. It
is from four to five feet high; is found in the west part of Africa.
Its strength is astonishing; one chimpanzee can break off branches of
trees which two men cannot bend. It is kind and amiable, and very
teachable. Captain Grantpret speaks of a chimpanzee, which he had on
board ship, as follows: "It worked with the sailors, casting anchor,
reefing sails, &c., and doing its full share of work faithfully. The
ship's baker depended upon it to heat the oven, which it did with
wonderful care and exactness, never letting the coals fall, and ever
getting the right heat. It made a peculiar motion to show that the
oven was ready, and the baker, fully confiding in its judgment, was
not disappointed. The sailors were very fond of it, and treated it as
a companion; but the pilot, a cruel, heartless man, abused the animal,
despite its pitiful looks and gestures, as it placed its hand upon its
heart, and then stretched it towards him, to tell the pain it felt.
However, it did not resent his continued ill-treatment, but refused
to take any nourishment; five days after it died of hunger and a
broken heart. The sailors bemoaned its loss as that of a companion."
We read of another chimpanzee, which sat at table, ate with knife,
fork, and spoon, drank from a wine-glass, used a napkin, put sugar
into a cup, poured out tea, stirred it with a spoon, and sipped from
the cup until cool enough to drink.
A sick monkey is truly a pitiable object; it sits quiet and sad, and
its look, as it seems to beg for help, in its distress, is almost
human. The nearer it approaches its end, the gentler and milder it
becomes; losing in its animal, it seems to gain in its spiritual
nature. It perceives a benefactor in its attending physician, and
thankfully acknowledges his kindness. If it has been relieved by
bleeding, it invariably stretches out its arm at the doctor's
approach, as if desiring to be bled again.
L. B. U.
MY MOTHER'S STORIES.
I recall a little verse my mother taught me one summer twilight,
which, she remarked, she had taught the older children when they were
little like me. It was this:--