AND SPEAK EVIL OF NONE."
And then she added cheerfully, "It took some time to get your brother
to repeat it correctly; he would say _untimate_ for intimate, and
_justless_ instead of justly. But he learned it correctly at last,
and, I may add, has never forgotten it." So with amusement were
mother's good instructions blended; after the pleasant story about my
brother's childhood it was impossible to forget the text.
But, alas, I have never taught it to my children; so many papers,
books, and magazines made expressly for children of this generation,
hasten the lighting of the evening lamp, and the twilight lessons of
home become fewer. But in them all, I never read a more comprehensive
paragraph, and one that would do to put in practice in every
particular so thoroughly, and I hope if it gets into print, not only
my children, but those of other households, will commit it to memory,
imbibe its spirit, and put it in practice through life.
E. E.
[Illustration: SAILING THE BOATS.]
SAILING THE BOATS.
Ho! the jolly sailors,
Lounging into port!
Heave ahead, my hearties--
That's your lively sort!
Splendid sky above us,
Merrily goes the gale.
Stand by to launch away
Rag and paper sail!
Archie owns a schooner,
Jack a man-o'-war,
Joe a clipper A 1
Named the Morning Star;
Charlie sails a match-box,
Dignified a yawl;
Breakers on the lee shore--
Look out for a squall!
Now we're bound for China--
That's across the pond;
When we go a-cruising
Many a mile beyond.
Man-o'-war is watching
A rakish-looking craft--
Kerchunk! goes a bullfrog
From his rushy raft.
There's a fleet of lilies
We go scudding round,--
Bumblebees for sailors,--
And they're fast aground.
Here's a drowning fly
In her satin dress.
All hands, about ship!
Signals of distress.
Argosies of childhood,
Laden down with joys,
Gunwale-deep with treasures!
Happy sailor boys,
May your merry ventures
All their harbors win,
And upon life's stormy sea
Every ship come in.
GEORGE COOPER.
[Illustration: {The wasp trying to get to Harry's pudding}]
IT TAKES TWO TO MAKE A QUARREL.
A STORY FOR OUR YOUNGEST READERS.
How Harry Marshall had reckoned upon that piece of currant-pudding!
The farmer's wife, whose name was Jolly (and a very fit name for her
it was), had promised him a plateful for dinner, because he had taken
such good care of her pet brood of chickens while she had been away
from Elm Tree Farm on a visit.
Harry was a farmer's lad, ten years old, tall and stout for his age,
and able to do a great many more things than some city boys of
fourteen. He could ride and drive, keep the stable in order, and even
handle a plough. Nor was he a dunce; for, thanks to an evening school,
which some of his Sunday teachers had opened in the village, he had
learned to read and write very fairly. He had a comfortable place at
farmer Jolly's; but there was plenty of work to do, and the food was
plain, though he always had enough; so he did not get pudding every
day. No wonder, then, that he should go to bed and dream about that
particular currant-pudding of which I am writing. You must not suppose
that this was made with such "currants" as are put into a _Christmas_
pudding; they are only small _grapes_. No; it was a real
currant-pudding, full of nice red fruit and juice, enough to make your
mouth water.
The long morning's work was at last over, and Harry, nothing loath,
hastened in and took his place at the side table in the kitchen, where
he usually sat. His plate of meat and potatoes was soon cleared, for
the boy's appetite had been sharpened by several hours in the fields.
"And now, Harry," said Martha, the servant, "here's your pudding, and
a nice piece it is; but you mustn't be long about it, for John and
Peter will want you back in the field; they have been gone this half
hour." So saying, Martha placed the longed-for treat before Harry, and
went out to attend to some work in the farm-yard.
Just at that moment a wasp, who had grown tired of buzzing about the
peaches in the garden, and trying in vain to get at them (for Peter
had covered them with network), peeped in at the window with one of
his many eyes, and, spying Master Harry's pudding, thought, I suppose,
that he should like a share. So, without waiting to be invited, he
flew in with a loud hum, and made straight for the table, just as
Harry had stuck his fork into the first piece of crust.
Now, our farmer's boy, though he liked pudding, did not like wasps,
which he fancied were always ready to sting; and being himself rather
hasty in temper, he at once declared war against the little intruder.
First he hit at it with his knife, but without success; and then with
his fork, but only with this result--that the pudding, instead of
going into Harry's mouth, flew under the grate among the ashes, while
the wasp seemed to be humming a song of defiance.
Harry grew red in the face, and vowed vengeance against "the nasty
thing;" but "the nasty thing" would not come and be killed. Seizing a
large wooden pudding spoon, which lay close at hand, Harry jumped on
one of the wooden chairs and aimed a desperate blow at the poor
insect. But Yellow-band was too sharp for him, and Harry, losing his
balance, fell down with a thump on the sanded floor, while his weapon,
spinning across the kitchen, came in contact with one of Mrs. Jolly's
basins, and brought it down with a crash. In rushed Martha in a
fright, and, worse still, farmer Jolly's round, good-natured face
appeared close behind.
"Bless the boy," cried Martha, "what have you been up to now?"
"Why--why," said Harry, rubbing his shoulder and looking ruefully at
the broken china, "it was all that horrid wasp."
"And why couldn't you leave the wasp alone?" retorted Martha, angrily,
as she picked up some of the pieces.
"Ay, boy," said farmer Jolly, "why couldn't you leave the wasp alone,
eh? Why couldn't you leave it alone?" he repeated, catching Harry by
the arm with a grip that made him wince.
"Please, sir--please, sir," stammered the boy, "I thought the
nasty--the wasp I mean--was going to sting me."
"Stuff and nonsense," replied the farmer; "if you don't interfere with
the wasps, the wasps won't interfere with you. How often have I told
you that _it takes two to make a quarrel_? Now you have wasted your
time, spoiled your dinner, and done mischief; so you had better be off
to your work, and Martha will put the pudding away till to-morrow."
Harry hastened out, looking very foolish, and feeling very much
disappointed. "I wish I'd left the wasp alone," he said to himself;
"then I shouldn't have lost the pudding. The farmer says, 'It takes
two to make a quarrel,' and I suppose it does. At that rate we needn't
quarrel at all, unless we like. I'll think about that, so I will." And
so he did; and when he felt inclined to quarrel, not only with wasps,
but with boys, he checked himself by calling to mind farmer Jolly's
words.
And I am of opinion that, if the boys and girls who read this story
would remember it too, they would escape many unpleasant and
disagreeable things, and be more likely to have a really happy year.
For a far wiser Teacher than farmer Jolly once said, "Blessed (or
happy) are the peacemakers."
[Illustration: {Suvaroff makes a speech to some of his soldiers}]
A GOOD WORD NOT LOST.
Field-marshal Alexander Suvaroff, the commander-in-chief of the
Russian army during the reigns of Catharine II. and Paul I., was
especially fond of mixing with the common soldiers, and sharing in
their sports and conversations, being always highly delighted when his
men failed to discover him; and this happened pretty often, for,
thanks to his small stature and ugly face, as well as the extreme
plainness of his dress, the great marshal looked as little like a
general as any man could do. In this way he got to understand
thoroughly the character of his soldiers, and had a greater power over
them than any Russian general before or after him. His marvellous
power of enduring fatigue, his insensibility to heat, cold, or hunger,
and his untiring energy on the field of battle (in all which points he
surpassed the hardiest of his grenadiers), made him the idol of the
rough soldiers whom he commanded; and a word of reproof from Father
Alexander Vasilievitch, as his men affectionately called him, was more
dreaded than the fire of a battery.
Before one of his Italian campaigns, Suvaroff gathered together a
number of his best men, and made them one of the short pithy speeches
for which he was famous, and some of which are remembered among the
peasantry to this day:--
"My children, we are going to fight the French. Remember, whatever you
meet, _you must go forward_. If the enemy resist, kill them; but if
they yield, spare them; and always remember that a Russian soldier is
not a robber, but a Christian. Now, go and tell your comrades what I
have said!"
A few days later a great battle took place, in which the day went
against the French, who began to retreat about sunset; and a soldier
named Ivan Mitrophanoff, who had distinguished himself by his bravery
throughout the whole day, captured, with the help of a comrade who was
with him, a French officer and two of his men. Mitrophanoff bound up
the officer's wounded arm, and seeing that the prisoners appeared
faint from want of food, shared with them the coarse rye loaf which
was to have served him for supper. He had scarcely done so, when up
came three or four Russian grenadiers, hot with fighting, and raising
furious cries.
"What," cried they, "three of these French dogs living yet!" and they
ran upon the prisoners with levelled bayonets.
"Hold, my lads!" cried Mitrophanoff. "I've given them their lives, and
no one must touch them now!"
But the soldiers would not listen to him, and were rushing forward,
when a stern voice from behind shouted, "Halt!" and a little,
pugnosed, dirty-faced man, dressed only in a coarse linen shirt and a
pair of tattered gray trousers, stepped into the circle. But, ragged
and dirty as he was, the fierce soldiers could not have looked more
frightened had he been a giant in full armor.
"The general!" muttered they, slinking off.
"Ay, the general!" roared Suvaroff, "who will have some of you shot
presently, if you can't learn to obey orders better! And you," he
added, turning to Mitrophanoff, "who taught you to be so good?"
"Your highness' own self taught me," answered the grenadier. "I
haven't forgotten what you told us last week--that a Russian soldier
is not a robber, but a Christian!"
"Right!" exclaimed Suvaroff, with a brightening face. "A good word is
never lost, you see. Give me your hand, my lad; you shall be a
sergeant to-morrow, and a right good one you'll make!"
And the next day he made good his word.
[Decoration]
PONTO.
Our dog Ponto is a knowing old fellow. It is as good as a show to
watch him sometimes. He has one quality that most of us might seek
after with advantage--that is, a will to overcome difficulties that
scarcely anything can hinder. If Ponto takes it into his head to do
anything, he is pretty sure to succeed. What helps his dogship is the
faculty of imitation. He is like a monkey in this, only a great deal
more sensible than any monkey I ever heard tell of. You never catch
him venturing upon unknown danger, or making himself ridiculous,
because his human friends and companions choose to step aside from the
ways of safety and respectability.
One day, a few years ago, Ponto was missing. He had been about as
usual during the morning, but all at once disappeared. A neighbor told
us that he had seen him fighting with the butcher's dog about noon,
and that he was getting the worst of it. I went over to the butcher's
during the afternoon, and the butcher's boy confirmed the neighbor's
story. Ponto had come over there for a fight, as the boy said, and
"got more than he bargained for."
"He'll not try it again very soon, I'm thinking," added the boy, with
a malicious pleasure.
"Do you know where he is now?" I asked.
"Home, I suppose. He went off that way, limping," answered the boy.
"Was he much hurt?"
"Considerable, I guess."
I went back home, but no one had seen Ponto. I was beginning to feel
anxious about the dog, when he was found in one of the third-story
rooms, snugly covered up in bed, with his head on the pillow. On
turning down the clothes a sight met our eyes. The sheets were all
stained with blood, and the poor dog, hurt and exhausted, looked as
helpless and pitiful as any human being.
[Illustration: PONTO.]
I will not tell you of all the wounds he had received. There were a
great many of them, and some quite severe. "A good lesson for him," we
all said. And it proved so, for he was a little more careful after
that how he got into a fight.
A few months before, I had been thrown from a wagon and badly hurt--so
much so that I was confined to bed for a week. Ponto was with me at
the time of the accident, and on my arrival at home followed me into
the house and up to the chamber where I was taken. He watched every
movement as I was laid in bed, and then sat down with his eyes on my
pale face, regarding me with such looks of pity and interest that I
was touched and surprised.
When Ponto's turn came, he remembered the comfortable way in which I
had been cared for, and profited by what he had seen. But his
mistress, while she pitied the poor animal, did not fancy having her
spare bedroom turned into a dog-hospital; and so we removed him to an
out-house and made him as comfortable there as possible.
One cold winter evening Ponto was absent from his accustomed place in
the hall, where he slept on a mat. The wind was high and there was a
confusion of sounds outside.
"Hark!" said one.
We all listened.
"I thought I heard a knock at the hall door."
"Only the wind," was replied.
"Yes; there it is again."
We all heard two distinct knocks, given quickly one after the other.
I arose, and going into the hall went to the front door and opened it.
As I did so Ponto bounded in past me, gave two or three short, glad
barks, and then paid his boisterous respects to the family in the
sitting-room. I waited a moment, and then stepped out to see who had
lifted the knocker, but found no one. Ponto had done it himself, as we
had proof enough afterward; for ever since that time he has used the
knocker as regularly as any two-legged member of the family.
I could tell you stories for a whole evening about Ponto, but these
two must answer for the present.
BRUIN AT A MAPLE-SUGAR PARTY.
One evening near the first of April, three years ago this spring, I
was making my way the best I could down from the west branch of the
Penobscot River towards the plantation of Nikertou. (Up in Maine they
call an unincorporated town a plantation. Down south the word has a
different meaning.) How and why I came to be in that wild section, at
the hour of twilight, may need a word in explanation.
A month previously I had been sent up to the "Head of Chesuncook" from
Bangor, by the lumbering firm of which my uncle was a member, to pay
off one of their "gangs," which made the "head" of that lake a sort of
depot and place of rendezvous.
Both going up and coming back as far as the foot of Lake Pemadumcook,
I had had with me, as guide and armed protector, an old hunter named
Hughy Clives. But on getting down to the foot of this lake, and within
six or eight miles of Nikertou, old Hughy had been seized with a
sudden desire to leave me and to go to Millinocket Lake in quest of
otters; and so giving me my "course" for Nikertou, he had bidden me
"good luck," and again started northward.
It was a warm, spring-like afternoon, though the snow in that region
still lay to the depth of three or four feet; but on my snow-shoes I
didn't mind the depth; the main thing was to keep out of the brush and
the dense hemlock and cedar thickets.
It was about two o'clock when I left the river; and I had expected to
get down to the little "settlement" by sunset. But the sun went below
the distant spruce-clad ridges, and dusk fell, with as yet no signs of
a "clearing." Had I lost my way? My little pocket-compass said I was
all right--if Hughy had given me a correct course; and I had all
confidence in the old man too. Still, as the twilight deepened around
me, with the unbroken forest stretching drearily ahead, I began to
feel rather uneasy; especially as (since parting with Hughy and his
rifle) I had no weapon save a jack-knife and a little pocket-pistol I
had brought along with me from Bangor--not very effective arms in case
a catamount should take it into his head to drop down upon me from a
tree-top, or a big black bear to step out from behind one of those low
hemlocks, or even a cross old "lucivee" to rush out from some of those
thick cedar clumps. For thoughts of these things had begun to pop into
my mind. I was but seventeen then, and hadn't quite outgrown my fear
of the dark. And thus plodding timorously onward, thinking on many
things injurious to a boy's courage, I had begun to think I should
have to make a night of it there, somewhere, when the red gleam of a
fire, from the crest of the ridge before me, suddenly burst out on the
darkness, banishing all my fears. For a fire, whether in a hunter's
camp or a farm-house window, is good evidence of man's presence, with
food and shelter--the two great wants of the belated.
[Illustration: {The bear invades the sugar party camp}]
Hurrying on, I made my way up the slope. The fire seemed to be in the
open air, among trees--a woodman's camp probably; and, knowing that
these men are sometimes a little _ticklish_ about having strangers
come too suddenly into their night camps, I halted, while yet at some
distance, for a good look ahead.
There seemed to be several large kettles, slung with chains from a
"lug-pole" supported by strong crotched stakes at each end--a
circumstance which struck me as a little odd at a hunting-fire. No one
was in sight, though a sort of half shelter of hemlock might contain
the campers. Whatever they were, it would be well to hail them. So,
calling in my breath, I gave a loud "hullo."
Two dusky figures rose from the shelter, and looked out towards me
into the darkness.
"Hullo!" I repeated; and in response heard a clear boyish voice
exclaiming,--
"Who's there?"
"Belated tramper."
"Well, walk up, Mr. Tramper, where we can see what you are."
I moved up to be seen, and on my part saw a couple of youngsters, of
about my own age, who were tending what turned out to be a
sugar-camp.
"Where from?" demanded the taller of the two.
"Head of Chesuncook. Going to Bangor. Can I stay here to-night?"
"Of course you can. Had any supper?"
"Not a mouthful."
"Something left--wasn't there, Zeke?" said he, turning to his comrade,
who was now pouring cold sap into the "heater."
"Enough for one, I guess," said Zeke; and, taking a bucket and a
wooden bowl from under the hemlock, he produced a slab of johnny-cake
from the former, and, pouring out something like a quart of maple
sirup into the latter, bade me "go ahead."
I did so without further invitation, and never made a better supper,
the programme being to dip the bread into the sirup, mouthful by
mouthful.
The boys were now preparing their night's wood.
There had been, they said, "an excellent run of sap" during the last
few days. The kettles were kept boiling day and night, steadily. It
was truly a wild scene. Clouds of steam gushed up from the surging
kettles; and the fires gleamed brighter as the darkness deepened,
while all about us seemed a wall of blackness. But my long tramp had
thoroughly tired me down, and my recollections of the remainder of the
evening are a little drowsy, though I learned in the course of it that
the names of the two youthful sugar-makers, upon whose camp I had
stumbled, were Zeke Murch and Sam Bubar; and I also helped to take off
a large kettle of hot sirup, which we set in a snow-drift, two or
three rods from the fire, to cool. This done, I was soon asleep,
rolled up in an old coverlet, and knew very little till, hearing
voices, I opened my eyes to the fact that the sun was staring me in
the face from over the eastward ridge, as if surprised at my sloth.
Hastily unrolling myself, I saw Sam and Zeke out at the kettle we had
set in the snow, pointing and excitedly discussing something.
"Old scamp!" exclaimed Zeke. "What work he's made here!"
"All this sugar gone--spoiled!" cried Sam.
"What is it?" said I, going out to them. "What's the matter?"
"Why," said Sam, turning and laughing in spite of his vexation,
"something has _guzzled_ up 'most the whole of this 'honey' we set out
here last night. Only see there!"
The kettle, which must have held several pailfuls, was nearly empty;
and what was left hadn't a very inviting look certainly.
"What in the world ate all that?" cried I.
"Well--a bear, we expect," said Zeke. "There's been one hanging round
here for several nights. We heard him _hoot out_, down in the swamp,
ever so many times, after you had gone to sleep last night. Didn't
think he'd come up so near the fire, though. But we both got to sleep
a little while after midnight. I suppose he must have _lushed_ up the
sirup then."
"Tremendous fellow, too," said Sam. "Look at those tracks!"
Tracks indeed! There in the snow about the kettle were his broad, deep
footmarks, long as a man's boot, and much wider, pressed down, too,
into the snow, as only great weight could have pressed.
"Gracious!" exclaimed I, "you wouldn't have caught me going to sleep
here if I had known there was such a monster as that round!"
"Rather lucky, I think," said Zeke, "that he didn't take it into his
head to _top off_ his sirup with some of us."
"And I'm mad, too," continued Zeke. "We were depending on this kittle
of sirup for our party to-night."
"Your party?"
"Yes; we've invited a lot of the boys--and girls, too--to come up here
this evening, to make 'sheep-skins.' You'll stay--won't you? We were
going to ask you."
"Don't know," said I, still thinking of the bear.
"O, I don't think he'll meddle with us," said Sam, guessing at my
hesitation. "I'm going down to get some _fixins_, and shall bring up a
gun. If he calls again, he may get a dose of buckshot."
No one is apt to be a great coward after the sun is up. Thus
reassured, I concluded to stop to the party, for which the boys were
intending to make a great preparation.
"Let's do the thing up in style now," said Sam.
We went at it. First we cut low, shrubby evergreens, hemlocks mostly,
and with these made a sort of enclosure, some four rods in diameter,
around the kettles, by planting them in the snow. Then clipping off an
immense quantity of smaller boughs, we strewed the snow inside the
enclosure with these. We thus had a sort of green room (without any
roof), in the centre of which steamed the boiling kettles; and at the
entrance, or doorway, we made a grand arch of cedar. For seats we
rolled in "four-foot" cuts from the trunk of a large poplar they had
lately felled, first splitting off a slab from the side of each to
form a seat, which we cushioned with cedar.
Meanwhile another kettle of sirup was boiling down to supply the place
of that the bear had drank; and filling some fifteen or twenty
sap-buckets with clean snow, crowded down hard to make the
"sheep-skins" on, we were ready for our company.
It was nearly night before all this had been completed. Sam had been
down to the "settlement" and brought up a quantity of bread to go with
our honey; and I was glad to see that he hadn't forgotten the gun;
for, as night began to close in again, I couldn't help remembering the
great tracks out there in the snow-drift. As it grew dark and the fire
began to shine on the green boughs, our scenery looked even better
than by daylight; and for beacons to our incoming guests, we fixed
torches of pitch-wood upon stakes thrust into the snow around our
camp, and at several points out in the woods, like lamp-posts in a
town.
"Quite a show," said Sam, surveying the preparation. "How changed and
odd it makes it look all about!"
Ere long voices began to be heard coming up through the woods,--merry
shouts and hails,--to which the boys responded, bidding them hurry,
and promising a big "sheep-skin" to the one who first got up there.