Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--No. 13. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 27, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "'I'LL YOUR PARTNER BE,' SAID SHE."--DRAWN BY SOL
EYTINGE, JUN.]
THE DANCE IN THE KITCHEN.
Oh, that winter afternoon,
Such a merry, merry tune
As the jolly, fat tea-kettle chose its singing to begin!
'Twas a lilting Scottish air,
And it seemed, I do declare,
As though bagpipe played by fairy was forever joining in.
Then the bagpipe ceased to play,
And another tune straightway
Sang the kettle, louder, louder, till its voice grew very big;
And the feet of laughing girls
(Girls with shamrock in their curls)
You could almost hear a-keeping time to that old Irish jig.
Darling, smiling, cunning Bess
Grasped with tiny hands her dress,
And a pretty courtesy making, while the kettle made a bow,
"I'll your partner be," said she;
"Forward, backward, one, two, three;"
And pussy cried, "Bravo! my dears," in one immense me-ow.
And they danced right merrily
Till 'twas nearly time for tea,
The kettle tilting this way and then that way--oh, what fun!
And its hat bobbed up and down
On its moist and steamy crown,
With a clatter falling off at last, and then the dance was done.
THE OLD MAN OF MONTROSE.
There was an old man of Montrose
Who had a remarkable nose,
So long and so thin,
And so far from his chin,
'Twas always in danger of blows.
One day the old man of Montrose
Went out without muffling his nose;
And it grieves me to tell
That this organ of smell
As stiff as an icicle froze.
Soon after, in sneezing, "_ker-choo_,"
His nose into smithereens flew,
And left but a stump,
A ridiculous lump,
That even in summer looked blue.
The frost-bitten man of Montrose
Used words that were equal to blows;
And so great his disgrace,
He soon quitted the place,
And where he has gone no one knows.
"THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE."
In the small but strongly fortified town of Saar-Louis, on what was then
the borders of France, in Rhenish Prussia, there was born, a little more
than a hundred years ago, a child whose future intrepid career earned
for him the title of "the bravest of the brave." His father's trade was
nothing more warlike than that of a cooper; his home life and training
were not different from those of many of his playmates; and yet before
he was sixteen years old he had entered a regiment of hussars, or light
cavalry, and before he was thirty had attained the high rank of general
of division.
But those were warlike days; the French Revolution had just begun; all
Europe was echoing with the clash and tread of such armies as the world
had never before seen; and living as he did in the shadow of
fortifications constructed by France's greatest military engineer,
Vauban, it is not so strange that the youth became filled with an
intense desire to taste the glory and share the danger of a soldier's
life.
Michael Ney, Marshal of France, Duke of Elchingen, Prince of Moskwa--for
by all these titles, commemorative of some one or other of his numerous
victories, was he known--early rose in the confidence and estimation of
the great Napoleon, and was by him intrusted with the most responsible
commands in Switzerland, Prussia, Austria, and Spain; and it was not
until he met Wellington at Torres Vedras, in the Peninsula, that he met
his superior in the art of war; and even then, by a happy mixture of
courage and skill, Ney was enabled to mitigate to a great extent the
bitterness of defeat. But to relate his whole career would be to fill a
volume, so we will only consider one or two incidents in his life.
In 1810, Ney took an active part in the invasion of Russia, and by his
address and energy contributed largely to the French victory at the
battle of the Moskwa, called by the Russians the battle of Borodino.
When the Russian Bear turned upon the invader, and the ever-memorable
retreat commenced, with all its attendant horrors of cold, hunger, and
physical pain, to Ney was assigned the honorable but arduous task of
protecting the rear of the fleeing troops. At the start Ney's force
numbered 7000 men, and on leaving Smolensk he found himself confronted
by an army four times as large.
He was summoned to surrender before commencing the attack, and his
characteristic reply, "A Marshal of France never surrenders," has passed
into history, though it must be confessed that, in the light of recent
events, history does not always bear out the assertion. Repeatedly
driven back with awful loss, Ney determined to outwit the enemy; so,
under cover of darkness, he and his troops made a wide circuit, and
reached the bank of the river Dnieper far in advance of the pursuers.
But here a new foe confronted the gallant Marshal. How should he cross
the stream? He had no boats, and although the weather was intensely
cold, the rapid current was covered only by a thin coating of ice that
bent beneath the weight of a single man. However, to deliberate was to
be lost; so, dividing his forces into small companies, he caused the
advance to be sounded, himself stepping first upon the glassy surface.
What a subject for a painter is here presented!--the frozen snowy
landscape; the bare skeleton trees; the broad serpentine course of the
frost-bound river, with here and there patches of open water showing
darkly against the snow-covered ice; the scattered groups of soldiers
treading carefully, and with the possibility before them that at the
next step the treacherous floor might precipitate them into an icy
grave.
But the hazardous passage was safely effected, and after a series of
conflicts with forces in every case far superior to his own, Ney
succeeded in rejoining the Emperor at Orsha, where he was received with
open arms, and hailed as "the bravest of the brave"--a name which clung
to him from that time.
After Napoleon left the army, Ney still continued to fight in the rear
against the ever-increasing hordes of Russians that harassed the flanks
of the fugitive army. Three times was the rear-guard that he commanded
melted away by death, captivity, or flight, and as often was it
reorganized by the indomitable Marshal who "never surrendered."
At last, with a poor remnant of only thirty men, Ney defended the gate
of the town of Kovno--the last place in the Russian dominions through
which the French retreated--against the pursuers, while the main body
escaped through the gate at the other end of the town. He was himself
the very last man to retire. Snatching a pistol from one of his men, he
fired the last shot in the faces of the Russians, flung the weapon into
the river Niemen, plunged in after it, and amid a storm of bullets swam
the stream, and gained the neighboring forest, successfully eluded his
pursuers, and joined his comrades, who had mourned him as dead, in the
Prussian territory.
Ney's end was as unfortunate as it was unworthy so brave a soldier. When
Napoleon was banished to Elba, Ney, who had previously incurred his
displeasure, gave his allegiance to the restored Bourbons, and when the
great Emperor re-appeared in France, Ney was placed in command of the
army sent to oppose him, promising his new superiors to bring back
Napoleon "like a wild beast in a cage."
There is no reason to doubt Ney's sincerity in this unhappy episode of
his career. He was of a brave, impulsive disposition, one accustomed to
act on the spur of the moment; so, when he drew near to the Emperor, and
found that the men he commanded, nearly all of whom had fought at some
time or other under the Emperor, were fixed in a resolve not to fight
against Napoleon, it is not so much to be wondered at that Ney became
Napoleonist with as much ardor as ever. And when Napoleon called on him
by his old title, "the bravest of the brave," to once more rally under
his standard, Ney responded with alacrity, as though the name possessed
a magic spell he could not resist.
After Waterloo, when all that pertained to the cause of the dethroned
Emperor was irretrievably lost, Ney was brought to trial by the
re-restored Bourbons on the charge of treason, and was condemned to be
shot on December 7, 1815. He met death with that same unflinching
bravery which he so many times displayed, during his eventful career,
on most of the great battle-fields of Europe.
On December 7, 1853, exactly thirty-eight years after his death, a
statue was raised to the memory of the intrepid Marshal on the precise
spot on which his execution occurred.
[Begun in No. 11 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, January 13.]
LADY PRIMROSE.
BY FLETCHER READE.
CHAPTER III.
"A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more."
"Princess Bébè! Princess Bébè! Princess Bébè!"
It was the little gate-keeper, running at the top of his speed, and
shouting at the top of his voice.
Very much heated and very red in the face was the little man as he stood
before the princess, holding out to her a loaf of bread almost as large
as himself.
"This is for you," he said, in a choked voice, for he had run so far and
so fast that he could hardly speak at all. "The wise old woman of
Hollowbush sent it. Now eat, eat. Let me see what it is like--let me see
how you do it."
While the princess ate her loaf of bread with more eagerness than any
member of royalty ever displayed before or since, the gate-keeper
watched her with wondering eyes.
"Well, I never saw anything like that before," he said at length. "And
you go through that remarkable performance every day! Every day!" he
repeated, in a tone of the most intense astonishment.
"But where did you find it?" asked the princess, who was more interested
in the bread than in the gate-keeper.
"Find it!" he exclaimed. "I didn't find it. That wise old woman of
Hollowbush, who has discovered the secret of the three knocks, knocked
on the wall, and when I had opened the door, she thrust it in, saying
she would bring you a fresh loaf every day."
"Then she has not quite forgotten me," sighed the princess, thinking of
her last conversation with this same wise old lady. "But does she know
that I must stay here the rest of my life?"
"Oh yes," answered the gate-keeper, shaking his head, and looking very
wise. "That is--there is a secret--did it never occur to you, my dear
princess," he added, suddenly, "that there might be a way of making your
escape?"
"Oh, you dear delicious little gate-keeper!" exclaimed the princess,
seizing him in her arms, and tossing him up and down. "I see how it is:
you will let me out--you will do it. Oh, I am sure you will!"
"Not so fast, my dear," said the little man, struggling to free himself.
"Put me down, and I will tell you all about it. But first of all you
must promise to keep the whole matter a profound secret: if you should
tell any one, the plan would fail."
"Oh, I can keep a secret," said the princess, smiling, and beginning to
feel quite happy again.
"Well, then," said the gate-keeper, seating himself by the
fountain--which was not a fountain at all, but only an imitation very
skillfully done in aquamarine--"you are to stay here a year. Then, when
the spring comes you are to be changed into a primrose, if you will
consent to it, and grow up out of the ground like other flowers. Hidden
deep within the woods, you must wait patiently, through sunshine and
rain, till some one finds you, and breaks you from the stem. Whoever he
may be, rich or poor, young or old, if he loves the flower well enough
to take it home, and place it carefully in a vase of water, he will have
the power of transforming it into a mortal, and you will be restored to
your home in a world where the sun shines and where flowers grow."
"Dear! dear!" said the princess, "I suppose I must consent, if that is
the only way of making my escape. But what if no one comes into the
woods, and what if no one cares enough for the primrose to pick it?"
"Then it will wither on its stem, and you must come back to us, and be
the Princess Bébè for another year."
The trial which was proposed to her seemed a very hard one, and the year
which followed seemed very long. If it had not been for the kindness of
the gate-keeper, who amused her by showing her all the curiosities which
the kingdom of the mineral-workers contained, and explaining how the
gems were cleaned and polished and cut, I am afraid the poor Princess
Bébè would have died of homesickness long before spring. But at last the
year came to an end, as all years must, and she started on her journey
into the upper world.
Day after day she struggled through the earth, pushing her roots deep
down into the soil, and stretching her slender leaf-like arms up into
the sunlight. The dew came and kissed the little flower-bud with sweet
moist lips, the sunshine warmed it, and the south wind sang to it, until
at last a yellow primrose opened its eyes in the dark woods.
Day after day it lived there, trembling at the sound of every footstep,
and wishing and praying deep down in its flower-heart for a friend.
June days had never seemed so long as these, for, despite her prayers,
no one came, and the lonely primrose grew faint and weary with
disappointment.
At last, however, a party of children playing in the woods caught sight
of her bright face, and one of them--a merry, rosy-cheeked boy--broke
the flower from its stem. He held it up to his companions, and they ran
laughing after him.
"Oh, it's nothing but a yellow primrose," he said, as they tried to
snatch the flower from his hand; and with these words he threw it away.
So it was all in vain that the little flower had lived and died, for the
next day the Princess Bébè found herself back in the kingdom of the
mineral-workers.
Her diamond necklace was just as beautiful as ever; her opal bed seemed
all alive with trembling colors, soft white and flashing crimson; and
the king welcomed her right royally, without a word of reproach for her
long absence.
But for all that, her heart grew heavier every day. Even the attentions
of the gate-keeper became tiresome; and when he tried to make her laugh
with his merry ways, she could only smile sadly, and say, "Oh, it was
such a disappointment to be picked, and then thrown away."
"Never mind--never mind," he would answer, cheerily: "better luck next
time." And so the days dragged slowly by until another spring.
Then the princess began to hope once more; and when she found herself
actually lifting her head into the sunlight, and felt the soft air blow
over her, she wondered how she could ever have believed for a moment
that anything was better or more beautiful than the deep blue sky above
one, and the green earth beneath.
Contented and happy, she waited patiently through wind and rain, until
it seemed as if her patience were to be rewarded.
A young man on a jet-black horse came riding through the woods. His face
was bright and handsome, and he looked out upon the world with as merry
a pair of eyes as you would care to see.
"Oh, if he would only take me home!" thought the flower. "I should like
to be rescued by such a handsome youth as he." And in spite of her
yellow primrose face, the little flower actually blushed.
"What a bright little flower!" said the young man, as he rode along.
"If it were not so much trouble getting off my horse, I would carry it
home to Marjorie. But it's only a commonplace little primrose after
all," he added, and so rode on.
That night the little flower cried itself to sleep among the shadows,
and before morning it had withered on its stem.
"I will never make the attempt again," said the Princess Bébè, when she
found herself once more in the kingdom of the mineral-workers.
[Illustration: THE PRINCESS BÉBÈ AND ALECK.]
"Oh yes, you will," said the gate-keeper, who had come forward to meet
her. "If life is worth having, it is worth struggling for. Next year I
shall send you up for your trial, whether you consent or not."
"If that is the case, I suppose I may as well consent at once," said the
princess, and so yielded the point.
And when the long, long days of another year had come and gone, she left
the kingdom of the mineral-workers for the third time. For the third
time she struggled through the ground, lifting up her head among the
blue-eyed violets and slender waving grasses.
She shook out her petals in the sunlight, and smiled as sweetly as a
primrose can smile; but the spring days went by, and the summer was
almost over, before any one took any notice of her.
The poor little primrose was almost ready to die of despair, when one
day, looking up quite suddenly, she saw the face of an old man bending
over her.
He had gray hair and kind gray eyes; and as he looked at the flower he
smiled tenderly, as if he were looking at something that he loved.
The flower smiled in turn, but could not speak.
"You must go home with me, little primrose," said the old man, stooping
over the flower.
The fact that this gray-haired, gray-eyed old man was a poet will
account, perhaps, for his talking to a flower as if it could understand
what he said. At all events, he broke it from the stem, and when he
reached his home placed it in a glass of water, saying,
"There you must stay, my little flower, until I can write a poem worthy
of your bright face."
No sooner had he uttered these words than he saw standing before him a
young girl with golden hair and softly shining eyes.
"Bless me! bless me!" exclaimed the old man, in great surprise, taking
off the spectacles which he had so carefully adjusted across his nose,
"where did you come from, my lady?"
"I came from the flower," she said; and she threw her arms round his
neck and kissed him on the lips.
She was so delighted at her escape that she was not wholly responsible
for her actions; and if she cried a little, I don't think any one will
blame her.
Laughing and crying at the same time, and half wild with excitement, she
told her new friend the story of her life for the past few years; and
he, in his turn, smiled and wept a little, perhaps, and then he kissed
her on the lips, and said,
"Henceforth, my dear girl, you shall be known as the Lady Primrose, and
you shall stay with me as long as you will."
Whether or no he ever wrote a poem about her I can not tell. All I know
is that she lived with him for the rest of her life, and was the
sweetest and happiest Lady Primrose imaginable.
The house was as full of flowers as it could hold, and when the wise old
woman of Hollowbush, who, you may be sure, had not forgotten her, asked
her if she did not want another diamond necklace, Lady Primrose would
answer:
"I don't care if I never see another diamond. The simplest flowers that
grow in the woods are the loveliest jewels God ever made, and so long as
I can have them, the lifeless flowers of the underground world may bloom
for those who do not know of how little value the jewels they prize so
highly really are."
THE END.
EIGHTY YEARS OF A BIRD'S LIFE.
BY MRS. AMELIA E. BARR.
You must understand, my dear young readers, that the Raven of this tale
is not at all an ordinary bird. It is true, he could not sing even as
well as the smallest wren, but then he could talk, and it was generally
believed that he knew a great deal more than the wisest of men and women
supposed. He was, too, the very last representative of an extremely
ancient family of Ravens, who had inhabited some rocky hills just behind
the little cottage for hundreds of years--a family, indeed, so ancient
that they had watched the battle-fields of Celts, Romans, Saxons, Danes,
and Normans, and had had among them very wise birds, who croaked quite
learnedly on the subject.
Now at the bottom of the lofty rocks which they inhabited was a rich and
beautiful valley, and here, four hundred years ago, a Norman lord, who
was a great fighter, built himself a fine castle. The Ravens and he got
on very well together, and became great friends. His hunting and
fighting supplied them with food, and it is said they told him a great
many things that only a bird can know. He called his castle Ravensfield,
and very soon people began to call him Ravensfield, and then the birds
and he grew more friendly than ever. And it is said that when he was
dying he told his son always to be good to the Ravens, for that just as
long as the Ravens lived on Raven's Rock, the Ravensfields would own the
rich lands below it.
For two hundred years everything went well; the knights grew rich and
powerful, and the birds fat and numerous. Then the Ravensfields began to
go to London, and spend money, and do all sorts of foolish things, and
get into all kinds of troubles, and though the Ravens croaked and
croaked until they were hoarse, they would not be prudent, and stay at
home and mind their own business.
So the end of the matter was that every Ravensfield got poorer, and the
fine old castle fell into ruins, and the colony of Ravens among the
rocks also got smaller and smaller, until one morning the last knight of
Ravensfield found in a deserted nest the last of this once powerful
family of birds. It was half fledged and half starved, and he brought it
home, and gave it to his sister to nurse. "Sister Mabel," he said,
sadly, "this is the luck of Ravensfield: nurse it carefully, and
to-morrow I will buckle my sword to my belt and go to India. I do
believe this bird will live to see the old house rebuilt, and the glory
of our family restored."
So the young Lord Stephen went over the seas, and Miss Mabel nursed the
bird, and talked hopefully to it for fifteen years. But poor Lord
Stephen was killed in a great Indian battle, and soon after there came
to Miss Mabel a little lad who was Lord Stephen's only child. His father
had left him a little money, and his aunt Mabel took great pains with
him, and sent him to the best schools; and when he was twenty years old,
she buckled his sword on his belt, and kissing him tenderly, sent him
away also to India. "For, Stephen," she said, "you must win fame and
gold to buy back the house and lands of Ravensfield."
All these twenty years the Raven had been growing large and splendid,
and when the second Lord Stephen went away, he looked after him with a
queer sidewise glance that filled Miss Mabel's heart with fear. But he
was a bold, brave youth, and sent happy letters over the sea, and Miss
Mabel told the Raven all the news, and I have no doubt they comforted
each other very much. After nine years had passed, the Raven suddenly
grew silent, and then there came a sad, sad letter: the second Lord
Stephen had been killed fighting under his flag, and his sickly little
baby girl was sent home to his aunt in England.
Poor Miss Mabel was now sixty years old, and her heart and hopes were
quite crushed. She had little love left for the desolate child, and she
seemed to take a dislike to the poor Raven. At any rate, she never spoke
to it, and the bird became the companion of the little girl. They played
and ate and slept together, and when little Nannette went out to gather
primroses or berries, the Raven always walked solemnly beside her.
[Illustration: NANNETTE FEEDING THE RAVEN.]
One morning (the very morning when somebody drew this picture of them)
her aunt was cross--she had a heartache, and a toothache too, poor old
lady!--and Nannette took her porringer of bread and milk out of the
cottage, and she and the bird were enjoying it together, when some one
called out, "Nannette, I am going to shoot that ugly old bird!"
Then Nannette's little heart stood still in her terror, and she dropped
her breakfast and ran to the boy, crying out that she should die if it
were killed, for it was the only thing in all the world she had to love
her.
The boy saw that she had great brown eyes, and beautiful brown hair, and
a little mouth like a rose-bud, and he thought, "How lovely she is!" and
dropped his gun, and said so many comforting words to Nannette, that
always after it they were the very dearest of friends. And the Raven
seemed to approve of Reginald also--for Reginald was the little boy's
name, and he was very proud of it, being, as you know, a little out of
the common; he would perch on his shoulder, and what he said to him as
years went by I can not tell; but Reginald became thoughtful, and talked
to Nannette continually about going away, and growing rich, and then
coming home to marry her and make her a great lady. But Reginald did not
have money enough to go away, and so he was often very sad and silent.
One day he came to Nannette with a paper in his hand. "See!" he cried,
"the squire's son has been lost in the hills while hunting, and there is
one hundred pounds to be given to whoever finds him. I know all about
the hills, and shall certainly find the young squire." Then he said
good-by to Nannette, and would have done so to the Raven, but the bird
flew away before him, and for all his mistress's cries he would not come
back. So together they went up the rocks, and Nannette watched them
quite out of sight.
And Reginald, who knew a great deal about birds, watched the Raven, and
saw that he flew continually over one spot in a narrow ravine; and there
he found the poor young squire. His horse had been killed by the fall,
and there he lay with a broken leg, and almost dead with hunger and
thirst and pain. After this piece of good luck, Reginald's way was
clear. Every one was then talking about a new country full of gold,
called California; and though it was at the other end of the world,
Reginald bravely sailed away into the West. Aunt Mabel shook her head,
and the Raven nodded his head, and Nannette cried and laughed, and bid
him "come quickly back, and build again the beautiful castle of
Ravensfield"; and Reginald said, gravely, "I will surely do it," whereat
the Raven nodded his wise-looking head harder than before.
"How long will he be away, Aunt Mabel?" said Nannette, sadly.
"Twenty years at least, my dear. I shall never see him again. I am
seventy-five years old now."
"And I am fifteen. Ah! I shall be an old woman when Reginald comes back,
and he won't know his little Nannette any more!" Then the Raven said
something to Nannette, and she laughed, and his "Croak! croak!" sounded
very like "Yes! yes!" It did, indeed.
Four years after Reginald went away, a very singular thing happened. Two
pairs of strange Ravens came to Raven's Rock, and built nests and reared
their young there. Nannette's Raven went very often to see them, and
seemed to be altogether a changed bird. For though he was getting near
sixty years old, he began to plume his feathers, and to sit continually
at the cottage door, watching, watching, watching, as if he expected
somebody.
It affected Nannette at last. "I think, aunt," she said, timidly, "that
Reginald must be coming home. Just look at that bird!"
"Nonsense, child! How should he know?"
And indeed I don't understand how this wonderful bird knew, but he did;
for that very night, just as Nannette was going to light the candle, she
heard Reginald's step on the crisp snow, and the old lady heard it, and
the Raven heard it, and there was the gladdest meeting you can possibly
imagine; and if ever a bird said "I told you so," that Raven said it at
least a hundred times that night.
Besides, Reginald had come home with hundreds and hundreds and hundreds
of pounds; and he married lovely Nannette, and rebuilt Ravensfield; and
dear, patient Aunt Mabel, after sixty years of waiting, went back to the
stately old house, and ended her days in the little parlor where she had
kissed her brother Stephen farewell.
As for the Raven, he showed himself to be a bird of a very aristocratic
nature. He stepped proudly about the fine halls and gardens, and never
went near the little cottage or the village streets again. He lived
until his fine plumage began to turn gray, and Nannette's oldest son was
almost big enough to put on a scarlet coat and a sword; and when he was
nearly eighty years old he died on Nannette's knee, his foot in her
hand, and the last thing he was conscious of was her tears dropping upon
it.
Very likely, children, some extremely wise men and women will say, "I
would not believe too much of this story, boys and girls." But when you
have lived as long as I have lived, you will know that extremely wise
men and women _don't know everything_. At any rate, there are plenty of
Ravens on Raven's Rock now, and plenty of Ravensfields in the splendid
castle; and if ever you go to England, you can see them if you want to.
A HARD SWIM.
BY DAVID KER.
There are few things more delightful than to be at sea on a fine summer
day, with a bright blue sky above and a bright blue sea below, while the
fresh breeze fills your sails, and the great smooth waves toss you
lightly along, and spatter you at times with their glittering spray,
like frolicsome giants. But it is a very different thing to be out in
the teeth of a real equinoctial gale, with the whole sky black as ink,
and the whole sea one sheet of boiling foam, and a huge wave coming
thundering over the deck every other minute, sweeping everything before
it, and making the whole vessel tremble from stem to stern.
So, doubtless, thought Olaf Petersen, captain and owner of the Norwegian
schooner _Thyra_, of Bergen, when just such a storm caught him half way
across the North Sea. It _did_ seem rather hard, after escaping all the
storms of blustering March, that fresh, genial April should serve him
such a trick; but so it was, and instead of having a short and easy run
northeastward to Bergen, as he expected, he found himself flying away to
the west, driven by a gale which seemed strong enough to blow him right
round the world, if it did not happen to sink him by the way.
All the sails had long since been taken in, and the little craft was
scudding under bare poles, no one being on deck but the two men at the
wheel (who had quite enough to do keeping her head straight) and the
captain himself. A fine picture Olaf Petersen would have made as he
stood there, with the spray rattling like hail upon his drenched
tarpaulins, and his clear bright eye looking keenly out through the wet
hair that was plastered over his face. It might be seen by the firm set
of his mouth that he meant to fight it out while a plank would swim; but
he looked grave and anxious, nevertheless.
And well he might. This time it was not only his vessel and the lives of
himself and his crew that were in danger: his young wife was on board,
after whom the _Thyra_ had been named, and it was now too late to blame
himself for having granted her entreaty to be allowed to sail along with
him, instead of being left at home by herself for so many weary weeks,
without knowing whether he was alive or dead.
Still it blew harder, and harder yet. Had not the _Thyra_ been as good a
sea-boat as ever swam, it would have been all over with her. Even as it
was, she could barely hold her own against the mountains of water that
came plunging over her deck with a force that seemed sufficient to rend
a rock. More than once the captain's stiffened fingers were almost torn
from their hold upon the weather rigging, while the men at the wheel
were under water again and again. Vainly did Olaf strain his eyes to
windward in the hope of seeing a break in the inky sky. All was grim and
gloomy, and amid the blinding spray and the deepening darkness it was
hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.
All that night and all the next morning they drove blindly onward, not
knowing where they were; for the sun had not been seen for two whole
days, and no observation could be taken. But Captain Petersen, who had
those seas by heart, began to fear that they were being driven in among
the Orkney Isles, and he knew only too well what chance the stoutest
three-decker would have against those tremendous rocks with such a sea
running.
Toward afternoon the wind fell suddenly, though the sea still ran high;
but now came something worse than all--one of those terrible Northern
fogs which turn day into night, and make the oldest sailor as helpless
as a child. The lanterns were lit and hoisted, the ship's bell was kept
constantly tolling, and the captain ordered up two "look-outs" besides
himself; but the fog grew thicker and thicker, till those on the
forecastle could barely make out the foremast.
Ha! what was that huge dim shadow that loomed out suddenly just ahead,
like a threatening giant? Could it be a _rock_?
"Port your helm!--port!" roared the captain, at the full pitch of his
voice.
But it was too late. The next moment there came a deafening crash, a
shock that threw them all off their feet, and the vessel, with her bows
stove in, was sawing and grinding upon the sharp rocks that had pierced
her through and through, with the water rushing into her like a
cataract.
The next few minutes were like the confusion of a troubled dream--a
shadowy vision of a huge dark mass overhead, a short fierce struggle
amid swirling foam and broken timbers--and then the captain and wife
found themselves upon one of the higher ledges, hardly knowing how they
had reached it, while the crew, with bleeding hands and sorely bruised
limbs, dragged themselves painfully up after them.
They were not a moment too soon. Scarcely had the last man gained the
ledge, when a mountain wave took the vessel aback. She slid off the
rocks which had held her up, and went down so quickly that the captain,
turning at the shouts of his men, just caught a glimpse of her topmasts
vanishing under water.
The situation of the shipwrecked crew was now dreary enough. Alone upon
a bare rock in the midst of a stormy sea, with no means of escape, and
no food but the few brine-soaked biscuits in their pockets, there seemed
to be nothing left for them but to give themselves up and die. But, of
all men living, a sailor is the least apt to think his case hopeless,
however dark it may appear. Having just been saved from apparently
certain death, the stout-hearted seamen were in no mood to despair so
easily; and settling themselves snugly in a sheltered cleft of the rock,
they ate their scanty meal (a good share of which had been reserved for
Mrs. Petersen) as cheerily as if they were lying at anchor in Bergen
Harbor.
Just as the meal ended, the fog suddenly rolled away like a curtain, and
the last gleam of the setting sun showed them an island several miles to
the north, on the shore of which the keen-eyed captain made out a few
white specks that looked like fishermen's huts.
"Lads," cried he, "if the wind rises again, it'll blow us all into the
sea; and even if it don't, we shall freeze to death if we stick here all
night, with no room to move about. There's just _one_ chance left for
us, and I'm going to take it. Somebody must swim to that island for
help, and as I believe I'm the best swimmer among us, I'll be the one to
do it."
"Olaf!" cried his wife, catching him by the arm, "you won't think of it!
It's certain death!"
"Pooh, pooh!" said the captain, cheerily. "I haven't swum across Bergen
Bay and back for nothing. It's certain death to sit here and freeze, if
you like; but you'll soon see me coming back with half a dozen stout
fellows, and we'll all have a good supper before the night's out. Keep
your heart up, dear. God bless you!"
The next moment he was in the water, and vanishing from the eager eyes
that watched him into the fast-falling shadows of night. Then came a
long silence. The men looked at each other, no one daring to utter the
thought which was in every one's mind, while Thyra Petersen hid her face
in her hands, and prayed as she had never prayed before.
Meanwhile Captain Petersen, who had told no more than the truth in
calling himself a good swimmer, was breasting the waves manfully. But he
soon found the difference between attempting a long swim when quite
fresh and vigorous, and doing the same thing after a hard night's work,
on short allowance of food, and with limbs stiffened by wet and cold.
Moreover, the sea, although much quieter than it had been, was still
rough enough to tell sorely against him. Before he had gone a mile he
felt his strength beginning to fail; but he thought of his wife, and of
all the other lives that now depended upon him alone, and struggled
desperately onward. But now came a new trouble. In the deepening
darkness the island for which he was heading soon disappeared
altogether, and he found himself swimming almost at random. Every stroke
was now a matter of life and death, and yet each of those strokes might
be taken in the wrong direction. It was a terrible thought. Heavier and
heavier grew his cramped limbs, harder and harder pressed the merciless
sea. He sank--rose--sank again, and as he came up once more, lifted his
voice in a despairing cry, feeling that all was over.
"Hist, laddies! there's some ane skirling" (screaming), shouted a hoarse
voice near him.
There was a sudden splash of oars, a clamor of many voices, and then a
strong hand clutched him as he sank for the last time. So utterly was he
spent that he could barely force out the few words needful to tell his
story; but these were quite enough for the Orkney fishermen, who at once
put about and steered straight for the rock.
It was a glad sight for the weary watchers, when the boat came gliding
toward them out of the darkness. But when they recognized their captain,
whom they had long since given up for lost, they gathered their last
strength for a feeble cheer, while poor Thyra sprang into the boat, and
threw her arms round his neck without a word.
So ended Captain Petersen's daring swim, which brought him good in a way
that he little expected; for when the news of the feat reached Bergen,
the townspeople at once started a subscription to buy him another
vessel, in which he is voyaging now.
SOME CURIOUS ART WORKS AND ARTISTS.
The Marquis de Veere once gave each of his household a sufficient
quantity of the richest white silk damask for a suit. Charles V. was
about to make him a visit, and the marquis wished his court to make a
splendid appearance when assisting him to receive the emperor. His
painter, Mabuse, who was always in debt, was granted the privilege of
seeing to the making of his own suit of clothes. Mabuse, however, sold
the damask for a good price, and having made a paper suit, painted it so
perfectly to represent the damask that when he appeared in it all were
deceived.
When the marquis called the emperor's attention to the beautiful
clothing of his court, and asked which suit he most admired, the emperor
at once selected that of Mabuse. The joke was then explained to the
emperor, but he would not believe that the suit was not of real damask
until he had touched it with his hands.
It no doubt took Mabuse considerable time to paint his damask, but a
much more celebrated artist once made a wonderful drawing almost in an
instant. At the time of the Cæsars there was at Rome a panel on which
was to be seen nothing but three colored lines. The lines were drawn one
on top of the other, each thinner line dividing the next wider. This was
considered one of the most wonderful art works at Rome.
The Grecian painter Apelles went one day into Protogenes's studio, and
finding that artist out, drew on a panel the widest of the three lines
in such a peculiar and beautiful manner that Protogenes knew at once his
caller. When Apelles called the second time he found that Protogenes had
drawn a colored line upon the first line, dividing it with the most
delicate accuracy. Seeing this, Apelles divided the second line, to
every one's astonishment. Protogenes lived at Rhodes, and the panel was
taken to Rome to be admired by all who saw it. When the imperial palace
was destroyed, the panel unfortunately shared a like fate.
In comparison, what a delicate flower is to a huge log, so the work of
Apelles would be to such a vast oil-painting as the "Apotheosis of
Hercules," painted by Lemoin, a Frenchman. This picture measured
sixty-four feet one way by fifty-four feet the other, and the
ultramarine to paint the clouds on it alone cost two thousand dollars.
Another huge painting, said to be the largest in the world, is
Tintoretto's "Paradise," at Venice. It contains an almost innumerable
multitude of figures, and fills the end of a large hall, over three
hundred feet long and half as wide.
One of the most minute and beautiful of art works now at Florence is a
glory of sixty saints carved on a cherry stone. It was carved by the
Italian sculptress Rossi, who executed other similar carvings, besides
working in marble.
Some of the old artists had peculiar methods of working. Aspertino
taught himself to paint with both hands at the same time; and Goya, who
died in this century, frequently used a stick or a sponge rather than a
brush. There are pictures of Goya's done entirely with his palette knife
and finger-ends.
One of the oddest of all artists was Bazzi, called Il Soddoma. Not only
did he dress peculiarly, but his house was full of strange pet animals,
such as monkeys and queer birds. Among the birds was a raven that could
perfectly imitate his voice and manner of speech.
Sir Joshua Reynolds painted with brushes the handles of which were a
foot and a half long, and used them so rapidly that he would paint a
portrait in four hours. The finest of his pictures were those of
children.
Other painters were noted also especially for their rapid work. One
morning when some citizens called upon the Spanish painter Serra with an
order for an altarpiece, he invited them to stay to dinner, and in the
mean while to pass the time in his garden. When dinner-time came, the
citizens were perfectly amazed to see Serra walk into their presence
bearing the finished picture.
Rizi, another Spanish painter, went in early life to Salamanca to study
theology, but he arrived there without money, and found that to be
received at the college he must pay a hundred ducats. The abbot of the
college gave Rizi but two days in which to get the money, or be refused
as a student. Within that time, however, Rizi painted and sold a picture
for the desired amount. He continued to paint to pay for his education,
and in addition to becoming a famous painter he was made a bishop just
before he died.
A celebrated painter of fairs and festivals such as took place among the
Dutch was David Teniers. He usually painted on small or moderate-sized
canvases, but the figures often were so numerous that one of his
pictures contains nearly twelve hundred figures, while others with two
hundred and three hundred figures are not rare. Teniers could imitate
the style of other painters. At Vienna is a picture of his representing
a gallery in which he and a gentleman are standing, and on the wall
before them are hung fifty pictures of other artists. The pictures, of
course, are quite small, but any one comparing them with the originals
sees how striking is the imitation of different styles.
Another clever imitation of a very different kind was that of Peredo's,
whose wife, a lady of rank, wished to have a servant with her whenever
any one called. Peredo was not wealthy enough to keep merely ornamental
servants, and he painted an old lady with glasses sitting in a chair,
and who, apparently, when visitors saluted her, was so busily engaged in
sewing as not to hear them.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE ARTIST.]
HARES, WILD AND TAME.
The hare family is one of the largest of the great animal kingdom, for
Master Lepus is found in almost every corner of the earth, and whether
hiding in tropical thickets, or scampering on Alpine heights, or through
the frozen regions of the North, it is always the same agile, shy, and
stupid little beast. It has very long ears, tipped with black, and heavy
whiskers growing from each cheek. Its hind-legs are very long. It is a
swift runner, and can jump a great distance.
Hares are very common throughout the Northern United States, their
favorite haunts being overgrown old clearings, and thickets where are
many snug places of concealment. They change their fur during winter,
throwing off the pretty reddish-brown summer coat, and donning one of
white and dark fawn-color. The color of the fur, however, is so varied
that it is difficult to find two specimens exactly alike.
[Illustration: HUNTING FOR SUPPER.]
This little creature will eat any juicy, tender food, such as the young
buds and sprouts in the spring, berries, and leaves. It is fond of
cabbage leaves and young grain, and often does much mischief to the
crops. It generally sleeps through the day, and morning and evening
jumps about in search of food, scampering here and there wherever it can
find a sweet morsel to nibble. It does not burrow its nest in the
ground, like its cousin the rabbit, but scratches together a little heap
of dry grass, which makes a very good temporary lodging. The hare's nest
is called a "form," and is so in harmony with surrounding objects that
it is scarcely noticeable. One may pass very near without suspecting
that under such a heap of dry rubbish a cunning little animal lies
concealed. On English heaths the hare makes its "form" in the little
stubbly furze-bushes. Inside this mass of prickly leaves it hollows out
a soft little bed, where it sleeps away the long sunny day, crouched
close to the ground, its ears laid flat on its back.
Hares have no means of defending themselves, except their sharp
toe-nails, which they rarely think of using, and they fall an easy prey
to the many enemies which beset them. They are vigorously hunted by men
and dogs on account of the delicate flavor of their flesh, and it has
been thought necessary to place them under the protection of the
game-laws. They are also the prey of foxes, wild-cats, weasels, and many
other animals. Although defenseless, they still are in a measure
protected by their keen ear, which catches the sound of the least rustle
or movement, and warns the little beast against approaching danger.
The hare is the worst mother in the world. When her little ones are four
or five days old, she leaves them unprotected in their nest, and
scampers away to enjoy herself, returning once or twice, perhaps, to
nurse her forlorn babies, and then leaving them to shift for themselves.
Many little ones, thus neglected, die of cold and hunger, or are swooped
up by hawks and owls. It is a strange fact that the mother hare makes
no attempt to protect her babies, but will run away at the least signal
of danger, and leave them to their fate. Hares have even been known
themselves to bite their children to death. A young hare family remain
together until they are half grown, when they separate, continuing to
live near their native spot, for hares are not travellers, and, unless
disturbed, seldom change their home. They are very short-lived, and
seldom attain the age of ten years.
Hares are very plentiful in Switzerland, and are found high up among the
ice and snow of the most lofty mountains. These Alpine hares are subject
to a very strange change of costume. In December, when the Alpine world
is one vast expanse of snow, the fur of the hare is the purest white,
only the ears preserving the distinguishing black tip. As spring comes
on, gray-brown hairs appear in the white fur, until, about the end of
May, the animal is entirely covered with a gray-brown coat, which with
the first snows of the autumn begins, in its turn, to change again into
white. Ice hares, which are found as far north as the Parry Islands, are
also subject to the same change, with the exception that the warm
weather continues only long enough to spread a gray mantle along the
back of the little creature, which quickly disappears as the temperature
declines. The ice hare lives on the bark and twigs of the arctic willow
and the dry moss and stubble of the desolate regions it inhabits. It
makes its nest among the rocks, and in winter digs a hole in the snow.
Hares are good swimmers, but will not enter the water unless to avoid a
foe. There is, however, one species of aquatic hare, found only in the
Southern United States. It is amphibious, like the musk-rat, is a most
expert swimmer, and makes its nest, or "form," on the edge of the
morass, where it sleeps all day, sallying forth morning and evening for
a swim in search of the delicate water-plants upon which it feeds. The
young ones enter the water at a very early age, and may be seen paddling
about with the mother on a hunt for breakfast.
Tame hares make very pretty pets. They are very stupid about learning
tricks, and are said to have very short memories. Hares which have
escaped from their masters, and have been recaptured after a few days of
freedom, have been found to be entirely wild, as if they retained no
remembrance, even for that short time, of all the petting which had been
bestowed upon them. Dr. Benjamin Franklin is said to have had a pet hare
which lived on the most friendly terms with a greyhound and cat, and
would share the hearth-rug with them in the winter.