[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 94. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 16, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "UNHAPPY."--FROM A PAINTING BY GREUSE.]
HOW A BUOY SAVED THE BOYS.
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
It was one fine morning in early summer that Sam Finney rose a full hour
earlier than usual, quickly disposed of his breakfast, hurried through
his chores, and then hastened off down the main street of the village to
the steamboat dock.
Here he seated himself atop of a pile, and watched for the appearance of
the _Laura Pearl_, the "favorite steamer" that formed the principal
connecting link between the quietness and oysters of Fair Farms and the
bustle and markets of the city.
As a general thing, Sam did not take much interest in the arrival of the
_Laura_, as she was familiarly called; but to-day she was to bring with
her Tom Van Daunton and his new row-boat.
Now Tom was a city boy, and had only passed one summer at Fair Farms;
still, that was long enough to allow of his becoming the most intimate
friend of Sam, who had lived in the little village all the twelve years
of his life. Together the two had rowed, crabbed, fished, and fallen
overboard to their hearts' content, the only drawback to their complete
happiness consisting in the fact that they had never had a boat exactly
suited to their wants. Sam's father, to be sure, owned two or three, but
all were used by his older brothers for clamming and oystering, while
the Van Dauntons' Whitehall was very safe and pretty, but altogether too
large for two boys not yet in their teens.
Nevertheless, as has been said, the lads managed to enjoy themselves
immensely: and now that Tom's father had given him as a birthday present
a sum of money with which to have a boat built for his own use, there
seemed to be no limit to the good times ahead.
Tom had promptly hastened to inform his friend by letter of the luck
they were in, asking at the same time for suggestions as to the sort,
size, and color of the prospective craft.
And now it was all finished, and to-day the Van Dauntons, and Tom, and
the boat were expected at the pretty little Swiss cottage on the
river-bank, which was just across the road from the Finney farm.
"Hip! hip! hurrah! Here she comes!" sung out Sam, as the _Laura Pearl_
shot into view from behind the point; and he waved his hat with such
energy that he nearly fell off the top of the pile on the back of a big
hard-shell crab that was clinging to the bottom of it.
He saved himself, however, and as the _Laura_ ran up alongside,
dexterously caught her stern line, and placed it over the post.
"Bravo! well done!" shouted somebody from the upper deck, and there was
young Van Daunton, looking a little pale after his winter in the city,
but just as good-natured as ever, while at his feet lay the _Breeze_,
the wonderful new, oiled, cedar boat, fifteen feet long, rather narrow,
yet very trim, and with seats for four persons.
The _Breeze_ was carefully lifted down, and placed on the wharf, from
whence she was launched that very afternoon, with her two pretty flags
flying fore and aft, and an admiring crowd of fishers and crabbers as
spectators.
And all summer long the boys' interest in the boat never lessened; for
when they became tired of rowing for rowing's sake, they pretended the
_Breeze_ was a steamboat, with Tom and Sam taking turns as Captain and
Engineer, while little Vincent, as passenger, cheerfully consented to be
picked up and set down anywhere on the route, as long as there was
plenty of sand for him to play in.
With this new idea in their heads, the lads had rigged up a bell under
one of the forward seats, which was connected with the stern, where the
Captain steered, by a string, and by this means all directions as to
stopping and starting were given precisely as on the _Laura Pearl_ or
any other steam vessel.
It was one afternoon late in the season that the boys determined to
venture upon a more extended trip than any they had hitherto undertaken.
"'Twould be great fun to cruise along the bay shore, with land on only
one side of us." It was Sam who spoke, and thus suggested the voyage, as
he had afterward good cause to remember. "We might leave Vin in one of
the little coves there, and then steer out toward the sea. What do you
say, Captain?"--for it happened to be Tom's turn at the "wheel."
What could the latter say but that he was of the same mind? And as the
day was fine, it was decided to put the brilliant idea into effect
without delay; for around the point to the bay shore and back was no
trifling distance, and it was already past one.
"Lucky the tide's with us," remarked Sam, as he answered the bell by
pushing off and rowing leisurely down stream.
"But it's pretty near low water now, so you'll have to hurry up if you
want it to help you all the way;" and Tom cast a nautical eye shoreward
to see how great an extent of snails was exposed.
The _Breeze_ was, as Sam had predicted, a very easy-going boat, and now,
propelled by his strong young arms, and aided materially by the
outflowing tide, she went along at such a rate as to create quite a
strong namesake of hers in the heated air, which blew refreshingly in
Tom's face as he guided his craft through the windings of the Leafic
channel.
And now they had rounded the point, and the wide expanse of the bay,
stretching far off to the city on the one side, and to the ocean on the
other, was before them.
"Oh dear! how hot I am!" said Vin, eying with envy a clump of stunted
cedars that grew close to the shore on their left.
"So am I," returned his brother; "but duty calls us to explore still
further these watery wastes, so we'll just set you down here, where you
can amuse yourself by making railroads in the sand till we come back."
And as he spoke, Tom pulled on his left tiller-rope, and then gave Chief
Engineer Finney the signal to slow up, as they ran into a convenient
little cove.
Vin lost no time in getting out and seeking the scanty shade which the
trees afforded, and then the two "big boys" pushed off again, promising
to call for their passenger in about half an hour.
"And now for the 'bright blue sea,'" cried Tom, as he turned the
_Breeze_'s bow in the direction of Europe.
Further and further in the rear the clump of cedars was left, and still
the sandy cape that marked the division between sea and river appeared
as far away as ever. Finally Tom, losing patience at their seemingly
slow progress, took one of Sam's oars, and together the two made the
boat fly through the water.
But if the Captain had remained at his post in the stern a little while
longer, he would have noticed something ahead that might have led him to
turn around and hasten back instead of hurrying onward. That something
was what at first seemed to be merely a harmless white cloud rising out
of the ocean, but which grew ever larger and larger as it advanced
toward the land.
And still the boys, eager to pass beyond the line of breakers on their
right, wasted not an instant in turning round to look before them, until
at last they gained their point, left the white-capped billows behind
them, and the next moment awoke to the fact that they were completely
enveloped in the densest fog. Where but a few seconds previous all had
been bright and beautiful, there was now naught apparent but the heavy
curtain of mist, blotting out the blue of sea and sky and all the
glorious sunshine.
For half a minute the boys were so amazed that they just sat and stared
mutely at as much as they could see of one another; and then, with the
single cry of "Vin!" Tom splashed his oar into the water, and began to
row the boat around. But in which direction should he head it? Where was
the clump of cedars now? or where, in fact, was anything but fog, thick
and penetrating, shrouding everything?
"Oh, Sam, what shall we do?--which way shall we go?" exclaimed poor Tom,
for an instant losing his wonted courage and hopefulness as he thought
of his ten-year-old brother off there alone on that barren beach waiting
and watching for them to come back for him.
"Maybe the fog'll lift soon," replied Sam. "They don't generally last
long this time of year." And the lad endeavored to speak cheerfully,
although his heart beat fast and loud, for was it not he that had first
proposed the foolish expedition?
"But I can't sit here, and do nothing but wait. It's too awful. Oh, if
we only had a compass!" And Tom gazed out into the mists about him as if
determined to pierce through their heavy folds.
At that moment a sharp, short whistle was sounded disagreeably close at
hand, and served to add a new terror to the situation. A vessel might
run them down.
"Quick! the bell!" shouted Sam; and snatching up the string, he rang it
at regular intervals all through the terrible hours that followed.
Meanwhile Tom, unable to remain quiet, had caught up the other oar, and
begun pulling in the direction of--he knew not where. Presently a
splashing sound of wheels was heard, then the whistle's shrill note of
warning, and the next instant the _Breeze_ was tossed to and fro like a
cork in the swell of a passing steamer.
The boys grew pale as they realized the extremity of their danger, and
clutched the sides of the boat to save themselves from being thrown out.
And yet they were quite helpless. Even little Vin, alone there on that
deserted shore, was to be envied, for he was at least in temporary
security.
Tom still rowed slowly on, while Sam strained his eyes to the utmost,
and kept up the monotonous ringing of the bell. Neither of the lads said
much; but the expression of Tom's face, although all its usual bright
color had left it, showed that he was determined to bear up bravely to
the end, whatever that might be.
The water still remained quite smooth; even the long easy swells were
growing less and less noticeable, and the boys were beginning to hope
that they were at least headed for the shore, when--thump went the boat
into a great black object, and both gave themselves up for lost.
"It's a ship," thought Tom, momentarily expecting the dark waters to
close over his head.
"Help! help! We've run into a steamer!" cried Sam, tugging away in a
crazy fashion at the bell-cord.
But, as it turned out, the great black object was neither a ship nor a
steamer, but a huge buoy, and instead of being lost, the lads were
saved; for, attaching themselves to this marker of shoals, they were out
of the course of vessels, and all that was necessary for them to do was
to wait.
And this they did patiently, although it proved a hard task, with the
thought of Vin all alone there on that distant beach. Sam kept up the
sounding of the bell, for it was a sort of company for them, while Tom
counted the minutes on his watch until it grew to be after five, when a
faint glimmering became perceptible through the mist, and gradually the
fog lifted and rolled away.
And now where did the young mariners find themselves? Why, half way up
the bay in the direction of the city, and a long pull they had of it
back to the clump of cedars.
But on arriving here no Vin was to be seen, and the boys were beginning
to grow quite desperate in their anxiety, when Sam stumbled upon the
following, written in the sand:
"Don't worry about me. I am going to walk home by the bridge at
Leafic.
"VIN."
"It's a good four miles," said Tom, "and I know he's never been over the
road."
But when they came in sight of the Van Dauntons' wharf, there was Vin on
the end of it, anxiously looking out for them.
ABOUT POISON-IVY.
BY A. W. ROBERTS.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--POISON-IVY.]
At this season of the year, when so many of our young folks are
gathering wild flowers, ferns, berries, leaves, and mosses in the woods
and along the hedges, I can not think of a more useful lesson in wood
and field botany than that which teaches how to know and distinguish two
of the most poisonous vegetable substances to be met with in the woods.
I mean the poison-ivy, poison-oak, and mercury-vine, which are the
common names for one and the same vine, found climbing up the trunks of
trees, on rail, board, and stone fences, over rocks and bushes, in waste
lands and meadows. In fact, everywhere and anywhere it can secure a foot
of ground, no matter how poor, or how much exposed to the scorching rays
of the sun, this wretched vine prospers, happy and contented to spread
out its poisonous arms hidden beneath its glossy and graceful foliage.
In Fig. 1 is shown a close study from nature of a specimen growing at
the west end of Coney Island, where it is to be found in abundance
between the highest sand-dunes on the north and south sides of the
island. Here when the ivy has a chance to climb up a tree or bush, up it
goes, throwing out its aerial rootlets in all directions. But when
growing away from any support, in the sand which is being constantly
displaced by the strong ocean winds, it then grows stout, erect, and
bush-like. Under these peculiar circumstances of growth it has received
the name of poison-oak, and was supposed by many botanists to be a
separate variety, though in fact the poison ivy and oak are one and the
same thing. When the stem of the poison-ivy is wounded, a milky juice
issues from the wound. The leaves, after being separated from the vine,
turn black when exposed to the air.
The stem of the vine is nearly smooth in texture; the aerial rootlets
(Fig. 1, A A A), which start from all parts of the stem, are of a bright
brown color when young. The masses of berries when unripe are of a light
green color; when ripe, of an ashen gray. Below the mass of this year's
berries are generally to be found those of last year. The leaf has a
smooth and somewhat shiny texture, and curves downward from the midrib.
To many people the slightest contact with the leaves of the ivy will
produce poisoning. I have known of instances where persons in passing
masses of ivy-vine, particularly when the wind was blowing from the vine
toward the passer-by, became severely poisoned. One of our most
beautiful native vines, the so-called Virginia creeper, which frequently
grows side by side with the ivy, is often mistaken for it, and blamed
for the evil doings of its neighbor, and yet is so innocent and
beautiful a vine that I have figured it in full fruit (Fig. 2). The
Virginia creeper has a leaf consisting of five lobes, which are
distinctly notched, and which curve upward from the midrib. Instead of
aerial rootlets like the ivy, it has stout tendrils more or less twisted
and curled, often assuming the form of a spiral spring. These tendrils
are provided with a disk by means of which an attachment is made to any
object within reach (see Fig. 2, B B).
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--VIRGINIA CREEPER.]
The stem has the appearance of being jointed. The berries are large and
grape-like in the form of the cluster, and when ripe are of a deep blue
color, with heavy bloom. In the fall of the year the leaves turn to a
deep red and brownish-red color.
The poison-sumac, swamp-sumac, or dogwood (Fig. 3) is ten times more
severe in its poisoning qualities than the poison-ivy. It grows from six
to ten feet in height, in low marshy grounds. The berries are smooth,
white, or dun-colored, and in form and size closely resemble those of
the ivy.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.--POISON-SUMAC.]
This sumac is terrible in its effects, often causing temporary
blindness. Some years ago it became the fashion to wear immense wreaths
and bunches of artificial flowers inside and outside of ladies' bonnets.
The flower-makers, being hard pressed for material, made use of dried
grasses, seed-vessels, burrs, and catkins; these were painted, dyed,
frosted, and bronzed to make them attractive. I became greatly
interested in the business and the ingenuity displayed, and spent much
time examining the contents of milliners' windows. On one occasion when
standing before a very fashionable milliner's window on Fourteenth
Street, I was horror-stricken on discovering that an immense wreath of
grayish berries which constituted the inside trimming of a bonnet was
composed entirely of the berries of the poison-sumac, just as they had
been gathered, not a particle of varnish, bronze, or other material
coating them. The bonnet, when worn, would bring this entire mass of
villainous berries on the top and sides of the head, and a few of the
sprays about the ears and on the forehead. Stepping into the store, I
addressed the proprietor, and asked her if she knew that the bonnet was
trimmed with the berries of one of the most poisonous shrubs known in
the United States. After staring at me in a sort of puzzled way, she
informed me that I was mistaken; that she had received those flowers
from Paris only a week ago.
"Madam," I replied, "there must be a mistake somewhere, for those are
the berries of the poison-sumac, which does not grow in Europe."
She gave me one angry look, asked me to please attend to my own
business, and swept away from me to the other end of the store.
A few days after this I read in the daily papers an account of the
poisoning of a number of small girls employed in a French artificial
flower manufactory in Greene Street. I at once guessed the cause. I
visited the factory mentioned, introduced myself to the proprietor, told
him what I knew about the poison berries--and was rudely requested to
make myself scarce. After these two adventures I made up my mind to keep
my botanical knowledge (poisonous though it might be) to myself.
When in the army I came across a very curious case of poisoning with
swamp-sumac and poison-ivy. A creature having the form of a human being,
and wearing the uniform of a soldier, was found in a solitary tent,
which was pitched in an abandoned and desolated plantation. This
creature's body had the appearance of having been scalded, and his
eyesight was nearly gone: in fact, we were afraid to touch him, fearing
that he had some terribly infectious disease. But why was he there,
alone and deserted?--not even a sanitary guard over him to prevent all
communication except by the doctors. He did not seem to care to talk
much about himself or his situation, or state why his comrades had left
him there to die. Being on the march, all we could do was to leave him
extra rations, water, and tobacco. But we afterward learned from members
of his regiment that to avoid duty and an engagement he had poisoned
himself by building a fire of green poison-ivy and swamp-sumac, and had
actually submitted himself to a vapor-bath of these two poisonous
materials. He was a professional bounty-jumper, and had taken this means
to get out of the army. He was never heard of afterward, as he fell into
the hands of the enemy where his comrades left him.
When poisoned with ivy or sumac (they are all sumacs), if time and
cooling medicines are taken, the poison will slowly exhaust itself; but
it is a tedious and slow operation. A cure which is in use with the
Indians of California and the Territories is to eat a few of the leaves
after the poison has made its appearance on the skin. The Editor of
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE tells me that he has tried this method, and that
in his case it effected a complete cure within twelve hours.
[Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.]
TIM AND TIP;
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.
CHAPTER III.
TIP'S INTRODUCTION TO MRS. SIMPSON.
On the following morning Tim and Sam were awakened very suddenly by a
confused noise which appeared to come from the kitchen below, and which
could not have been greater had a party of boys been engaged in a game
of leap-frog there.
A woman's screams were heard amid the crashing of furniture as it was
overturned, the breaking of crockery, and the sounds of scurryings to
and fro, while high above all came at irregular intervals the yelp of a
dog.
This last sound caused Tim the greatest fear. A hasty glance around the
room had shown him that Tip, who had been peacefully curled up on the
outside of the bed when he last remembered anything, was no longer to be
seen; and without knowing how it could have happened, he was sure it was
none other than his pet who was uttering those cries of distress.
In a few moments more he learned that he was not mistaken, for Tip
rushed into the room, his tongue hanging out, his stub of a tail
sticking straight up, and looking generally as though he had been having
a hard time of it.
Before Tim, who had at once leaped out of bed, could comfort his pet, a
voice, sounding as if its owner was sadly out of breath, was heard
crying, "Sam! Sam! Sammy!"
"What, marm?" replied Sam, who lay quaking with fear, and repenting the
fact that his desire for candy had led him into what looked very much
like a bad scrape.
"Did a dog just come into your room?"
"Yes, marm."
"Throw something at him, and drive him out."
For an instant Sam clutched the pillow as if he would obey the command;
but Tim had his arms around Tip's neck, ready to save him from any
injury, even if he was obliged to suffer himself.
"Why don't you drive him out?" cried Mrs. Simpson, after she had vainly
waited to hear the sound of her son's battle with the animal.
"Why--why--why--" stammered Sam, at a loss to know what to say, and
trembling with fear.
"Are you afraid of him?"
"No, marm," was the faltering reply.
"Then why don't you do as I tell you?"
"Why--why, Tim won't let me," cried Sam, now so frightened that he
hardly knew what he did say.
"Why, what's the matter with the boy?" Tim heard the good woman say; and
then the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs told that she was coming
to make a personal investigation.
Sam, in a tremor of fear, rolled over on his face, and buried his head
in the pillow, as if by such a course he could shelter himself from the
storm he expected was about to break upon him.
Tim was crouching in the middle of the floor, his face close down to
Tip's nose, and his arms clasped so tightly around the dog's neck that
it seemed as if he would choke him.
That was the scene Mrs. Simpson looked in upon after she had been nearly
frightened out of her senses by a strange dog while she was cooking
breakfast. She had tried to turn the intruder out of doors, but he,
thinking she wanted to play with him, had acted in such a strange and at
the same time familiar manner that she had become afraid, and the
confusion that had awakened the boys had been caused by both, when
neither knew exactly what to do.
Mrs. Simpson stood at the room door looking in a moment before she could
speak, and then she asked, "What is the meaning of this, Samuel?"
Sam made no reply, but buried his face deeper in the pillows, while the
ominous shaking of his fat body told that he was getting ready to cry
in advance of the whipping he expected to receive.
"Who is this boy?" asked the lady, finding that her first question was
likely to receive no reply.
Sam made no sign of life, and Tim, knowing that something must be said
at once, replied, piteously, "Please, ma'am, it's only me an' Tip."
Sam's face was still buried in the pillows; but the trembling had
ceased, as if he was anxious to learn whether his companion could free
himself from the position into which he had been led.
"Who are you, and how did you come here?" asked Mrs. Simpson,
wonderingly.
Tim turned toward the bed as if he expected Sam would answer that
question; but that young man made no sign that he had even heard it, and
Tim was obliged to tell the story.
"I'm only Tim Babbige, an' this is Tip. We was tryin' to find a place to
sleep last night, when we met Sam, an' after we'd found the cow we went
down to the store an' bought some candy, an' when we come back Sam was
goin' to ask you to let me sleep in the barn, but you was in bed; so he
said it was all right for me to come up here an' sleep with him. I'm
awful sorry I did it, an' sorry Tip acted so bad; but if you won't
scold, we'll go right straight away."
Mrs. Simpson was by no means a hard-hearted woman, and the boy's
explanation, as well as his piteous way of making it, caused her to feel
kindly disposed toward him. She asked him about himself; and by the time
he had finished telling of the death of his parents, the cruel treatment
he had received from Captain and Mrs. Babbige, and of his desperate
attempt at bettering his condition, her womanly heart had a great deal
of sympathy in it for him.
Then Tim added, as if it was the last of his pitiful story, "Me an' Tip
ain't got anybody who cares for us but each other, an' if we don't get a
chance to work, so's we can get some place to live, I don't know what we
will do." Then he laid his head on the dog's nose, and cried as though
his little heart was breaking, while Tip set up a series of most doleful
howls.
"You poor child," said the good woman, kindly, "you're not large enough
to work for your living, and I don't know what Mr. Simpson will say to
your being here very long; but you shall stay till we see what can be
done for you, whatever he says. Now don't cry any more, but dress
yourself, and come down stairs, and help me clean up the litter the dog
and I made. Sam, you lazy boy," she added, as she turned toward her
half-concealed son, "get up and dress yourself. You ought to be ashamed
for not telling me last night what you were about."
Then patting Tim on the head, the good woman went down stairs to attend
to her household duties.
As soon as the sound of the closing door told that his mother had left
the room, Sam rolled out of bed, much as a duck gets out of her nest,
and said, triumphantly, to Tim, who was busy dressing, "Well, we got out
of that scrape all right, didn't we?"
Tim looked up at him reproachfully, remembering Sam's silence when the
affair looked so dark; but he contented himself with simply saying,
"Yes, it's all right till we see what your father will say about it."
"Oh, he won't say anything, so long as mother don't," was the confident
reply; and the conversation was broken there by Tim going down stairs to
help Mrs. Simpson in repairing the damage done by Tip.
Before he had been helping her very long, he showed himself so apt at
such work that she asked, "How does it happen that you are so handy at
such things?"
"I don't know," replied Tim, bashfully, "'cept that Aunt Betsey always
made me help her in the kitchen; an' I s'pose it comes handy for a
feller to do what he must do."
By the time Sam came down stairs the kitchen presented its usual neat
appearance, and he was disposed to make light of his mother's fright;
but she soon changed his joy to grief by telling him to go to the spring
for a pail of water.
Now if there was one thing more than another which Sam disliked to do,
it was to bring water from the spring. The distance was long, and he
believed it was unhealthy for him to lift as much weight as that
contained in a ten-quart pail of water. As usual, he began to make a
variety of excuses, chief among which was the one that the water brought
the night before was as cool and fresh as any that could be found in the
spring.
Tim, anxious to make himself useful in any way, offered to go; and then
Sam was perfectly willing to point out the spring, and to generally
superintend the job.
"Tim may go to help you," said Mrs. Simpson, "but you are not to let him
do all the work."
Sam muttered something which his mother understood to mean that he would
obey her, and the boys left the house, going through the grove of
pine-trees that bordered quite a little pond, at one side of which, sunk
deep in the earth, was a hogshead, into which the water bubbled and
flowed from its bed under the ground.
But Sam was far more interested in pointing out objects of interest to
himself than in leading the way to the spring. He showed Tim the very
hole where he had captured a woodchuck alive, called his attention to a
tree in which he was certain a family of squirrels had their home, and
enlarged upon the merits of certain kinds of traps best calculated to
deceive the bushy-tailed beauties.
Tim did not fancy this idea of idling when there was work to be done;
and as soon as he saw the spring, he hurried off, in the middle of a
story Sam was telling about a rabbit he caught the previous winter.
"What's the use of bein' in such a rush?" asked Sam, as, obliged to end
his story, he ran after Tim. "Mother don't want the water till
breakfast's ready, an' that won't be for a good while yet. Jest come
over on this side the pond, an' I'll show you the biggest frog you ever
saw in your life, that is, if he's got out of bed yet."
"Let's get the water first, an' then we can come back an' see
everything," said Tim, as he hurried on.
"But jest come down here a minute, while I see if I can poke him out of
his hole," urged Sam, as he picked up a stick, and started for the
frog's home.
Tim paid no attention to him; he had been sent for water, and he did not
intend to waste any time until that work had been done. He leaned over
the side of the hogshead to lower the pail in, when Sam shouted, "Come
here; I've found him."
But Tim went on with his work; and just as he had filled the pail, and
was drawing it up, he heard a cry of fear, accompanied by a furious
splashing, which, he knew could not come from a frog, however large he
might be.
Dropping his pail, at the risk of having it sink beyond his reach, he
looked up just in time to see a pair of very fat legs sticking above the
water at that point where the frog was supposed to reside, and to hear a
gurgling sound, as if the owner of the legs was strangling.
For a single moment Tim was at a loss to account for the disappearance
of Sam, and the sudden appearance of those legs; but by seeing Tip run
toward the spot, barking furiously, and by seeing the stick which was to
have disturbed the frog in his morning nap floating on the water, he
understood that Sam had fallen into the pond, without having had half so
much fun with the frog as he expected.
Tim, now thoroughly frightened, ran quickly toward his unfortunate
companion, calling loudly for help.
When he reached the bank from which Sam had slipped, the legs were still
sticking straight up in the air, showing that their owner's head had
stuck fast in the mud.
By holding on to the bushes with one hand, and stretching out the other,
he succeeded in getting hold of Sam's trousers, at which he struggled
and pulled with all his strength. Although it could hardly be expected
that so slight a boy as Tim could do very much toward handling so heavy
a body as Sam's, he did succeed in freeing him from the mud, and in
pulling him to the surface of the water.
After nearly five minutes of hard work, during which Tip did all he
could to help, Tim succeeded in pulling the fat boy into more shallow
water, where he managed to get on to his feet again.
[Illustration: AFTER VISITING THE FROG'S HOME.]
A mournful-looking picture he made as he stood on the bank, with the
water running from every point of his clothing, while the black mud in
which he had been stuck formed a cap for his head, and portions of it
ran down over his face, striping him as decidedly as ever fancy painted
an Indian.
He was a perfect picture of fat woe and dirt, and if he had not been in
such peril a few moments before, Tim would have laughed outright.
He was evidently trying to say something, for he kept gasping for
breath, and each time he opened his mouth it was filled with the mud and
water that ran from his hair.
"What is the matter?" asked Tim, anxiously. "Are you hurt much?"
"No--no," gasped Sam; "but--but I saw the frog."
This time Tim did not try to restrain his mirth, and when Mrs. Simpson,
who had been startled by Tim's cries for help, arrived on the spot, she
found nothing very alarming.
Master Sam received a severe shaking, and was led away to be cleaned,
while Tim and Tip were left to attend to the work of bringing the water.
At breakfast, where Sam ate so heartily that it was evident he had not
been injured by his bath, the question of what should be done about
allowing Tim to remain was discussed by Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.
The farmer said that a boy as small as he could not earn his salt, and
it would be better for him to try to find a family who had no boys of
their own, or go back to Captain Babbige, where he belonged. He argued,
while Tim listened in fear, that it was wrong to encourage boys to run
away from their lawful protectors, and was inclined to make light of the
suffering Tim had told about.
Fortunately for the runaway, Mrs. Simpson believed his story entirely,
and would not listen to any proposition to send him back to Selman. The
result of the matter was that Mr. Simpson agreed to allow him to remain
there a few days, but with the distinct understanding that his stay must
be short.
This was even more than the homeless boy had expected, and he appeared
so thankful and delighted at the unwilling consent, that the farmer
began to think perhaps there was more to him than appeared on the
surface, although he still remained firm in his decision that he was to
leave the farm as soon as possible.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
CHATS ABOUT PHILATELY.
BY J. J. CASEY.
V.
CEYLON.
In 1857, the first postage stamp was issued in Ceylon. The design was
the head of Victoria, to the left, in a circular medallion, printed in
lilac, and was of the value of one halfpenny. This solitary stamp was
soon after followed by a more extensive series, consisting of the
following values and colors: 1_d_., blue; 2_d_., green; 4_d_., red;
5_d_., red-brown; 6_d_., brown-violet; 8_d_., maroon; 9_d_.,
brown-violet; 10_d_., vermilion; 1_s_., lilac-blue; 1_s_. 9_d_., green;
2_s_., blue. The general design was the head of Victoria; to the left,
on an oval disk, the frame-work varying in some of the values.
These stamps were all unperforated, that is, not separated by little
round holes, and except the 1/2_d_., were printed on paper having a
star as a water-mark in the paper, a star being on each stamp in the
sheet.
In 1861, perforation of the sheets was introduced, and we find all the
values named above, except the 1/2_d_. and the 1_s_. 9_d_., perforated,
with no change in the color. In 1863, the 1/2_d_., 6_d_., 9_d_., and
1_s_., printed without water-mark, were perforated. In 1864, all the
values thus far enumerated, excepting the 1_s_. 9_d_., were printed on
paper with water-mark CC and crown--Crown Colony. In 1867, the 2_d_. was
printed in yellow, the 5_d_. in green, and the 10_d_. in orange, and a
3_d_. of new design, printed in rose, was introduced. In 1869, the 1_d_.
stamp appeared in a new dress.
In 1872, the rupee became the sole standard of value, with decimal
subdivisions. The rupee was divided into 100 cents, the cent of Ceylon
being nearly equal to one-half cent of our money. In conformity with
this change of currency, an entirely new issue of stamps took place. The
general design was as formerly, the frame-work of each stamp differing
in details. The values and colors are: 2_c_., bistre; 4_c_., gray-blue;
8_c_., yellow; 16_c_., lilac; 24_c_., green; 36_c_., blue; 48_c_., rose;
96_c_., gray-green. Later, the series was supplemented by three
additional values--34_c_., 64_c_., and 2_r_. 50_c_.
For official purposes some of the values had the word "Service" printed
upon them. The values so utilized were 1_d_., 2_d_., 3_d_., 6_d_.,
8_d_., 1_s_., and 2_s_.
In 1861, a series of stamped envelopes of exquisite design was put in
circulation. The colors corresponded to the colors of the adhesives, and
were of the following values: 1_d_., 2_d_., 4_d_., 5_d_., 6_d_., 8_d_.,
9_d_., 1_s_., 1_s_. 9_d_., 2_s_. These envelopes were afterward
suppressed, and a single value, four cents, issued. Another change was
made in the design of this value, which now corresponds to the old 5_d_.
Postal cards were introduced in 1872, value 2_c_., in lilac, and lately
Postal Union cards of the value of 6_c_. and 8_c_. were placed in use.
There have also been several series of fiscal stamps, ranging in value
as high as 1000 rupees.
Ceylon is an island in the Indian Ocean, separated on the northwest from
continental India by the Gulf of Manaar. It is 271 miles long from north
to south, and in its greatest width 137 miles. In 1505, the Portuguese
adventurer Almeida landed at Colombo, the present capital, and found the
island divided into several kingdoms. In 1517, the first Portuguese
settlement was effected, and gradually the whole western coast was in
possession of Portugal. The fanatical zeal and remorseless cruelty of
the Portuguese led to their downfall, when, after several attempts, the
Dutch finally succeeded in driving the Portuguese from the country.
The first intercourse of the English with Ceylon took place in 1763. On
the breaking out of war between Great Britain and Holland, an English
force was sent to Ceylon, and in 1796 succeeded in gaining possession of
the coasts. The interior was still ruled over by the native Kings; but
in 1815 the last of them, a tyrant of the worst type, was captured, and
subsequently died in exile, ending with him a long line of sovereigns,
whose pedigree can be traced through upward of two thousand years. About
the same time, by treaty, the whole island came into possession of the
English.
The language of about seventy per cent. of the people is Cingalese, and
of the remaining people, save the Europeans, the language is Tamil. The
stamp-collector, who has the two-cent postal card, will find the English
inscriptions on the card in both these languages.
[Illustration: NO USE CRYING OVER SPILLED MILK.]
THE LITTLE DOG-CATCHER.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
Jamie was thinking. Well, what of that? Boys often think, don't they?
No, indeed, that's just what they don't do; at least Jamie couldn't
remember when he had seated himself deliberately to make a business of
thinking before this occasion. And now he sat with a puzzled face, and a
line between his eyes, so deep in thought that neither the coaxing
fore-paws of Nep the dog nor the sound of clinking marbles could arouse
him. The question with Jamie was just this: Should he continue to hide
Neppie from the eye of man, and thus be happy in the secret knowledge
that at last he owned a pet of his very own, who came and went at his
bidding, and gave him love for love, or should he take him to the dog
pound and earn his thirty cents as well as the others who rejoiced in
the title of "dog-catcher"?
"I want that thirty cents, that's one thing sure and certain," thought
Jamie, "an' if I don't get it by luggin' Neppie to the pound, I won't
get it anyway, and that's just another certain sure thing. I sha'n't get
rich waitin' fur Aunt Betty to give me a cent now and then; and there's
Tom Blake got his pockets full half the time. But when a fellow cares
for a dorg, he kinder hates to go back on 'im. And Nep cares for me,
too, and he wouldn't think I'd be such a mean chap. Now if Aunt Betty
didn't hate dorgs so bad, I'd ask her to let me keep 'im fair an'
square, and then I shouldn't have to be 'fraid he'd bark every minute,
and let folks know I was hiding 'im here under this old box, tied, poor
old feller, so he can't move hardly. There comes Jack Jones. Wish he'd
keep away, and let a feller think a moment in peace."
Along came Jack, jingling some money in his hand. "Hello, Jim, whose
dorg yer got?"
Jamie passed his arm caressingly about the dog's neck, and replied,
"Mine, of course; who d'yer think, Jack Jones?"
"Ain't yer goin' to take him to the pound? See here," displaying three
silver tens in his soiled palm to Jamie's envious brown eyes. "Got 'em
at the pound just now for catching a dorg. Goin' to the circus to-night.
Big show, I tell yer. Can't yer come along?"
Jamie's eyes began to widen and grow shiny. The circus? Oh, _wouldn't_
he like to go! But Aunt Betty only kept a little store, and had hard
work to keep herself and chubby-faced little nephew in bread and butter,
and as for giving him money to go to the circus, why, Jamie knew he
might as well hope to catch stars. So he only shook his head, and Jack
passed on with the parting advice, "Better sell that dorg, and earn
thirty cents, and come along."
Again Jamie plunged deeply into thought, forgetting to pet and fondle
his four-footed companion according to his usual custom during these
stolen visits.
About ten days before our introduction to the little boy, a lady living
in one of the handsome houses out on one of the avenues, where each
house has its own garden, and where there is always a sweet suggestion
of real country, happened to look out of her window one morning, and
exclaimed, anxiously: "There is that dog again, Bridget. What shall we
do to get rid of him? He'll be sure to bite Nellie some day, and it is a
shame the dog-catchers don't come out here."
Then she went in haste down to the front gate, and Bridget followed with
the gardener's rake and hoe, with which to "shoo" the intruder away.
Although he was frightened, yet Mr. Dog did not seem inclined to leave
the fence a little further down; and no wonder, for there was little
Miss Nellie, the three-year-old baby, sticking her wee fat hand through
the railing, and smilingly feeding the four-footed tramp with the cake
mamma had just given her. Poor, hungry, strange dog! no friends, no
home: no wonder it was hard for him to leave the only friend he had
found in his vagrant life.
But despite Nellie's cry, "Me love doggie," the rake and hoe did valiant
duty, and the intruder was driven away.
Just then Master Jamie came whistling along, returning from an errand
for Aunt Betty.
"Here, boy," called the lady, "I'll give you ten cents if you'll only
catch that horrid dog, and take him to the pound, or anywhere away from
here. They'll give you thirty cents if you take him to the pound. He
doesn't seem to belong to anybody, so you can earn your money, if you
like, quickly."
Without much trouble, Jamie secured the dog, and lifted him in his arms,
glad of the chance for making the promised sum. But before he had gone
very far he found the dog so gentle and inclined to be so playful that
he began to think it would be nice if he could only keep him all the
time. It seemed such a pity that a nice dog like that should go to the
pound. Jamie's warm little heart rebelled against anything so dreadful,
and by the time he had reached his own street his mind was fully made
up; and so the new pet had been hidden all this time, while Jamie had
paid him many a stolen visit in his secluded home.
But at last it seemed impossible to keep the secret any longer from Aunt
Betty, and this is why we found Jamie thinking so intently, and
troubling himself with a question to him very serious.
For some moments after Jack had left him, Jamie thought over the matter,
hesitating between the pound and Aunt Betty in regard to his favorite,
until at last the dog, which Jamie had named Nep, reminded his master of
his presence by poking his cold nose as far into Jamie's neck as
possible, and laying his fore-paws gently upon his arm. The boy could
not resist that, and in a moment he had squeezed Neppie's breath almost
out of his body, and exclaimed, "I'll just keep you, you darling; you
shall stay with me." Then bravely he walked into Aunt Betty's store,
with the dog close at his heels, and made a full confession.
The old lady looked unusually prim and severe just at that moment, owing
to an unprofitable customer, who had only littered the counter, and left
no pennies behind. So it happened that Jamie had come at the wrong time
with his request; but he didn't know it, you see, and he plunged into
the business at once, and stammered through to the end, while Aunt Betty
looked over her spectacles, and eyed him and the trembling dog severely.
"Keep that creetur? No, sir; not a bit of any such thing. Get him away
from here this very instant. The idee--a dog in my shop! Massy sakes
alive! Shoo, sir! shoo! _Go out_, dog, this minute."
An emphatic shake of her foot convinced poor Nep that the old lady was
not the friend Jamie had been; and Jamie himself, with a sorrowful face,
took his abused treasure back to the old box.
"I'll have to take yer to the pound to-morrer, old fellow," he whispered
in Nep's ear, and went back to the store.
That night it rained hard, and the wind blew a gale; and little Jamie,
remembering his captive pet, thought he would plead once more with Aunt
Betty for the dog.
"Just this one night, auntie, please let him come in out of the wet, and
to-morrow I'll take him to the pound, and give you the thirty cents."
Now Aunt Betty's heart wasn't all ice, by any means, and she did pity
the poor animal out in the storm. So she finally consented that for this
one time he could sleep inside, and she hoped never to see him again.
Then Nep was called in, and told to lie under the table; and as Jamie
soon after lighted his little lamp and went to bed, the old lady closed
her shop window, and sat down to read the paper. Before she knew it, her
tired eyes had closed, and she was in the land of Nod.
It was only a few moments, however, before she felt something tugging
violently at her dress, and the sound of barking greeted her ears as she
opened her eyes. The lamp had burned low down, but by its dull glow she
discovered that it was the dog that had awakened her, and that he was
then doing his best to squeeze his body between the floor and a
low-seated lounge near the fire-place. Then Aunt Betty saw a slender
tongue of flame and smoke creep from under the sofa, and knowing that
she had put one or two old papers behind there the day before, she
sprang up with a cry to Jamie, and drawing the sofa out, placed her foot
upon the blazing papers.
Then the terrified Jamie remembered that after he had lighted his lamp
he had tossed the still burning match into the empty grate, as he
supposed, but instead of that it must have fallen behind the sofa, with
the result as above. It had taken some time for the flame to fairly
burn; but Aunt Betty and Jamie would have fared badly, I'm afraid, if it
had not been for the faithfulness and watchfulness of the good little
dog that had aroused Aunt Betty's ire so greatly only that afternoon. It
was very careless of Jamie, and a lesson to him, but it brought one good
result for him, after all, for Nep didn't go to the pound the next day,
nor any day, in fact. And as Aunt Betty said the other morning, while
feeding Jamie's pet with her own hands, "For all she couldn't abide dogs
and sich, yet there was sich things as being onreasonable, and that she
never would be, not if she knew it."
THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE BIRD.
BY ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.
"It's going to rain, you dear little bird:
Fly into your house; don't stop for a word."
"Yes, I saw a black cloud as I sat on the tree,
But I care not for rain--I have feathers, you see."
"You have feathers, I know, but your little pink feet
Will be numb with the cold when the cruel rains beat."
"Oh no; I shall tuck them up snugly and warm,
Close under my body, all safe from the storm."
"But the branches will rock, and the dark night will come:
Oh, do, little bird, fly away to your home!"
"Never fear, pretty one, as I rock I shall sing,
And how soundly I'll sleep with my head 'neath my wing!"
"Oh, birdie, dear birdie, I'd like much to know
How you're always so happy, blow high or blow low."
"Don't you know we've a Father who cares for me?
And that is the reason I'm happy and free."
PENELOPE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
CHAPTER I.
"Well, miss, how can I serve you?"
Mr. Searle, the grocer of Nunsford, spoke rather sharply, bending over
his counter in the twilight, and looking half contemptuously upon his
customer.
She was a tall girl of fifteen, rather old-looking for her years, but
with a face so evidently designed by Nature for blooming color, dimples,
and good-humor, that its lines of care and want were peculiarly painful.
"Well, miss," repeated the grocer, as his customer hesitated.
"I should like a few things, Mr. Searle," said the young girl, speaking
in a decidedly un-English although sweet, clear voice, "but I must tell
you first it will have to be on credit--for just a little longer. I am
sure we shall soon be able to pay you."
Mr. Searle's face was puckered into doubtful lines by this request.
"Well, it's three weeks now," he said, slowly. "It's not usual, miss--"
"I know--I know," said the girl, eagerly, and looking at him with such a
strained, wistful expression that Searle's heart melted. "I know, and I
shall _very_ soon have something--"
"Well, then, we'll let it go," said Searle, with real good-humor; and he
busied himself supplying his customer's modest wants--half a pound of
tea, a pound of sugar, some dried herrings, and a few candles.
"There," he said, placing the parcels in her hands. "I hope your mother
is better, miss," he added, kindly.
The girl's eyes were full of sudden tears. "A little, thank you, Mr.
Searle," she said; and then, holding her small parcels carefully, she
hurried away, disappearing in the wintry dusk, while Mr. Searle called
out to his wife: