[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
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VOL. II.--NO. 91. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 26, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: RICHARD WHITTINGTON.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
THE LITTLE MILLIONAIRE.
My little daughter climbed up on my knee,
And said, with an air of great mystery,
"I've a secret to tell you, papa,
But I must whisper it close in your ear,
And don't you speak of it, papa dear,
For there's nobody knows but mamma.
"_I am very rich! Very rich indeed!_
I have far more money than I shall need;
I counted my money to-day--
Twenty new pennies--all of them mine--
And one little silver piece called a dime
That I got from my grandpapa Gray.
"I have fourteen nickels and one three-cent,
Five silver quarters, though one of them's bent;
And, papa dear, something still better,
Three big white dollars! not one of them old,
And, whisper, one beautiful piece of gold
That came in my uncle Tom's letter."
Then she clapped her small hands, laughed merry and clear,
Put her soft rosy lips down close to my ear,
(Oh, so lovely the fair curly head!)
"Am I not very rich? Now answer me true,
Am I not richer, far richer, than you?
Whisper, papa," she artlessly said.
I looked at her face, so young and so fair,
I thought of her life untouched by care,
And I said, with a happy sigh,
As my lips touched softly her waiting ear,
"You're exceedingly rich, my daughter dear!
Ten thousand times richer than I!"
THE MODEL MERCHANT OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
Out into the wide, wide world, where the fancy of high-spirited youth
sees fame and fortune awaiting the daring adventurer, trudged the hero
of an oft-told romance five hundred years and more ago. But the story of
Dick Whittington is not all romance, and for the reason that it is in a
great part real history, it is the more interesting.
The son of a gentleman of good birth but of wasted fortune, Richard
Whittington was early sent up to London to be apprenticed to a merchant
in that city, which even then was among the greatest and wealthiest in
Christendom. An apprentice's lot was by no means a happy one. He was
bound to his employer by law until he should reach the age of twenty-one
years, and his duties were often of the most disagreeable and humble
character. He lived in his master's house, and was treated no better
than one of the lower kind of servants. It can easily be understood,
therefore, how distasteful such a life must have been to a high-spirited
boy whose days had been passed in the freedom of the woods and fields.
And so, wearied by the tiresome life he led, the North-country boy
determined to venture forth into the world to seek his fortune.
Doubtless many apprentices had done as Dick Whittington did, but neither
history nor legend has preserved their memory.
With a few articles of food and clothing tied up in a bundle, he left
his master's house in Cheapside one summer evening, and set his face
toward the north. After two or three hours' walking, he sat down to rest
before ascending Highgate Hill, which was then far out in the country,
though now it is a populous part of the great metropolis. Already he
must have been tired and hungry, for he had done a day's work before he
started, and had probably saved his supper to swell his little stock of
provisions. He had walked several miles, darkness was coming on, and he
had met with no adventures. What wonder, then, that, as he rested, the
tones of Bow-bells on the soft evening air fitted themselves to words
suggested by his lonely situation, and the high hopes that were within
him, and bade him return and thrice reign over the city which had
hitherto treated him so roughly. The romance of the runaway was over. He
obeyed the fancied summons, and returned to fight the dull stern battle
of life, and win the victories which destiny had in store for him.
But if young Whittington seems to have shown a faint heart by so soon
abandoning the adventure on which he had embarked, he proved that he
possessed courage of a more real kind by returning to take his part in
that life where, at least as much as elsewhere, fame and fortune were to
be won. Restored to his former position in the merchant's household, the
strong-willed lad bore his part bravely, and soon gained the confidence
of his employer, whose daughter he afterward married. He was taken into
partnership, and by a fortunate speculation in cats, if we accept the
legend (which, however, though the most picturesque event in his career,
is probably the least true), he laid the foundation of the largest
fortune of those times gained in commerce.
Bow-bells had promised him that he should be thrice Lord Mayor of
London; but fate was even kinder to him than prophecy, for Whittington
held that ancient and honorable office no fewer than four times. During
one of his terms of office he entertained at a grand banquet King Henry
the Fifth, the hero of Agincourt, who, besides being his sovereign, was
also his debtor to a very large amount, for kings in those days were not
above borrowing from their subjects. After the banquet the Lord Mayor
caused a great fire to be made in the hall, and in the presence of the
King and Queen and all their noble retinue he threw into the fire the
bonds which the King had given him as acknowledgment of the loan, thus
releasing his sovereign from the debt. Henry, who was himself a man of
generous nature, was greatly moved by this striking act of loyalty, and
exclaimed, "Never, surely, had King such a subject!"
"Ah, sire," returned the courtly Lord Mayor, "never had subject such a
King!"
It were hard to believe that so noble a prince as Henry the Fifth took
advantage of this generous act, and fortunately history does not tell us
whether the debt remained unpaid because the evidence of it was
destroyed. Let us give the King the benefit of the doubt, and trust that
the money was afterward honorably repaid, and went to swell the number
of those charities with which the name of Sir Richard Whittington is for
all time connected.
No one person of that time has left greater or more varied proofs of
benevolence. The sick who lay in the wards of St. Bartholomew's Hospital
blessed the memory of its benefactor, the great Lord Mayor; and the
felons confined in the cells of Newgate Prison owed their comparative
comfort to that kind heart which recognized the fact that even those
whom crime has outlawed from society are still our fellow-beings.
Scholars owe to the 'prentice lad, whose own schooling was mostly of the
sternest practical sort, the foundation of a college and two libraries,
which are still in existence; and thanks are due to him in great part
for the nave of Westminster Abbey, the cost of building which
Whittington bore in common with another London merchant.
But Whittington was above all things a great merchant, and, as such, did
much for commerce. Some of our readers may have seen the London
Directory, an immense, closely printed book, which contains the names
and residences of nearly four millions of people. Five hundred years ago
Sir Richard Whittington caused to be prepared a directory of all the
trades in London, and thus was the first, so far as we know, to issue
what has now become a necessity in our daily business, and as familiar
as it is necessary--a City Directory.
Do you not think he is rightly called "the model merchant of the Middle
Ages?"
BITS OF ADVICE.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
"I BEG YOUR PARDON."
When little Tom Macaulay was about four years old, he was taken by his
father to call upon Lady Waldegrave, at Strawberry Hill, and there an
awkward servant spilled some hot coffee over his legs. The hostess was
very sorry indeed, and after a while asked him if he felt any better.
"Thank you, madam," said the small gentleman, "the agony is abated."
I do not expect you, my dear children, to use words so quaint as those
which were quite natural to young Macaulay, but I should be glad if you
would try to have equal politeness. Politeness is simply the highest
form of unselfishness, and the finest manners spring from a kind heart.
There is a difference between manner and manners, which I think you can
understand. Manner is the expression of a person's character, and
manners are the person's every-day dress. One may have at the same time
an awkward _manner_, and polished manners, contradictory as it seems to
say so. The only way to be sure of having both in perfection is to begin
when you are young, and practice self-control in your life at home.
There are certain rules to which courteous people conform in society,
and these you can easily learn, partly by asking, partly by obedience,
and partly by observation. Conventionality is a long word, and some good
men and women affect to despise it; but it is, on the whole, very
convenient, and life is far more agreeable where people are governed by
its good order and system than where they act independently and
brusquely.
I beg your pardon for giving you a hint about two or three common usages
which you know of, but sometimes forget. Lewis was passing hurriedly
through the dining-room yesterday, when his aunt Carrie spoke to him. He
did not hear precisely what she said, so he stood in the doorway and
said, "What, ma'am?" "I beg pardon," would have been more elegant there.
But when he entered mamma's chamber, where she and sister Sue were
having a confidential chat, if he wished to interrupt the talk for a
moment, the right thing to say would have been, not "I beg pardon," but
"Please excuse me."
Bessie came down to breakfast one morning lately, and at once seated
herself, and began to drum on the table with her spoon. Nothing could
have been ruder, and I was surprised, for I had thought Bessie a
well-bred child. She ought to have waited until the family had
assembled, and then she should not have taken her place until mamma was
ready to sit down.
But when Clara was visiting at the Stanleys' she really tried to be very
polite, and she made one mistake--one, indeed, which older people often
make. Mrs. Stanley helped her bountifully to pudding, and she passed it
along to her next neighbor. She ought to have retained it herself, as it
was meant for and apportioned to her.
Bob Hartt has two or three friends staying a few days at his house, and
his sister Agnes finds it a great trial to eat with them, and why? Would
you believe that Will Fleming appears at the dinner table _without his
coat_, that Arthur Samson eats _with his knife_, and that Phil Decker
gobbles his soup in the greatest haste, and almost swallows the spoon,
instead of taking the soup, as polite people do, from the _side of the
spoon_? These boys are honest and faithful at school, but they have not
been taught good manners.
The other day I stepped out of a street car, with my hands full of
parcels. I was very tired. A boy I know left his playmates, ran up to
me, and said, "Aunt Marjorie, I'll help you carry those things." Now was
he not kind, and polite too? I think so.
THE PEREGRINATING ORCHESTRA.
BY F. E. FRYATT.
That the Popolo family were musical was beyond all question, seeing that
every member, from Pietro padre, down to Pepita, the baby, either sung
or played on some musical instrument.
Pietro was an aristocrat in his profession, for he had risen from the
rank of organ-grinder to the proud eminence of possessor of and
performer on six musical instruments; and what is most wonderful, he
could play on all six at the same time, to the infinite delight of
astonished audiences.
Pietro and his pretty wife Teresa were born in Italy, the land of music.
They were poor but ambitious, and having heard that in our country gold
was so plenty that one might almost pick it up in the streets, they
desired nothing so much as to come here; so they counted their florins,
bade their people farewell, and crossed the blue ocean.
Like many other young couples who had come before them, they soon found
that the gold was not scattered in the streets, but must be gained only
by persistent and patient industry.
Teresa had an old uncle named Luigi Nicolai, who had, by "hook and
crook" literally, amassed a snug little fortune. After considerable
hunting they found him in lofty but rather dingy rooms in Crosby Street,
a quarter Of New York which might well be called New Italy, so many of
these people live there.
The meeting between the three was affectionate and lively; and dear me!
their tongues travelled so nimbly for the next three hours that I will
not attempt to tell you half they said, especially as it was all in
Italian; but this I know, they went to ask Luigi's advice, and he gave
it.
The result was, the Popolos bought a hand-organ and a tambourine, and
commenced business the next morning.
From the very beginning the young people prospered, Teresa's bright eyes
and gay bodice, no less than the merry jigs and pathetic wailings of the
instrument, serving as so many magnets to attract the coppers from the
people's pockets, in spite of the "hard times" of which they were always
complaining.
Again it was summer. "Week in and week out" Pietro and his faithful wife
had trudged forth in sunshine and storm, and now they had a modest
little sum lying by in the savings-bank. And they had something
infinitely more precious than silver or gold--little Pepita, a perfect
cherub of a babe, with bright black eyes and rings of silken soft hair.
Teresa lost no time in preparing Signorita Pepita for her coming
vocation. Was she not prettier and more mischievous than a monkey?
hadn't she a voice sweeter than an angel's?
"Carissima mia," she would cry, "will not de monees pour into dese
little brown hand as one riv-are?"
And so it proved. Little Pepita, in her mob-cap, was fondled and patted
by the women, and run after by the children, who were delighted to leave
their pennies in her chubby fist, so that Teresa's tin cup was filled to
overflowing; and one day Pietro sold his old barrel-organ, and bought a
brand-new one.
To say there was contentment in the Popolo apartments that evening would
but faintly express it. Uncle Luigi and some neighbors were invited to
participate in the rejoicing. It lessened not the pleasure of the party
one whit that the rooms smelled strongly of fried fish and garlic; on
the contrary, it increased it by anticipation, for Teresa was famous for
her cookery.
Supper, however, was a secondary consideration. The new organ must be
looked at first, and Teresa lighted an extra lamp for the occasion, and
was made very happy by the praises bestowed upon the new instrument.
Now that Teresa had baby to carry, her tambourine lay idle. This and
their prosperity set her to thinking, and the result was a letter to
her cousins Andrea and Luisa Felippo, which bade them "come to America,
where the people were so fond of music that one might fairly whistle the
money out of their pockets."
The Felippos came, Andrea bringing with him his flageolet, and Luisa a
small sum of money with which to set up housekeeping in the New World.
Nor were they an unwelcome or undesirable addition to the little troupe
of musicians. Andrea, with his gold ear-rings, conical hat, and velvet
trousers, and Luisa, with her picturesque peasant dress, became paying
attractions. They were not announced by flaming handbills, nor were they
trumpeted forth in the newspapers like Ole Bull or Wilhelmj, or Patti or
Nilsson, but they soon acquired a wide-spread fame of their own on the
east side--a fame some day to be increased fourfold by an _event_, the
realization of a secret hope in the breasts of Pietro and Teresa Popolo.
In a certain side street of the city was a curious old shop, in which
was stored all sorts of second-hand musical instruments. Now Pietro was
of an inventive turn, and possessed considerable mechanical skill.
No one knew but the good wife Teresa where he spent so many evenings,
while she sat at home singing and rocking the cradle.
Andrea and Luisa would drop in for a chat. Neighbor Giuseppe frequently
inquired for her husband, and to all she would say, smilingly, "Wait;
you not know dis night."
Meantime the object of their solicitude was busy with his awl and his
knife, and a lot of buckles and straps, preparing the wonderful
invention that was to delight the people, and pour in money for the
little Pepita's dowry.
Toward the last Teresa was obliged to go with him one or two evenings to
help him with the straps and buckles, and to test the working powers of
the great-- But I must not go ahead of my story. It was still a secret
to Andrea and Luisa, but they went to look at _It_ the evening before
Pietro decided to exhibit it on the street.
Now, children, guess what It was, if you are able.
[Illustration: THE PEREGRINATING ORCHESTRA AT WORK.]
Look at the picture of Pietro, and you will find It on his back and his
head, in his hands, and at his feet.
It is the peregrinating orchestra, that is, the travelling or wandering
orchestra.
Do you wonder that the women have left their wash-tubs to gaze from the
laundry windows, that the tenement-house is emptying its population to
look at and listen to this wonderful man and his musical family?
Here you may count six different musical instruments or contrivances,
connected with each other by an ingenious set of straps, so that the
movement of one sets all the others going in proper time.
Just fancy Pietro is playing the "Star-spangled Banner." He touches D,
B, G, the first notes of the air, on the accordion. Up fly the
drumsticks; it's time they were busy. "Rub-a-dub," says the snare-drum;
"boom, boom, boom," growls the bass-drum; "crash, crash," shriek the
cymbals; "chink-a-chink, chink-a-chink," rattles the tambourine;
"jingle, jingle," ring the bells from the little tower on his head;
while the poor accordion puffs and wails laboriously.
Nor is this all; for Andrea is piping away steadily on his flageolet,
Luisa is shaking her tambourine, and Pepita is flourishing her ivory
rattle with the silver bells, as pleased with the whole affair as any
member of the crowd.
Pietro has indeed reached the top of his profession; for what more could
one man be expected to do in the way of music than he is already doing?
Andrea has certainly a good example to follow. He has only to bear in
mind, as Pietro did, good old Nicolai's motto, "Poco a poco"--little by
little--and he too may prosper.
As for little Pepita, her history is only just begun; but I shouldn't
wonder, from the present promising state of affairs, if we should hear
of her as the lovely and admired heiress Signorita Pepita Popolo,
daughter of the famous Pietro Popolo, the performer, or rather
professor, of the peregrinating orchestra.
[Begun in No. 80 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, May 10.]
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," ETC.
CHAPTER XII.
The morning dawned bright and clear. What little wind there was blew
steadily from the northwest, and there was not the least reason to
suppose that it would change during the day. The boys breakfasted on
cold boiled beef, sitting on the deck near the wheel, so that they could
breakfast together. It was not a very delightful breakfast, but it was
better than raw cod-fish, and a great deal better than no breakfast at
all.
As the foretopsail and spanker were enough to give steerage-way to the
brig, Charley ordered the foresail to be hauled up and the jib taken in
immediately after breakfast. He told his comrades that all hope of
getting the vessel into port must now be abandoned, and that they must
keep the brig from drifting any further to the southward than could be
helped.
"Those sails ought to be furled," said Charley, as he came in from
furling the jib, "but I can't roll them up alone. Who will come aloft
with me and furl the main-top-gallant-sail?"
Joe was at the wheel, and both Harry and Tom at once volunteered to help
their Captain. They found it easy enough to climb the rigging--and
indeed Harry had already been up to the maintop--but when they came to
lie out on the top-gallant-yard, they found it a very ticklish task. The
foot-rope had an unpleasant way of sagging under their weight, and
seemed to them to afford a very insecure foot-hold. At first they could
do little except hang on to the yard, but presently their nervousness
wore off, and they found themselves rolling up the sail and passing the
gaskets, under Charley's direction, with a confidence that surprised
them. "When you once get used to it," said Charley, "you will find that
going aloft isn't half so risky as climbing trees. Here you always have
a rope to hang on to, and you can be sure that it won't break, but when
you are up in a tall tree you never can tell when a branch is going to
break and let you down, or when your feet will slip on the bark."
After the maintop-gallant-sail was furled, the boys furled the
foretop-gallant-sail with much more ease, and descended to the deck
quite proud of their exploit. The foresail was too heavy for them to
handle, so the buntlines and leech-lines were hauled as taut as
possible, and the sail was left to hang in the brails. The brig was now
under her foretopsail and spanker, and steered so easily that Joe had
little hard work to do. The sea had become so smooth that not even a
particle of spray sprinkled the low deck of the vessel, and the boys
began to find the time hang rather heavily on their hands as they
watched for some friendly sail to come and rescue them.
"I wonder where the _Ghost_ is," said Harry.
"Sunk by this time," replied Tom. "You know how she was leaking, and
with no one to pump her out, she wouldn't keep afloat twenty-four
hours."
"I meant to stop that leak," remarked Charley. "I think I know about
where it was, and when the sea went down we could probably have got at
it. What a nice boat she was!"
"How we shall hate to tell Uncle John that we've lost her!" Harry
exclaimed. "I know she cost him a good deal, and it's pretty hard that
he should lose all the money he has put into her."
"We can't ask him to buy any more boats for us," said Tom. "I was
expecting that we could sell the _Ghost_ for money enough to get us all
canoes, but now we'll have to give the canoe plan up."
"The fact is," said Joe, "this hasn't been the most successful cruise in
the world. We've been out only about ten days, and now we're expecting
to be taken home like shipwrecked sailors, with the loss of everything
but our clothes."
"If we only get back safe, we needn't worry about anything," replied
Tom. "Suppose no vessel comes to help us! The brig will sink some of
these days, and I'm thinking that it won't be very long before she makes
up her mind to try it."
"Then we can make a raft," said Charley, cheerfully, "and cruise on that
until we are picked up. I am almost willing to promise you that we are
taken off this brig sometime today. By-the-bye, did I tell you that I've
found out what her name is?"
"How did you find it out?" asked Harry. "You know it is washed off the
stern so that we couldn't make it out."
"Why," Charley replied, "I looked in the forecastle bell yesterday
afternoon, and there it was, the _Hirondelle_, of Bordeaux. I forgot to
tell you of it at the time. How she comes to be here with a load of
timber is something I can't make out."
"There's a sail!" exclaimed Harry.
"Where?" cried Charley.
"'Way over on our starboard quarter. I can just see her."
Charley immediately ran aloft and looked anxiously at the distant
stranger. He came down and reported that she was apparently a schooner,
and seemed to be steering directly toward the brig.
"Do you think they see us?" asked Tom.
"They see our spars, but they can't see our signal of distress, and
unless they do see it they won't pay any attention to us. However,
they'll be up with us in the course of two or three hours, unless the
schooner changes her course, which she probably won't do."
The boys watched the schooner with the utmost interest for a long time,
but she seemed to them hardly to move. Joe got tired of watching, and
exclaimed, "There's no use in looking at her; a watched schooner never
boils."
"How could a schooner boil?" inquired matter-of-fact Tom.
"I have something to amuse you, boys," interrupted Charley. "Let's try
to get the brig before the wind, and run down to the schooner. Come
forward with me, and we'll hoist the head-sails. Tom, you and Harry
lower the spanker while I go and loose the sails."
Charley went forward and loosed the jib and flying-jib, and by the time
this was done, Harry and Tom had succeeded in taking in the spanker, and
had come to help him. When the jib and flying-jib were set, Charley
ordered Joe to put the helm hard up. As the brig slowly fell off, he
slacked the lee forebrace and foretopsail-brace, and then with Harry and
Tom hauled in the weather-braces, until the unassisted strength of the
three boys could no longer stir the heavy yards. Then, letting go the
head-sheets, they hurried aft and hoisted the spanker. By this time the
brig had swung nearly around, and by taking the braces to the capstan
the yards were finally braced up, and the wind brought on the port beam.
The _Hirondelle_ was no longer running away from the schooner, and it
was evident that the crew of the latter would understand that the brig
wanted to meet them. As the wind was now fair, Charley proceeded to get
the foretop-gallant-sail on her, and kept his crew so busy that they
were surprised to find, when their work was over, that the schooner was
only about a mile distant.
[Illustration: "HURRAH! THERE'S THE 'GHOST'!"]
"Hurrah! There's the _Ghost_!" Harry suddenly cried. "The schooner is
towing her."
Sure enough, the little _Ghost_ was there, in the wake of the schooner.
There could be no mistake about it, for when she pitched, the boys could
distinctly see the canvas cabin.
Charley ran forward and let go the top-gallant and topsail halyards, and
slacked the top-gallant sheets so that the sail flapped uselessly in the
light air. The schooner, which was now close by, hove to, and after some
delay her boat was launched, and the boat's crew of four men were soon
on the deck of the brig.
"What in all creation are you boys doing aboard this brig?" asked the
big good-humored mate of the schooner.
"We were blown out to sea in that sail-boat that you are towing,"
answered Charley, "and we boarded the brig; and while we were trying to
get sail on her the _Ghost_ got adrift."
"Trying to get sail on her, were you? Did you boys set that there
topsail?"
"We did."
"And where on earth were you trying to get to?"
Charley told the mate the whole story--how they had tried to sail the
brig into New York, and how the head-wind had baffled them. "Now," said
he, "if you'll take us and the _Ghost_ to Sandy Hook, we'll be only too
glad to abandon the brig, for we can never get her into port with this
wind."
"Should rayther think you couldn't. Why, you might as well try to work
Trinity Church to windward with a leg-of-mutton sail rigged on to the
steeple. Come aboard the schooner with us, and we'll see what the old
man says."
The "old man," or Captain of the schooner, was an honest down East
sailor, who first cautiously induced the boys to say that they abandoned
all claim to the brig, and then told them that he would carry them to
New York, and give them back their sail-boat. He left the mate and two
men on board the _Hirondelle_, giving them the schooner's small-boat,
and then steered for Sandy Hook.
The boys had a pleasant sail in the schooner. She was bound from Boston
to Philadelphia, but with the hope of saving the brig, the Captain had
decided to go to New York, and to send a steam-tug back to tow the brig
in. This brought the wind directly ahead, but the schooner, making long
tacks, worked to windward so beautifully that by noon the next day she
was up to the light-ship. There a steam-tug was met, and the Captain of
the schooner instantly hired her to go in search of the brig, and to tow
her into port.
While the headway of the schooner was checked to enable the Captain to
bargain with the Captain of the steamer, the boys shook hands with
everybody, and climbed down into the _Ghost_. When the latter was picked
up by the schooner she was pumped out, and the leak was stopped. Nothing
was missing from her cabin, and the boys lost no time in setting the jib
and mainsail, or rather what could be set of the latter without the
gaff.
Even with her crippled mainsail, the _Ghost_ kept ahead of the schooner
for a long while, and the latter did not overtake her until she was half
way from Sandy Hook to the Narrows. Now that home was so near, and the
dangers of the cruise were over, the boys regretted that they had not
cut loose from the schooner when she was within sight of Fire Island
inlet. They could have entered the Great South Bay through the inlet,
and carried out their plan of crossing from Shinnecock Bay to Peconic
Bay.
"It is a shame," said Harry, "to go home when nobody is expecting us. We
told them we should be gone for at least four weeks."
"What is a greater shame, if you look at it in that way, is our giving
up the brig to the schooner's people," remarked Charley.
"Why, what else could we do?" asked Tom. "You said yourself that we
couldn't work the brig in, and that we must abandon her."
"Why couldn't we have hired the captain to send us a steam-tug? We could
have staid on board the brig just as well as the mate and the two men,
and if the steam-tug tows them in, why couldn't we have been towed in?"
"I never thought of that," exclaimed Tom.
"Nor I," said Harry and Joe, both together.
"Well, I did think of it," resumed Charley, "and if I'd been alone on
the brig, I would have done it. But then Uncle John expected me to take
care of the _Ghost_ and her crew, and I wasn't instructed to run any
risk for the sake of bringing abandoned vessels into port. We did right
to give up the brig, but at the same time we did lose a fair chance of
making a good big sum of money."
"Why shouldn't we keep right on through Hell Gate into the Sound, and
cruise round that way to Canoe Place, and come back through the South
Bays?" said Harry. "We can do it easily enough in four weeks."
"And not go home at all?" asked Tom.
"Not till we get back from the cruise. I'm ready to do it."
"So am I," said Joe. "I've been dry for two days, and I begin to feel
really uncomfortable. Let's go on, and get wet some more."
"I can go just as well as not," said Charley. "I've nothing else to do."
"And I'd like nothing better," added Tom.
"Then we'll stop somewhere in the city and lay in provisions, and then
go through Hell Gate as soon as the tide will let us," said Harry.
"Why not stop a day or two, and see Uncle John, and talk to him about a
canoe cruise?" suggested Charley. "Perhaps we could sell the _Ghost_,
and get canoes, and have our canoe cruise this summer instead of next
year."
"That's what we ought to do," said Tom. "We would enjoy the change from
a sail-boat to a canoe more just now than we ever will again."
"And I don't think it would be quite right to start on what would
really be a new cruise without seeing Uncle John," said Charley. "We
mustn't do it. We'll go home, and if we can manage to get canoes, we'll
have a canoe cruise, and if we can't, why, we'll sail up the Sound,
provided you can all get permission to go."
So it was settled that the _Ghost_ should head for Harlem, and that her
crew should go home for a day or two. Everybody was satisfied with this
decision, and in the hope of starting on a canoe cruise, Tom, Harry, and
Joe busied themselves in discussing different routes. Before they had
finally settled where they would cruise, Charley ran the boat into the
dock at Harlem, and the cruise of the _Ghost_ was ended.
THE END.
A DOUBLE AMBUSH.
BY GEORGE H. COOMER.
We lived in Florida (said Mrs. Walters) through all the Seminole war,
which lasted seven years, so that I grew up with the names of the great
hostile chiefs, Osceola, Alligator, Wild Cat, and Tiger Tail, making a
part of my childhood.
A sense of peril was always present with us. I remember the feelings
with which we heard of the slaughter of Lieutenant Dade and his command.
The tragedy took place in open battle, yet it seemed dreadful that so
many brave men should be shot down in the dark woods, with the painted
savages yelling around them.
In the spring when I was thirteen and my brother Arthur fifteen the war
was at its worst, and my father talked strongly of removing to a greater
distance from the danger.
Among our few slaves, consisting only of two black families, was a
half-idiotic young negro named Jason, who had the privilege of wandering
pretty much as he pleased. He would often remain all day in the forest,
either lying asleep or mocking the gobble of the wild turkeys.
One day he returned with an appearance which startled us. His woolly
head had been completely shaved, and his black face dyed to a bright
scarlet. He had, however, received no real hurt, and seemed not in the
least terrified by the ordeal through which he must have passed.
We gathered from his broken sentences that he had fallen in with
Indians; and it was plain that they had been in some measure true to the
proverbial respect of their people for idiots. An ordinary person they
would have sacrificed without mercy; but when Jason stared aimlessly at
the tree-tops, or gobbled like a turkey, they simply set their mark upon
him, and let him go.
The incident showed that our danger was more immediate than had been
supposed; but there was fortunately a squad of United States cavalry
picketed within a few miles of us, and my father lost no time in
notifying the officer in command of what had occurred. The soldiers,
however, could find nothing of the enemy, and in the mean time we passed
a couple of days in very anxious suspense. The movements of Indian
warriors are erratic, and to white men unaccountable.
My parents began to regain confidence, believing that the Seminoles were
gone from the neighborhood, as they doubtless were for the time. Father
said they were probably scouts, and there was no telling how they might
have scattered themselves, or at what point some of them might appear
next. He hoped, however, that the presence of the soldiers had led them
to abandon any design they might have entertained of attacking us.
On the third day after Jason's adventure we were feeling much relieved.
The negro men were at work in the fields, and father had gone to a
considerable distance from the house. Mother, Arthur, and myself, with
the female servants, were within-doors.
Presently, not far off, we heard the gobble of a wild turkey, or what
seemed such, although, as turkeys were not in the habit of approaching
so near the house, we imagined Jason to be at his old silly pastime
again, imitating the call which he could so well counterfeit.
The notes were continued with great regularity at intervals of a minute
or two, and so natural were they that Arthur would have been all on fire
to seize his rifle and hurry in quest of the game had he not remembered
how often he had been led upon a fruitless chase by the vocal powers of
the poor idiot.
"We all excel in something," said my mother, "and Jason was made to call
turkeys. But I do wish he would be quiet; it makes me nervous to hear
him."
"Jason," said a little negro girl who just then came in from the rear of
the premises; "why, missus, Jason done gone asleep in de shade at de
back ob de wash-house. I done seen him dis minute."
Arthur hastened out-doors, looked behind the wash-house, and having
assured himself that the black boy had nothing to do with the gobbling,
returned quickly for his rifle.
"It is a real turkey," he said, "and he's somewhere in the hollow."
The hollow was made by a depression of the ground about fifty rods from
the house front, and running parallel with it. Upon its further side was
a decayed stump, some four or five feet high, standing below the sloping
bank, and with its top just visible from the house. Of this stump the
portion next to the slope had so fallen away as to leave a large cavity
capable of containing a man.
The gobble indicated the turkey's whereabouts pretty definitely.
"He's somewhere near that stump," said Arthur; "perhaps inside of it,
sitting up on the rotten wood toward the top. I'm afraid he'll get high
enough to see me. But I'll make a circuit, and creep around where the
ground is lower."
He went out at the back door, so as to make sure of not being seen. The
land on our right, a few rods from the house, was very low, the
depression stretching off in crescent shape until it reached the gully,
which crossed it at fair rifle-shot distance from the stump.
Arthur, young as he was, had already become an excellent marksman,
having for two years possessed a rifle of his own, which father had
bought him, and which was almost always in his hands. We had no doubt
that, with anything like an ordinary chance, he would put a ball through
the turkey's head, and return in triumph.
But somehow, after he went out, a sudden thought seemed to strike
mother. Wasn't it strange that a turkey should come so far out of the
woods, and keep up such a gobbling in the hollow? No, not strange,
perhaps, nor very unusual; and she wondered at her own uneasiness. But
her nerves had been shaken by poor Jason's incident.
The house had a half-story in front, with two small windows above the
ground rooms, and mother's feelings impelled her to run up there for a
better view. She wished to see where father was, and perhaps might
discover something of the wild turkey.
I was close at her side. We saw father with his rifle away off across
the fields, and the negroes at a distance from him engaged in their
work. The stump, too, was visible nearly to its foot, and at intervals
we caught sight of Arthur carefully working his way in a half-circuit
toward the gully.
Father had evidently heard the turkey, and was warily approaching the
spot where it seemed to be. His half-stooping posture showed that he
feared the bird might get upon the stump and see him.
Suddenly mother started, and her face had a look of ghastly terror.
Something which certainly was no turkey rose a little above the stump,
between its shattered rim and the grass of the bank. I saw it too, and
my blood ran cold.
It was something that greatly resembled the head of an Indian. We felt
that the face must be peering through the grass toward my father, while
we saw the black, gleaming hair behind.
Without doubt it was a Seminole warrior in ambush, watching father's
approach.
Mother gave an agonized cry. "What shall I do?--oh! what shall I do?"
she exclaimed.
Would not any signal or outcry she could make be misunderstood at such a
distance, and only hasten the catastrophe, since father was still thirty
rods beyond the Indian, and eighty from the house? Then where was
Arthur, who had now disappeared? And should she by a sudden alarm cause
him to show himself, might not the Seminole rise up and shoot him on the
spot? She was dizzy with her sense of the dreadful situation.
But in a moment I called out to her, "There's Arthur, mother! there's
Arthur!" for I saw him among the rank grass, lying flat upon the ground,
within good rifle-shot of the stump, which he seemed to be watching
intently.
Once again the Indian's head was shown slightly, and we got an instant's
glimpse of Arthur's rifle. But the black hair disappeared, and the
weapon was lowered.
Father was now so near the scene of danger that we had no alternative
but to watch. Terrible as was her anxiety, mother now felt that Arthur
had discovered what kind of game the old stump contained. She knew that
the Indian could not fire at father without exposing his own head, and
that the moment it appeared it would be covered by her brave boy's
rifle.
How our hearts beat for the few moments that intervened! Another gobble
came from the stump. Father was working his way stealthily toward it in
anticipation of a prize, and Arthur lay still as death in the grass.
All at once we saw the sunlight glance upon a mass of long raven hair
that rose slowly above the gnarled wood which had hidden it. Father was
within six rods of the spot. It was a dreadful moment.
Our eyes turned to Arthur. The grass in front of the slight knoll where
he lay was not high enough to interfere with his aim as his elbow rested
on the ground. We could see him drop his young face against the breech
of his gun. The barrel gleamed for a single instant, a puff of smoke
streamed from the muzzle, and he leaped to his feet.
But there was a still more sudden leap from the old stump, for an
Indian, with flying hair, and with his rifle still clutched in his hand,
sprang up and fell dead against the slope which had concealed him from
father's view.
The reunion which followed, when we all ran into each other's arms,
joyful, yet thrilled with consternation, I will not dwell upon.
We found the dead enemy to be a tall young warrior, hideously painted,
and having in his belt a hatchet and a knife.
He had no doubt entered the gully from the swamp, and seeing father at a
distance, had attempted to decoy him within gunshot by imitating a wild
turkey.
The occasion proved to be the only one on which the Seminole war was
brought home to us, as the successes of the United States troops
afterward kept the Indians at a distance from our neighborhood.
[Illustration: "WHO'S AFRAID OF A GOOSE?"--DRAWN BY S. G. MCCUTCHEON.]
[Illustration]
THE LION'S RIDE.
[Illustration]
The lion is the desert's King; through his domain so wide
Right swiftly and right royally this night he means to ride.
By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, close crouches the
grim chief;
The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf.
At evening on the Table Mount, when ye can see no more
The changeful play of signals gay; when the gloom is speckled o'er
With kraal fires; when the Caffre wends home through the lone karoo;
When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu--
Then bend your gaze across the waste: what see ye? The giraffe,
Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon the turbid lymph to quaff;
With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool
His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool.
A rustling sound--a roar--a bound--the lion sits astride
Upon his giant coursers back. Did ever King so ride?
Had ever King a steed so rare, caparisons of state
To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate?
In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed;
His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed.
Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise,
Away, away, in wild dismay the camelopard flies.
His feet have wings; see how he springs across the moonlit plain!
As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eyeballs strain;
In thick black streams of purling blood full fast his life is fleeting;
The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating.
Like the cloud that through the wilderness the path of Israel traced--
Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste--
From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout from ocean,
A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the courser's fiery motion.
Croaking companions of their flight, the vultures whir on high;
Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly,
And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race;
By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat their monarch's course
they trace.
They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, the while
With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile.
On! on! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and strength remain!
The steed by such a rider backed may madly plunge in vain.
Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and breathes his last;
The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast.
O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is descried:
Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts doth ride.
FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.
A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
I have been in the back bedroom up stairs all the afternoon, and I am
expecting father every minute. It was just after one o'clock when he
told me to come up stairs with him, and just then Mr. Thompson came to
get him to go down town with him, and father said I'd have to excuse him
for a little while and don't you go out of that room till I come back.
So I excused him, and he hasn't come back yet; but I've opened one of
the pillows and stuffed my clothes full of feathers, and I don't care
much how soon he comes back now.
It's an awful feeling to be waiting up stairs for your father, and to
know that you have done wrong, though you really didn't mean to do so
much wrong as you have done. I am willing to own that nobody ought to
take anybody's clothes when he's in swimming, but anyhow they began it
first, and I thought just as much as could be that the clothes were
theirs.
The real boys that are to blame are Tom Wilson and Amzi Willetts. A week
ago Saturday Joe Hamilton and I went in swimming down at the island.
It's a beautiful place. The island is all full of bushes, and on one
side the water is deep, where the big boys go in, and on the other it is
shallow, where we fellows that can't swim very much where the water is
more than two feet deep go in. While Joe and I were swimming, Tom and
Amzi came and stole our clothes, and put them in their boat, and carried
them clear across to the deep part of the river. We saw them do it, and
we had an awful time to get the clothes back, and I think it was just as
mean.
Joe and I said we'd get even with them, and I know it was wrong, because
it was a revengeful feeling, but anyhow we said we'd do it: and I don't
think revenge is so very bad when you don't hurt a fellow, and wouldn't
hurt him for anything, and just want to play him a trick that is pretty
nearly almost quite innocent. But I don't say we did right, and when
I've done wrong I'm always ready to say so.
Well, Joe and I watched, and last Saturday we saw Tom and Amzi go down
to the island, and go in swimming on the shallow side; so we waded
across and sneaked down among the bushes, and after a while we saw two
piles of clothes. So we picked them up and ran away with them. The boys
saw us, and made a terrible noise; but we sung out that they'd know now
how it felt to have your clothes carried off, and we waded back across
the river, and carried the clothes up to Amzi's house, and hid them in
his barn, and thought that we'd got even with Tom and Amzi, and taught
them a lesson which would do them a great deal of good, and would make
them good and useful men.
This was in the morning about noon, and when I had my dinner I thought
I'd go and see how the boys liked swimming, and offer to bring back
their clothes if they'd promise to be good friends. I never was more
astonished in my life than I was to find that they were nowhere near the
island. I was beginning to be afraid they'd been drowned, when I heard
some men calling me, and I found Squire Meredith and Amzi Willetts's
father, who is a deacon, hiding among the bushes. They told me that some
villains had stolen their clothes while they were in swimming, and
they'd give me fifty cents if I'd go up to their houses and get their
wives to give me some clothes to bring down to them.
I said I didn't want the fifty cents, but I'd go and try to find some
clothes for them. I meant to go straight up to Amzi's barn and to bring
the clothes back, but on the way I met Amzi with the clothes in a basket
bringing them down to the island, and he said: "Somebody's goin' to be
arrested for stealing father's and Squire Meredith's clothes. I saw the
fellows that stole 'em, and I'm going to tell." You see, Joe and I had
taken the wrong clothes, and Squire Meredith and Deacon Willetts, who
had been in swimming on the deep side of the island, had been about two
hours trying to play they were Zulus, and didn't need to wear any
clothes, only they found it pretty hard work.
Deacon Willetts came straight to our house, and told father that his
unhappy son--that's what he called me, and wasn't I unhappy, though--had
stolen his clothes and Squire Meredith's; but for the sake of our family
he wouldn't say very much about it, only if father thought best to spare
the rods and spoil a child, he wouldn't be able to regard him as a man
and a brother. So father called me and asked me if I had taken Deacon
Willetts's clothes, and when I said yes, and was going to explain how it
happened, he said that my conduct was such, and that I was bringing his
gray hairs down, only I wouldn't hurt them for fifty million dollars,
and I've often heard him say he hadn't a gray hair in his head.