been much heavier if her motherly indignation had not been a little
stirred against Sarah for playing informer; but to Patty it was hard
enough, for she had intended going out on the common with the girls,
late in the evening, for a game of “black man” by the light of the
rising moon; and as she eat her bread and milk, crying quietly to
herself, she heard Sarah’s taunting voice under the window:
“Don’t you wish you’d let me sweep, so you could play ‘black man’
to-night?”
“Don’t care,” answered Patty; “I had a play when you didn’t, and I’ll
have another to-morrow.”
So she did, and though Miss Kelsey interfered to prevent Patty from
having a monopoly of the sweeping, still she did it so often that
before the term closed she became a famous sweeper, and her mother
actually allowed her to take charge of the sweeping of the sitting-room
at home, and was not at all sorry that Miss Kelsey had proved such a
skillful tactician.
A BIRD STORY.
BY M. E. B.
It’s strange how little boys’ mothers
Can find it all out as they do,
If a fellow does anything naughty,
Or says anything that’s not true!
They’ll look at you just a moment
Till your heart in your bosom swells,
And then they know all about it--
For a little bird tells!
Now where the little bird comes from,
Or where the little bird goes,
If he’s covered with beautiful plumage,
Or black as the king of the crows,
If his voice is as hoarse as a raven
Or clear as the ringing of bells,
I know not--but this I am sure of--
A little bird tells!
The moment you think a thing wicked,
The moment you do a thing bad,
Are angry or sullen or hateful,
Get ugly or stupid or mad,
Or tease a dear brother or sister--
That instant your sentence he knells
And the whole to mamma in a minute
That little bird tells.
You may be in the depths of a closet
Where nobody sees but a mouse,
You may be all alone in the cellar,
You may be on the top of the house,
You may be in the dark and the silence,
Or out in the woods and the dells--
No matter! Wherever it happens
The little bird tells!
And the only contrivance to stop him,
Is just to be sure what you say--
Sure of your facts and your fancies,
Sure of your work and your play;
Be honest, be brave, and be kindly,
Be gentle and loving as well,
And then--you can laugh at the stories
The little bird tells!
A NEW LAWN GAME.
BY G. B. BARTLETT.
A completely new lawn game has just been imported from Germany, which
must soon become a very popular and amusing pastime for old and young,
for the appliances are very simple and any one can play it, while with
practice great skill will be developed. At present there is only one
set of this game in America; but the readers of the WIDE AWAKE will
need to try it but once to appreciate and enjoy it.
BOGGIA.
The game of Boggia requires one black ball, nine white balls, and nine
colored balls. Croquet balls will answer; but those of hard wood are
better, since they are heavier; still if made of light wood, melted
lead can be poured into holes made with a gimlet until they weigh about
one-half pound each.
Any even number can play, from two to eighteen persons.
The players are divided into two equal sides. The colored balls are
divided among the players of one side, and the white balls among the
players of the other side.
At first the players choose by lot which shall have the first roll;
but in all future games the side that wins has the first roll. To make
this choice, the leader of one side holds behind him a colored in one
hand, and a white ball in the other; and the leader of the other side
guesses, right or left. If he guesses the hand which holds the color of
his own side he gains the right to begin the game; if not, the other
side begins. The leader first rolls the black ball on the lawn to such
a distance as he chooses, from a starting-line. Upon this starting-line
every player must place his right foot when he rolls; this line extends
across the lawn at least twenty feet, and the player can roll from any
part of it, as it is often desirable to roll from different angles.
The leader then rolls a white ball, trying to have it stop as close as
possible to the black ball.
The leader of the other side then rolls a colored ball; his object
being to come in closer, or to knock away either the black ball or the
white ball.
The players of each side play alternately--a white and a color--and the
luck constantly changes; for as, at the close of the game, all balls of
one side count which are nearer to the black than any ball of the other
side, a lucky roll may change the whole result by coming in closer, or
by knocking away either black, white, or colored balls.
Great skill can be used, as, if the ball is too swift, it goes beyond
all the balls unless it hits and scatters them; if too light, it fails
to come in near the black. Great excitement always attends the last
roll, as a good player who knows the ground can often change the whole
aspect of the game for the advantage of his own side, and a careless
one often throws the game into the hands of the opposite by knocking
away the balls belonging to his own side.
The side which first scores ten wins the game.
The pussy cat’s licking her paws:
I wonder what can be the cause!
Naughty cat, have you eaten a dear little bird?
But the big maltese beauty says never a word.
Now Kit, tell the truth while you live in this house--
What have you been eating? And Pussy says, “_Maowse!_”
[Illustration: MOTHER PUSSY’S PET.]
HOW PHILIP SULLIVAN DID AN ERRAND.
BY MARY DENSEL.
Bang, _bang_, _bang!_ went Philip Sullivan’s hammer, as he pounded on
his sled “Chain Lightning.” “Chain Lightning” had needed mending ever
since last winter, but Phil had concluded not to touch it till “just
before the snow came.”
“Never do to-day what you can put off until to-morrow.”
The consequence was that the north wind suddenly puffed up a midnight
storm, and Master Phil was awakened one morning by the shouts of the
six Dyke boys, who were coasting merrily down “Sullivan Hill.”
Phil was out of bed in a twinkling. Ten o’clock found him still working
fiercely on “Chain Lightning,” his glue-pot simmering before the fire
in company with his father’s best chisel and his mother’s machine
oil-can.
The shouts of the Dyke boys still resounded; and not only their
jubilation but that of forty more coasters drove Phil nearly frantic.
With all his might Phil worked on, and “Chain Lightning” was beginning
to look as if it might hold its own even among newer sleds, when the
door leading into the library opened softly, and fair-haired Rosabel,
Phil’s sister, appeared on the threshold. At the same moment an
opposite door flew open with a jerk, and there stood Rosabel “done in
sepia,” as it were; little brown Kate, Rosabel’s twin-sister.
Phil glanced up, and then became more than ever absorbed in his work.
There was a peculiar expression on the twins’ faces. Phil instantly
recognized it. “The _errand_ cast of features,” he grimly called it.
“Phil, dear,” began Rosabel.
“Phil, dear,” echoed Kate.
Phil handled a screw-driver dextrously.
“Phil, dear, will you please run over to the station and see if my new
skates have come by the twelve-o’clock train? Go when the cars are due,
won’t you?”
“And Phil, dear,” chimed in Kate, “can’t you manage to go into the city
to-day and call for a roll of music which is to be left for me at Hale
and McPherson’s?”
Now could anything be more trying to the temper of the average youth
than requests like these, made under the existing circumstances?
Perhaps some of us may find it in our hearts to forgive Phil for
answering with a certain touch of asperity:
“Don’t ‘Phil dear’ me! I’m not going to the station, and I’m not going
to the city, and--”
_Bang, bang, bang!_ the hammer expressed the rest of his sentiments.
Rosabel arched her eyebrows, and mildly withdrew.
Kate tarried to wheedle the enemy a bit, and, that failing, gave it as
her opinion that boys ought never to have been created. Departing she
closed the door with more force than was strictly needful, and left
Phil alone.
That individual worked on in an injured and gloomy frame of mind.
“Mean enough in them to be forever nagging me. Mean enough in me not to
get their skates and music.”
It was hard for Phil to decide which was the greater wretch, himself
or Kate. Rosabel, he concluded, could never be a “blot on the earth,”
whatever she did. It was Rosabel who had helped him write his
composition on “Spring;” it was Rosabel who knit his mittens; it was
Rosabel who never shirked her share of the stirring when they made
molasses candy.
The remembrance of Rosabel’s virtues haunted Phil even after “Chain
Lightning” was in order, and he was shooting down “Sullivan Hill,”
lying prone on his sled, with his legs waving in the air.
Perhaps that was the reason that when his elder brother Will came
hastily up the hill and offered him five cents if he would carry a
bundle to a store next the railway station (you see that Phil was
regarded as the family errand boy), he condescended to saunter in that
direction. Not that he cared for the pennies, although he accepted them
as a token of brotherly esteem.
He even quickened his pace as a shrill whistle sounded in the distance,
and ended by racing up to the depot just as the twelve-o’clock train
stopped.
No one seemed to know about Rosabel’s skates.
“Ask the man in the express office--perhaps they came on an earlier
train,” suggested Fred Rodman, who was standing on the platform. “I’ll
keep your sled for you. Or, see here, just slip the rope through this
iron ring on the rear car.”
Phil did as he was bidden, and leaving his sharp-shooter tied with a
slip-knot, went into the express office.
The man in the express office had never heard the proverb concerning
“a place for everything;” or, if he had, knowing it was not among the
Ten Commandments, felt under no obligation to heed it. He remarked that
“somebody had said something about some skates being somewhere,” and
went fumbling among boxes and bundles, exclaiming alternately, “Hi!
here they be,” and “Ho! no they ain’t.”
[Illustration: NOT GOING TO LOSE “CHAIN LIGHTENING” AT ANY RATE!]
At last, just as he laid his hand on a queer-looking package, and was
next to sure that here were the skates, the engine bell rang, there was
a slight scurry outside, and the train began to move.
Phil was out of the depot in a flash.
“Stop!” he cried; but the locomotive paid no heed.
Slowly past the platform glided the cars, pulling “Chain Lightning”
behind.
Almost before he knew what he was doing, Phil had thrown himself on
the sled and grasped its rope. To his horror the slip-knot suddenly
tightened, and “Chain Lightning” was firmly fastened. Every moment the
train quickened its speed.
I should not dare to tell the rest of this story, were it not true. I
am not “making it up.” It really happened.
The sled hung on the car. Phil Sullivan clung to the sled. Do you
suppose he would lose “Chain Lightning?” Not he.
Faster and faster--faster and faster still--dashed on the train. Over
the sleepers bounded “Chain Lightning.” To this side, to that, it
swayed madly. Phil’s grasp never slackened. On they rushed. Phil dared
not roll off the sled now lest he should be killed. It seemed no less
certain death to stay on.
The engine gave short panting breaths, as if it were frightened,
itself, at the trick it was playing the boy.
A kindly tree stretched out a limb, but tried in vain to rescue Phil.
The sled bounded far less now as the train whizzed along. The runners
were half an inch from the ground. Held by its strong rope, the
sharp-shooter was like a small tail to a big kite. Cinders flew--the
cars flew--“Chain Lightning” flew--Phil flew. (I am telling you the
truth.)
It seemed to our friend as if he had been rushing through space ever
since he was born. It seemed as if he had come millions of miles. Would
this awful ride never end? Phil’s fingers were numb, so tightly did
they clasp “Chain Lightning’s” edge. He saw stars before him.
And now _thump! bump! bump! thump!_ “Chain Lightning” was knocking the
sleepers once more. It might have occurred to Phil that he could hardly
bear this sort of travelling much longer had not his brain been too
dizzy to do much thinking.
Presently, after another small eternity, with a final shriek the
locomotive drew up in the city depot.
* * * * *
An hour later Philip Sullivan entered the paternal mansion. Never a
word did he say in regard to the black-and-blue spots which dotted him
from head to foot, not yet did he feel it necessary to mention that
every bone in his body had an especial and separate ache.
“I thought I might as well go into town,” he remarked carelessly.
“Here’s your music, Kate. Your skates will probably come to-morrow,
Rosabel.”
“Well, you are a dear,” began Kate, looking up from her crocheting. But
before she could finish there came a loud ring at the door-bell, and
in rushed Fred Rodman. As he caught sight of Phil, his eyes and mouth
opened wide, and he stared for a full minute.
At last, “Aren’t you dead?” he gasped.
“Pho!” said Phil loftily. “I’ve as much right to be living as you, sir.”
“Well, I never!” said Fred. “I was over to the post-office when the
whistle blew, and came out just in time to see you off, and I raced
most of the way to the city after you, and then I turned round and
raced back to tell your folks!”
“Pho!” said Phil again.
We will pass over any family discussion of the incident; but within
an hour one half of the boys in town were relating to the other half
the story of Phil Sullivan’s ride. To be sure the versions differed,
and to this day some of the lads a little out of Phil’s own circle are
convinced he went to town on the cow-catcher, and other some believe
that he rode all the way under a car, sitting on a brace between the
wheels.
But that evening, Phil much bruised and battered, yet whole in every
limb, told to a select few the full particulars of his journey; and the
facts of the case are as I have here narrated them.
WINTER WITH THE POETS.
BY THE EDITOR.
Our prose writers have many winter scenes worthy of reading and
remembrance (notably such as are found in the writings of Charles
Dickens and Nathaniel Hawthorne) which might almost be called prose
poems; but to-day we will wander together through the flower gardens of
the real poets, whose eyes were made clearer to see the beauties of the
world around them, by the loving attention they gave to common things.
There is a rabbinical fable to the effect that Jesus was once passing
along a crowded city street, and that he came to a place where lay,
unsightly, ragged and bruised, a dead dog. The disciples said, “What
does this carrion here? throw it out of the Master’s way.” But the
Master said, “Look what beautiful teeth--they are white as pearls!”
So the poet finds “nothing common or unclean” in anything that God has
made, and man has not marred; and even, as in the case of the poor,
ill-used animal, finds something left to admire in the wreck and ruin
of former beauty. And though winter wrecks the beauty of the summer, it
has a beauty of its own.
For a country winter in New England there is no better description than
Whittier’s “Snow-Bound” and for the same season in Old England parts
of Cowper’s “Winter Evening,” “Winter Morning Walk” and “Winter Walk
at Noon.” Longfellow has a description of winter in “Hiawatha” and a
winter storm at sea in the “Wreck of the Hesperus.”
Shakespeare has scattered references to winter throughout his plays;
but he is rather the poet of human life and society than of inanimate
nature.
James Thomson, who wrote “The Seasons,” has a fine description of
Winter; and every one should know by heart the first twenty lines of
his “Hymn on the Seasons.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley has some beautiful lines on a winter’s night; and
Tennyson has many fine lines, “The Death of the Old Year,” and parts of
“In Memoriam” being the finest.
Would it not be interesting to each one of the readers of the GRAMMAR
SCHOOL to gather together all the references to winter thoughts and
scenery to be found in the writings of their favorite poet? Try and
see!
BESSIE’S STORY.
BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.
What my own--my true own name may be or may have been, I do not know.
I have a fancy like a dream, that perhaps it has been Adélê. And yet
I cannot say why. My father, the captain, whose daughter I am by
adoption, gave to me the name of Bessie, for his wife, and Luna, for
the moon. Thus within the log-book it is written Bessie Luna Wray.
Girls that have upon the shore their home can tell to an exactness
what age they have and when their birthdays shall be. But for myself
who have only a home upon the sea, I may know but this--that I have
nearly fifteen years of age, “or thereabouts,” as the captain says. I
have never known of the birthday--only an anniversary. And when I have
forgotten myself of the day of the month on which _that_ happens, I
obtain the “Petrel’s” log-book for the year of eighteen hundred and
sixty-four, where I find this of record:
“Journal of hemaphrodite brig ‘Petrel,’ Wray, master, from San
Francisco to Honolulu, Dec. 25, 1864.
“This day begins with clearing weather and light airs from S. E.
Middle part of day wind light and baffling. At 3 P. M. passed a
quantity of floating wreck stuff. Moon fulls at 11. P. M. At 11.30
P. M., Lat. by obs. 30° 15´, hove to, and picked up a boat of French
build with ‘Toulon’ written in pencil on the seat, and a female child
about one year old wrapped in a capote such as is worn by the pilots
of Dieppe. Got under way at 12 M., course W. b. N. Call the child
Bessie Luna Wray. So ends this twenty-four hours.”
Such is all I know of my beginning of life. Excepting that only for
the uncommon brightness of the moon, the lookout had not seen the
drifting boat. It is said in all the books I have read, of the babe who
is discovered, that it smiles sweetly in the face of its benefactor.
But the captain tells me often that I rent the air with crying till I
was black in the face, until, arriving on the deck of the “Petrel,”
old Candace, the negress, took me in her embrace. She it was who was
stewardess, with her husband Jim (also of color) as cook.
The captain would at once have had me fed with Port wines, condensed
milk, canned soups, and like nourishment. But Candace said “no,” and
gave me of food in small quantities. “Dat ’ar little stummick mus’n be
filled to depletion,” is that which the captain repeats as her words to
him.
Remaining on board, she had a care of me for four years. I would not be
on the shore for even an hour. I cried bitterly when out of sight of my
captain. Again we had a stewardess who was English, with her husband
to cook. She taught me my sewing, and a prayer to say to the good God.
But as I became more old in years the captain gave to me my instruction
in books. He learned me of many things useful, and it is said of me
that I have a marvellous power to attain in study. At my present age
I am thin--_svelte_, as old M. Jacques, the former mate, says--with a
complexion of brunette, and eyes and hair which are black. This it is,
with the readiness which I had in learning the French language of M.
Jacques, which gives me to think that my mother at least was French.
The accent and words seemed to always be known to me as of a dream.
But the captain will have it to say that I am a gift of Christmas from
his wife who is with the good God. Be that as it may, I am to him as
his very, very own, and he to me as father and mother in one, “the
child of his old age,” he insists; for though straight and erect as the
mast of the “Petrel,” he is in age sixty years.
He has provided for me everything of comfort and elegance that a young
girl could wish. For the “Petrel” is a small brig which goes over all
the world where a keel may float, in order to trade. It may be to
purchase shells in the Indian ocean, furs in St. Petersburg, fruits
at Havana, spices in Ceylon, silks at Nankin, diamonds or ostrich
feathers at Cape Town, knick-knacks in London, or _bijouterie_ at
Havre--anywhere and everywhere that a bargain may be made, we go. And
in every port the ladies of the consignee, or the American consul, will
have me at their homes, and are _so_ good to me. They take me to the
galleries of art and places of interest. I attend the service of the
church with them, and at their homes I meet people who are delightful.
Thus I have learned to love things which are beautiful, and the captain
is only too willing to get for me what I desire. He has had built for
me into the cabin a little cabinet organ. We took as passengers to
the Sandwich Islands last year, a good missionary, and his wife, who
accompanied him, taught me the music, and to sing and play, so that I
am never ennuyéed at sea. I have a great abundance of books; I have
my music, my studies (navigation is among them), my sewing, a canary
bird, and a pot of ivy--beside my journal from which these pages
are recorded--what would you more? It does not matter that we meet
storms--sometimes terrible ones. I do not say it to boast, but I have
not anything of fear within. I love to be on deck; I have the long oil
coat which buttons close about me like that of the captain, and boots
of rubber. Oftentimes the captain permits that I give the orders for
taking in the light sails, or tacking the brig. And I can steer with
the wheel as well as old Dan himself, or trace the vessel’s course upon
the chart when I have figured the reckoning.
You of the young ladies who murmur because of the space of closets,
should visit _my_ room. It has a length of ten feet, a breadth of six.
My berth, with three drawers beneath it, takes much of the room. But I
have a tiny wash-stand, a small chair, and a trunk also.
Pictures too. The one, “Christ Stilling the Tempest,” is a small
painting in oil, which was a present to myself from a lady in Rome
whose husband is a great artist.
Opposite hangs a photograph of the “Immaculate Conception,” also a
present from a lady in Liverpool, Mrs. Fancher. There is fastened to
the wall a swinging lamp of solid silver. A diver of the submarine
brought it up from the wreck of a steam yacht which, belonging to Omar
Pacha, was lost with all those on board in the Persian Gulf. The man
gave it as pay for his passage to Foochow. But imagine to yourself the
curtains of my berth being of silk damask worked with gold thread! They
are of much value, yet when one asks of their price, the captain says,
with his laugh, that he bought them for a song. It was while we were
loading with a few teas at Foochow. A man habited as a sailor came on
board at the evening, and offered this for fifty dollars. He had been
a runaway from a ship, and seeking the country, was impressed into the
army of Chinese insurgents. They had sacked the emperor’s country seat
at Ningpo, and this was torn from the hangings of the couch of the
princess--or he thus said. The captain told him he could not give but
twenty dollars, though it was of more worth. But the man said “no,” and
went out. It was then, thinking that he had gone, I began to sing and
play the song of Adelaide Proctor, “The Lost Chord,” which I so love.
And the strange man came back and began to cry! He said to the captain
if I would sing it once more, he should have the stuff at his own
price, which I did willingly, and thus it was purchased.
My book-shelves are of sandal-wood inlaid with ebony. They were given
me in Madras by the merchant with whom the captain has done business
these many years. The ewer and jug in my wash-stand are of bronze. They
were discovered from a tomb in the Island of Cyprus.
But it is in especial of one voyage--the last--of which I have to tell,
for it came near to become an adventure. We were bound to Lisbon,
seeking a cargo of the light wines for the market of New York, and
the captain had with him for the purchase three thousand dollars in
gold. He had shipped for the voyage a different chief mate, and also
two men of the crew who came on board with him. It happens to me to
notice small things, and I remember that I looked with surprise at the
familiarity which these common sailors had secretly with the first
mate. Old Jacques would hardly have spoken to a sailor even upon the
land, except in the way of duty. I had for this Mr. Atkin, as he called
himself, a strong dislike. His face had a smooth badness, but he was
fluent of tongue with an appearance of education, and the captain
smiled at what he said was my childish prejudice. Yet the good God has
given me to read the human face, and I often have chosen out those from
the crew who I felt would make trouble to the officers, and was seldom
with mistake.
The second officer was Waters, a man very young but brave and active.
He too regarded this Atkin with suspicion. “Tell your father, Miss,” he
said to me in private, “to keep his weather eye open, and look out for
Atkin.”
The captain did but laugh when I told him, and bade me not trouble my
little head with fears. But I found him watchful in a quiet way after
that, though there happened nothing for some time of suspicion.
I find as I copy from my journal that I do not sometimes frame these
sentences in the exact order that I read them in books. I cannot seem
to readily correct myself, so I have made a point to put down all the
conversation which I remember, exactly as it was spoken by those of
whom I shall write. It will be a good practice for me. I began to keep
my journal three years since, with view of having a better command of
language.
We finally made sight of the Teneriffe peak among the Canary Islands.
It rises many thousand feet above the sea, and for miles is visible in
the clear weather.
That night the winds died away, and we were becalmed, and _so_ warm
as it was! I could not sleep, and in the first watch--that of the
captain--I went upon deck. Old Dan is a sailor who has been at sea with
us a great many years, and the only one that the captain wishes me to
speak with when he is not present.
So after I had chatted with the captain a little, he went forward a
moment with a command for the second mate.
“How do you head, Dan?” I asked of him idly.
“Mostly all round the compass, there being no steerage way to speak of,
Miss,” he made answer.
I yawned, for I had a strong desire to sleep, yet cared not to go to
the close air of below.
All at once, I thought of the life-boat which swings at the “Petrel’s”
stern, covered with canvas, and how delightful to be in it were it
possible. If there came a breath of wind I should feel it there; and
remembering that I had seen a torn fore-royal put into the boat a few
days previous, I made up my mind what to do. “Look you, Dan,” I said,
“I am going to sleep in the life-boat till you shall come to the wheel
again in the morning watch from twelve till four, and then you can call
me.”
“Very well, Miss,” he made reply, though he regarded me with a little
doubt, “only maybe Cap’n Wray wouldn’t think--”
“He need know nothing of it,” I said with impatience, for I have a will
headstrong, which often causes me after-sorrow. And without other words
I slipped myself within the boat, pulling the cover in place with care.
“Where is Miss Wray?” I heard the captain to ask as he came aft a
moment after.
“She’s turned in, sir,” was the answer of Dan.
Then the captain began his walk of the quarter-deck with vain
whistlings for the breeze.
But it was charming laying upon the old sail listening to the twitter
of Mother Cary’s chickens, and the cool swash of the sea about the
rudder.
It is not a wonder, then, that I fell into fast sleep, only to awaken
by the bell striking “one, two, three, four,” which I knew had the
meaning of two o’clock of the morning, and I had some regret at my
foolish whim, for it had become quite cool and damp. Yet I knew I might
not release myself until four o’clock, when old Dan again had the wheel.
I raised a corner of the cover and peeped out. Spanish Joe stood with
one hand upon the wheel, looking sideways in the half darkness of the
night. The light from the binnacle was upon his swarthy face with
strength, and I told myself, with a little shiver, that it was the face
of a brigand such as I had gazed upon in some gallery of pictures. But
figure to yourself my feelings as Mr. Atkin, after listening a moment
at the open window of the state-room of the captain, came directly
behind the wheel, and seating himself upon the taffrail so near that I
could touch him, began with an absent drumming of his fingers upon the
cover of the boat itself!
“Everybody is sound asleep but you and I, Joe,” he said in half a
whisper.
“_Bueno_,” was the reply of Joe; “an’ now, s’pose you say what you have
think ’bout us try to get dis money you tell us of, eh?”
“Well, Joe,” he answers, and you cannot imagine to yourself how like
oil was his voice, “I’ve laid the thing out about this way. To-morrow
night when Dan is steering and the Swede on the lookout, we’ll give
young Waters a little pleasant surprise, and when he comes to himself,
he’ll find that his hands are lashed and something over his mouth to
keep him from making a noise--savey, Joe?”
I trembled in every limb, and was with a cold perspiration on my face.
Had I been one who swoons readily I should have fainted. But at once I
recovered myself. “Be brave, Bessie,” I repeated to my heart: “it is
for the dear captain’s sake.”
“Then we’ll get the captain out,” the wretch continued, as Spanish Joe
made a small nod of the head, “and serve him so, and if the cook, or
Dan, or the Swede make a fuss (which they won’t dare do) they’ll see
that the balance of power is with us, for we’ve got pistols, and they
haven’t. Eh, Joe?”
“Then w’at?” asked Joe with much of eagerness.
“Why, then,” Mr. Atkin goes on with the ease that he would remark upon
the weather, “we’ll put the long boat over the side, and politely
invite Captain Wray, Miss Wray, Mr. Waters and the cook or one of the
men to step in. They can shape their course for the Azores, only thirty
miles away, Joe, and we’ll shape ours for Europe.”
“But will you?” I thought within myself with my teeth clenched.
“I’ll take command, of course,” thus the bad man continued; “and when
we are near the land we’ll rig up the life-boat here”--and he thumped
it with his hand--“take some provisions, water _and_ the money--”
“One tousan’ apiece,” breaks in the sailor.
“Take the money,” Mr. Atkin went on as if Joe had not interrupted; “and
when we get ashore, every man will take his share, Joe--and _scatter!_”
he said with a flourish of his fingers.
“But the brig shall find harbor too--they gives alarm and sends after
us,” said Joe.
“Not after I have fixed the rudder and taken away the compass, my good
Joe,” said the smooth Mr. Atkin; “so now you can let Jerry know what is
expected of him, and to-morrow night--”
He made no finish of his words, though, but rising, walked slow away.
Ah, how slowly passed the time! but finally, Joe, with yawns, struck
the eight bells, and the wheel was relieved by old Dan.
Surely I lost no time in coming from my hiding-place, and I sought the
captain, who, without removing his clothing, had reclined himself upon
a lounge in the cabin. I revealed to him in whispers that which I had
heard.
“My brave little girl!” he said, as I had made an end of my story; but
I could not think what there was of bravery in laying _perdu_, and
listening to conspirators. Had I not given him counsel, though, I think
he would have been for dashing upon the three who thus conspired, and
smiting them hip and thigh. But I told him to communicate in secret
with Mr. Waters, and they two together might make plans of strategy
which would avail without bloodshed; and he did so.
It was unfortunate that the captain was entirely without firearms of
any kind. I think I myself would have dared to use one in such an
emergency. But he whispered to me in the morning that he had that which
should serve the same end; and with a beating heart I awaited the
result.
The calm remained into the forenoon of the next day. The sea was like
oily glass, without a ripple as far as one could view, and the sun
made itself hardly to be endured, so fierce did it beat down upon the
scorched deck, in the seams of which the pitch fairly melted. The sails
hung without motion against the mast, and the wheel was idle.
With a heart fast beating I followed the captain, who had told me to be
without fear, upon the deck.
“I wish we had a couple of the turtle that are laying round so plenty,
asleep on the water, this morning,” said the captain, as if to myself,
who, stood by him, though in a careless way.
I had no meaning of his words, but Atkin, who was near, looked at the
black specks upon the water some distance away, with interest.
“Yes, sir,” he made reply, “there’s always lots of them about the
Azores in calm weather--nice soup they make, too.”
“You might take the longboat, if you like, Mr. Atkin,” said the captain
with a yawn, as if it had but then occurred to him, “and with your
watch take two or three--it would be a change from salt beef.”
“Very well, sir,” Atkin replies; for this man was a lover of nice
food--a _gourmand_. “Here, you Joe and Jerry, get the boat over the
side.”
[Illustration: THE TABLES ARE SUDDENLY TURNED ON THE CONSPIRATORS.]
I began to guess that there was a purpose in this. I saw that the
captain had, under a mask of carelessness, a face of anxiety, and
that the hand that held his glasses with which he viewed the horizon,
trembled never so little as he paced backward and forward while the two
men were putting over the boat. When all was ready, Mr. Atkin in the
stern-sheets pushed off from the vessel’s side.
“Stop a bit!” now called the captain, as I watched with strong anxiety
his face. There was a stern ring in his voice which I had seldom heard.
And at the same time I saw Mr. Waters, Dan and the Swede come from the
cook’s galley with buckets of hot water which they brought to the rail.
“Well?” asked Atkin with inquiry. And he motioned the two men to cease
from rowing.
“You see Teneriffe peak, do you?” again spoke the captain.
“Why, yes, sir,” was the answer of Atkin: “what then?”
“Just this,” said the captain; “my advice to you, you scoundrels, is
that you pull your prettiest for the Azore Islands; for while my name
is Wray not one of you ever shall set foot again of this brig’s deck!”
Ah, then what oaths! what cries of rage! And so desperate was this
villain Atkin that he drew a pistol and commanded his men to pull back,
which they did with hesitation. But they were scarce within reach when
old Dan discharged the contents of his hot-water bucket full at them.
I clapped my hands. I could not resist. For Atkin caught enough of it
on his neck and shoulder to cause him to fall backward over the thwart
with a roar, and by accident, discharge his pistol in the air.
Then it was they saw they were entrapped, and pulled hastily away to a
distance, where they laid upon their oars with angry words each to the
other.
And oh, how with eagerness we watched for a breeze, which came not
until in the late afternoon. But when once more the ripple of the water
made around the bows, and the sails swelled out with a wind from the
southwest, I breathed with freeness, and we all thanked the good God as
we watched the boat of the conspirators to disappear in the distance.
There were left on board the captain, second mate, two men, the cook
and stewardess. And Captain Wray said I should be his second mate, Mr.
Waters acting as chief officer.
Many times I stood at the wheel for three and four hours before we
reached Lisbon. But the “Petrel,” which has but a tonnage of one
hundred and sixty, was easily handled, and the good God gave us
favoring winds, as also fair weather; so with much fatigue, but
otherwise well, we finally reached our port in safety.
The captain sometimes speaks as one who is getting too old for the life
of the ocean--in particular of late does he say this. And he has made
hints at a home upon the land, with a house which shall look far out
over the sea, and be ever within the sound of its voice. It may be that
after a time, and with him, I should be content thus to live. But as
now, I regard it with dread. I had somehow dreamed of a continuation
of this life which so delights me, and some day to be buried under the
blue waves. But we shall see.
The foregoing story is entirely true in all its essential features. I
was somewhat acquainted with Miss Wray, and it was with sorrow that in
the list of disasters two winters ago, I read that the brig “Petrel”
was lost in the English Channel, with all on board, in a December gale.
F. H. C.
A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION
BY THE EDITOR.
WINTER TO SUMMER.
“_I_ would not be so friendly with the sun;--
Hot-headed fellow, prying everywhere!
_My_ flowers brightly bloom when he is gone,
And sparkle in the clear and frosty air.”
SUMMER TO WINTER.
“Winter, I own your icy blossoms fair,
But cold and white, unlike the rainbow hues
That paint _my_ flowers--and who would ever care
For flowers less lasting than my morning dews?”
THE GRASS, THE BROOK, AND THE DANDELIONS.
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
The sparkling, babbling, baby-brook that ran gayly through the meadow
whispered to the sleeping grass, one lovely spring morning, just as
dawn was breaking, “Wake up, wake up, and see what May has scattered
over you.” And the grass, awaking from a pleasant dream of summer,
beheld a number of bright, yellow, star-shaped dandelions, smiling in
the early sunshine.
“Welcome a thousand times,” said its many blades in a chorus of
delight. “How sweet and fresh you look, with the dew-drops clinging to
your dainty petals of shining gold. But you may well look bright and
happy,” they continued in less cheerful tones, “for you are flowers,
and flowers so beloved by the sun that he paints you his own beautiful
color.”
“And are _you_ not happy, too?” asked the dandelions, in innocent
surprise.
“Yes, we are happy,” answered the grass, with a little sigh; “but we
would be _so_ much happier if we were flowers!”
“_We_ are nothing, you know, but common grass, with no hope of being
anything better.”
“No change for us. No budding and turning into sweet, blue, white,
pink, or golden blossoms.”
“Grass we are, and grass we must remain until the end of our days.”
“For shame!” cried the dandelions, their honest faces all aglow.
“‘Common grass,’ indeed! Dear May told us all about you, and the
blissful mission that is yours, only yours, before she dropped us
here.”
“_You_ have been chosen to clothe the whole earth, while the flowers
you envy are only the ornaments that cling to the lovely robes you
weave.”
“Surely you would not have been so chosen if you were not beautiful,
and _most_ beautiful.”
“Why are we never called so, then?” asked the grass. “Even the children
never notice us; but mark our words, the moment they see _you_, they’ll
shout, ‘O, the pretty, pretty dandelions!’”
“They don’t call us ‘pretty’--O, no, indeed!”
“Nothing is ever said about _us_.”
“We’re _grass_, that’s all. No one ever gathers us.”
“We are never made into posies or worn in waving ringlets.”
“Nobody admires us and nobody praises us.”
“Not so, not so,” murmured the brooklet, soft and low, and its words
all flowed in tune and rhyme. “_I’ve_ sung your praises many a time.
And bird and bee oft tell to me, as through the meadow and field I
pass, how much they love the beautiful grass. So don’t get blue,
whatever you do, for green’s the color, dear grass, for you. And,
believe me, everywhere you grow, a joy you bring, I _know_ ’tis so. And
now, I pray, bend over this way, and take the kiss I have for you.”
The grass bent gracefully toward the brook, and took not one, but three
kisses, and then the chattering little thing went dancing on its way.
Early that evening, as the setting sun was sinking slowly in the
west, a strong, sunburnt young fellow, with a merry twinkle in his
bright brown eyes, came into the meadow, and began cutting some
sods,--whistling as he worked,--and packing them away in a wheelbarrow
he had brought with him.
The grass that had talked with the dandelions, and been kissed by the
brook in the morning, was the last to be cut, and so was placed upon
the top of the load.
“O, what can this mean?” asked its many tiny blades, _this_ time in a
chorus of sorrow. “Why are we taken from our home? Alas! we never knew
how much we loved our beautiful meadow until now, when we are leaving
it forever. Where can we be going?”
But just then the man took up the handles of the wheelbarrow, and the
grass only had time to wave a last farewell as he trundled it away.
“Farewell,” called the dandelions; “farewell,” murmured the brook; and
“farewell,” sighed the grass that was left behind.
The young man wheeled the barrow into the front yard of a newly-built
little cottage on the other side of the road.
There was here no sign of anything green, but the brown earth had been
dug and nicely raked, and the grass heard it saying softly to itself
in joyful tones, “O, now I shall be dressed at last--here comes the
beautiful, friendly grass to cover me.”
Then the grass thought of what the dandelions had said.
Down went the sods on the ground, and away went the barrow for some
more; and again and again it went, until at least a dozen loads had
been brought; and then, taking off his coat, the very brown young man,
whistling merrily all the time, began to make a grass plot.
Soon all the sods were put down; and the tiny garden commenced already
to look bright and cheerful.
“Jenny!” called the brown-faced, brown-eyed, brown-haired (_wasn’t_ he
brown?) gardener, as he took off his hat to wipe his brow.
A rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed young woman came to the cottage door in
answer to his call, with a rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed baby girl in her
arms. “O, the beautiful grass!” cried she, when she saw what had been
done; and, “Pretty, pretty!” said the baby girl, clapping her fat,
dimpled hands.
Then the grass thought of what the brook had sung.
“It makes the place look pleasant at once,” said the man, leaning
on his spade and looking smilingly at his work. “But just wait till
we have a good shower, and then it will be as green as--as--green
as--well, as green as grass, for I don’t know anything greener,” he
added, laughing. “And I say, Jenny, what a splendid place it’ll be for
baby to tumble about on! You can latch the gate, and then she can roll
about here as much as she pleases--bless her little heart!”
“Bess ’er ittie heart!” echoed baby, with funny gravity.
“Yes, indeed,” answered the happy mother, kissing the soft, sweet red
mouth of her darling. “She’ll have many a merry hour here, with the
daisies and dandelions. How thankful we ought to be,” she went on a
moment after, her face growing serious with a feeling of gratitude,
“to Our Father in Heaven for covering the earth with such a lovely
garment--so soft for the weary feet, so refreshing to the tired eyes!
And do you know, Ralph, I never feel so sorry for the poor in great
cities as I do in summer, when I think of them shut in tall, dreary
brick houses, from the windows of which they can see nothing but
paving-stones, no beautiful grass, or else such little struggling
patches that the sight makes them sadder than ever.”
“There, what did we tell you?” asked a voice so tiny that only the
grass heard--and lo! a dandelion that had clung to its friends, and so
been carried along to share their new abode.
“Yes--yes, you were right,” answered the grass. “We see how blessed we
are, and _now_ we wouldn’t change places with the sweetest flowers that
ever bloomed.”
[Illustration]
THE BIRDS’ HARVEST.
BY MRS. J. D. CHAPLIN.
If “Restwood,” the little country-house to which we fly from the heat,
and dust, and toil of the great city, were only large enough, we would
invite all the young “Wide Awakes” to gather there. We would show them
such scenery; we would wander with them through the deep pine-forest,
whose whisperings are mingled with the wild roar of the dashing sea,
and take them to sail in our fairy-like boat, over a bay that cannot be
outshone by even the lovely Italian waters.
Near us are rich country squires, in great, square, white houses, where
their fathers lived and died; farmers, who fight manfully against what
inlanders call sterility, making fruitful the very sands by their
energy; and a few retired city gentlemen, who fish, and sail, and hunt,
and read, and ride, and eat, and sleep.
But the greatest among all these, a few years ago,--he may prove in the
coming day one of the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,--was a tall,
frail young man, whom his neighbors regarded as deficient in intellect.
Everybody is weak in some direction. A wise man has remarked, that
no one since the fall, when all humanity lost its balance, has been
perfectly sane. It is sometimes very hard to tell who, taking all
things into account, are the “weaker;” but there is little doubt that a
jury of wise men would have counted our friend Jotham Belden among them.
What little balance-wheel was missing in that mind, He who made it
only knows; but we rejoice that, while He withheld some powers common
to most men, He also bestowed on him what He withholds from many--a
powerful memory, and a delicately refined taste, and a strong sense of
right.
Jotham was no pauper weakling. He was the cherished son of an honorable
widow, who had ample means to gratify all his innocent desires; who
speaks of him now with a sigh as well as a smile, and tells how he was
the fairest and brightest of her fold, till the blight fell on him,
and he rose from his sick bed shattered in body, and with a cloud over
his mind. “He was never again the same Joe, whose bright speeches and
merry pranks had been the pride of the farm-house, and the amusement of
the village,” she tells you.
The Scotch have this beautiful saying: “The feckless (witless) are
God’s peculiar care.” And it seemed as if this blighted one, Joe
Belden, were, indeed, His peculiar favorite; as if, in the furnace of
pain, with his worldly wisdom had also been consumed all of meanness,
and selfishness, and hardness.
Jotham grew up very watchful of the interests of all about him. No
fellow-being was too low or too sinful to claim his pity; no creature
of God too mean to share his love and protection. Being weak in body,
he had never toiled for his bread. When in the house, he read, in
stammering accents, to his mother, held the yarn while she wound it,
and performed any little task she required. This all done, he would
stroll out, as he said, to see that all was right in town. He would go
to a house where there was sickness, look anxiously up at the windows,
and hang patiently round the gate till spoken to. Then he would ask,
“Want anybody to go for the doctor? Want any jelly? Want burdocks, or
horseradish, or anything?”
If sent for the doctor, or allowed to dig herbs for the sufferer, he
was the happiest man in town; if nothing was wanted there, he would
wander off to the lonely poor-house--a long, red building, in a barren
waste, looking as if erected to teach men and women that they had no
business to be old and poor, and that they must be punished for it.
Here his were like angels’ visits in the joy they brought. His pockets
were an unfathomable depth; heavy with jack-knives, gimlets, screws,
nails, buttons, keys, chalk, cinnamon, cloves, and lozenges, and the
thousand innumerable trifles which become treasures in such a blank as
this poor-house was.
Jotham’s coming made more commotion than a peddler’s; for although he
brought far less stores, either in quantity or quality, they could get
his as they could not the other’s, for want of money. Newspapers,
tracts, and, occasionally, a book, were among his gifts; and perhaps He
who seeth not as man seeth, regarded and blessed these weak efforts as
He does not always the gold and the silver which rich men cast into the
treasury.
One spring day, after an unusually severe winter, Jotham presented
himself before his mother in a blue farm-frock, with his pants tucked
into a pair of two capacious cowhide boots.
“Why, my son, are you going to work?” the old lady asked, in surprise.
“Yes, Hans has plowed the three-cornered field for me, and I’m going to
sow grain myself,” he cried, triumphantly.
“But that’s poor soil, dear boy, and it’s far from the house. There are
stones there, and you cannot gather your crop if any grows,” said his
mother.
“They’ll gather the crops themselves, mother; they don’t need any
sickle, nor any one to teach them. God teaches them how to get in their
harvest,” was Jotham’s reply.
“Whom are you talking about, Jotham,” asked his mother, in surprise.
“Of God’s birds, mother. The men said at the store last night, that
lots of birds died round there in the fall and spring--starved to
death, and all the grain is God’s. I’m going to sow a field on purpose
for them, and nobody shall reap it but them. I love them because God
loves them. I’ll feed them as he feeds me.”
Tears filled her eyes as she laid her hand tenderly on the brown head
of her smitten son. Was she not happier than many a mother whose bright
boy has wandered far from innocence and truthfulness?
One day, not long after this, Jotham’s minister saw him walking over
the fields in a strange, circuitous manner, describing curves and
angles like a drunken man. Waiting till he came up to the road, the
gentleman asked, “What makes you walk in that way, Jotham?”
“For fear I’ll step on the ant-hills, sir. There never were so many
ants before, sir; the fields and the roads are full of their little
houses. They built them grain by grain; and what would God think of me
if I trod on them just for carelessness,--as if a giant should tear our
house down to amuse himself, or because he didn’t care! You know, sir,”
he added, in a whisper, looking reverently up to the skies, “He hadn’t
any home down here, though the foxes and the birds had; and He’s very
careful of all homes now,--homes are such beautiful things, sir.”
“God bless you, dear boy,” said the minister. “It was for Christ’s sake
you cast seed broadcast over that rocky field, for His sake that you
turned your foot away from the home of the poor ant; and for this love
He will never leave you hungry or homeless.”
“Thank you, sir,” was the innocent reply of poor Jotham.
“God’s birds” gathered one harvest under the eye of their grateful
patron, and then he was called away from his simple work.
His step had long been growing weaker, and the hectic burning more
brightly in his cheek, when, one evening, as he lay on the lounge
beside his mother, in light slumber, he called her, and said, “Did you
hear that, mother?”
“No, Jotham. What do you hear?”
“The fluttering of a great many wings--birds of every color; and all
the other creatures I have loved, are enjoying themselves in the
sunshine. The black ants have all turned to gold, and all the other
creatures that men hate. I hear a voice, mother--hark! ‘Ye are of more
value than many sparrows. Go to the ant; consider her ways.’ I never
hurt anything God made--did I, mother?”
“No, my child.”
“Well, I told Him so, and He smiled on me.”
“You’ve been dreaming, Jotham,” said his mother, tenderly.
“Have I?” he asked; and it is no matter whether his vision was what we
call “dreaming,” or not; he had dealt lovingly with the weak things
of God, and was now receiving His approval, as “faithful over a few
things.”
Before day dawned Jotham’s weak powers were expanding in the warmth of
God’s love, and he is now, for aught we know, one of the greatest in
the kingdom of heaven.
Many summers have brought birds and flowers since then; but if you
should pass Willow Brook Farm to-day, you would see a wild-looking crop
of grain growing rank and free in a three-cornered field, off to the
east of the house. Perhaps you would also see an aged woman standing in
the door-way, shading her eyes with her hand, as she looks off on this
little memorial crop which she has caused to be planted every year, for
the sake of him who planted it once “for Christ’s sake.”
BIRDS’-NEST SOUP.
BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.
Every one thinks of China when birds’-nest soup is mentioned--it seems
so naturally to belong with stewed snails, fricasseed rats, and other
delicacies of that sort; and the Chinese are very large consumers of
this strange dish, but they are not the only ones.
The nests from which the soup is made are found in Borneo, Java, and
other warm regions, and are the dwelling-houses of the edible or
esculent swallow. They are not made, like other nests, of moss, leaves,
and twigs, as not much soup could be extracted from such things, but
the substance is like gelatine, and is thought to proceed from the
body of the bird--just as the web does from that of the spider, or the
cocoon from the silk-worm.
When the swallows’ houses are new and fresh they are snowy white, and
so delicate and pretty, that they look quite good enough to eat. This
is the kind that the Chinese are extravagantly fond of, and they pay
enormous prices for them. But the sun and wind soon darken them, and a
family of swallows at housekeeping do not keep them in very nice order;
so that, before they are fit for soup, they have to be cleaned and
bleached.
The airy swallows, who do not think anything of precipices, and never
trouble their heads about the soup business, build their nests in
such dangerous caves, often hanging directly over the sea, that the
people who gather them do it at the risk of their lives; and this makes
birds’-nest soup a very expensive dish. The nests are very clear and
beautiful, and so transparent that, when held to the light, pictures
placed on the other side can be seen through them. Some of them are
shaped like clam and oyster shells, and much thicker at the end that is
fastened to the rock.
The outside is in layers; but the inside shows the glutinous threads of
which they are made, and which exposure to the air has made as hard as
isinglass. These nests are so shallow, that they do not seem capable of
holding either birds or eggs, one of them measuring only two inches in
length, one and three quarters in breadth, and half an inch in depth.
It is said, however, that the building of one nest will keep a pair of
swallows hard at work for two months; it is well, therefore, that the
little laborers do not know that they are not building houses but soup.
There are four different kinds of swallows that make these gelatinous
nests; and the opening to the cave where they are built is always taken
possession of by a swallow that mixes moss with the gelatine, and tries
to drive the soup swallow away. But they fight sturdily for their
beloved caves, and even attempt to knock down the mixed nests with
stones.
The people of Borneo, where these nests are found in the greatest
quantities, have many singular stories about their origin; and perhaps
the most interesting of these is the account of the hungry little boy
to whom no one would give anything to eat.
This little boy was taken by his father from one Dyak village to
another, called Si-Lébor; and as the journey was long, they arrived
tired and hungry. It was a large village, with plenty of Dyaks in it;
and the chief of the tribe brought refreshments for the father, but
gave the poor child nothing. The dishes must have been served in hotel
fashion, just enough for one; for it did not take the poor little
traveler long to see that he was to go hungry. The narrative says that
“he felt much hurt;” which he undoubtedly did, and began to cry.
Instead, however, of appealing to his selfish father for a share of the
viands, he made quite a little speech to the chief and his followers:--
“To my father,” said he, “you have given food, the _prīok_ of rice is
before him, the fatted pig has been killed--everything you have given
him. Why do you give me nothing?”
But people who keep their enemies’ heads in their houses, in ornamental
rows, as these Dyaks did, cannot be very tender-hearted; and the
moanings of a hungry little boy were nothing more to _them_ than the
buzzing of a fly. The child cried and cried; but his father placidly
pursued his way through the rice and the pig; while the others probably
continued their conversation, or stared stolidly at nothing in
particular.
After a while the poor little neglected boy became quiet, and seemed to
have forgotten about being hungry. He even amused himself with a dog
and a cat, which he placed together on a mat round which all the people
were seated in Dyak fashion. The cat and the dog, guided by the boy,
cut up such queer antics, that every one burst out laughing.
But a spell was working against them for their cruelty. The boy was
protected by the evil spirits; and soon the sky grew black, and fearful
gusts of wind rushed over the place. Then came such awful peals of
thunder and lurid flashes of lightning, while the ground beneath them
shook and rumbled, that the whole universe seemed breaking up.
The darkness was frightful; and the dazzling flashes of lightning only
showed the fearful changes that were taking place. The village, with
its houses, melted away; and, with the inhabitants, were changed into
masses of stone. Not one was left alive, except the boy; and it must
have been a long time before he got anything to eat.
He went back to his native village, and lived to be respected as the
chief of his tribe; it is not probable that any one ever neglected him
again in the matter of rice and fatted pigs. Indeed, one would suppose,
after that lesson, a constant guard of watchers would be kept on a
sharp lookout for hungry little boys.
But to come to the birds’ nests. Many years after this particular
little boy had died an old and honored chief, a young chief, who was
his lineal descendant, had a remarkable dream. In this dream, he
was told that he and his tribe would find great riches if they went
to Si-Lébor, the petrified village. They started the next day; and,
searching carefully about among the rocks, they came to an extensive
cave. They entered it with lighted torches, and found it full of the
famous edible birds’ nests.
“Ah!” said they, delighted, “this is our portion, instead of that which
was denied to our ancestor; his due was refused then, it has now been
given to us his descendants; this is our ‘_balas_’ (revenge).”
The birds’ nests were brought out of the cave by thousands; and thus
they found their treasure. These Si-Lébor caves are still considered
the richest; and the tribes who own them, the descendants of the hungry
little boy, are the most prosperous and respected in all the region
round.
[Illustration: “THEY SAY YOU ARE THE FELLOW THAT MADE SO MUCH TROUBLE
IN KANSAS.”]
THE STORY OF TWO FORGOTTEN KISSES.
BY KITTY CLOVER.
[Illustration]
When little Dimple Dumpling, one chill fall evening,
Was tucked up, all in white, within his downy bed,
His mamma quite forgot to come and kiss him,
And in the morning, too, forgot to come, ’tis said:--
Of course ’tis strange that two forgotten kisses
Should make such mischief in the house in just one night;
But when Boy Dumpling woke up in the morning,
His lips, they say, had lost their sweet, his eyes their bright,
And he, who’d always been a darling,
He fell at once with nurse to quarreling.
[Illustration]
He would not wear his scarlet frock,
Although the morn was chill and frosty;
And off he kicked his sky-blue sock,
Till nurse called him “Mister Crosstie,”
And, all at once, giving a dreadful groan,
She left cross Dimple Dumpling all alone.
But when the sounds of silver spoons and bowls
Came up and jingled round in Dimple’s chamber,
And in stole savory sniffs of steaks and rolls,
Quick from his chair did Dimple clamber;
And as he knew that little leggies bare
Were not received at mamma’s breakfast table,
He thought he’d better oil and ’fume his hair
And button on his frock himself if able,--
The scarlet frock,--
The sky-blue sock,--
He was in it
In a minute!
[Illustration]
But down stairs Dimple hourly grew more cross,
And o’er the house with awful noise went rushing,
Till all his folks stood up, quite at a loss
To hit upon some brand-new means of hushing.
But on his friends the ogre frowned,
And in the desks and drawers went prowling,
Until a fierce jack-knife was found
That just exactly matched his scowling.--
Then Dimple opened every blade,
And went right at his dearest treasures,
And hacked, till every toy was made
The victim of his savage measures.
Next Dimple growled aloud he’d “keep a school;”
So up hopped Minnie, merry as a linnet,
And offered picture-book and painted rule--
But “no,” he shrieked, “he wouldn’t have her in it!”
He seized her wooden dolls that couldn’t smile.--for O,
O, _how_ he hated smiles, grim Dimple Dumpling!
And all the time they sat there in that wooden row
His yellow head against the wall was crumpling,--
It must have been so sore,--but there he sat, like stone,
And kicked the floor till mamma cried, “O, this is
_Very_ bad!”--but, ah, if mamma’d only known
Her little boy was bad for lack of kisses!
[Illustration]
Well, all at once, the silver sun shone out,
And Minnie played she’d never heard those speeches,
But led cross Dimple out, with skip and shout,
Down where the wind had blown the rareripe peaches.
Just one single Red-Cheek lay on the grass,
And O, how Dimple pushed and rushed to get it,
Though Minnie stepped aside to let him pass;
And, then, away he ran to stand and eat it.--
O, Dimple Dumpling! O, such a bad little man,
All for two kisses! I wonder if this can
The reason be that so many a little brother
Goes wrong his life long,--for lack of kisses and mother!
[Illustration]
How do I know but a terrible hunger
Gnaws at the hearts of motherless boys?
How do I know but ’tis that that destroys
All that is good, until boys that are younger
Than you, Boy Dumpling, make the streets sorrowful places,
And the angels weep at the look on the wee, wee faces?
But off ran selfish Dimple through the pink peach trees,--
“I’s goin’ by myse’f into the meadow,”
He screamed,--instead, he fell upon his chubby knees
And tumbled over in the brambly shadow.
Then loud did Dimple shriek, “Minnie! hornets and bees!”
He rolled, he struck before, and struck behind him,
While little Minnie flew along the pink peach trees,--
“O, dear Dimple! Dimple darling!”--to find him.
[Illustration]
Ah, well, perhaps the hornets like a naughty fellow!
For there they rested on his round and rosy cheeks,
And there they clung upon his hair so soft and yellow,--
No wonder that the tender little sister shrieks!
And when they heard her not a hornet missed her;
They stung her blind just ’cause she was his sister!--
Poor little sister, poor little brother,
One ran one way, and one the other!
All day long was dear little Dimple lost,
And all the house was out and calling, “Dimple! Dimple!”
Till just at dark a dingle dim was crossed,
And there, asleep, down in the grass, all sweet and simple,
And like a lily, Dimple was; and mamma, in her joy,
Kissed and kissed him, and he woke up Her Own Good Boy.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Small capitals have been capitalised.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.