Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 45. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, September 7, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LIGHT-HOUSE SKETCHES.]
WALLY, THE WRECK-BOY.
A STORY OF THE NORTHERN COAST.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
His real name is Wallace, but his mates always called him "Wally," and
although he is now a big broad-shouldered young mariner, he is still
pointed out as the "wreck-boy." One summer not long ago Wally sailed
with me for a week out upon the blue waters across the bar after
blue-fish, or among the winding tide-water creeks for sheep's-head, and
it was then, by means of many questions, that I heard the following
story.
Wally's father was a light-house keeper. The great brick tower stood
aloft among the sand-hills, making the little house which nestled at its
base look dwarfish and cramped.
Wally was about twelve years old, and seldom had the good fortune to
find a playmate. Two miles down the beach, at Three Pine Point, stood a
handsome cottage that was occupied by Mr. Burton, a city gentleman and a
great ship-owner, during the summer, and sometimes his daughter Elsie, a
bright-eyed little girl, would come riding along the sands from the
cottage behind a small donkey, and ask Wally to show her his "museum."
It was a matter of great pride with the boy to exhibit the many curious
shells, bits of sea-weed, sharks' teeth, fish bones, and the full-rigged
ships he had whittled out and completed on winter nights, and Elsie was
an earnest listener to all his explanations, showing him in return the
pictures she had made in her sketch-book.
Not far from the light-house stood a life-saving station--a strong
two-story building, shingled upon its sides to make it warmer. Here,
through the winter months, lived a crew of brave fishermen, who were
always ready to launch the life-boat, and go out through the stormy
waters to help shipwrecked sailors.
Wally was a favorite here, and spent much of his time listening to the
tales they told of ocean dangers and escapes; but he liked best of all
to trudge along the sands with the guard on dark nights, lantern in
hand, watching for ships in distress. The captain of the crew, who was
an old seaman, taught him the use of the compass and quadrant, and other
matters of navigation, while the rest showed him how to pull an oar,
steer, and swim, until he could manage a boat as well as any of them.
Just before sunset each day Wally's father climbed the iron steps of the
light tower, and started the lamp, which slowly revolved within the
great crystal lens, flashing out four times each minute its beam of
warning across the stormy waters. Every few hours it was the watcher's
duty to pump oil into a holder above the light, from which it flowed in
a steady stream to the round wicks below. If this was neglected, the
lamp would cease to burn.
Wally, who was an ingenious boy, had placed a small bit of mirror in his
little bedroom in the attic so that as he lay in bed he could see the
reflection of the flash across the waters. One wild October evening he
had watched it until he fell asleep, and in the night was awakened by
the roaring gusts of the gale which swept over the lonely sands, and he
missed the faithful flash upon his mirror. _The light had gone out!_
Many ships out upon the sea were sailing to and fro, and there was no
light to guide them or warn them of dangerous shoals. Nearer and nearer
some of them were drifting to their fate, and still the beacon gave no
warning of danger.
The light-keeper, hours before, had gone out upon the narrow gallery
about the top of the tower to look at the storm, just as a large wild
fowl, bewildered by the glare, had flown with great speed toward it, and
striking the keeper's head, had laid him senseless upon the iron
grating.
I have seen fractures in the lenses, or glass reflectors, of
light-houses as large as your two fists, such as it would require a
heavy sledge-hammer to break by human force, caused by the fierce flight
of wild fowl; and a netting of iron wire is usually spread upon three
sides of the lens as a protection to the light. Sometimes a large number
of dead birds will be found at the foot of the light-house in the
morning after a stormy autumn night, when wild-geese are flying
southward.
Wally sprang from his bed, full of dread lest his father had fallen to
the ground; for he knew he would never sleep at his post of duty. But
first in his thoughts was the need of starting the lamp again. Calling
to his mother, he sped up the spiral stairway, which never seemed so
long before, and began to pump the oil. Then he lighted the wick from a
small lantern burning in the watch-room, and pumped again until the oil
tank was quite full. His mother in the mean time had found the form of
the keeper, and partially restored him. Wally stepped out upon the
gallery to find his father's hat, and looking seaward, saw something
which for a moment made him sick with terror. In the midst of the
breakers lay a large square-rigged vessel, helplessly pounding to pieces
upon the outer bar. In the intervals of the wind's moaning Wally could
hear the despairing cries of those on board, who seemed to call to him
to save them.
The life-saving station was not yet opened for the season. The captain
and his men lived upon the mainland, across a wide and swift-flowing
channel in the marsh, called the "Thoroughfare." To reach them was of
the most vital importance, for their hands only could drag out and man
the heavy surf-boat, or fire the mortar, and rig the life-car.
All this passed through Wally's mind in a few seconds, and knowing that
his helpless father could do nothing, and that an alarm might make him
worse, he sped silently down the stairway, and setting fire to a "Coston
torch," such as are used by the coast-guard in cases of wreck, he rushed
from the house, swinging the torch, that burned with a bright red flame,
above his head as he ran.
Half a mile across the sands there was a small boat landing, where a
skiff usually lay moored.
Toward this Wally sped with all his strength; but, alas! the waves had
lifted it, the winds had broken it from its moorings, and it was
floating miles away down the "Thoroughfare," and now Wally stood upon
the landing, in the blackness of the night, full of despair. He might
swim, but he had never tried half the width of the channel before. He
looked into the blackness beyond, and hesitated; then at the
light-house, where his mother still sat in the little watch-room
ministering to his injured father; then he thought of the poor men out
in the breakers, whose lives depended upon his reaching the crew.
But a moment longer he stood, and then throwing off his coat, he tied a
sleeve securely about a post so it would be known, in case he should
fail, how he had lost his life. And now he was in the icy waters. The
wind helped him along, but the incoming tide swept him far out of his
course. As he gained the middle of the channel he thought how bitter the
consequences might be to his father if the crew of the ship were lost,
for who would believe the story of the wild fowl's blow? This nerved his
tired arms, but the effort was too much for his strength. He paused, and
threw up his arms. As his form sank beneath the waves, his toes touched
the muddy bottom, and his hand swept among some weeds. One more effort
as he came to the surface, and now he could stand with his mouth out of
water. A moment's rest, and he was tearing aside the dense flags that
bordered the channel.
The captain, a good mile from the Thoroughfare, had left his warm bed to
fasten a loose window-shutter, when he saw a small form tottering toward
him, and Wally fell, weak and voiceless, at his feet. Restoratives were
brought, and the boy told his story.
Ten minutes later half a dozen of the crew were on their way to the
landing, Wally, now fully recovered, foremost among them. He seemed to
possess wonderful strength. They crossed the channel, and dragged out
the great life-boat from its house. It hardly appeared possible to
launch it in such a sea, but each man, in his excitement, had the
strength of two, and without waiting to be bid, Wally leaped into the
stern and grasped the helm.
"Well done, boy!" cried the captain. "I'll take an oar: we need all help
to-night."
Through the night the faithful crew pulled, bringing load after load of
men, women, and children from the wreck of the _Argonaut_ to the shore,
until all were saved. The little house under the light was well filled,
and the sailors were crowded into the life-saving station.
"Where is my father?" asked Wally; and as a man came forward with his
head bandaged, in reply, the boy sank down, and a blackness came over
his eyes.
When he recovered he was in a beautiful room, into which the sun shone,
lighting up the bright walls, pictures, and carpets. He was on a pretty
bedstead, and a strange lady sat by the window talking to his mother.
He thought it all a dream. The door opened, and Mr. Burton came in,
dressed in a fisherman's suit. How queer he looked in such a garb! and
Wally laughed at the sight, and thought that when he awoke he would tell
his mother about it.
It happened that the ship which had come ashore was one belonging to Mr.
Burton, who was on board, returning from a trip to the Mediterranean. So
he had opened the cottage at Three Pine Point, and as the little house
under the light was full, had insisted upon having Wally, with some
others, brought to his summer home, where he could care for them.
Everybody had learned of the boy's brave swim, all had seen him in the
life-boat, and they were anxious to have him recover soon.
Wally, too, learned that the ship had become helpless long before she
had struck the shore, and that her loss was not caused by his father's
mishap.
When Wally had recovered, Mr. Burton and some of the other passengers
insisted upon taking him to the city, where they had a full suit of
wrecker's clothes made for him--cork jacket, sou'wester, and all. He was
also presented with a silver watch and a medal for his bravery. When he
was dressed in his new suit, Miss Elsie made a sketch of him, whereupon
Wally blushed more than he had done during all the praises lavished upon
him.
At the close of the next summer Mr. Burton arranged with the
light-keeper to let him send Wally to a city school, and for the next
four years the boy lived away from the little house on the sands, making
only occasional visits to his home.
Then Mr. Burton took him into his office, where he worked faithfully for
two years; but his old life by the sea caused a longing for a sailor's
career, and his employer wisely allowed him to go upon a cruise in one
of his ships. Upon the following voyage he was made a mate, and this
year he is to command a new ship now being built. Captain Wally was
asked the other day to suggest a name for the new craft, and promptly
gave as his choice the _Elsie_.
And Elsie Burton, who is now an artist, has painted two pictures for the
Captain's cabin. One is called "The Loss of the _Argonaut_," and the
other, "Wally, the Wreck-Boy."
[Begun in No. 31 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER XV.
There was only one fault to be found with Brandt Lake--there was hardly
anything to shoot in its vicinity. Occasionally a deer could be found;
but at the season of the year when the boys were at the lake it was
contrary to law to kill deer. It was known that there were bears in that
part of the country as well as lynxes--or catamounts, as they are
generally called; but they were so scarce that no one thought of hunting
them. Harry did succeed in shooting three pigeons and a quail, and Tom
shot a gray squirrel; but the bears, deer, catamounts, and ducks that
they had expected to shoot did not show themselves.
On the other hand, they had any quantity of fishing. Perch and cat-fish
swarmed all around the island; and large pickerel, some of them weighing
six or eight pounds, could be caught by trolling. Two miles farther
north was another lake that was full of trout, and the boys visited it
several times, and found out how delicious a trout is when it is cooked
within half an hour after it is taken from the water. In fact, they
lived principally upon fish, and became so dainty that they would not
condescend to cook any but the choicest trout and the plumpest cat-fish
and pickerel.
It must be confessed that there was a good deal of monotony in their
daily life. In the morning somebody went for milk, after which breakfast
was cooked and eaten. Then one of the boys would take the gun and tramp
through the woods in the hope of finding something to shoot, while the
others would either go fishing or lie in the shade. Once they devoted a
whole day to sailing entirely around the lake in the boat, and another
day a long rainstorm kept them inside of the tent most of the time. With
these exceptions, one day was remarkably like another; and at the end of
two weeks they began to grow a little tired of camping, and to remember
that there were ways of enjoying themselves at home.
Their final departure from their island camp was caused by an accident.
They had decided to row to the southern end of the lake, and engage a
team to meet them the following week, and to carry them to Glenn's
Falls, where they intended to ship the boat on board a canal-boat bound
for New York, and to return home by rail. To avoid the heat of the sun,
they started down the lake immediately after breakfast, and forgot to
put out the fire before they left the island.
After they had rowed at least a mile, Tom, who sat facing the stern,
noticed a light wreath of smoke rising from the island, and remarked,
"Our fire is burning yet; we ought not to have gone and left it."
Harry looked back, and saw that the cloud of smoke was rapidly
increasing.
"It's not the fire that's making all that smoke," he exclaimed.
"What is it, then?" asked Tom.
"Perhaps it's water," said Joe. "I always thought that where there was
smoke there must be fire; but Harry says it isn't fire."
"I mean," continued Harry, "that we didn't leave fire enough to make so
much smoke. It must have spread and caught something."
"Caught the tent, most likely," said Tom. "Let's row back right away and
put it out."
"What's the use?" interrupted Jim. "That tent is as dry as tinder, and
will burn up before we can get half way there."
"We must get back as soon as we can," cried Harry. "All our things are
in the tent. Row your best, boys, and we may save them yet."
The boat was quickly turned and headed toward the camp.
"There's one reason why I'm not particularly anxious to help put that
fire out," Joe remarked, as they approached the island, and could see
that a really alarming fire was in progress.
"What's that?" asked Harry.
"As near as I can calculate, there must be about two pounds--"
[Illustration: DESTRUCTION OF THE CAMP.--DRAWN BY A. B. FROST.]
He was interrupted by a loud report from the island, and a shower of
pebbles, sticks, and small articles--among which a shoe and a tin pail
were recognized--shot into the air.
"--of powder," Joe continued, "in the flask. I thought it would blow up;
and now that it's all gone, I don't mind landing on the island."
"Everything must be ruined," exclaimed Jim.
"Lucky for us that we put on our shoes this morning," Tom remarked, as
he rowed steadily on. "That must have been one of my other pair that
just went up."
When they reached the island they could not at first land, on account of
the heat of the flames; but they could plainly see that the tent and
everything in it had been totally destroyed. After waiting for half an
hour the fire burned itself out, so that they could approach their dock
and land on the smoking ash heap that an hour before had been such a
beautiful shady spot. There was hardly anything left that was of any
use. A tin pan, a fork, and the hatchet were found uninjured; but all
their clothing and other stores were either burned to ashes or so badly
scorched as to be useless. Quite overwhelmed by their disaster, the boys
sat down and looked at one another.
"We've got to go home now, whether we want to or not," Harry said, as he
poked the ashes idly with a stick.
"Well, we meant to go home in a few days anyway," said Tom; "so the fire
hasn't got very much the better of us."
"But I hate to have everything spoiled, and to have to go in this sort
of way. Our tin pans and fishing-tackle aren't worth much, but all our
spare clothes have gone."
"You've got your uncle's gun in the boat, so that's all right,"
suggested Tom, encouragingly. "As long as the gun and the boat are safe,
we needn't mind about a few flannel shirts and things."
"But it's such a pity to be driven away, when we were having such a
lovely time," continued Harry.
"That's rubbish, Harry," said Joe. "We were all beginning to get tired
of camping out. I think it's jolly to have the cruise end this way, with
a lot of fire-works. It's like the transformation scene at the theatre.
Besides, it saves us the trouble of carrying a whole lot of things back
with us."
"The thing to do now," remarked Tom, "is to row right down to the
outlet, and get a team to take us to Glenn's Falls this afternoon. We
can't sleep here, unless we build a hut, and then we wouldn't have a
blanket to cover us. Don't let's waste any more time talking about it."
"That's so. Take your places in the boat, boys, and we'll start for
home." So saying, Harry led the way to the boat, and in a few moments
the _Whitewing_ was homeward bound.
The boys were lucky enough to find a man who engaged to take them to
Glenn's Falls in time to catch the afternoon train for Albany. They
stopped at the Falls only long enough to see the _Whitewing_ safely on
board a canal-boat, and they reached Albany in time to go down the river
on the night boat.
After a supper that filled the colored waiters with astonishment, the
boys selected arm-chairs on the forward deck, and began to talk over the
cruise. They all agreed that they had had a splendid time, in spite of
hard work and frequent wettings.
"We'll go on another cruise next summer, sure," said Harry. "Where shall
we go?"
Tom was the first to reply. Said he, "I've been thinking that we can do
better than we did this time."
"How so?" asked the other boys.
"The _Whitewing_ is an awfully nice boat," Tom continued, "but she is
too small. We ought to have a boat that we can sleep in comfortably, and
without getting wet every night."
"But then," Harry suggested, "you couldn't drag a bigger boat round a
dam."
"We can't drag the _Whitewing_ round much of a dam. She's too big to be
handled on land, and too little to be comfortable. Now here's my plan."
"Let's have it," cried the other boys.
"We can hire a cat-boat about twenty feet long, and she'll be big
enough, so that we can rig up a canvas cabin at night. We can anchor
her, and sleep on board her every night. We can carry mattresses, so we
needn't sleep on stones and stumps--"
"And coffee-pots," interrupted Joe.
"--and we can take lots of things, and live comfortably. We can sail
instead of rowing; and though I like to row as well as the next fellow,
we've had a little too much of that. Now we'll get a cat-boat next
summer, and we'll cruise from New York Bay to Montauk Point. We can go
all the way through the bays on the south side, and there are only three
places where we will have to get a team of horses to drag the boat
across a little bit of flat meadow. I know all about it, for I studied
it out on the map one day. What do you say to that for a cruise?"
"I'll go," said Harry.
"And I'll go," said Jim.
"Hurrah for the cat-boat!" said Joe. "We can be twice as moral and
piratical in a sail-boat as we can in a row-boat, even if it is the dear
little _Whitewing_."
THE END.
[Illustration]
In Africa wandered a yak;
A jaguar jumped up on his back.
Said the yak, with a frown,
"Prithee quick get thee down;
You're almost too heavy, alack!"
BITS OF ADVICE.
ENTERTAINING FRIENDS.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
I once overheard a little bit of talk between two school-girls, one of
whom said, "Well, the Ames family are coming to our house next week, and
for my part I dread it. I don't expect to have a mite of enjoyment while
they are with us. I can not entertain people." I have forgotten her
companion's reply, but I know that the feeling is common among young
people, and when guests arrive they often slip off the responsibility of
making them happy upon papa and mamma. This is hardly fair. The art of
hospitality is really as easily acquired as a knowledge of geography or
grammar.
In the first place, the young girls in a family when expecting friends
of their own age should see that their rooms are pleasantly arranged,
the beds freshly made, toilet soap provided, and plenty of towels and
water at hand. Not new towels, dear girls; they are hard and slippery,
and nobody likes them. There should be a comb and brush, a button-hook,
pins in plenty, and space in the closet to hang dresses and coats, as
well as an empty drawer in the bureau at the guest's service. By
attending to these little things themselves, girls can take quite a
burden from their busy mothers. Then both boys and girls should have in
mind some sort of plan by which to carry on operations during the days
of their friends' stay. So far as possible it is well to lay aside
unnecessary work for the time. As for the morning and evening duties
which belong to every day's course, attend to them faithfully, but do
not let them drag. Never make apologies if you happen to have some
occupation which you fear may seem very humble in the eyes of your
guest. All home service is honorable.
If you live in the country there will be fishing, nutting, climbing,
riding, driving, and exploring; all of which you can offer to your
friends. Be sure that you have fishing-tackle, poles, and baskets,
harness in order, and, in short, everything in readiness for your
various expeditions. To most out-of-door excursions a nice luncheon is
an agreeable addition, and you need not upset the house nor disturb the
cook in order to arrange this, for sandwiches, gingerbread, cookies,
crackers, and similar simple refreshments, can be obtained in most homes
without much difficulty. Every boy, as well as every girl, should know
how to make a good cup of coffee by a woodland fire.
In town there are museums, picture-galleries, and concerts, as well as
various shows, to delight guests from a distance. In the season you can
take them to the beach or the parks. But whether in town or country, do
not wear your friends out by too much going about, nor ever let them
feel that you are taking trouble for them, nor yet that they are
neglected. Forget your own convenience, but remember their comfort.
Study their tastes and consult their wishes in a quiet way.
[Illustration: A LIVELY TEAM.]
THE HOMES OF THE FARMING ANTS.
BY CHARLES MORRIS.
Woodbine Cottage was just a gem of a place. If any of my readers have
ever seen a gem of a place, they will know exactly what that means. For
those who have not been so fortunate, I will say that it was the
prettiest of cottages, with no end of angles and gables, of shady nooks
and sunny corners, and of cunning ins and outs; while to its very roof
the fragrant woodbine climbed and clambered, and the bees buzzed about
the honeyed blossoms as if they were just wild with delight.
That was Woodbine Cottage itself. But I have said nothing about its
surroundings--the neat flower beds, and the prattling brook that ran by
just at the foot of the garden, the green lawn as smooth as a table, and
the great spreading elm-tree in its centre, against which Uncle Ben
Mason was so fond of leaning his chair in the bright summer afternoons,
and where Harry and Willie Mason liked nothing better than to lie at his
feet on the greensward, and coax him to tell them about the wonderful
things he had seen and the marvellous things he had read.
It was only the afternoon succeeding that in which he had told them the
strange story of the honey ants, and they were at him again, anxious to
know something more about ant life.
"You know, Uncle Ben," pleaded Harry, coaxingly, "that you said there
were ever so many other queer things about them."
"And that they milked cows. And that some of them were just soldiers,"
broke in Willie, eagerly. "And--and--" The little fellow was quite at a
loss for words in his eagerness.
"Now, now, now!" cried Uncle Ben; "you don't want me to tell you all at
once, I hope?"
"Tell us sumfin, Uncle Ben--sumfin of just the queerest you knows,"
pleaded Willie; "cos I wants to know 'bout them ever so much."
"Very well. Suppose I describe the farmer ants."
"The farmer ants!" cried Harry, with interest.
"Yes, there is a species of ants in Texas that have farms of their own,
and gather the grain in when it is ripe, and store it away in their
granaries; and some people say that they plant the seed in the spring,
just like human farmers. But others think that this part of the story is
very doubtful."
"You don't believe that, do you, Uncle Ben?" asked Harry, doubtingly.
"Why, that would be making them folks at once."
"They are very much like folks without that," said his uncle, settling
himself back easily in his chair, and gazing down with his kindly glance
on his eager young nephews.
"If you could see one of their clearings," he continued. "But maybe you
don't care to hear about them?"
"Yes, we does," cried Willie, eagerly.
"I do, ever so much. I know that," chimed in Harry.
"Well, then, if you will keep just as quiet as two mice, I will tell you
the story of our little black farmers. They are, in some ways, the
strangest of all ants. You have seen little ant-hills thrown up in the
sand about an inch across; but these ants build great solid mounds,
surrounded by a level court-yard, sometimes as much as ten or twelve
feet in diameter. Here they do not suffer a blade of grass nor a weed to
grow, and the whole clearing is as smooth and hard as a barn floor. This
is no light labor, I can tell you, for wild plants grow very fast and
strong under the hot suns of Texas."
"But how do they do it?" asked Harry.
"You would laugh to see them," continued his uncle. "They bite off every
blade of grass near the root, some seize it with their fore-legs, and
twist and pull at it, while others run up to the top of the blade, and
bend it down with their weight. It is not long before the great tree, as
it must seem to the ants, comes toppling down. The roots are left in the
ground to die out, just as a Western wood-cutter leaves the roots of his
trees."
"It must be a funny sight," exclaimed Harry.
"Does they keep stables for their cows?" asked Willie, who could not get
over his interest in the ants' milking operations.
"Not they. These ants do not keep cows," returned Uncle Ben.
"They're mighty queer farmers, then," replied Willie, contemptuously.
"They are grain farmers, not dairy farmers," was the amused reply. "But
I have not finished telling you about their clearings. There is nothing
stranger in the world, when we consider how they are made. They may
often be seen surrounded by a circle of tall weeds, great, fast-growing
fellows, two or three feet high, that look very much as if they would
like to step in on the ants' play-ground. But the active little
creatures do not suffer any intrusion upon their domain."
"It is odd how they can cut down so many grass trees without tools,"
said Harry.
"They have better tools than you think," replied Uncle Ben. "Their hard,
horny mandibles are good cutting instruments, and are used for teeth,
saws, chisels, and pincers all in one. They form a sort of compound
tool."
"I'd like to see them ever so much," cried Willie. "But, Uncle Ben,
where does they live? Cos they can't be running 'bout all the time
out-of-doors. I know that."
"And they must have some place to put their crops in," said Harry.
"Their houses are in the centre of the clearing," continued their uncle.
"They are usually rounded mounds of earth, with a depression in the top,
of the shape of a basin. In the centre of this basin is a small hole,
forming the entrance to the ant city, which is all built under-ground.
If you could see one of these mounds cut open, you would be surprised to
behold the multitude of galleries not more than a quarter or half an
inch high, running in all directions. Some of them lead up and down to
the upper and lower stories of the establishment. At the ends of these
galleries are many apartments, some of which serve as nurseries where
the young ants are kept, and others as granaries where the grain is
stored up. The granaries are sometimes one and three-quarter inches
high, and two inches wide, neatly roofed over, and filled to the roof
with grain. That may not seem much of a barn, but if you had one in the
same proportion to your size, it would need no trifle of grain to fill
it."
"But you said they were farmer ants," cried Harry, as if he fancied he
had now got his uncle in a tight place, "and you haven't said a word
about their wheat fields."
"And you tole us they didn't keep cows, too," put in Willie,
triumphantly.
"But I am not half through my story yet," replied Uncle Ben, with a
quiet smile. "We have only been talking about their homes and their
clearings. Now suppose we take a stroll out to the wheat fields by one
of the great roads which the ants make."
"Roads!" cried both boys in surprise.
"Just as fine roads as men could make. Our little farmers always have
three or four of these roads, and sometimes as many as seven, running
straight out from their clearing, often for sixty feet in length. One
observer, in fact, says he saw an ant road that was three hundred feet
long. The roads are from two to five inches wide at the clearing, but
they narrow as they go out, until they are quite lost."
"But are they real roads? You ain't funning, Uncle Ben?" asked Willie.
"They are as hard, smooth, and level as you would want to see, not a
blade of grass, nor a stick nor a stone, upon them. And just think what
little tots they are that make them! That long road I have just
mentioned would be equal to a road made by men ten miles long and
twenty-two feet wide, and yet it is only the ant's pathway to his
harvest field."
"Well, that is the queerest thing yet!" exclaimed Harry.
"In the harvest season these roads are always full of ants, coming and
going," continued Uncle Ben. "There is a great crowd of them at the
entrance, but they thin out as they get further from home. They stray
off under the grass, seeking for the ripe seeds which may have dropped.
They do not seem to climb the grass for the seeds, but only hunt for
them on the ground."
"It's only old _grass_, then, and it ain't wheat after all!" exclaimed
Willie, in some disappointment.
"It is the ants' wheat," was the reply. "A grain of our wheat might
prove too heavy for them. They generally prefer the seed of the
buffalo-grass, a kind of grass that grows plentifully in Texas. It is
very amusing to see one of the foragers after he has found a seed to his
liking. No matter how far he has strayed from the road, he always knows
his way straight back. But he has a hard struggle with his grass seed,
clambering over clods, tumbling over sticks, and travelling around
pebbles. There is no give up in him, however. He is bent on bringing in
his share of the crop, and lets nothing hinder him. After he reaches the
road, it is all plain sailing. He gets a good hold on his grain, and
trots off home like an express messenger, sometimes not stopping to rest
once on the long journey."
"Gracious! wouldn't I like to see them?" exclaimed Harry. He had
approached his uncle step by step, and was now standing in open-mouthed
wonder at his knee.
As for Willie, he was not nearly so eager. He had not yet got over his
contempt for farmers who did not keep cows.
"Is there anything else queer about them?" asked Harry.
"There is another sort of grass, called ant rice, of which the seed
tastes something like rice. One observer says that this grass is often
permitted to grow upon their clearings, all other kinds of grass being
cut away, as our farmers clear out the weeds from their grain. When the
seeds are ripe and fall, they carry them into their granaries, and
afterward clear away the stubble, preparing their wheat field for the
next year's crop. It is this writer who says that they plant the seeds
in the spring, but other writers doubt this statement."
"And you said a while ago that you didn't believe it, either," remarked
Harry.
"I think it needs to be pretty thoroughly established before we can
accept it as a fact."
"I think so too," said Harry, with great gravity.
"Ain't nuffin more queer 'bout 'em, is there?" asked Willie. "Cos I's
getting kind of tired of them."
"You can go 'way, then," retorted Harry. "Uncle Ben's telling me."
"No, he ain't. He's telling bofe of us. Ain't you, Uncle Ben?"
"Anybody who wants to listen is welcome," answered their uncle, with
assumed gravity. "But I don't wish to force knowledge into any unwilling
young brains. However, I have only a few more things to tell, and then
will leave you at liberty."
"Just tell all, Uncle Ben. Don't mind him," cried Harry.
"Another strange part of the story is this," continued their
good-natured uncle: "sometimes the rain gets into their granaries, and
wets the grain. But as soon as the sun comes out again the industrious
little fellows carry out their stores, seed by seed, and lay them in the
sun to dry. They then carry them carefully back again, except those that
have sprouted and been spoiled. These are left outside."
"Don't they husk their grain?" asked Harry.
"Yes. They carry the husk and all other refuse out-of-doors, and pile it
up in a heap on one side of the clearing. Is that all, Harry?"
"But you haven't said a word yet about what these seeds are stored up
for. Do they eat them during the winter?"
"Very likely they do, though they have never been observed at their
winter meals. Ants usually sleep through the cold weather. But a warm
day is apt to waken them, and there is little doubt that they take the
opportunity to make a good dinner before going to sleep again."
"But how can they eat such great seeds--bigger than themselves?"
"They don't swallow them at a mouthful, I assure you. They seem rather
to rasp them with the rough surface of their tongues, getting off a fine
flour, which they swallow eagerly, together with the oil of the seed. I
have nothing further to tell you about them just at present, except to
say that these are not comfortable ants to meddle with, for they sting
almost as sharply as a bee."
"Then I don't want nuffin at all to do with 'em," cried Willie; "cos I
was stinged with a bee once, and I don't like bees."
"I am ever so much obliged, Uncle Ben," said Harry. "Come, Willie, let's
go play now, for I know we've been a big bother."
"Maybe you has; I ain't," replied Willie, stolidly, as he followed his
brother, leaving Uncle Ben with a very odd smile upon his face.
A ROYAL THIEF.
In the summer weather
Kindly, gen'rous Night
Flings upon the thirsting grass
Dew-drops cool and bright.
There they lie and sparkle
Till return of Day;
Then the Sun--a royal thief--
Steals them all away.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 37, July 13.]
THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
CHAPTER IX.
Between the war of 1812-15 and the civil war, 1861-65, our navy had very
little to do in actual warfare. It was sometimes called upon to assert
the rights and dignity of our government in foreign ports, and during
the war with Mexico it assisted in the capture of Vera Cruz and in the
conquest of California.
When in 1861 civil war was begun in Charleston Harbor, our navy
consisted of ninety vessels, of which only forty were in commission, and
these were distributed in distant seas. The entire naval force available
at the beginning of that war for the defense of our Atlantic sea-board
was the _Brooklyn_, of twenty-five guns, and a store-ship carrying two
guns. The Confederates seized revenue-cutters in Southern ports. Ships
were got ready, and early in April, 1861, a squadron was sent to the
relief of Fort Sumter. But it could effect nothing. Very soon afterward
the Confederates seized the Navy-yard at Norfolk, and several ships of
war were destroyed there to prevent their falling into the hands of the
enemies of the republic. The Confederates fitted out privateers to prey
upon our commerce; but these were soon disposed of by government
vessels, which, forty-three in number, blockaded the Southern ports by
midsummer. Nevertheless, numerous British ships, in violation of
neutrality laws, slipped into Southern ports with supplies for the
Confederates.
Danger made the Navy Department very active. Vessels were bought and
built, and fully armed and manned. Two hundred and fifty-nine naval
officers of Southern birth left the government service and joined the
Confederates at the beginning of the war. Their places were soon filled
by patriotic men of equal ability, and there was always an ample supply.
In August, 1861, a land and naval force went from Hampton Roads to
capture forts erected by the Confederates at Hatteras Inlet. The vessels
were commanded by Commodore Stringham. The expedition was successful.
Soon afterward both the national government and the Confederates began
to build vessels covered with iron plates, and called "iron-clads." The
Federals built a flotilla of twelve gun-boats on the Mississippi early
in 1862, a part of them iron-clad, and placed them under the command of
Flag-officer Foote. They carried all together one hundred and twenty-six
guns. These performed admirable service soon afterward in assisting the
army in the capture of Forts Henry and Donelson, in Tennessee, and all
through the war they were active and efficient in Western rivers.
Late in October, 1861, a powerful land and naval force left Hampton
Roads to take possession of the coasts of South Carolina. The ships were
commanded by Commodore S. F. Dupont. The entrance to Port Royal Sound
was strongly guarded by Confederate forts. These were reduced, after a
sharp engagement with the fleet. The Federals entered, and were soon in
complete possession of the sea islands of South Carolina.
At the beginning of 1862 the navy was composed of seven squadrons, each
having a distinct field of operation, chiefly in the blockading service.
In that service many stirring events occurred. At the very beginning the
Confederate cruiser _Petrel_ went out of Charleston Harbor and attacked
the _St. Lawrence_, supposing her to be a merchant ship. Presently the
latter opened her guns, sending a fiery shell that exploded in the
_Petrel_, and a heavy solid shot that struck her amidships below
water-mark. In an instant she was reduced to a wreck, leaving nothing on
the surface of the foaming waters but floating fragments of her hull,
and the struggling survivors of her crew. The latter scarcely knew what
had happened. A flash of fire, a thunder-peal, and ingulfment had been
the events of a moment.
Early in 1862 a land and naval force, the latter commanded by
Flag-officer Goldsborough, captured Roanoke Island, which the
Confederates had fortified. This was speedily followed by the capture of
places on the mainland of North Carolina. A little earlier than this,
great excitement was produced by the seizure on board an English
mail-steamer, by Captain Wilkes, of our navy, of two Confederate
Ambassadors to European courts (Mason and Slidell), and lodging them in
Fort Warren, in Boston Harbor. The British government threatened war;
but common-sense prevailed, and after a little bluster peace was
assured.
After the capture of Forts Henry and Donelson, Commodore Foote's
attention was directed to Island Number Ten, in the Mississippi, which
the Confederates occupied, and had strongly fortified. It was regarded
as the key to the Lower Mississippi. Foote beleaguered it with gun-boats
and mortar-boats, and with some assistance of a land force he captured
the stronghold. Then the flotilla went down the Mississippi, and
captured Fort Pillow and Memphis, terribly crippling the Confederate
squadron at the latter place.
The government resolved to repossess New Orleans and Mobile. A land
force under General Butler, and a naval force under Commodore Farragut
and Commodore D. D. Porter, with a mortar fleet, gathered at Ship
Island, off the coast of Mississippi, early in 1862. The ships entered
the Mississippi in April. Two forts opposite each other on the
Mississippi, some distance from its mouth, had been strongly garrisoned
by the Confederates, who considered them a perfect protection to New
Orleans. These had to be passed. That perilous feat was performed by the
fleet in the dark hours of the morning of April 24, when a terrific
scene was witnessed. Farragut, in the wooden ship _Hartford_, led the
way. Forts, gun-boats, mortar-boats, and marine monsters called "rams"
opened their great guns at the same time. Earth and waters for miles
around were shaken. The forts were silenced, the fleet passed, and then
met a strong Confederate flotilla in the gloom. After one of the most
desperate combats of the war, this flotilla was vanquished, and Farragut
pushed on toward New Orleans, which he had virtually captured before the
arrival of General Butler. This event gave great joy to the loyal people
of the country.
Meanwhile a stirring event had occurred in Hampton Roads. Early in March
the Confederates sent down from Norfolk a powerful iron-clad "ram" named
_Merrimac_ to destroy national vessels near Fortress Monroe. This raid
was destructive, and its repetition was expected the next morning. At
midnight a strange craft came into the Roads. It seemed to consist of
only a huge cylinder floating on a platform. She was under the command
of Lieutenant J. L. Worden. That cylinder was a revolving turret of
heavy iron, containing two enormous guns. The almost submerged platform
was also of iron. It was called the _Monitor_.
[Illustration: FIGHT BETWEEN THE "MONITOR" AND "MERRIMAC."--DRAWN BY
J. O. DAVIDSON.]
The _Merrimac_ came down the next morning to attack the frigate
_Minnesota_. The little _Monitor_ went to her defense--in size a little
child defending a giant. Slowly her turret began to revolve. Her cannon
sent forth 100-pound shot, and very soon the _Merrimac_ was so crippled
that she fled with difficulty back to Norfolk, and did not come out
again. After that, Monitors were favorites as defenders of land-locked
waters.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: AT THE SEA-SIDE.]
IN SEPTEMBER.
BY MARY DENSEL.
It had been a hot summer, and Cassy Deane, shut up in a close street,
had been treated to every atom of heat that the city contained. So at
least it seemed to her, for the family had only lately moved into town
from the country, and Cassy was like a little wind-flower that had been
transplanted from a cool wood into a box of earth near a blazing fire.
No wonder that she drooped. She seldom had even a drive to console her.
"Because we are only _middling_," she explained to herself. "If we were
poor, we could go on excursions with the charity children; and if we
were rich, we'd travel to the mountains or the sea. We're only middling,
so we stay at home."
At first Cassy was ready to envy Marion Van Dysk, who started with her
mamma and a dozen trunks for Saratoga; and she breathed a sigh over the
fortunes of Lillie Downs, whose father had built a cottage on the coast
of Maine, where the ocean surged up to the very piazza.
But by-and-by Cassy forgot her woes, such a delightful piece of news
came to her ears. Her mother told it to her one evening, and Cassy never
went to sleep for two whole hours after she was in bed, so excited was
she by the bliss that was to be hers in September.
The truth was that Mr. Deane had come to the city for the express
purpose of giving his little daughter the benefit of no less an
establishment than Madame McLeod's "Boarding and Day School for Young
Ladies." Cassy knew that Marion Van Dysk and Lillie Downs and a host of
other damsels were also "to enjoy its advantages." Cassy was overwhelmed
with the honor and the joy of it all. She had always been a solitary
chick up in her country home, and it seemed almost too good to be true
that she was actually to have real live girls to play with, and that she
could talk of "_our_ games," and "_our_ history class."
What matter that the August sun scorched and flamed? What matter if the
bricks, baked through and through by day, took their revenge by keeping
the air as hot as a furnace all night?
Cassy was as gay as a lark, and sang and chattered by the hour, while
she helped her mother run up the breadths of an extraordinary changeable
silk gown, which had been cut over from one that had been her
grandmother's. This was to be Cassy's school-dress. Think what
richness--silk for every-day wear!
"We can't afford to buy anything new," argued Mrs. Deane. Still, it was
a solemn moment when the key snapped in the lock of the cedar chest, and
that changeable silk was taken from the place where it had lain these
thirty years, wrapped in a pillow-case and two towels.
Cassy fairly gasped when the scissors cut into its gorgeousness. She
gasped even more when Mrs. Deane also brought from the chest six yards
of an ancient bottle-green ribbon to trim the robe withal. To be sure,
the ribbon drooped despondingly under the chastening influence of a hot
flat-iron, but, "We'll put it on in bands," said Mrs. Deane. "Bows would
really be too dressy for you, my daughter."
Stitch, stitch, stitch, Cassy's fingers flew. And all the time she
sewed, her busy brain was weaving the most rapturous visions of the new
life that was to be hers. In her dreams she made polite little
courtesies to Marion Van Dysk, whom she imagined as standing on the
threshold of the "Boarding and Day School" to welcome her. To be sure
she only knew Marion by sight, but as Marion knew her in the same way,
she thought they would instantly become friends. Then Lillie Downs would
entreat her to join in all the games, for Lillie Downs was already an
acquaintance: at least she had said, "How do you do?" one day when she
saw Cassy on the sidewalk. Cassy was sure there were a dozen girls who
would stretch out their hands at once, and perhaps she could even think
of a secret to tell some of them, and then they would, of course, be
friends forever.
"And even if they wear common clothes, I sha'n't be proud in this
magnificent dress," thought Cassy. For the changeable silk was finished
now, and Cassy stole twenty times a day into the guest-chamber that she
might behold its splendor as it lay on the bed.
It did seem as if August would never end. But at last September
appeared, and the morning of all mornings dawned.
Cassy rose bright and early. Her mother dressed her with her own hands,
and tied up her hair with a narrow pink ribbon.
"Pink goes so well with the green on your gown," said dear, guileless
Mrs. Deane; "and, Cassy, here are some new shoes that father bought for
you yesterday. He'll go himself with you to the door, so you sha'n't
feel strange like."
"Oh, but they'll be so glad to see me I sha'n't feel strange!" cried
Cassy, and down the street she skipped.
But for some reason no one was at the door to welcome her. Cassy crept
into the big school-room. It was full of girls, and there was Marion Van
Dysk among the rest. A wee smile came to Cassy's face. She was about to
say "good-morning," but Marion only glanced carelessly at her and turned
away.
"Why, she's forgotten that I live round the corner," thought Cassy.
Lillie Downs had evidently "forgotten" too, or else she was too busy to
notice.
Cassy turned away, and that just in time to catch a whisper.
"Who, under the sun, is that queer image in a dress that came out of the
ark?"
Cassy looked wonderingly about to discover the "image." The girl who had
spoken was gazing directly at her with a twinkle in her eyes. Her
companion said, "Hush! she'll hear," and the two laughed under their
breath, not jeeringly, but only as if they really could not help it.
A "queer image"? Was she "queer"? Cassy asked herself.
All at once it flashed across her that her gown was certainly very
unlike the crisp, ruffled dresses around her. Those flimsy satin ribbons
did look as if Mrs. Noah might have worn them. A hot flush sprang to
Cassy's cheeks. She began to almost wish she had not come, such a sense
of loneliness rushed over her.
She was even more forlorn when the school was presently called to order,
for every other girl was blessed with a seat-mate, and Cassy sat quite
by herself.