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[Illustration: SHIPWRECKED. Drawn by J.W. Champney.]
ST. NICHOLAS.
VOL. V.
SEPTEMBER, 1878.
No. 11.
[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]
FERN-SEED.
BY CELIA THAXTER.
She filled her shoes with fern-seed,
This foolish little Nell,
And in the summer sunshine
Went dancing down the dell.
For whoso treads on fern-seed,--
So fairy stories tell,--
Becomes invisible at once,
So potent is its spell.
A frog mused by the brook-side:
"Can you see me!" she cried;
He leaped across the water,
A flying leap and wide.
"Oh, that's because I asked him!
I must not speak," she thought,
And skipping o'er the meadow
The shady wood she sought.
The squirrel chattered on the bough,
Nor noticed her at all,
The birds sang high, the birds sang low,
With many a cry and call.
The rabbit nibbled in the grass,
The snake basked in the sun,
The butterflies, like floating flowers,
Wavered and gleamed and shone.
The spider in his hammock swung,
The gay grasshoppers danced;
And now and then a cricket sung,
And shining beetles glanced.
'Twas all because the pretty child
So softly, softly trod,--
You could not hear a foot-fall
Upon the yielding sod.
But she was filled with such delight--
This foolish little Nell!
And with her fern-seed laden shoes,
Danced back across the dell.
"I'll find my mother now," she thought,
"What fun 't will be to call
'Mamma! mamma!' while she can see
No little girl at all!"
She peeped in through the window,
Mamma sat in a dream:
About the quiet, sun-steeped house
All things asleep did seem.
She stept across the threshold;
So lightly had she crept,
The dog upon the mat lay still,
And still the kitty slept.
Patient beside her mother's knee
To try her wondrous spell
Waiting she stood, till all at once,
Waking, mamma cried "Nell!
Where have you been? Why do you gaze
At me with such strange eyes?"
"But can you see me, mother dear?"
Poor Nelly faltering cries.
"See you? Why not, my little girl?
Why should mamma be blind?"
And little Nell unties her shoes,
With fairy fern-seed lined,
And tosses up into the air
A little powdery cloud,
And frowns upon it as it falls,
And murmurs half aloud,
"It wasn't true, a word of it,
About the magic spell!
I never will believe again
What fairy stories tell!"
MACKEREL-FISHING.
BY ROBERT ARNOLD.
When I was a boy, I lived on the rugged coast of New England. The sea
abounded in cod, hake, mackerel, and many other kinds of fish. The
mackerel came in "schools" in late summer, and sometimes were very
plentiful. One day, my uncle James determined to go after some of these
fish, with his son George, and invited me to go with them. We were to
start before day-break the next morning. I went to bed that night with
an impatient heart, and it was a long time before I could go to sleep.
After I did get asleep, I dreamed of the whale that swallowed Jonah, and
all kinds of fishes, big and little. I was awakened by somebody calling,
in a very loud voice, "Robert! Robert!" I jumped out of bed, with my
eyes not more than half opened, and fell over the chair on which I had
put my clothes. This made me open my eyes, and I soon realized that the
voice proceeded from my cousin George, who had come to arouse me for the
fishing-voyage.
I dressed as quickly as possible, and went downstairs. All was quiet in
the house except the old clock ticking in the kitchen. I went
out-of-doors and found the stars still shining. It was half-past three
o'clock in the morning. There was no sign of daylight, and even the
cocks had not begun to crow. In the darkness I espied George, who said,
"Come, it is time to start. Father is waiting for you."
We walked across the fields to my uncle's house. Taking each a basket
and knife, we began our journey, and soon entered the pine-woods. As we
walked along in the darkness, we could scarcely see each other or the
path. The wind was sighing mournfully among the tree-tops, and, as we
gazed upward, we could see the stars twinkling in the clear sky.
We soon emerged from the forest, and came to a sandy plain. Before us
was the ocean, just discernible. There were two or three lights,
belonging to vessels that were anchored near the shore. We could see the
waves and hear their murmur, as they broke gently upon the shore. A soft
breeze was blowing from the west, and the sea was almost as smooth as a
pond.
When we reached the beach, we found that it was low water. The boat was
at high-water mark. What should we do? We did as the fishermen in that
region always do in the same circumstances--took two rollers, perhaps
six inches in diameter, lifted the bow of the boat, put one of the
rollers under it, and the other upon the sand about eight feet in front
of it. We then pushed the boat until it reached the second roller, and
rolled it upon that until the other was left behind. Then the first was
put in front of the boat, and so we kept on until our craft reached the
water. Uncle James and George took the oars, and I sat in the stern,
with the tiller in my hand, to steer.
We got out over the breakers without difficulty, and rowed toward the
fishing-ground. It is queer that fishermen call the place where they
fish, "the ground," but that is only one of the many queer things that
they do. By this time, daylight had come. The eastern sky was gorgeous
with purple and red, and hues that no mortal can describe. Soon a red
arc appeared, and then the whole glorious sun, looking more grand and
beautiful than can be thought of by one who has never seen the sun rise
over the sea.
"How glorious!" I exclaimed, impulsively.
"Yes; it is a first-rate morning for fishing," said my uncle, whose mind
was evidently upon business, and not upon the beauties of nature.
After rowing about three miles, we stopped, and prepared for fishing.
Each of us had two lines, about twenty feet long. The hooks were about
as big as large trout-hooks. Pewter had been run around the upper part
of them, so that "sinkers" were not required. The pewter answered a
double purpose; it did duty as a sinker, and, being bright, attracted
the notice of the fish. Uncle James had brought with him some clams,
which we cut from their shells and put on the hooks. We threw in our
lines and waited for a bite. We did not wait long, for, in less than a
minute, George cried out, in the most excited manner, "There's a fish on
my hook!"
"Pull, then!" shouted his father.
He was too agitated to pull at first, but, at length, managed to haul in
his line, and, behold, a slender fish, about eight inches long, showing
all the colors of the rainbow, as he held it up in the morning sun! It
was our first mackerel. While admiring George's prize, I suddenly became
aware of a lively tug at one of my own lines. I pulled it in, and found
that I had caught a fish just like the other, only a little larger. No
sooner had I taken it from the hook than my other line was violently
jerked. I hauled it in hurriedly, and on the end of it was--not a
mackerel, but a small, brown fish, with a big head and an enormous
mouth. I was about to take it from the hook when my uncle called, "Look
out!" He seized it, and showed me the long, needle-like projections on
its back, with which, but for his interference, my hand might have been
badly wounded. This unwelcome visitor was a sculpin. Sculpins are very
numerous in this region.
[Illustration: MACKEREL-BOATS.]
Uncle James explained how I happened to catch one of them. They swim at
a much greater depth than mackerel usually do, and, while I was busy
with one line, the other had sunk some twelve or fifteen feet down where
the sculpins dwelt.
When mackerel are inclined to take the bait, they are usually close to
the surface of the water. They began now to bite with the greatest
eagerness, and gave us all the work that we could do. As soon as I had
taken a fish from one line, the other demanded my attention. I did not
have to _wait_ for a bite. Indeed, as soon as the hook was thrown into
the water, several mackerel would dart for it. As George said, they were
very anxious to be caught. This was very different from my previous
experience in fishing for trout in the little brooks near my home. I
used to fish all day and not get more than two or three trout, and often
I would not get one. Those that I did catch were not more than four or
five inches long. I guess some of my boy readers have had the same
experience.
The only drawback was baiting the hook whenever a fish was taken from
it. Uncle James soon remedied this difficulty. He cut from the under
side of a dead mackerel six thin pieces, about half an inch in diameter,
and gave each of us two. We put them on our hooks, and they served for
bait a long time. When they were gone, we put on more of the same kind.
Mackerel will bite at any very small object, almost, that they can see,
and sometimes fishermen fasten a small silver coin to their hooks, which
will do duty as bait for days. They wish to catch as many fish as they
possibly can, while they are biting, for mackerel are very notional.
Sometimes they will bite so fast as to tire their captors, and, ten
minutes after, not one can be felt or seen. Usually, they can be caught
best in the morning and toward evening. I suppose they have but two
meals a day, breakfast and supper, going without their dinner. In this
respect, they resemble trout and many other kinds of fish.
They are caught in great numbers off the coast of Maine and
Massachusetts in the months of August and September. Hundreds of
schooners, large and small, and thousands of men and boys are employed
in the business. Standing upon the shore, near Portland, and looking out
upon the Atlantic, on a bright summer's day, you can sometimes see more
white, glistening sails of "mackerel-catchers" than you can count. At
the wharves of every little village on the sea-shore, or on a river near
the shore, boats and fishermen abound. Of late years, immense nets or
"seines" have been used, and often, by means of them, enormous
quantities of fish have been secured in one haul. The season is short,
but most of the fishermen, before the mackerel come and after they go,
engage in fishing for cod and hake, which are plentiful also.
Mackerel-catching has its joys, but it also has its sorrows and
uncertainties. One vessel may have excellent luck while another may be
very unfortunate. In short, those engaged in the pursuit of mackerel
have to content themselves with "fishermen's luck."
While we were busily fishing, George called my attention to a dark fin,
projecting a few inches above the water, and gradually approaching the
boat with a peculiar wavy motion. Just before reaching us it sank out of
sight. I cast an inquiring glance at my cousin, who said, in a low tone
of voice, "A shark!" A feeling of wonder and dread came over me, and
doubtless showed itself in my face, for my uncle said, in an assuring
voice, "He will not harm us."
The mackerel stopped biting all at once. Our fishing was over. It was
now about ten o'clock, and the sun had become warm. Half a mile from us
was a small island, with a plenty of grass and a few trees, but no
houses. Uncle James proposed that we should row to it, which we gladly
did. Its shores were steep and rocky, and we found much difficulty in
landing; but at last we got ashore and pulled the boat up after us.
Among the rocks we found a quantity of drift-wood; we gathered some, and
built a fire. Uncle James produced some bread and crackers from his
basket, and, after roasting some of the nice, fat mackerel on sharp
sticks before the fire, we sat down to what seemed to us a delicious
breakfast. We were in excellent spirits, and George and I cracked jokes
and laughed to our hearts' content. After our hunger had been satisfied,
we wandered over the island, which we christened Mackerel Island, and,
sitting upon a high cliff, watched the seals as they bobbed their heads
out of the water, and turned their intelligent, dog-like faces, with
visible curiosity, toward us. They did not seem to be at all afraid, for
they swam close to the rock upon which we sat. We whistled, and they
were evidently attracted by the sound. These seals are numerous in some
of the bays on the New England coast. Most of them are small, but
occasionally one is seen of considerable size. Their fur is coarse and
of little value, but they are sought after by fishermen for the sake of
their oil, which commands a ready sale for a good price. After we had
got fully rested, we launched our boat, rowed homeward, and soon landed
upon the beach.
SPRING AND SUMMER.
BY DORA READ GOODALE.
In Spring we note the breaking
Of every baby bud;
In Spring we note the waking
Of wild flowers of the wood;
In Summer's fuller power,
In Summer's deeper soul,
We watch no single flower,--
We see, we breathe the whole.
THE AX OF RANIER.
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
Once upon a time, there lived on the borders of a forest an old woman
named Jehanne, who had an only son, a youth of twenty-one years, who was
called Ranier. Where the two had originally come from no one knew; but
they had lived in their little hut for many years. Ranier was a
wood-cutter, and depended on his daily labor for the support of himself
and mother, while the latter eked out their scanty means by spinning.
The son, although poor, was not without learning, for an old monk in a
neighboring convent had taught him to read and write, and had given him
instructions in arithmetic. Ranier was handsome, active and strong, and
very much attached to his mother, to whom he paid all the honor and
obedience due from a son to a parent.
One morning in spring, Ranier went to his work in the forest with his ax
on his shoulder, whistling one of the simple airs of the country as he
pursued his way. Striding along beneath the branches of the great oaks
and chestnuts, he began to reflect upon the hard fate which seemed to
doom him to toil and wretchedness, and, thus thinking, whistled no
longer. Presently he sat down upon a moss-covered rock, and laying his
ax by his side, let his thoughts shape themselves into words.
"This is a sad life of mine," said Ranier. "I might better it, perhaps,
were I to enlist in the army of the king, where I should at least have
food and clothing; but I cannot leave my mother, of whom I am the sole
stay and support. Must I always live thus,--a poor wood-chopper, earning
one day the bread I eat the next, and no more?"
Ranier suddenly felt that some one was near him, and, on looking up,
sprang to his feet and removed his cap. Before him stood a beautiful
lady, clad in a robe of green satin, with a mantle of crimson velvet on
her shoulders, and bearing in her hand a white wand.
"Ranier!" said the unknown, "I am the fairy, Rougevert. I know your
history, and have heard your complaint. What gift shall I bestow on
you?"
"Beautiful fairy," replied the young man, "I scarcely know what to ask.
But I bethink me that my ax is nearly worn out, and I have no money with
which to buy another."
The fairy smiled, for she knew that the answer of Ranier came from his
embarrassment; and, going to a tree hard by, she tapped on the bark with
her wand. Thereupon the tree opened, and she took from a recess in its
center, a keen-edged ax with an ashen handle.
"Here," said Rougevert, "is the most excellent ax in the world. With
this you can achieve what no wood-chopper has ever done yet. You have
only to whisper to yourself what you wish done, and then speak to it
properly, and the ax will at once perform all you require, without
taxing your strength, and with marvelous quickness."
The fairy then taught him the words he should use, and, promising to
farther befriend him as he had need, vanished.
Ranier took the ax, and went at once to the place where he intended to
labor for the day. He was not sure that the ax would do what the giver
had promised, but thought it proper to try its powers. "For," he said to
himself, "the ranger has given me a hundred trees to fell, for each of
which I am to receive a silver groat. To cut these in the usual way
would take many days. I will wish the ax to fell and trim them speedily,
so,"--he continued aloud, as he had been taught by the fairy,--"Ax! ax!
chop! chop! and work for my profit!"
Thereupon the ax suddenly leapt from his hands, and began to chop with
great skill and swiftness. Having soon cut down, trimmed and rolled a
hundred trees together, it returned, and placed itself in the hands of
Ranier.
The wood-chopper was very much delighted with all this, and sat there
pleasantly reflecting upon his good fortune in possessing so useful a
servant, when the ranger of the forest came along. The latter, who was a
great lord, was much surprised when he saw the trees lying there.
"How is this?" asked the ranger, whose name was Woodmount. "At this time
yesterday these trees were standing. How did you contrive to fell them
so soon?"
"I had assistance, my lord," replied Ranier; but he said nothing about
the magic ax.
Lord Woodmount hereupon entered into conversation with Ranier, and
finding him to be intelligent and prompt in his replies, was much
pleased with him. At last he said:
"We have had much difficulty in getting ready the timber for the king's
new palace, in consequence of the scarcity of wood-cutters, and the
slowness with which they work. There are over twenty thousand trees yet
to be cut and hewn, and for every tree fully finished the king allows a
noble of fifty groats, although he allows but a groat for the felling
alone. It is necessary that they should be all ready within a month,
though I fear that is impossible. As you seem to be able to get a number
of laborers together, I will allot you a thousand trees, if you choose,
should you undertake to have them all ready to be hauled away for the
builders' use, within a month's time."
"My lord," answered Ranier, "I will undertake to have the whole twenty
thousand ready before the time set."
"Do you know what you say?" inquired the ranger, astonished at the bold
proposal.
"Perfectly, my lord," was the reply. "Let me undertake the work on
condition that you will cause the forest to be guarded, and no one to
enter save they have my written permission. Before the end of the month
the trees will be ready."
[Illustration: FELLING THE TREES.]
"Well," said Lord Woodmount, "it is a risk for me to run; but from what
you have done already, it is possible you may obtain enough woodmen to
complete your task. Yet, beware! If you succeed, I will not only give
you twenty thousand nobles of gold, but also appoint you--if you can
write, as you have told me--the deputy-ranger here; and for every day
less than a month in which you finish your contract I will add a hundred
nobles; but, if you fail, I will have you hanged on a tree. When will
you begin?"
"To-morrow morning," replied Ranier.
The next morning, before daylight, Ranier took his way to the forest,
leaving all his money save three groats with his mother, and, after
telling her that he might not return for a day or so, passed the guard
that he found already set, and plunged into the wood. When he came to a
place where the trees were thickest and loftiest, he whispered to
himself what he had to do, and said to the ax: "Ax! ax! chop! chop! and
work for my profit." The ax at once went to work with great earnestness,
and by night-fall over ten thousand trees were felled, hewn, and thrown
into piles. Then Ranier, who had not ceased before to watch the work,
ate some of the provisions which he had brought with him, and throwing
himself under a great tree, whose spreading boughs shaded him from the
moonlight, drew his scanty mantle around him, and slept soundly till
sunrise.
The next morning Ranier arose, and looked with delight at the work
already done; then, speaking again to the ax, it began chopping away as
before.
Now, it chanced that morning that the chief ranger had started to see
how the work was being done, and, on reaching the forest, asked the
guards if many wood-cutters had entered. They all replied that only one
had made his appearance, but he must be working vigorously, since all
that morning, and the whole day before, the wood had resounded with the
blows of axes. The Lord Woodmount thereupon rode on in great anger, for
he thought that Ranier had mocked him. But presently he came to great
piles of hewn timber which astonished him much; and then he heard the
axes' sound, which astonished him more, for it seemed as though twenty
wood-choppers were engaged at once, so great was the din. When he came
to where the ax was at work, he thought he saw--and this was through the
magic power of the fairy--thousands of wood-cutters, all arrayed in
green hose and red jerkins, some felling the trees, some hewing them
into square timber, and others arranging the hewn logs into piles of a
hundred each, while Ranier stood looking on. He was so angry at the
guards for having misinformed him, that he at once rode back and rated
them soundly on their supposed untruth. But as they persisted in the
story that but one man had passed, he grew angrier than ever. While he
was still rating them, Ranier came up.
"Well, my lord," said the latter, "if you will go or send to examine,
you will find that twenty thousand trees are already cut, squared, and
made ready to be hauled to the king's palace-ground."
The ranger at once rode back into the forest, and, having counted the
number of piles, was much pleased, and ordered Ranier to come that day
week when the timber would be inspected, and if it were all properly
done he would receive the twenty thousand nobles agreed upon.
"Excuse me, my lord," suggested Ranier, "but the work has been done in
two days instead of thirty; and twenty-eight days off at a hundred
nobles per day makes twenty-two thousand eight hundred nobles as my
due."
"True," replied the ranger; "and if you want money now--"
"Oh no!" interrupted Ranier, "I have three groats in my purse, and ten
more at home, which will be quite sufficient for my needs."
At this the ranger laughed outright, and then rode away.
At the end of a week, Ranier sought the ranger's castle, and there
received not only an order on the king's treasurer for the money, but
also the patent of deputy-ranger of the king's forest, and the allotment
of a handsome house in which to live. Thither Ranier brought his mother,
and as he was now rich, he bought him fine clothing, and hired him
servants, and lived in grand style, performing all the duties of his
office as though he had been used to it all his life. People noticed,
however, that the new deputy-ranger never went out without his ax, which
occasioned some gossip at first; but some one having suggested that he
did so to show that he was not ashamed of his former condition, folk
were satisfied,--though the truth was that he carried the ax for service
only.
Now it happened that Ranier was walking alone one evening in the forest
to observe whether any one was trying to kill the king's deer, and while
there, he heard the clash of swords. On going to the spot whence the
noise came, he saw a cavalier richly clad, with his back to a tree,
defending himself as he best might, from a half dozen men in armor, each
with his visor down. Ranier had no sword, for, not being a knight, it
was forbidden him to bear such a weapon; but he bethought him of his ax,
and hoped it might serve the men as it had the trees. So he wished these
cowardly assailants killed, and when he uttered the prescribed words,
the ax fell upon the villains, and so hacked and hewed them that they
were at once destroyed. But it seemed to the knight thus rescued that it
was the arm of Ranier that guided the ax, for such was the magic of the
fairy.
So soon as the assailants had been slain, the ax came back into Ranier's
hand, and Ranier went to the knight, who was faint with his wounds, and
offered to lead him to his house. And when he examined him fully, he
bent on his knee, for he discovered that it was the king, Dagobert, whom
he had seen once before when the latter was hunting in the forest.
The king said: "This is the deputy-ranger, Master Ranier. Is it not?"
"Yes, sire!" replied Ranier.
The king laid the blade of his sword on Ranier's shoulder, and said:
"I dub thee knight. Rise up, Sir Ranier! Be trusty, true and loyal."
Sir Ranier arose a knight, and with the king examined the faces of the
would-be assassins, who were found to be great lords of the country, and
among them was Lord Woodmount.
"Sir Ranier," said the king, "have these wretches removed and buried.
The office of chief ranger is thine."
Sir Ranier, while the king was partaking of refreshments at Ranier's
house, sent trusty servants to bury the slain. After this, King Dagobert
returned to his palace, whence he sent the new knight his own sword, a
baldrick and spurs of gold, a collar studded with jewels, the patent of
chief ranger of the forest, and a letter inviting him to visit the
court.
Now, when Sir Ranier went to court, the ladies there, seeing that he was
young and handsome, treated him with great favor; and even the king's
daughter, the Princess Isauré, smiled sweetly on him, which, when divers
great lords saw, they were very angry, and plotted to injure the
new-comer; for they thought him of base blood, and were much chagrined
that he should have been made a knight, and be thus welcomed by the
princess and the ladies of the court; and they hated him more as the
favorite of the king. So they conferred together how to punish him for
his good fortune, and at length formed a plan which they thought would
serve their ends.
It must be understood that King Dagobert was at that time engaged in a
war with King Crimball, who reigned over an adjoining kingdom, and that
the armies of the two kings now lay within thirty miles of the forest,
and were about to give each other battle. As Sir Ranier, it was
supposed, had never been bred to feats of arms, they thought if they
could get him in the field, he would so disgrace himself as to lose the
favor of the king and the court dames, or be certainly slain. For these
lords knew nothing of the adventure of the king in the forest,--all
those in the conspiracy having been slain,--and thought that Ranier had
either rendered some trifling service to the king, or in some way had
pleased the sovereign's fancy. So when the king and some of the great
lords of the court were engaged in talking of the battle that was soon
to be fought, one of the conspirators, named Dyvorer, approached them,
and said:
"Why not send Sir Ranier there, sire; for he is, no doubt, a brave and
accomplished knight, and would render great service?"
The king was angry at this, for he knew that Ranier had not been bred to
arms, and readily penetrated the purpose that prompted the suggestion.
Before he could answer, however, Sir Ranier, who had heard the words of
Dyvorer, spoke up and said:
"I pray you, sire, to let me go; for, though I may not depend much upon
my lance and sword, I have an ax that never fails me."
Then the king remembered of the marvelous feats which he had seen Ranier
perform in his behalf, and he replied:
"You shall go, Sir Ranier; and as the Lord Dyvorer has made a suggestion
of such profit, he shall have the high honor of attending as one of the
knights in your train, where he will, doubtless, support you well."
At this, the rest laughed, and Dyvorer was much troubled, for he was a
great coward. But he dared not refuse obedience.
The next morning, Sir Ranier departed along with the king for the field
of battle, bearing his ax with him; and, when they arrived, they found
both sides drawn up in battle order, and waiting the signal to begin.
Before they fell to, a champion of the enemy, a knight of fortune from
Bohemia, named Sir Paul, who was over seven feet in height, and a very
formidable soldier, who fought as well with his left hand as with his
right, rode forward between the two armies, and defied any knight in
King Dagobert's train to single combat.
Then said Dyvorer: "No doubt, here is a good opportunity for Sir Ranier
to show his prowess."
"Be sure that it is!" exclaimed Sir Ranier; and he rode forward to
engage Sir Paul.
When the Bohemian knight saw only a stripling, armed with a woodman's
ax, he laughed. "Is this girl their champion, then?" he asked. "Say thy
prayers, young sir, for thou art not long for this world, I promise
thee."
But Ranier whispered to himself, "I want me this braggart hewn to
pieces, and then the rest beaten;" and added, aloud: "Ax! ax! chop!
chop! and work for my profit!" Whereupon the ax leapt forward, and dealt
such a blow upon Sir Paul that it pierced through his helmet, and clave
him to the saddle. Then it went chopping among the enemy with such force
that it cut them down by hundreds; and King Dagobert with his army
falling upon them, won a great victory.
Now the magic of the ax followed it here as before, and every looker-on
believed he saw Sir Ranier slaying his hundreds. So it chanced when the
battle was over, and those were recalled who pursued the enemy, that a
group of knights, and the great lords of the court who were gathered
around the king, and were discussing the events of the day, agreed as
one man, that there never had been a warrior as potent as Sir Ranier
since the days of Roland, and that he deserved to be made a great lord.
And the king thought so, too. So he created him a baron on the field,
and ordered his patent of nobility to be made out on their return, and
gave him castles and land; and, furthermore, told him he would grant him
any favor more he chose to ask, though it were half the kingdom.
When Dyvorer and others heard this, they were more envious than ever,
and concerted together a plan for the ruin of Lord Treefell, for such
was Sir Ranier's new title. After many things had been proposed and
rejected, Dyvorer said: "The Princess Isauré loves this stripling, as I
have been told by my sister, the Lady Zanthe, who attends on her
highness. I think he has dared to raise his hopes to her. I will
persuade him to demand her hand as the favor the king has promised.
Ranier does not know our ancient law, and, while he will fail in his
suit, the king will be so offended at his presumption that he will
speedily dismiss him from the court."
This plan was greatly approved. Dyvorer sought out Ranier, to whom he
professed great friendship, with many regrets for all he might have said
or done in the past calculated to give annoyance. As Dyvorer was a great
dissembler, and Ranier was frank and unsuspicious, they became very
intimate. At length, one day when they were together, Dyvorer said:
"Have you ever solicited the king for the favor he promised?"
And Ranier answered, "No!"
"Then," said Dyvorer, "it is a pity that you do not love the Princess
Isauré."
"Why?" inquired Ranier.
"Because," replied Dyvorer, "the princess not only favors you, but, I
think, from what my sister Zanthe has said, that the king has taken this
mode of giving her to you at her instance."
Ranier knew that the Lady Zanthe was the favorite maiden of the
princess, and, as we are easily persuaded in the way our inclinations
run, he took heart and determined to act upon Dyvorer's counsel.
About a week afterward, as the king was walking in the court-yard of his
palace, as he did at times, he met with Ranier.
"You have never asked of me the favor I promised, good baron," said King
Dagobert.
"It is true, your majesty," said Ranier; "but it was because I feared to
ask what I most desired."
[Illustration: THE COMBAT WITH SIR PAUL.]
"Speak," said the king, "and fear not."
Therefore Ranier preferred his request for the hand of the princess.
"Baron," replied the king, frowning, "some crafty enemy has prompted you
to this. The daughter of a king should only wed with the son of a king.
Nevertheless, there is an ancient law, never fulfilled, since the
conditions are impossible, which says that any one of noble birth, who
has saved the king's life, vanquished the king's enemies in battle, and
built a castle forty cubits high in a single night, may wed the king's
daughter. Though you have saved my life and vanquished my enemies, yet
you are not of noble birth, nor, were you so, could you build such a
castle in such a space of time."
"I am of noble blood, nevertheless," said Ranier, proudly, "although I
have been a wood-chopper. My father, who died in banishment, was the
Duke of Manylands, falsely accused of having conspired against the late
king, your august father; and I can produce the record of my birth. Our
line is as noble as any in your realm, sire, and nobler than most."
"If that be true, and I doubt it not," answered King Dagobert, "the law
holds good for you. But you must first build a palace where we stand,
and that in a single night. So your suit is hopeless."
The king turned and entered the palace, leaving Ranier in deep sorrow,
for he thought the condition impossible. As he stood thus, the fairy,
Rougevert, appeared.
"Be not downcast," she said; "but build that castle to-night."
"Alas!" cried Ranier, "it cannot be done."
"Look at your ax," returned the fairy. "Do you not see that the back of
the blade is shaped like a hammer?"
So she taught Ranier what words to use, and vanished.
When the sun was down, Ranier came to the court-yard, and raising his ax
with the blade upward, he said aloud: "Ax! ax! hammer! hammer! and build
for my profit!" The ax at once leapt forward with the hammer part
downward, and began cracking the solid rock on which the court-yard lay,
and shaping it into oblong blocks, and heaping them one on the other. So
much noise was made thereby that the warders first, and then the whole
court, came out to ascertain the cause. Even the king himself was drawn
to the spot. And it seemed to them, all through the magic of the fairy,
that there were hundreds on hundreds of workmen in green cloth hose and
red leather jerkins, some engaged in quarrying and shaping, and others
in laying the blocks, and others in keying arches, and adjusting doors
and windows, and making oriels and towers and turrets. And still as they
looked, the building arose foot by foot, and before dawn a great stone
castle, with its towers and battlements, its portcullis, and its great
gate, forty cubits high, stood in the court-yard.
When King Dagobert saw this, he embraced Ranier, continued to him the
title of his father, whose ducal estates he restored to the son, and
sending for the Princess Isauré, who appeared radiant with joy and
beauty, he betrothed the young couple in the presence of the court.
So Ranier and Isauré were married, and lived long and happily; and, on
the death of Dagobert, Ranier reigned. As for the ax, that is lost,
somehow, and although I have made diligent inquiry, I have never been
able to find where it is. Some people think the fairy took it after King
Ranier died, and hid it again in a tree; and I recommend all
wood-choppers to look at the heart of every tree they fell, for this
wonderful ax. They cannot mistake it, since the word "Boldness" is cut
on the blade, and the word "Energy" is printed, in letters of gold, on
the handle.
THE PAINTER'S SCARE-CROW.
BY C.P. CRANCH.
Miss Arabella Vandyke Brown
Had a small studio in the town,
Where, all the winter, blithe and gay,
She drew and painted day by day.
She envied not the rich. Her art
And work made sunshine in her heart.
Upon her canvas, many a scene
Of summers past, in golden green
Was wrought again. The snow and rain
Pelted upon her window-pane;
But she within her cozy room
With joyous toil dispelled the gloom;
And, sometimes, in an undertone,
Sang to herself there, all alone.
But, when the spring and summer came,
Her studio grew so dull and tame
She sought the rural solitudes
Of winding streams and shady woods;
For painters' works contract a taint
Unless from Nature's self they paint.
So out Miss Arabella went,
To sketch from Nature fully bent.
It was a lovely summer's day;
A lovely scene before her lay;
Her folding-stool and box she took,
And, seated in a quiet nook,
Her white umbrella o'er her head
(Like a tall giant mushroom spread),
Began to paint; when, lo! a noise
She heard. A troop of idle boys
Came flocking round her, rough and rude.
Some o'er her shoulders leaned; some stood
In front of her, and cried: "Paint _me_!--
_My_ picter I should like to see."
Some laughed, some shouted. "What a set!"
Said Arabella, in a pet:
"And no policeman within hail
To send these ruffian imps to jail."
In fine, she could not work, so went
Straight homeward in great discontent.
She had no brother to defend her,
Nor country cousin to attend her.
[Illustration]
A plan occurred to her next day
To keep these idle scamps away.
An easel by her side she placed,
And over it she threw in haste
A hat and cloak:--and there it stood
In bold and threatening attitude.
The rabble at a distance spied
The scare-crow standing by her side;
And, thinking 't was the town-police,
They left Miss A.V. Brown in peace.
MORAL.
Sometimes, an innocent pretense
Is the best means of self-defense,
And if a scare-crow keeps the peace,
What need to summon the police?
[Illustration: BY THE SAD SEA WAVES.]
UNDER THE LILACS.
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
CHAPTER XXI.
CUPID'S LAST APPEARANCE.
A picnic supper on the grass followed the games, and then, as twilight
began to fall, the young people were marshaled to the coach-house, now
transformed into a rustic theater. One big door was open, and seats,
arranged lengthwise, faced the red table-cloths which formed the
curtain. A row of lamps made very good foot-lights, and an invisible
band performed a Wagner-like overture on combs, tin trumpets, drums, and
pipes, with an accompaniment of suppressed laughter.
Many of the children had never seen anything like it, and sat staring
about them in mute admiration and expectancy; but the older ones
criticised freely, and indulged in wild speculations as to the meaning
of various convulsions of nature going on behind the curtain.
While Teacher was dressing the actresses for the tragedy, Miss Celia and
Thorny, who were old hands at this sort of amusement, gave a "Potato"
pantomime as a side show.
Across an empty stall a green cloth was fastened, so high that the heads
of the operators were not seen. A little curtain flew up, disclosing the
front of a Chinese pagoda painted on pasteboard, with a door and window
which opened quite naturally. This stood on one side, several green
trees with paper lanterns hanging from the boughs were on the other
side, and the words "Tea Garden," printed over the top, showed the
nature of this charming spot.
Few of the children had ever seen the immortal Punch and Judy, so this
was a most agreeable novelty, and before they could make out what it
meant, a voice began to sing, so distinctly that every word was heard:
"In China there lived a little man,
His name was Chingery Wangery Chan."
Here the hero "took the stage" with great dignity, clad in a loose
yellow jacket over a blue skirt, which concealed the hand that made his
body. A pointed hat adorned his head, and on removing this to bow he
disclosed a bald pate with a black queue in the middle, and a Chinese
face nicely painted on the potato, the lower part of which was hollowed
out to fit Thorny's first finger, while his thumb and second finger were
in the sleeves of the yellow jacket, making a lively pair of arms. While
he saluted, the song went on:
"His legs were short, his feet were small,
And this little man could not walk at all."
Which assertion was proved to be false by the agility with which the
"little man" danced a jig in time to the rollicking chorus:
"Chingery changery ri co day,
Ekel tekel happy man;
Uron odesko canty oh, oh,
Gallopy wallopy China go."
At the close of the dance and chorus, Chan retired into the tea garden,
and drank so many cups of the national beverage, with such comic
gestures, that the spectators were almost sorry when the opening of the
opposite window drew all eyes in that direction. At the lattice appeared
a lovely being; for this potato had been pared, and on the white surface
were painted pretty pink cheeks, red lips, black eyes, and oblique
brows; through the tuft of dark silk on the head were stuck several
glittering pins, and a pink jacket shrouded the plump figure of this
capital little Chinese lady. After peeping coyly out, so that all could
see and admire, she fell to counting the money from a purse, so large
her small hands could hardly hold it on the window seat. While she did
this, the song went on to explain:
"Miss Ki Hi was short and squat,
She had money and he had not;
So off to her he resolved to go,
And play her a tune on his little banjo."
During the chorus to this verse Chan was seen tuning his instrument in
the garden, and at the end sallied gallantly forth to sing the following
tender strain:
"Whang fun li,
Tang hua ki,
Hong Kong do ra me!
Ah sin lo,
Pan to fo,
Tsing up chin leute!"
Carried away by his passion, Chan dropped his banjo, fell upon his
knees, and, clasping his hands, bowed his forehead in the dust before
his idol. But, alas!--
"Miss Ki Hi heard his notes of love,
And held her wash-bowl up above;
It fell upon the little man,
And this was the end of Chingery Chan."
Indeed it was: for, as the doll's basin of real water was cast forth by
the cruel charmer, poor Chan expired in such strong convulsions that his
head rolled down among the audience. Miss Ki Hi peeped to see what had
become of her victim, and the shutter decapitated her likewise, to the
great delight of the children, who passed around the heads, pronouncing
a "Potato" pantomime "first-rate fun."
Then they settled themselves for the show, having been assured by
Manager Thorny that they were about to behold the most elegant and
varied combination ever produced on any stage. And when one reads the
following very inadequate description of the somewhat mixed
entertainment, it is impossible to deny that the promise made was nobly
kept.
After some delay and several crashes behind the curtain, which mightily
amused the audience, the performance began with the well-known tragedy
of "Blue-beard"; for Bab had set her heart upon it, and the young folks
had acted it so often in their plays that it was very easy to get up
with a few extra touches to scenery and costumes. Thorny was superb as
the tyrant with a beard of bright blue worsted, a slouched hat and long
feather, fur cloak, red hose, rubber boots, and a real sword which
clanked tragically as he walked. He spoke in such a deep voice, knit his
corked eyebrows, and glared so frightfully, that it was no wonder poor
Fatima quaked before him as he gave into her keeping an immense bunch of
keys with one particularly big, bright one, among them.
Bab was fine to see, with Miss Celia's blue dress sweeping behind her, a
white plume in her flowing hair, and a real necklace with a pearl locket
about her neck. She did her part capitally, especially the shriek she
gave when she looked into the fatal closet, the energy with which she
scrubbed the tell-tale key, and her distracted tone when she called out:
"Sister Anne, O, sister Anne, _do_ you see anybody coming?" while her
enraged husband was roaring: "Will you come down, madam, or shall I come
and fetch you?"
Betty made a captivating Anne,--all in white muslin, and a hat full of
such lovely pink roses that she could not help putting up one hand to
feel them as she stood on the steps looking out at the little window for
the approaching brothers, who made such a din that it sounded like a
dozen horsemen instead of two.
[Illustration: THE BLUE-BEARD GROUP.]
Ben and Billy were got up regardless of expense in the way of arms; for
their belts were perfect arsenals, and their wooden swords were big
enough to strike terror into any soul, though they struck no sparks out
of Blue-beard's blade in the awful combat which preceded the villain's
downfall and death.
The boys enjoyed this part intensely, and cries of "Go it, Ben!" "Hit
him again, Billy!" "Two against one isn't fair!" "Thorny's a match for
em." "Now he's down, hurray!" cheered on the combatants, till, after a
terrific struggle, the tyrant fell, and with convulsive twitchings of
the scarlet legs, slowly expired, while the ladies sociably fainted in
each others arms, and the brothers waved their swords and shook hands
over the corpse of their enemy.
This piece was rapturously applauded, and all the performers had to
appear and bow their thanks, led by the defunct Blue-beard, who mildly
warned the excited audience that if they "didn't look out the walls
would break down, and then there'd be a nice mess." Calmed by this fear
they composed themselves, and waited with ardor for the next play, which
promised to be a lively one, judging from the shrieks of laughter which
came from behind the curtain.
"Sanch's going to be in it, I know, for I heard Ben say, 'Hold him
still; he wont bite,'" whispered Sam, longing to "jounce" up and down,
so great was his satisfaction at the prospect, for the dog was
considered the star of the company.
"I hope Bab will do something else, she is so funny. Wasn't her dress
elegant?" said Sally Folsom, burning to wear a long silk gown and a
feather in her hair.
"I like Betty best, she's so cunning, and she peaked out of the window
just as if she _really_ saw somebody coming," answered Liddy Peckham,
privately resolving to tease mother for some pink roses before another
Sunday came.
Up went the curtain at last, and a voice announced "A Tragedy in Three
Tableaux." "There's Betty!" was the general exclamation, as the audience
recognized a familiar face under the little red hood worn by the child
who stood receiving a basket from Teacher, who made a nice mother with
her finger up, as if telling the small messenger not to loiter by the
way.
"I know what that is!" cried Sally; "it's 'Mabel on Midsummer Day.' The
piece Miss Celia spoke; don't you know?"
"There isn't any sick baby, and Mabel had a 'kerchief pinned about her
head.' _I_ say it's Red Riding Hood," answered Liddy, who had begun to
learn Mary Howitt's pretty poem for her next piece, and knew all about
it.
The question was settled by the appearance of the wolf in the second
scene, and such a wolf! On few amateur stages do we find so natural an
actor for that part, or so good a costume, for Sanch was irresistibly
droll in the gray wolf-skin which usually lay beside Miss Celia's bed,
now fitted over his back and fastened neatly down underneath, with his
own face peeping out at one end, and the handsome tail bobbing gayly at
the other. What a comfort that tail was to Sancho, none but a bereaved
bow-wow could ever tell. It reconciled him to his distasteful part at
once; it made rehearsals a joy, and even before the public he could not
resist turning to catch a glimpse of the noble appendage, while his own
brief member wagged with the proud consciousness that though the tail
did not match the head, it was long enough to be seen of all men and
dogs.
That was a pretty picture, for the little maid came walking in with the
basket on her arm, and such an innocent face inside the bright hood that
it was quite natural the gray wolf should trot up to her with deceitful
friendliness, that she should pat and talk to him confidingly about the
butter for grandma, and then that they should walk away together, he
politely carrying her basket, she with her hand on his head, little
dreaming what evil plans were taking shape inside.
The children encored that, but there was no time to repeat it, so they
listened to more stifled merriment behind the red table-cloths, and
wondered whether the next scene would be the wolf popping his head out
of the window as Red Riding Hood knocks, or the tragic end of that sweet
child.
It was neither, for a nice bed had been made, and in it reposed the
false grandmother, with a ruffled nightcap on, a white gown, and
spectacles. Betty lay beside the wolf, staring at him as if just about
to say, "Why, grandma, what great teeth you've got!" for Sancho's mouth
was half open and a red tongue hung out, as he panted with the exertion
of keeping still. This tableau was so very good, and yet so funny, that
the children clapped and shouted frantically; this excited the dog, who
gave a bounce and would have leaped off the bed to bark at the rioters,
if Betty had not caught him by the legs, and Thorny dropped the curtain
just at the moment when the wicked wolf was apparently in the act of
devouring the poor little girl, with most effective growls.
They had to come out then, and did so, both much disheveled by the late
tussle, for Sancho's cap was all over one eye, and Betty's hood was
anywhere but on her head. She made her courtesy prettily, however; her
fellow-actor bowed with as much dignity as a short night-gown permitted,
and they retired to their well-earned repose.
Then Thorny, looking much excited, appeared to make the following
request: "As one of the actors in the next piece is new to the business,
the company must all keep as still as mice, and not stir till I give the
word. It's perfectly splendid! so don't you spoil it by making a row."
"What _do_ you suppose it is?" asked every one, and listened with all
their might to get a hint, if possible. But what they heard only whetted
their curiosity and mystified them more and more. Bab's voice cried in a
loud whisper, "Isn't Ben beautiful?" Then there was a thumping noise,
and Miss Celia said, in an anxious tone, "Oh, do be careful," while Ben
laughed out as if he was too happy to care who heard him, and Thorny
bawled "Whoa!" in a way which would have attracted attention if Lita's
head had not popped out of her box, more than once, to survey the
invaders of her abode, with a much astonished expression.
"Sounds kind of circusy, don't it?" said Sam to Billy, who had come out
to receive the compliments of the company and enjoy the tableau at a
safe distance.
"You just wait till you see what's coming. It beats any circus _I_ ever
saw," answered Billy, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who had
seen many instead of but one.
"Ready? Be quick and get out of the way when she goes off!" whispered
Ben, but they heard him and prepared for pistols, rockets or
combustibles of some sort, as ships were impossible under the
circumstances, and no other "she" occurred to them.
A unanimous "O-o-o-o!" was heard when the curtain rose, but a stern
"Hush!" from Thorny kept them mutely staring with all their eyes at the
grand spectacle of the evening. There stood Lita with a wide flat saddle
on her back, a white head-stall and reins, blue rosettes in her ears,
and the look of a much-bewildered beast in her bright eyes. But who the
gauzy, spangled, winged creature was, with a gilt crown on its head, a
little bow in its hand, and one white slipper in the air, while the
other seemed merely to touch the saddle, no one could tell for a minute,
so strange and splendid did the apparition appear. No wonder Ben was not
recognized in this brilliant disguise, which was more natural to him
than Billy's blue flannel or Thorny's respectable garments. He had so
begged to be allowed to show himself "just once," as he used to be in
the days when "father" tossed him up on bare-backed old General, for
hundreds to see and admire, that Miss Celia had consented, much against
her will, and hastily arranged some bits of spangled tarletan over the
white cotton suit which was to simulate the regulation tights. Her old
dancing slippers fitted, and gold paper did the rest, while Ben, sure of
his power over Lita, promised not to break his bones, and lived for days
on the thought of the moment when he could show the boys that he had not
boasted vainly of past splendors.
Before the delighted children could get their breath, Lita gave signs of
her dislike to the foot-lights, and, gathering up the reins that lay on
her neck, Ben gave the old cry, "Houp-la!" and let her go, as he had
often done before, straight out of the coach-house for a gallop round
the orchard.
"Just turn about and you can see perfectly well, but stay where you are
till he comes back," commanded Thorny, as signs of commotion appeared in
the excited audience.
Round went the twenty children as if turned by one crank, and sitting
there they looked out into the moonlight where the shining figure
flashed to and fro, now so near they could see the smiling face under
the crown, now so far away that it glittered like a fire-fly among the
dusky green. Lita enjoyed that race as heartily as she had done several
others of late, and caracoled about as if anxious to make up for her
lack of skill by speed and obedience. How much Ben liked it there is no
need to tell, yet it was a proof of the good which three months of a
quiet, useful life had done him, that even as he pranced gayly under the
boughs thick with the red and yellow apples almost ready to be gathered,
he found this riding in the fresh air with only his mates for an
audience pleasanter than the crowded tent, the tired horses, profane
men, and painted women, friendly as some of them had been to him.
After the first burst was over, he felt rather glad, on the whole, that
he was going back to plain clothes, helpful school, and kindly people,
who cared more to have him a good boy than the most famous Cupid that
ever stood on one leg with a fast horse under him.
"You may make as much noise as you like, now; Lita's had her run and
will be as quiet as a lamb after it. Pull up, Ben, and come in; sister
says you'll get cold," shouted Thorny, as the rider came cantering round
after a leap over the lodge gate and back again.
So Ben pulled up, and the admiring boys and girls were allowed to gather
about him, loud in their praises as they examined the pretty mare and
the mythological character who lay easily upon her back. He looked very
little like the god of love now; for he had lost one slipper and
splashed his white legs with dew and dust, the crown had slipped down
upon his neck, and the paper wings hung in an apple-tree where he had
left them as he went by. No trouble in recognizing Ben, now; but somehow
he didn't want to be seen, and, instead of staying to be praised, he
soon slipped away, making Lita his excuse to vanish behind the curtain
while the rest went into the house to have a finishing-off game of
blindman's-buff in the big kitchen.
"Well, Ben, are you satisfied?" asked Miss Celia, as she stayed a moment
to unpin the remains of his gauzy scarf and tunic.
"Yes'm, thank you, it was tip-top."
"But you look rather sober. Are you tired, or is it because you don't
want to take these trappings off and be plain Ben again?" she said,
looking down into his face as he lifted it for her to free him from his
gilded collar.
"I _want_ to take 'em off; for somehow I don't feel respectable," and he
kicked away the crown he had help to make so carefully, adding with a
glance that said more than his words: "I'd rather be 'plain Ben' than
any one else, if you'd like to have me."
"Indeed I do; and I'm so glad to hear you say that, because I was afraid
you'd long to be off to the old ways, and all I've tried to do would be
undone. _Would_ you like to go back, Ben?" and Miss Celia held his chin
an instant, to watch the brown face that looked so honestly back at her.
"No, I wouldn't--unless--_he_ was there and wanted me."
The chin quivered just a bit, but the black eyes were as bright as ever,
and the boy's voice so earnest, she knew he spoke the truth, and laid
her white hand softly on his head, as she answered in the tone he loved
so much, because no one else had ever used it to him:
"Father is not there; but I know he wants you, dear, and I am sure he
would rather see you in a home like this than in the place you came
from. Now go and dress; but, tell me first, has it been a happy
birthday?"
"Oh, Miss Celia! I didn't know they _could_ be so beautiful, and this is
the beautifulest part of it; I don't know how to thank you, but I'm
going to try--" and, finding words wouldn't come fast enough, Ben just
put his two arms round her, quite speechless with gratitude; then, as if
ashamed of his little outburst, he knelt down in a great hurry to untie
his one shoe.
[Illustration: MISS CELIA AND BEN.]
But Miss Celia liked his answer better than the finest speech ever made
her, and went away through the moonlight, saying to herself:
"If I can bring one lost lamb into the fold, I shall be the fitter for a
shepherd's wife, by and by."
CHAPTER XXII.
A BOY'S BARGAIN.
It was some days before the children were tired of talking over Ben's
birthday party; for it was a great event in their small world; but,
gradually, newer pleasures came to occupy their minds, and they began to
plan the nutting frolics which always followed the early frosts. While
waiting for Jack to open the chestnut burrs, they varied the monotony of
school life by a lively scrimmage long known as "the wood-pile fight."
The girls liked to play in the half-empty shed, and the boys, merely for
the fun of teasing, declared that they should not, so blocked up the
door-way as fast as the girls cleared it. Seeing that the squabble was a
merry one, and the exercise better for all than lounging in the sun or
reading in school during recess, Teacher did not interfere, and the
barrier rose and fell almost as regularly as the tide.
It would be difficult to say which side worked the harder; for the boys
went before school began to build up the barricade, and the girls stayed
after lessons were over to pull down the last one made in afternoon
recess. They had their play-time first, and, while the boys waited
inside, they heard the shouts of the girls, the banging of the wood, and
the final crash as the well-packed pile went down. Then, as the lassies
came in, rosy, breathless, and triumphant, the lads rushed out to man
the breach, and labor gallantly till all was as tight as hard blows
could make it.
So the battle raged, and bruised knuckles, splinters in fingers, torn
clothes, and rubbed shoes, were the only wounds received, while a great
deal of fun was had out of the maltreated logs, and a lasting peace
secured between two of the boys.
When the party was safely over, Sam began to fall into his old way of
tormenting Ben by calling names, as it cost no exertion to invent trying
speeches and slyly utter them when most likely to annoy; Ben bore it as
well as he could, but fortune favored him at last, as it usually does
the patient, and he was able to make his own terms with his tormentor.
When the girls demolished the wood-pile they performed a jubilee chorus
on combs, and tin kettles played like tambourines; the boys celebrated
their victories with shrill whistles, and a drum accompaniment with
fists on the shed walls. Billy brought his drum, and this was such an
addition that Sam hunted up an old one of his little brother's, in order
that he might join the drum corps. He had no sticks, however, and,
casting about in his mind for a good substitute for the genuine thing,
bethought him of bulrushes.
"Those will do first-rate, and there are lots in the ma'sh, if I can
only get 'em," he said to himself, and turned off from the road on his
way home to get a supply.
Now, this marsh was a treacherous spot, and the tragic story was told of
a cow who got in there and sank till nothing was visible but a pair of
horns above the mud, which suffocated the unwary beast. For this reason
it was called "Cowslip Marsh," the wags said, though it was generally
believed to be so named for the yellow flowers which grew there in great
profusion in the spring.
Sam had seen Ben hop nimbly from one tuft of grass to another when he
went to gather cowslips for Betty, and the stout boy thought he could do
the same. Two or three heavy jumps landed him, not among the bulrushes
as he had hoped, but in a pool of muddy water where he sank up to his
middle with alarming rapidity. Much scared, he tried to wade out, but
could only flounder to a tussock of grass and cling there while he
endeavored to kick his legs free. He got them out, but struggled in vain
to coil them up or to hoist his heavy body upon the very small island in
this sea of mud. Down they splashed again, and Sam gave a dismal groan
as he thought of the leeches and water-snakes which might be lying in
wait below. Visions of the lost cow also flashed across his agitated
mind, and he gave a despairing shout very like a distracted "Moo!"
Few people passed along the lane, and the sun was setting, so the
prospect of a night in the marsh nerved Sam to make a frantic plunge
toward the bulrush island, which was nearer than the main-land, and
looked firmer than any tussock around him. But he failed to reach this
haven of rest, and was forced to stop at an old stump which stuck up,
looking very like the moss-grown horns of the "dear departed." Roosting
here, Sam began to shout for aid in every key possible to the human
voice. Such hoots and howls, whistles and roars, never woke the echoes
of the lonely marsh before, or scared the portly frog who resided there
in calm seclusion.
He hardly expected any reply but the astonished "Caw!" of the crow, who
sat upon a fence watching him with gloomy interest, and when a cheerful
"Hullo, there!" sounded from the lane, he was so grateful that tears of
joy rolled down his fat cheeks.
"Come on! I'm in the ma'sh. Lend a hand and get me out!" bawled Sam,
anxiously waiting for his deliverer to appear, for he could only see a
hat bobbing along behind the hazel-bushes that fringed the lane.
Steps crashed through the bushes, and then over the wall came an active
figure, at the sight of which Sam was almost ready to dive out of sight,
for, of all possible boys, who should it be but Ben, the last person in
the world whom he would like to have see him in his present pitiful
plight.
"Is it you, Sam? Well, you _are_ in a nice fix!" and Ben's eyes began to
twinkle with mischievous merriment, as well they might, for Sam
certainly was a spectacle to convulse the soberest person. Perched
unsteadily on the gnarled stump, with his muddy legs drawn up, his
dismal face splashed with mud, and the whole lower half of his body as
black as if he had been dipped in an inkstand, he presented such a
comically doleful object that Ben danced about, laughing like a naughty
will-o'-the-wisp who, having led a traveler astray, then fell to jeering
at him.
"Stop that or I'll knock your head off," roared Sam, in a rage.
"Come on and do it, I give you leave," answered Ben, sparring away
derisively as the other tottered on his perch and was forced to hold
tight lest he should tumble off.
"Don't laugh, there's a good chap, but fish me out somehow or I shall
get my death sitting here all wet and cold," whined Sam, changing his
tone, and feeling bitterly that Ben had the upper hand now.
Ben felt it also, and though a very good natured boy, could not resist
the temptation to enjoy this advantage for a moment at least.
"I wont laugh if I can help it, only you do look so like a fat, speckled
frog I may not be able to hold in. I'll pull you out pretty soon, but
first I'm going to talk to you, Sam," said Ben, sobering down as he took
a seat on the little point of land nearest the stranded Samuel.
"Hurry up, then; I'm as stiff as a board now, and it's no fun sitting
here on this knotty old thing," growled Sam, with a discontented squirm.
"Dare say not, but 'it is good for you,' as you say when you rap me over
the head. Look here, I've got you in a tight place, and I don't mean to
help you a bit till you promise to let me alone. Now then!" and Ben's
face grew stern with his remembered wrongs as he grimly eyed his
discomfited foe.
"I'll promise fast enough if you wont tell any one about this," answered
Sam, surveying himself and his surroundings with great disgust.
"I shall do as I like about that."
"Then I wont promise a thing! I'm not going to have the whole school
laughing at me," protested Sam, who hated to be ridiculed even more than
Ben did.
"Very well; good-night!" and Ben walked off with his hands in his
pockets as coolly as if the bog was Sam's favorite retreat.
"Hold on, don't be in such a hurry!" shouted Sam, seeing little hope of
rescue if he let this chance go.
"All right!" and back came Ben ready for further negotiations.
"I'll promise not to plague you if you'll promise not to tell on me. Is
that what you want?"
"Now I come to think of it, there is one thing more. I like to make a
good bargain when I begin," said Ben, with a shrewd air. "You must
promise to keep Mose quiet, too. He follows your lead, and if you tell
him to stop it he will. If I was big enough I'd _make_ you hold your
tongues. I aint, so we'll try this way."
"Yes, yes, I'll see to Mose. Now, bring on a rail, there's a good
fellow. I've got a horrid cramp in my legs," began Sam, thinking he had
bought help dearly, yet admiring Ben's cleverness in making the most of
his chance.
Ben brought the rail, but just as he was about to lay it from the
main-land to the nearest tussock, he stopped, saying, with the naughty
twinkle in his black eyes again: "One more little thing must be settled
first, and then I'll get you ashore. Promise you wont plague the girls
either, 'specially Bab and Betty. You pull their hair, and they don't
like it."
[Illustration: THE BROOK ABOVE THE MARSH.]
"Don't neither. Wouldn't touch that Bab for a dollar; she scratches and
bites like a mad cat," was Sam's sulky reply.
"Glad of it; she can take care of herself. Betty can't, and if you touch
one of her pig-tails I'll up and tell right out how I found you
sniveling in the ma'sh like a great baby. So now!" and Ben emphasized
his threat with a blow of the suspended rail which splashed the water
over poor Sam, quenching his last spark of resistance.
"Stop! I will!--I will!"
"True as you live and breathe!" demanded Ben, sternly binding him by the
most solemn oath he knew.
"True as I live and breathe," echoed Sam, dolefully relinquishing his
favorite pastime of pulling Betty's braids and asking if she was at
home.
"I'll come over there and crook fingers on the bargain," said Ben,
settling the rail and running over it to the tuft, then bridging another
pool and crossing again till he came to the stump.
"I never thought of that way," said Sam, watching him with much inward
chagrin at his own failure.
"I should think you'd written 'Look before you leap,' in your copy-book
often enough to get the idea into your stupid head. Come, crook,"
commanded Ben, leaning forward with extended little finger.
Sam obediently performed the ceremony, and then Ben sat astride one of
the horns of the stump while the muddy Crusoe went slowly across the
rail from point to point till he landed safely on the shore, when he
turned about and asked with an ungrateful jeer:
"Now, what's going to become of you, old Look-before-you-leap?"
"Mud-turtles can only sit on a stump and bawl till they are taken off,
but frogs have legs worth something, and are not afraid of a little
water," answered Ben, hopping away in an opposite direction, since the
pools between him and Sam were too wide for even his lively legs.
Sam waddled off to the brook above the marsh to rinse the mud from his
nether man before facing his mother, and was just wringing himself out
when Ben came up, breathless but good-natured, for he felt that he had
made an excellent bargain for himself and friends.
"Better wash your face; it's as speckled as a tiger-lily. Here's my
handkerchief if yours is wet," he said, pulling out a dingy article
which had evidently already done service as a towel.
"Don't want it," muttered Sam, gruffly, as he poured the water out of
his muddy shoes.
"_I_ was taught to say 'Thanky' when folks got _me_ out of scrapes. But
_you_ never had much bringing up, though you do 'live in a house with a
gambrel roof,'" retorted Ben, sarcastically quoting Sam's frequent
boast; then he walked off, much disgusted with the ingratitude of man.
Sam forgot his manners, but he remembered his promise, and kept it so
well that all the school wondered. No one could guess the secret of
Ben's power over him, though it was evident that he had gained it in
some sudden way, for at the least sign of Sam's former tricks Ben would
crook his little finger and wag it warningly, or call out "Bulrushes!"
and Sam subsided with reluctant submission, to the great amazement of
his mates. When asked what it meant, Sam turned sulky; but Ben had much
fun out of it, assuring the other boys that those were the signs and
pass-word of a secret society to which he and Sam belonged, and promised
to tell them all about it if Sam would give him leave, which, of course,
he would not.
This mystery, and the vain endeavors to find it out, caused a lull in
the war of the wood-pile, and before any new game was invented something
happened which gave the children plenty to talk about for a time.
A week after the secret alliance was formed, Ben ran in one evening with
a letter for Miss Celia. He found her enjoying the cheery blaze of the
pine-cones the little girls had picked up for her, and Bab and Betty sat
in the small chairs rocking luxuriously as they took turns to throw on
the pretty fuel. Miss Celia turned quickly to receive the expected
letter, glanced at the writing, post-mark and stamp, with an air of
delighted surprise, then clasped it close in both hands, saying, as she
hurried out of the room:
"He has come! he has come! Now you may tell them, Thorny."
"Tell us what?" asked Bab, pricking up her ears at once.
"Oh, it's only that George has come, and I suppose we shall go and get
married right away," answered Thorny, rubbing his hands as if he enjoyed
the prospect.
"Are _you_ going to be married?" asked Betty, so soberly that the boys
shouted, and Thorny, with difficulty, composed himself sufficiently to
explain.
"No, child, not just yet; but sister is, and I must go and see that is
all done up ship-shape, and bring you home some wedding-cake. Ben will
take care of you while I'm gone."
"When shall you go?" asked Bab, beginning to long for her share of cake.
"To-morrow, I guess. Celia has been packed and ready for a week. We
agreed to meet George in New York, and be married as soon as he got his
best clothes unpacked. We are men of our word, and off we go. Wont it be
fun?"
"But when will you come back again?" questioned Betty, looking anxious.
"Don't know. Sister wants to come soon, but I'd rather have our
honeymoon somewhere else,--Niagara, Newfoundland, West Point, or the
Rocky Mountains," said Thorny, mentioning a few of the places he most
desired to see.
"Do you like him?" asked Ben, very naturally wondering if the new master
would approve of the young man-of-all-work.
"Don't I? George is regularly jolly; though now he's a minister, perhaps
he'll stiffen up and turn sober. Wont it be a shame if he does?" and
Thorny looked alarmed at the thought of losing his congenial friend.
"Tell about him; Miss Celia said you might," put in Bab, whose
experience of "jolly" ministers had been small.
"Oh, there isn't much about it. We met in Switzerland going up Mount St.
Bernard in a storm, and--"
"Where the good dogs live?" inquired Betty, hoping they would come into
the story.
"Yes; we spent the night up there, and George gave us his room; the
house was so full, and he wouldn't let me go down a steep place where I
wanted to, and Celia thought he'd saved my life, and was very good to
him. Then we kept meeting, and the first thing I knew she went and was
engaged to him. I didn't care, only she would come home so he might go
on studying hard and get through quick. That was a year ago, and last
winter we were in New York at uncle's; and then, in the spring, I was
sick, and we came here, and that's all."
"Shall you live here always when you come back?" asked Bab, as Thorny
paused for breath.
"Celia wants to. I shall go to college, so _I_ don't mind. George is
going to help the old minister here and see how he likes it. I'm to
study with him, and if he is as pleasant as he used to be we shall have
capital times,--see if we don't."
"I wonder if he will want me round," said Ben, feeling no desire to be a
tramp again.
"_I_ do, so you needn't fret about that, my hearty," answered Thorny,
with a resounding slap on the shoulder which re-assured Ben more than
any promises.
"I'd like to see a live wedding, then we could play it with our dolls.
I've got a nice piece of mosquito netting for a veil, and Belinda's
white dress is clean. Do you s'pose Miss Celia will ask us to hers?"
said Betty to Bab, as the boys began to discuss St. Bernard dogs with
spirit.
"I wish I could, dears," answered a voice behind them, and there was
Miss Celia, looking so happy that the little girls wondered what the
letter could have said to give her such bright eyes and smiling lips. "I
shall not be gone long, or be a bit changed when I come back, to live
among you years I hope, for I am fond of the old place now, and mean it
shall be home," she added, caressing the yellow heads as if they were
dear to her.
"Oh, goody!" cried Bab, while Betty whispered with both arms round Miss
Celia:
"I don't think we _could_ bear to have anybody else come here to live."
"It is very pleasant to hear you say that, and I mean to make others
feel so, if I can. I have been trying a little this summer, but when I
come back I shall go to work in earnest to be a good minister's wife,
and you must help me."
"We will," promised both children, ready for anything except preaching
in the high pulpit.
Then Miss Celia turned to Ben, saying, in the respectful way that always
made him feel, at least, twenty-five:
"We shall be off to-morrow, and I leave you in charge. Go on just as if
we were here, and be sure nothing will be changed as far as you are
concerned when we come back."
Ben's face beamed at that; but the only way he could express his relief
was by making such a blaze in honor of the occasion that he nearly
roasted the company.
Next morning, the brother and sister slipped quietly away, and the
children hurried to school, eager to tell the great news that "Miss
Celia and Thorny had gone to be married, and were coming back to live
here forever and ever."
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: SATURDAY AFTERNOON.]
LITTLE BEAR.
BY SAMUEL W. DUFFIELD.
[Illustration]
There lives with us an Indian--
A Paw-knee, I declare--
And he utters dreadful war-whoops,
And his name is Little Bear.
A braver foe in a battle,
When his hands are in your hair,
There is none in all my knowledge
Than this same Little Bear.
But when the firelight shining
Lights the room up with its glare,
I often camp on the hearth-rug,
Good friends with Little Bear.
And I'm very sure I should miss him
If ever he wasn't there--
This irrepressible Indian,
By the name of Little Bear!
MY ST. GEORGE.
BY ALICE MAUDE EDDY.
It is ten years ago to-day since Georgie May and I went to "Captain
Kidd's Cave" after sea-urchins. Georgie was a neighbor's child with whom
I had played all my short life, and whom I loved almost as dearly as my
own brothers. Such a brave, bright face he had, framed by sunny hair
where the summers had dropped gold dust as they passed him by. I can see
him now as he stood that day on the firm sand of the beach, with his
brown eyes glowing and his plump hand brandishing a wooden sword which
he himself had made, and painted with gorgeous figures of red and
yellow.
"You see, Allie," he was saying, "his name was Saint George, and he was
a knight. And so there was a great dragon with a fiery crest. And so he
went at him, and killed him; and he married the princess, and they lived
happy ever after. I'd have killed him, too, if I'd been there!"
"_Could_ you kill a dragon?" I asked, rather timidly.
"Course I could!" replied the young champion. "I'd have a splendid white
horse,--no, a black one,--and a sword like Jack the Giant Killer's,
and--and--oh, and an invisible ring! I'd use him up pretty quick. Then
I'd cut off his head and give it to the princess, and we'd have a feast
of jelly-cake, and cream candy, and then I would marry her!"
I could only gasp admiringly at this splendid vision.
"But mamma said," went on Georgie, more thoughtfully, "that there are
dragons now; and she said she would like me to be a Saint George. She's
going to tell some more to-night, but there's getting angry, that's a
dragon, and wanting to be head of everything, that's another, and she
and me are going to fight 'em. We said so."
"But how?" I asked, with wide open eyes. "I don't see any dragon when
I'm angry!"
"Oh, you're a girl," said Georgie, consolingly; and we ran on
contentedly, wading across the shallow pools of salt water, clambering
over the rocks, and now and then stopping to pick up a bright pebble or
shell. The whole scene comes vividly before me as I think of it
now:--the gray and brown cliffs, with their sharp crags and narrow
clefts half choked up by the fine, sifting sand, the wet "snappers"
clinging to the rocks along the water's edge; the sea itself clear and
blue in the bright afternoon, and the dancing lights where the sunbeams
struck its rippling surface. A light wind blew across the bay. It
stirred in Georgie's curls, and swept about us both as if playing with
us. We grew happier and happier, and when at last we saw "Captain Kidd's
Cave" just before us, we were in the wildest spirits, and almost sorry
that our walk was ended.
There was plenty to be seen in the cave, however, beside the excitement
of searching for the pirate's treasures, which the country people said
were buried there. The high rocks met, forming a wide, arched cavern
with a little crevice in the roof, through which we could just see the
clear sky. The firm floor was full of smaller stones, which we used for
seats, and one high crag almost hid the entrance. It was delicious to
creep through the low door-way, and to sit in the cool twilight that
reigned there, listening to the song of the winds and waters outside, or
to clamber up and down the steep sides of the cave, playing that we were
cast-aways on a desert island. We played, also, that I was a captive
princess, and Georgie killed a score of dragons in my defense. We were
married, too, with the little knight's sword stuck in the sand for the
clergyman. Quite tired out, at last, we went into the cave and sat on
the sand-strewn floor, telling stories and talking of dragons and
fairies, until a drop of rain suddenly fell through the cleft in the
roof. Georgie sprang up.
"We must go home, Allie!" he cried. "What if we were to be caught in a
shower!"
Just as he was speaking, a peal of thunder crashed and boomed right
above us, and I clung to the boy, sobbing for very terror.
"O Georgie!" I cried, "don't go out. We'll be killed! Oh, what shall we
do?"
But Georgie only laughed blithely, saying, "No, we wont go if you don't
want to. Let's play it's a concert and the thunder's a drum. It will be
over in a minute," and he began to whistle "Yankee Doodle," in which
performance I vainly endeavored to join. But as time went on, and the
storm became more violent, we were both frightened, and climbing to a
ledge about half-way up the wall, sat silent, clinging to each other,
and crying a little as the lightning flashed more and more vividly. Yet,
even in his own terror, Georgie was careful for me, and tried to cheer
me and raise my heart. Dear little friend, I am grateful for it now!
At last, leaning forward, I saw that the water was creeping into the
cave and covering the floor with shallow, foaming waves. Then, indeed,
we were frightened. What if the rising tide had covered the rocks
outside? We should have to stay all night in that lonely place; for,
though the tide went down before midnight, the way was long and
difficult, and we could not return in the darkness.
"Hurry, Allie!" cried Georgie, scrambling down the side of the cave. "We
can wade, may be."
I followed him, and we crept out upon the beach. The water had risen
breast high already, and I was nearly thrown down by the force with
which it met me.
"Lean on me, Allie," said Georgie, throwing his arm about me and
struggling onward. "We must get to the rocks as soon as we can."
It was with great difficulty that we passed over the narrow strip of
sand below the high cliffs. I clung wildly to Georgie, trying in vain to
keep a firm footing on the treacherous sand, that seemed slipping from
beneath my feet at every step.
The water had reached my neck. I cried out with terror as I felt myself
borne from my feet. But Georgie kept hold of me, and bracing ourselves
against the first low rock, we waited the coming of the great green wave
that rolled surging toward us, raising its whitening crest high over our
heads. It broke directly above us, and for a moment we stood dizzy with
the shock, and half blinded by the dashing salt spray. Then we ran on as
swiftly as was possible in the impeding water. Fortunately for us, the
next wave broke before it reached us, for in the rapidly rising tide we
could not have resisted it.
We were thoroughly exhausted when, after a few more struggles, we at
last climbed the first cliff and sat on the top, resting and looking
about us for a means of escape. It was impossible for us to scale the
precipice that stretched along the beach. We must keep to the lower
crags at its foot for a mile before we could reach the firm land. This,
in the gathering twilight, was a difficult and dangerous thing to
attempt. Yet there was no other way of escape. We could not return to
the cave. I shuddered as I looked at the foaming waves that rolled
between us and it.
"What shall we do, Georgie?" I cried. "I _can't_ be drowned!"
"Hush, Allie!" answered Georgie, bravely; "we must go right on, of
course. This place will be covered soon. Take off your shoes. You can
climb easier. There now! take hold of my hand. I'll jump over to that
rock and help you to come on, too!"
Well was it for me that Georgie was a strong, agile boy, head and
shoulders taller than I. I needed all his help in the homeward journey.
I tremble even yet as I think of the perils of the half mile that we
traversed before darkness fell. The rough rocks tore our hands and feet
as we clambered painfully over them. They were slippery with sea-weed
and wet with the waves that from time to time rolled across them. More
than once I slipped and would have fallen into the raging water below,
but for Georgie's sustaining arm. Looking back now to that dark evening,
Georgie's bravery and presence of mind seem wonderful to me. He spoke
little, only now and then directing me where to place my feet, but his
strong, boyish hand held mine in a firm grasp, and his clear eyes saw
just when to seize the opportunity, given by a receding wave, to spring
from one rock to another.
"Georgie, shall we _ever_ reach home?" I sighed at last as we gained the
end of a spur of rock over which we had been walking. Georgie made no
answer, and I turned, in surprise, to look at him. His face was very
white, and his great eyes were staring out into the twilight with such a
frightened gaze that I looked about me with a sudden increase of terror.
I had thought the worst of the way over, and in the gathering darkness
had hardly noticed where we were going, following Georgie with perfect
trust in his judgment. Now I suddenly saw that we could proceed no
farther. We stood, as I have said, on a long ridge of rock. Before us,
at our very feet, was the wildly surging water, tearing at the rocks as
if to wrest them from their foundation. Beyond, we could see the strong
cliffs again, but far out of reach. Behind were only the narrow rocks
over which we had come; and on either side the cruel sea cut us off from
all hope of gaining the land. I sank on the slippery sea-weed, in an
agony of terror, sobbing out my mother's name. Georgie sat down beside
me. "Don't cry, Allie!" he said, in a trembling voice. "Please don't! We
may be saved yet. Perhaps they'll come after us in a boat. Or we can
stay here till morning."
"But oh! I want to go home! I want mamma," I sobbed; "and I'm so cold
and tired, and my feet ache so! O Georgie, _can't_ we go on?"
Georgie was silent for a few moments. "No," he said, at last, "we must
stay here, but don't be afraid. Here, I'm not cold, take my coat, and
I'll tie our handkerchiefs round your feet. There, lean on me, now. We
must hold on to the rock, you know, or we might tumble. Now, let's both
scream 'help' as loud as we can. May be, some one will hear us and
come."
But though we shouted till we were hoarse, the only answering voices
were those of the roaring wind and "the wild sea water."
It was quite dark now. I could see nothing as I clung there, half
sitting, half lying, with my face on Georgie's shoulder. Strangely vivid
were the pictures that passed before my closed eyes. I saw my pretty
nursery, with the clear lamplight falling on the pictured walls and the
little white beds; I saw my mother seated by the fire, with the baby in
her arms, and heard her low, sweet voice singing:
"Sleep, baby, sleep,
Thy father watches the sheep!"
I saw my father, laughing and frolicking with my little brothers, as his
wont was on a leisure evening. How I longed to be among them. Then my
hair, blowing across my eyes, blotted out the pleasant picture, and the
hoarse shouting of the sea drove the sweet cradle-song from my ears.
Georgie's voice stopped my weary sobbing. "Allie," he said, softly,
"mamma told me that true knights prayed for help when they were
fighting. So I shall ask God to help us now. I think He will."
Then, clear and soft, amid the roaring of the storm, arose the childish
voice repeating his evening prayer:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep!
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
I felt a little quieter when he had finished. Georgie's strong, sweet
faith strengthened me unawares, and involuntarily I repeated the little
prayer after him. Then we were silent for a long time. I was strangely
weak and weary. The fear of death was gone now; I thought no more of
even my mother. I think I was fast lapsing into unconsciousness when
Georgie's voice half aroused me. "Allie! Allie!" he cried. "Wake up! You
are slipping down! O, Allie, dear, do try to get up! You'll be drowned!"
But even this failed to arouse me from the stupor into which I had
fallen. I felt myself slipping from my seat. Already my feet were in the
icy water, and the spray was dashing about my face. I heard Georgie call
me once again, felt my hands firmly grasped in his, and then I knew
nothing more.
* * * * *
"Alice, dear little Alice!" I opened my eyes at the words. Somebody's
arms were about me; warm tears were falling on my head, and the scent of
roses was in the air. Where was I? Was this my own little bed, with its
snowy curtains and soft, fresh pillows? Was Baby Robin lying beside me,
stroking my cheek with his tiny hand? I was not dead, then? Where were
the water and the cold sea-weed? A kiss fell on my forehead, and a voice
murmured soft love-words in my ear. "Allie! my little girl! Mamma's
darling!"
[Illustration: ON THE ROCK.]
Then I raised my head and looked straight into my mother's sweet,
tearful eyes. "Mamma," I said, throwing my arms around her neck, "O,
mamma, I was so afraid! I wanted you so!"
"But you are safe, Allie, now. Lie down again, dear. You are weak yet."
So I lay back on the soft pillow with a feeling of rest and content in
my heart, such as had never been there before. I cared to ask no
questions. It was enough that I was safe, with my mother beside my bed
and the early sunbeams flickering on the wall opposite. It was a long
time before I thought of even Georgie. When I asked for him, mamma's
eyes filled with tears. "Dear Allie," she said, "Georgie saved your
life. My little girl would have been taken away from me, but for him. He
caught you when you slipped, and, tired as he was, held you up till help
came. He fainted as soon as papa took him into the boat. We thought you
were both dead!" Her voice broke in a sob, and she clasped me closer in
her arms. "He is better now," she went on. "Allie, we must never forget
his courage. Thank God, he was with you!"
"Mamma, O mamma!" I cried, "he said he was trying to be like Saint
George. _Isn't_ he like him? He saved me, and he prayed there in the
dark--and, O mamma, I love him so for it!"
"Yes, Allie," answered my mother, "not one of the old knights was braver
than ours, and not one of all the saints did better service in the sight
of God than our little Saint George last night."
BORN IN PRISON.
BY JULIA P. BALLARD.
[Illustration: THE PRISONERS.]
I am only a day old! I wonder if every butterfly comes into the world to
find such queer things about him? I was born in prison. I can see right
through my walls; but I can't find any door. Right below me (for I have
climbed up the wall) lies a queer-looking, empty box. It is clear, and a
pale green. It is all in one piece, only a little slit in the top. I
wonder what came out of it. Close by it there is another green box, long
and narrow, but not empty, and no slit in the top. I wonder what is in
it. Near it is a smooth, green caterpillar, crawling on the edge of a
bit of cabbage-leaf. I'm afraid that bright light has hurt my eyes. It
was just outside of my prison wall, and bright as the sun. The first
thing I remember, even before my wings had opened wide, or I was half
through stretching my feet to see if I could use them in climbing, there
was a great eye looking at me. Something round was before it, with a
handle. I suppose it was a quizzing-glass to see what I was about. I
heard somebody say, "Oh! oh!" twice, just as if they wondered I was
here. Then they held the great bright light close to the wall till my
eyes were dazzled. I don't like this prison. It isn't worth while to fly
about. It seems as if I ought to have more room. There must be something
inside that green box. It moves! I saw it half tip over then, all of
itself. I believe that caterpillar is afraid of it. He creeps off slowly
toward the wall. How smooth and green he is! How his rings move when he
crawls! Now he is gone up the wall. He has stopped near the roof. How he
throws his head from side to side! He is growing broader! He looks just
as if he was turning into one of these green boxes! How that box shakes!
There, I see it begin to open! There is a slit coming in the back!
Something peeps out! A butterfly's head, I declare! Here it comes,--two
long feelers, two short ones! Four wings, two round spots on each of the
upper pair, and none on the other two. Dressed just like me. I wonder
why it hid away in that box?
First Butterfly.--"What made you hide in that green box?"
Second Butterfly.--"What box? I haven't hid anywhere. I don't know what
box you mean?"
First Butterfly.--"That one. You just crawled out of it. I saw you."
Second Butterfly.--"That's the first I knew of it. There are _two_ boxes
just alike. _Both_ empty. May be you were hid in the other!"
First Butterfly.--"Ho! There goes up our prison wall! That's the big
hand that held the bright light. How good the air feels! Now for a
chance to try our wings! Away we go!"
HOW LILY-TOES WAS CAUGHT IN A SHOWER.
BY EMILY H. LELAND.
Lily-toes, though quite a pet, was the fourth baby, and, consequently,
was not so great a wonder in the eyes of her family as she might have
been. She and her mamma were on a visit to her grandma's, in the
country. As she had been there a week, the excitement attendant on her
arrival had so far subsided that grandma was beginning to turn her
attention to cheese-making, her two aunties to sew vigorously on their
new cambric dresses, and grandpa and the big hired man to become so
engaged in the "haying" that they scarcely saw Lily-toes except at
supper-time.
Lily-toes, as if to make amends for being the fourth, was a lovely
chubby baby of eight months, so full of sunshine and content and blessed
good health, that although her two first teeth were just grumbling
through, she would sit in her high chair by the window or roll and
wriggle about on the floor, singing tuneless songs and telling herself
wordless stories, an hour at a time, without making any demands on
anybody, so that grandma and the aunties declared that half the time
they would not know there was a baby in the house. Perhaps it is
sometimes a fault to be too good-natured; for there came a certain
afternoon when Lily-toes would have been pleased if somebody had
remembered there _was_ a baby in the house.
It happened in this way. There was company at grandma's. Not the kind of
city company that comes to dine after babies are in bed for the night,
but country company,--that comes early in the afternoon and stays and
talks over whole life-times before tea. Grandma, mamma, and the aunties
were enjoying it all very much; and Lily-toes, who was, if possible,
more angelic than ever, had wakened from a blessed nap, lunched on bread
and milk and strawberries, and was stationed in her high chair on the
back piazza where she could admire the landscape and watch the cows and
sheep feeding upon the hill-sides. A honeysuckle swung in the breeze
above her head, and little chickens, not big enough to do harm to
grandma's flower-beds, ran to and fro in the knot-grass, hunting for
little shiny green bugs, and fluttering and peeping in a way that was
very interesting to Lily-toes. No baby could be more comfortably
situated on a hot summer day; at least, so her mamma thought, as she
tied Lily-toes securely in her chair with a soft scarf, and went back to
the sitting-room and the busy sewing and talking with her dear old
girlhood friends. I presume if Lily-toes had been a first baby, her
mamma would have hesitated about leaving her there. She would have
feared--may be--that the chickens would eat her up or that she might
swallow the paper-weight. As it was, she only kissed the little thing
with a sort of mechanical smack and left her alone, as coolly as if
lovely Lily-toe babies were an every-day affair.
Meanwhile, and for many days before, great distress was going on in the
fields and gardens for lack of rain. The young corn was drooping, the
vines fainting, the sweet red roses opening languidly, the grasses
growing dry and brittle to the bite of the patient cows and nibbling
sheep. Everything, except Lily-toes, was expressing a desire for rain.
In fact, all through the night before this story of a wronged baby
opens, the hills, woods, fields, and gardens, had been praying for rain
according to their individual needs, the maples and elms desiring a
"regular soaker," while the lowly pansies lifted their fevered little
palms to the stars and begged but a few drops.
And the rain came. Slowly up the western skies rose a solid cloud. No
attention was paid it for some time, it came on so quietly and serenely.
But, by and by, the cows came sauntering down to the barn-yard bars as
if they thought it was milking-time, and the sheep huddled together
under the great elms. Grandpa and his big man commenced raking the hay
together vigorously, and a sudden, cool, puffy breeze began to ruffle
the little rings of hair on Lily-toes' head, and send the small chickens
careening over the knot-grass in such fashion that the careful
mother-hen put her head out of her little house and called them in. And
still in the cool, pleasant sitting-room, with its cheerful talk and
laughter, the approach of the storm was hardly noticed. Grandma, the
most thoughtful body present, remarked that she believed it was
"clouding up a little," and mamma said she hoped so. And then the talk
went on about making dresses and the best way to put up strawberries and
spiced currants. But when big drops came suddenly plashing against the
windows and a lively peal of thunder rolled overhead, then there was a
scattering in the sitting-room. The aunties scampered out through a side
door to snatch some clothes from the grass-plot, and to gather up the
bright tin pans and pails that had been sunning on the long benches.
Grandma, throwing her apron over her head, ran to see that some precious
young turkeys were under shelter. The visitors hurried to the door,
bewailing the windows they had left open at home, and hoping their
husbands _would_ have sense enough to see to things. And the mamma ran
upstairs to close the windows and potter over some collars and ruffles
that had blown about, never thinking of baby on the uncovered piazza.
[Illustration: LILY-TOES IN THE SHOWER.]
Oh, how it poured! Grandpa and his man got as far as the wagon-shed just
as the worst came, and they stayed there. Grandma was weather-bound
along with her young turkeys in the granary. And Lily-toes!--no one will
ever know what her reflections were for a few moments. I imagine she
rather liked the first drops; for she was always fond of plashing about
in her bath-tub, and had no fear of water in reasonable quantities. But
when the wind began to dash the rain in her face, probably she first
gasped in astonishment, and then kicked, and, eventually, as everybody
knew, screamed! Yes; aunties, visitors, and mamma, as they met in the
hall and shrieked to each other about the storm, heard, at last, in the
lull of the gale, a sound of indignant squalling.
Then there was another scamper. Lily-toes was snatched in-doors and
borne along amid a tempest of astonishment and pity, until one visitor
burst out laughing; and then all laughed except the mamma, who kept a
straight face until baby stopped crying and smiled around on them like
wet sunlight.
Before grandma could reach the house, Lily-toes had been rubbed very dry
and put into dry clothes; but her wrapper and petticoats and stockings
and blue shoes, lying in a sopping heap on the floor, told the tale to
grandma and grandpa and the hired man, who all agreed it was a burning
shame to forget Lily-toes, even for five minutes; and the hired man went
so far as to remark that, "If there had been a few more women-folks in
the house, she'd most likely been drown-ded." And Lily-toes looked at
him gratefully, as if he had spoken the very words she had longed to
say.
"THANKS TO YOU."
BY MARY E. BRADLEY.
[Illustration]
Every day for a month of Sundays,
Saturdays, Tuesdays, Fridays, Mondays,
Jack had pondered the various means
And methods pertaining to grinding machines,
Until he was sure he could build a wheel
That, given the sort of dam that's proper,
Would only need some corn in the hopper
To turn out very respectable meal.
Jerry and Jane and Jo, and the others,
Jack's incredulous sisters and brothers,
Gave him credit for good intentions,
But took no stock in the boy's inventions.
In fact they laughed them quite to scorn;
Instead of wasting his time, they said,
He would be more likely to earn his bread
Planting potatoes or hoeing corn!
Bessie alone, when all the rest
Crushed his spirit with gibe and jest,
Whispered softly, "Whatever they say,
I know you will build the wheel some day!"
Chirping crickets and singing birds
Were not so sweet as her heartsome words;
Straight he answered, "If ever I do,
I know it will only be thanks to you!"
Many a time sore heart and brain
Leap at a word, grown strong again.
Thanks to her, as the story goes,
Hope and courage in Jack arose;
Till one bright day in the meadow-brook
There was heard a sound as of water plashing,
And Bessie watched with her happy look
The little wheel in the sunlight flashing.
By and by as the years were fraught
With fruit of his earnest toil and thought,
Brothers and sisters changed their tune,--
"Our Jack," they cried, "will be famous soon!"
Which was nothing more than Bessie knew,
She said, and had known it all the while!
But Jack replied with a kiss and a smile,
"If ever I am, it is thanks to you!"
[Illustration]
HOW BIRDS FLY.
BY PROF. W.K. BROOKS.
In our last talk about birds (in ST. NICHOLAS for July), I told you
about birds and their nests. Now I wish to say, first, a few words about
the different kinds of birds, and then we will see how birds manage to
fly. Naturalists have divided the class, birds, into several smaller
groups which are called orders. One of these includes the birds of prey,
such as the hawks, eagles, and owls. In the picture of a bird of prey
you can see the strong, hooked bill and powerful claws, which are well
fitted for seizing and tearing its prey.
The second order includes the climbing birds, such as the woodpeckers.
The birds of this order can readily be recognized, since two of the toes
of each foot point backward, to give support in climbing.
The next order, that of the perching birds, includes all our common
song-birds, such as the robin, bluebird, and blackbird, as well as a few
larger birds, like the crow.
The scratching birds form another order, including our domestic fowls
and many wild game-birds.
The next order comprises the ostrich and a few other large birds, which
have such small wings that they are unable to fly, but with very large
and powerful legs, so that they are excellent runners. Although this
order includes the largest bird at present living, there were formerly
running birds very much larger than any which now exist; for, in
Madagascar and New Zealand, the bones, and even the eggs, of gigantic
birds have been found. One of these eggs was over a foot in length, and
contained more than ten quarts or as much as six ostrich eggs or one
hundred and fifty hen's eggs. A nearly complete skeleton of one of these
birds has been found, and this must have belonged to a bird fifteen feet
high, or taller than the largest elephant!
The next order includes the wading birds such as the snipe, plover,
woodcock, heron, and rail.
Another order is that of the gulls, ducks, geese, pelicans, penguins,
and other swimming birds.
Besides these living birds, fossil birds have been found in the rocks.
Some of these are very different from any species now living, and very
much like reptiles, so that it is not easy to decide whether they are to
be called birds or reptiles.
The chief peculiarity of birds is their power of flight, and, although
there are a few birds which do not fly, most of them do, and the various
organs of their bodies are all constructed in such a way as to fit them
for a life in the air. Their bodies are very solid and compact, in order
that most of their weight shall be near the place where the wings are
attached. The feet, legs, head, and neck are light, and so arranged that
they may be drawn up close to the body while the bird is flying. As the
neck is long and very flexible, the body does not need to be pliant, as
with most creatures having backbones; but it is important that the wings
should have a firm support, so the bones of the back are united. The
body of a bird must also be well protected from the cold; for, as it
ascends and descends through the air, it passes through regions of very
different temperatures, and it must be provided with a thick and warm
covering in order to be able to endure these sudden changes, and one
also which shall be very light and able to shed the water; for,
otherwise, a bird would be unable to fly. The feathers of a bird answer
to all these needs, and are so placed upon the body that they form a
smooth surface which does not catch against the air when the bird is
passing through it. In its rapid ascents and descents, the bird is
exposed to another danger even greater than the sudden changes of
temperature. You all know that air presses in every direction with great
force, and that we do not feel it because there is air in all parts of
our bodies as well as outside them, and the pressure of the air inside
exactly balances that of the outside air. If we should suddenly take
away the outside air in any way, such as covering a person up with an
air-pump receiver, and quickly and completely exhausting the air, the
consequences of the inside pressure would be very terrible, and if the
experiment could be tried quickly enough the body would burst like an
exploding gun, with a loud noise.
[Illustration: THE EAGLE (BIRD OF PREY).]
When people go up rapidly in a balloon or climb very high mountains,
they are troubled by a ringing noise and a feeling of great pressure in
the ears and head, and by palpitation of the heart, bleeding at the
nose, and fainting. These unpleasant and often dangerous symptoms are
caused by the expansion of the air inside their bodies. In ascending
very high mountains it is necessary to go very slowly and to stop very
often, to give time for some of the expanded air to escape, and equalize
the pressure again. Now, many birds, the condor, for example, fly over
the tops of the highest mountains, and nearly all birds, either
occasionally or habitually, ascend to very great altitudes, and, unless
there were some plan for regulating the pressure of the air inside their
bodies, they would suffer great inconvenience and even pain and danger.
But they are provided with an arrangement by which the air within them
can escape easily as it expands and thus keep the pressure within just
equal to that outside, so that they can ascend and descend as rapidly as
they wish, without feeling the least inconvenience. In the body of the
bird there are several large bags, like the lungs, called air-chambers;
many of their bones are hollow, and others are pierced with long winding
tubes called air-tubes. All these air-chambers and air-tubes are
connected with the lungs so that air can pass into and out of them at
each breath. The connection between these chambers and the lungs is so
complete that a wounded hawk can breathe through a broken wing almost as
well as through its mouth. When a bird mounts upward, the air inside its
body gradually expands, but the bird does not feel any inconvenience;
for, at each breath, part of the air passes from the air-chambers into
the lungs, so that the pressure on the inside does not become greater
than that on the outside.
[Illustrations: PENGUINS (SWIMMERS AND DIVERS).]
I could easily fill the whole of this chapter with an account of the
different ways in which the body of a bird is fitted for life in the
air, but we have room to examine only one of these,--the way in which
the wing is adapted to its use.
Did you ever look at a bird's wing carefully, and try to find out from
it the way in which it is used? People usually suppose, either that a
bird flies because it is lighter than the air, like a balloon, or that
it rows itself along as a boat is rowed through the water. Neither of
these suppositions is true. A bird is not lighter than the air, and does
not float; for when a bird is shot on the wing it falls to the ground
just as quickly as a squirrel. On the contrary, a bird flies by its own
weight, and could not fly at all if it were not heavier than the air.
You know that when you move a large, flat surface rapidly through the
air, it meets with considerable resistance. A bird's wing is so large,
and is moved so rapidly, that the resistance of the air is enough to
raise the bird a short distance each time the wings are flapped
downward; but after each down-flap there must be an up-flap, and the air
resists this just as it does the down-flap; so, unless there were some
arrangement to prevent it, the bird would drive itself down each time it
raised its wings, just as far as it had raised itself by the down-stroke
before, so that it would never get into the air at all. To meet this
difficulty, the wing is so shaped that it is concave or hollow upon its
lower surface, so that it gathers the air together and prevents it from
escaping; while the upper surface is convex or bulging, so that the air
slides off from it when the wing is moved upward. If you have ever been
caught in a sudden squall of wind with an open umbrella, you will easily
understand how great a difference in resisting power this difference in
the shape of the two sides of the wing will make. As long as you can
keep the bulging side of the umbrella pointed toward the wind, you find
no difficulty in holding it; but if the wind strikes the hollow
under-side of the umbrella, it pulls so violently that, unless you are
able to turn around and face the wind, the chances are that the umbrella
will either be pulled away from you or turned inside out. But in the
latter case, the wind slides out over the edges again, so that there is
no trouble in holding on to the umbrella.
The peculiar shape of the wing is only one of the ways by which the
down-stroke is made to strike the air with more force than the
up-stroke. If you will look at a quill-feather, you will see that, on
each side of the central shaft or quill, there is a broad, thin portion,
which is called the _vane_. The vane on one side of the shaft is quite
broad and flexible, while that on the other side is narrow and stiff;
and by looking at a wing with the feathers in their places, you will
find that they are placed so that they overlap a little, like the slats
on a window-blind. Each broad vane runs under the narrow vane of the
feather beside it, so that, when the wing is moved downward, each
feather is pressed up against the stiff narrow vane of the one beside
it, and the whole wing forms a solid sheet like a blind with the slats
closed. After the down-stroke is finished and the up-stroke begins, the
pressure is taken off from the lower surface of the wing, and begins to
act on the upper surface and to press the feathers downward instead of
upward. The broad vanes now have nothing to support them, and they bend
down and allow the air to pass through the wing, which is now like a
blind with the slats open. By these two contrivances,--the shape of the
wing, and the shape and arrangement of the feathers,--the wing resists
the air on its down-stroke and raises the bird a little at each flap,
but at each up-stroke allows the air to slide off at the sides, and to
pass through between the feathers, so that nothing is lost.
[Illustration: QUAIL (SCRATCHERS).]
So much for the way in which the bird is raised into the air. Rising in
the air is not flying, for a balloon and a kite rise but do not fly.
Now, how is a bird able to move forward? This is not quite as easy to
understand as the other, but I hope to be able to make it clear to you.
I must first say, however, that it is not done by rowing with the wings,
for they move up and down, not backward and forward, and no amount of
rowing up and down would drive a bird forward, any more than rowing
backward and forward would lift a boat up into the air.
You will find, if you carefully examine a bird's wing, that all the
bones and muscles are placed along the front edge, which is thus made
very stiff and strong. The quill feathers are fastened in such a way
that they point backward, so that the hind edge of the wing is not stiff
like the front edge, but is flexible and bends at the least touch. As
the air is not a solid, but a gas, it has a tendency to slide out from
under the wing when this is driven downward, and of course it will do
this at the point where it can escape most easily. Since the front edge
of the wing is stiff and strong, it retains its hollow shape, and
prevents the air from sliding out in this direction, but the pressure of
the air is enough to bend up the thin, flexible ends of the feathers at
the hinder border of the wing, so the air makes its escape there, and
slides out backward and upward. The weight of the bird is all the time
pulling it down toward the earth; so, at the same time that the air
slides out upward and backward past the bent edge of the wing, the wing
itself, and with it the bird, slides forward and downward off from the
confined air. You will have a much better idea of this if you will cut
out a little paper model of a bird's wing and watch the way in which it
falls through the air.
[Illustration]
Take a sheet of stiff paper and cut it in the shape shown in the diagram
above, but considerably larger. Be very careful to have the two sides
alike, so that they shall balance each other. Now fold up the front
margin of each wing, along the dotted lines _a_, _a_, _a_, _a_, to form
a stiff rim to represent the rim of bone along the front edge of a
bird's wing, and cut out a small strip of wood, about as thick as a
match and twice as long, and run this through the two slits, _b_, _b_,
to represent the body of the bird. If you hold this model about three
feet from the ground, and allow it to fall gently, you will see that,
instead of falling straight to the ground, it will slide forward, and
strike the ground two or three feet ahead of you. It is really its
weight which causes it to do this, so that the statement that a bird
flies by its own weight is strictly true.
[Illustration: A SKILLFUL FLYER.]
This is true, also, of insects and bats. They all have wings with stiff
front edges, and flexible hind edges which bend and allow the air to
pass out, so that flying is nothing but sliding down a hill made of air.
A bird rises, then, by flapping its wings, and it flies by falling back
toward the earth and sliding forward at the same time. At the end of
each stroke of its wings it has raised itself enough to make up for the
distance it has fallen since the last stroke, and accordingly it stays
at the same height and moves forward in a seemingly straight line. But
if you watch the flight of those birds which flap their wings slowly,
such as the woodpecker, you can see them rise and fall, and will have no
trouble in seeing that their path is not really a straight line, but is
made up of curves; although most birds flap their wings so rapidly that
they have no time to fall through a space great enough to be seen. Birds
also make use of the wind to aid them in flight, and by holding their
wings inclined like a kite, so that the wind shall slide out under them,
they can sail great distances without flapping their wings at all. They
are supported, as a paper kite is, by the wind, which is continually
pushing against their wings, and sliding out backward and downward, thus
lifting or holding up the bird, and at the same time driving it forward.
The birds are not compelled to face the wind while they are sailing, but
by changing the position of the wings a little they can go in whatever
direction they wish, much as a boy changes his direction in skating by
leaning a little to one side or the other. Some birds are very skillful
at this kind of sailing, and can even remain stationary in the air for
some minutes when there is a strong wind; and they do this without
flapping their wings at all. It is a difficult thing to do, and no birds
except the most skillful flyers can manage it. Some hawks can do it, and
gulls and terns may often be seen practicing it when a gale of wind is
blowing, and they seem to take great delight in their power of flight.
Of all birds the albatross is the most skillful in the art of sailing in
the air. It is a large sea-bird, about the size of a swan, and has very
long and powerful wings. It lives far out upon the open ocean, hundreds
of miles from land, and spends nearly all of its life in the air, very
seldom alighting upon the water. It flies almost entirely by the aid of
the wind, and sometimes does not flap its wings for an hour at a time.
Albatrosses often follow a ship clear across the ocean, or, rather, they
keep company with the ship, for as they are able to fly one hundred
miles an hour with ease, the rate at which a ship travels is much too
slow for them; so they make long journeys ahead and behind, like a dog
taking a walk with his master, returning occasionally to the ship to
pick up any food which may have been thrown overboard.
NANCY CHIME.
BY S. SMITH.
[Illustration]
Untarnished by the breath of fame,
Untouched by prose or rhyme,
The world has never heard that name,--
The name of Nancy Chime.
Domestic, friend, and monitor,
She served us long and well;
Not many "helps" could equal her,
And none, perhaps, excel.
No evil lurked within her breast;
Her face was always bright;
Her trusty hands, scarce needing rest,
Were busy day and night.
Her voice was sweet as voice of birds
That to each other call;
And when she spoke, her striking words
Were listened to by all.
E'en Baby Bunting--darling boy,
The happiest of his race--
Would clap his little hands with joy,
And look up in her face.
But none can reach perfection here;
Like all beneath the sun,
She, too, could err, and her career
Was not a faultless one.
She only did, here let me tell,
Each day the best she could;
Would young folks all but do as well,
The world might soon grow good.
But all is past! Ah! cold that face!
That bosom throbs no more!
Oh! must another take her place,
And we our loss deplore?
Nay, nay, we could not bear the pain
Of losing one so true;--
Old Nancy Chime shall tick again,
And be as good as new.
HOW HE CAUGHT HIM.
[Illustration: HANS GETS A FIRST-RATE BITE.]
[Illustration: THEN HE CATCHES A FISH AND PULLS HIM OUT.]
[Illustration: HANS FINDS IT HARDER TO HOLD THE FISH THAN TO CATCH HIM.]
[Illustration: THEN HANS BEGINS TO WONDER WHETHER HE OR THE FISH IS
CAUGHT.]
[Illustration: THE FISH NOW CATCHES HANS AND PULLS HIM IN.]
[Illustration: HANS AND THE FISH AGREE TO STOP CATCHING EACH OTHER.]
WHO PUT OUT THE TEA-PARTY?
BY ELLEN FRANCES TERRY.
One day, when I was a small girl, my little sister Katy and I found in
the yard a dry-goods box, in which the new carpets had been sent home.
As usual, we ran to where grandma sat knitting and nodding:
"Oh, grandma, _mayn't_ we have it?" cried I.
"Yet hab it, dranma?" echoed Katy.
"You know we never had a baby-house."
"No, nebber had no baby-'ouse."
"Oh, say yes!"
"'Ay 'et!"
"Do, do!"
"Pede do!"
Then, before she knew what she was to do, or say, or what she never had
done, or said, we coaxed her to the back door and pointed to our
treasure. She couldn't refuse us, and the box was given to us.
John made us a card-board chimney, and cut a square window in either
end, for, of course, we set it on its feet, turning its back to the lane
against whose fence it stood, looking into the yard. Grandma gave us red
curtains for the windows, and a big striped apron, which hung across the
front and did for a door. We had to have a door, for, when we took tea,
the chickens came, without invitation, peeping inside, looking for
crumbs. And, seeing what looked like a party, down flew, with a whir and
rustle, a flock of doves, saying, "Coo-oo! how do-oo-do!" and prinking
themselves in our very faces. Yes, we really had too many of these
surprise-parties; for, another time, it was a wasp that came to tea, and
flew from me to Katy, and from Katy to me, till we flew, too, to hide
our heads in grandma's lap. Then she gave us the apron, which was very
grand, though the blue stripes were walking into the red ones, and there
were a good many little holes which let small arrows of light fly out.
That was when we lighted the chandelier, and they (the holes and the
arrows) were the very things to let people know what grand doings there
were inside.
Then, when our crockery was arranged on the shelf at the back, a stool
set in the middle for a table, our two small green chairs placed one at
either end, and a good many nails driven into the "walls" to serve as
hooks,--then we gave a party. The dolls were invited, of course, and
their invitations Katy wrote on her slate. To be sure, the letters
looked a good deal like Jack and Jill,--climbing up hill and tumbling
down again,--still the dolls understood us. There were no little girls
invited, because little girls couldn't have squeezed in, unless they
were willing to be hung up, like the extra dollies.
But oh! wouldn't they have liked to go? We had ice-cream, just made of
vanilla, cream-candy, and water,--delicious! Then there was a whole
tea-potful of chocolate-tea, which was a chocolate-cream drop scraped
fine and mixed with water. Do just try it sometime. Thimble-biscuits,
too, and holes with cookies round them. I never expect to be as happy
again as I was when I dropped the curtain at half-past four precisely,
and lighted the chandelier, which I forgot to say was a candle cut in
two, stuck in cologne-bottles of different shapes and colors.
We well knew--for didn't we go out twice to look?--how splendidly the
light streamed through the two windows and the eight holes. Why, the
chickens knew it, too, on their perches, for they opened one sleepy eye
after another, solemnly changed legs, and dozed off again. Those long
rays of light, playing truant, ran down the lane and flashed into the
very eyes of naughty Billy Quinn, who was going home from a visit,
whistling, and with his hands in his pockets.
Of course the dolls arrived promptly, and took off their shawls in the
best bedroom, which was that convenient shelf that was turned into
anything on short notice. The baby-dolls had to go early to bed under
the table, and you can imagine how much pleasanter it is to say,
"Bed-time, children!" than to have it said to you. Mrs. Green was a
perfect little Mrs. Herod in her treatment of her children. Indeed,
their yells under punishment were heart-rending; but when she was only
dear Katy she was tender as one of those cooing doves.
So we ate up the ice-cream, and turned the tea-pot upside down to
squeeze out the last drop of chocolate-tea. Mrs. Green was just doing
this very thing when the most dreadful event happened.
Crash!--bang!--clatter!--the whole world had turned upside down. Out
went the lights, and everything fell together in a dismal heap; but
whether up or down nobody could tell. There was a splash of cold, cold
water in my face as the wash-bowl and pitcher fell and crashed beside
me. Katy lay with her small nose buried in the butter-plate. _The house
had tumbled over!!_
For a few seconds not a sound was heard, but then there was a
half-stifled burst of laughter, which quickly died away as some thickly
shod feet scampered down the alley. Yes, the beautiful house was tipped
over, and the tea-party put out, as an extinguisher is slipped over a
candle, or a hat clapped upon a butterfly. Inside, there was a confused
heap, with legs uppermost,--table-legs, chair-legs, little legs clad in
white stockings, and, mixed hopelessly up with these, the dolls, the
dishes, the candles.
[Illustration: THE TEA-PARTY.]
This heap, however, was silent only for a moment. Then a feeble cry
struggled up through it,--a cry which, reaching the upper air, grew
loud, doubled itself, became two cries, and rushed out through a window,
which, having lost its way, was where the roof ought to be. Then growing
fast and shrill, the cry ran toward the house, waking up the Brown baby,
who at once joined in. The rooster waked suddenly, and feeling that
something had happened, thought it could do no harm to crow, and that
agitated his household to the last hen. Then to the cackling and
crowing, Beppo added a bark of duty, and nearly turned inside out,
tugging at his chain, and howling between times. The canary began his
scales, and the scream grew and grew and rushed into the house through
every door and window. Uncle John was reading the paper, but, hearing
the fearful uproar, he dashed into the yard, turned back the house with
one hand, with the other picked out from the heap of legs all the white
ones, and dragged us from the wreck of our residence. It was quickly
done, but not too soon, for a little flame, which was hiding under the
close mass of ruins, now hopped merrily up on the tarletan skirts of
Alice Isabella, the prettiest of the dolls.
While we were being taken to grandma to be cried over and comforted, and
the poor old house lay on its side forgotten, that flame finished off
poor dolly, ran up to the roof, ate up the red-striped curtain in the
twinkling of an eye, and, in fact, made short work of the whole thing.
We knew nothing of this that night, but were so honored and indulged as
to make us think everything else had turned a new leaf as well as the
house.
The next morning, grandma, coming into the breakfast-room, was called to
the window by Uncle John, who was looking at something in the yard.
There was a forlorn little figure sitting on a log among the charred
embers of the burnt house. It was I, sobbing as if my heart would break,
and beside me was Katy, who stood sadly by, trying with a corner of her
apron to dry my tears. But her eyes were wet, too, and in the fat arms
were squeezed a leg and shoe, which was all that was left of Alice
Isabella.
What wicked eye had watched the festivities through the window, or what
cruel heart had yielded to the temptation to turn over the house upon it
all, we never knew. I heard that Billy Quinn was punished that night for
coming home late to supper, and now, looking impartially at the matter
over all these years, I am inclined to think it was that very Billy
Quinn, and no other, who put out the tea-party.
THE FOX, THE MONKEY, AND THE PIG.
BY HOWARD PYLE.
[Illustration]
The fox, the monkey, and the pig were once inseparable companions. As
they were nearly always together, the fox's thefts so far reflected upon
his innocent associates, that they were all three held to be wicked
animals.
At length, the enemies of these three laid a snare, in a path they were
known to use.
The first that came to the trap was the pig. He viewed it with contempt,
and, to show his disdain of his enemies and his disregard for their
snare, he tried to walk through it with a lofty tread. He found he had
undervalued it, however, when, in spite of his struggles, he was caught
and strangled.
The next that came was the monkey. He inspected the trap carefully;
then, priding himself upon the skill and dexterity of his fingers, he
tried to pick it to pieces. In a moment of carelessness, however, he
became entangled, and soon met the fate of the unfortunate pig.
The last that came was the fox. He looked at the snare anxiously, from a
distance, and, approaching cautiously, soon made himself thoroughly
acquainted with its size and power. Then he cried, "Thus do I defeat the
machinations of my enemies!"--and, avoiding the trap altogether, by
leaping completely over it, he went on his way rejoicing.
DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER XIV.
The next day's newspapers, from the city, brought full accounts of the
stranding of the "Prudhomme," as well as of the safety of her passengers
and cargo; but they had nothing whatever to say about the performances
of the "Swallow." The yacht had been every bit as well handled as the
great steamship, but then she had got home safely, and she was such a
little thing, after all. Whatever excitement there had been in the
village died out as soon as it was known that the boys were safe; and
then, too, Mrs. Lee found time to "wonder wot Dab Kinzer means to do wid
all de money he done got for dem blue-fish."
Dab himself had been talking with Ford Foster and Frank Harley, and an
original idea of his own was beginning to take some sort of form in his
mind. He did not, as yet, mention it to any one, as he wanted very much
to consult with Ham Morris about it. As for Frank, Mr. Foster had
readily volunteered to visit the steamship office, in the city, when he
went over to business, next day, and do whatever might be needed with
reference to the young gentleman's baggage. At the same time, Mrs.
Foster wrote to her sister, Mrs. Hart, giving a full account of what had
happened, and saying she meant to keep Frank as Ford's guest for a
while.
The Hart boys hardly knew whether to submit or not, when that letter
came, as they had planned for themselves all sorts of rare fun with "the
young missionary" in their own home.
"Never mind, Fuz," said Joe, "we'll serve him out when we get to
Grantley."
"Yes," replied Fuz; "I'd just as lief not see too much of him before
that. He wont have any special claim on us if he doesn't go there from
our house."
Other talk they had together, and the tone of it promised very lively
times at Grantley Academy for the stranger from India. But while the
Hart boys were laying their plans for the future, they were themselves
the subjects of more than one discussion, for Ford Foster gave his two
friends the benefit of all he knew of his cousins.
"It's a good thing for you that the steamer didn't go ashore anywhere
near their house," he said to Frank Harley. "They're a pair of born
young wreckers. Just think of the tricks they played on my sister
Annie."
After that conversation, it was remarkable what daily care and attention
Dab Kinzer and Frank paid to their sparring lessons. It even exceeded
the pluck and perseverance with which Dab went to work at his French.
Plenty of fishing, bathing, riding, boxing. Three boys together can find
so much more to do than one can alone, and they made it four as often as
they could, for Dick Lee had proved himself the best kind of company.
Frank Harley's East Indian experience had made him very indifferent to
the mere question of color, and Ford Foster had too much manhood to
forget that long night of gale and fog and danger on board the
"Swallow."
It was only a day or so after the perilous "cruise" that Dab Kinzer met
his old playmate, Jenny Walters, just in the edge of the village.
"How well you look, Dabney!" remarked the sharp-tongued little lady.
"Drowning must agree with you."
"Yes," said Dab; "I like it."
"Do you know what a fuss they made over you when you were gone? I s'pose
they'd nothing else to do."
"Jenny!" suddenly exclaimed Dab, holding out his hand, "you mustn't
quarrel with me any more. Bill Lee told me about your coming down to the
landing. You may say anything you want to."
Jenny colored and bit her lip, and she would have given her bonnet to
know if Bill Lee had told Dab how very red her eyes were as she looked
down the inlet for some sign of the "Swallow." Something had to be said,
however, and she said it almost spitefully.
"I don't care, Dabney Kinzer. It did seem dreadful to think of you three
boys being drowned, and you, too, with your new clothes on.
Good-morning, Dab!"
"She's a right good girl, if she'd only show it," muttered Dab, as Jenny
tripped away; "but she isn't a bit like Annie Foster. How I do wish Ham
would come back!"
Time enough for that; and as the days went by, the Morris homestead
began to look less and less like its old self, and more and more like a
house made for people to live and be happy in. Mrs. Kinzer and her
daughters had now settled down into their new quarters as completely as
if they had never known any others, and it seemed to Dab, now and then,
as if they had taken almost too complete possession. His mother had her
room, as a matter of course, and a big one. There could be no objection
to that. Then another big one, of the very best, had to be set apart and
fitted up for Ham and Miranda on their return, and Dab delighted in
doing all in his power to make that room all it could be made. But,
then, Samantha had insisted on a separate domain, and Keziah and Pamela
imitated their elder sister to a fraction. The "guest-chamber" had to be
provided as well, or what would become of the good old Long Island
customs of hospitality?
[Illustration: THE FIRE (SEE PAGE 748.)]
Dab said nothing for a while, but one day, at dinner, just after the
arrival of a letter from Miranda announcing the speedy return of herself
and husband, he quietly remarked:
"Now I can't sleep in Ham's room any longer,--I suppose I'll have to go
out on the roof. I wont sleep in the garret or in the cellar."
"That'll be a good deal as Mrs. Morris says, when she comes," calmly
responded his mother.
"As Miranda says!" said Dab, with a long breath.
"Miranda?" gasped Samantha and her sisters.
"Yes, my dears, certainly," said their mother. "This is Mrs. Morris's
house, or her husband's,--not mine. All the arrangements I have made are
only temporary. She and Ham both have ideas and wills of their own. I've
only done the best I could for the time being."
The girls looked at one another in blank amazement over the idea of Mrs.
Kinzer being anything less than the mistress of any house she might
happen to be in, but Dabney laid down his knife and fork with:
"It's all right, then. If Ham and Miranda are to settle it, I think I'll
take the room Sam has now. You needn't take away your books, Sam. I may
want to read some of them or lend them to Annie. You and Kezi and Meli
had better take that upper room back. The smell of the paint's all gone
now, and there's three kinds of carpet on the floor."
"Dabney!" exclaimed Samantha, reproachfully, and with an appealing look
at her mother, who, however, said nothing on either side, and was a
woman of too much good sense to take any other view of the matter than
that she had announced.
Things were all running on smoothly and pleasantly before dinner was
over, but Dab's ideas of the way the house should be divided were likely
to result in some changes. Perhaps not exactly the ones he indicated,
but such as would give him a better choice than either the garret, the
cellar, or the roof. At all events, only three days would now intervene
before the arrival of the two travelers, and everything required for
their reception was pushed forward with all the energy Mrs. Kinzer could
bring to bear. She had promised Ham that his house should be ready for
him, and it was likely to be a good deal more "ready" than either he or
his wife had dreamed of.