Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 11. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 13, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JEANIE AND THE UMBRELLA.]
JEANIE LOWRIE, THE YOUNG IMMIGRANT.
BY MISS F. E. FRYATT.
It was early winter evening at Castle Garden, the scores of gas jets
that light the vast rotunda dimly showing the great hall deserted by all
the bustling throngs of the morning, save the few women and children
clustered around the glowing stove, and closely watched by the keen-eyed
officials who smoked and chatted within the railings near them.
Sitting apart from these, taking no notice of the gambols of the
children, was a wee lassie of perhaps eight summers, her round, childish
face drawn with trouble, and her great blue eyes brimful of tears. She
was evidently expecting somebody, for her gaze was fixed on the door
beyond, which seemed never to open.
It was little Jeanie Lowrie waiting for her grandfather's return. Old
Sandy Lowrie, thinking to take advantage of their stay overnight in New
York to visit his foster-son, who had left Scotland for America when a
lad, had gone out in the afternoon into the great city, bidding Jeanie
carefully guard their small luggage--a few treasures tied up in a silken
kerchief, and Granny's precious umbrella, which was a sort of heirloom
in the family.
While the great crowd surged to and fro, and the winter sunlight flooded
the room, Jeanie had been content to watch and wait, half pleased and
half frightened at the shouts and noises that fill the place on steamer
day; but when the men, women, and children all went away, by twos and
threes, save a few, and silence came with the increasing darkness, and
the dim gas jets were lighted overhead, her heart, oppressed by a
thousand fears, sunk within her, and she fell to sobbing bitterly.
Now there were not wanting kind hearts in the little groups around the
stove; for there was Mary Dennett, with her five laddies, going to join
her husband at the mines in Maryland; and Janet Brown, her neighbor,
with her three rosy lassies; and Jessie Lawson, with her wee Davie; and
not one of these three would see a child suffering without offering
consolation. Kind Janet soon had her folded in motherly arms in spite of
the bundle and the great umbrella, which the lassie stoutly refused to
part with for a moment; and Mary Dennett, crossing over to the counter
on the far side of the room, bought her cakes and apples; while the
children, not to be outdone, made shy endeavors to beguile her into
their innocent play.
But to each and all of these Jeanie turned a deaf ear, moaning
constantly: "I want my ain, ain gran'daddie; he hae gaun awa', an' left
me alane. Oh, gran'daddie, cam back to your Jeanie!"
The evening wore on into night, and still no Sandy came to comfort
Jeanie; but there came that great consoler, sleep. Soon she slumbered in
Janet's arms, and the kind soul, fearing to waken her, held her there
till the beds for the little company were spread on the floor; then she
laid Jeanie tenderly down, with her treasures still clasped in her arms,
and covering her, stooped to print a warm kiss on the round tear-stained
cheek, not forgetting to breathe a prayer for the missing Sandy's safe
return.
The snow glistened on the walks and grass-plats of the park without; the
wind roared down the streets and whistled among the bare branches of the
trees, and rushing along, heaped up the waters in huge billows, dashing
them against the great stone pier; men passed to and fro, but Sandy came
not, for far off in the great city he had lost his way.
In vain he had asked every one to tell him where his foster-son Alec
Deans lived. Meeting only laughter or rebuffs, he tried in the growing
darkness to find his way back to Castle Garden, but could not. No one
seemed to understand him, or cared to; so at last, worn out in mind and
body, he sunk down on the stone steps of a house, unable to proceed a
step further.
Bright and early the next morning at Castle Garden the women were roused
from their sleep, for the beds must be rolled up, and the place cleared
for the business of the day, and all must be ready for the early train.
In the confusion of preparing the children for breakfast and the
journey, the women had forgotten Jeanie for the time, till suddenly
Janet, spying her, with her bundle and her umbrella, standing and
casting troubled, wistful glances at the door, ran over and brought her
to where the women and children were drinking coffee from great cups,
and eating rolls of brown-bread and butter. Seating her in the midst of
them, she said, "Eat a bit o' the bannock, dearie. Gran'daddie will cam
back wi' a braw new bonnet for Jeanie, and then we'll a' gang awa' i'
the train togither."
"I dinna want a bonnet," cried Jeanie; "I on'y want gran'daddie."
"Dinna greet, bairnie; he'll no leave ye lang noo."
But the old man, contrary to their hopes, failed to appear, so there
rose a troubled consultation among the women regarding Jeanie. They had
all lived neighbors to the Lowries, a mile or so beyond the dike which
is a stone's-throw from the duke's palace, near Hamilton; the "gudemen"
of their families, hearing great reports of the mines in America, and
the times being hard for miners at home, had gone out to verify them,
Angus Lowrie among the rest. All four had prospered, and now sent for
their wives and bairnies. Young Lowrie, however, was doomed to the
bitter sorrow of never more seeing the bonny wife he had left behind
him, for a fever had carried her off in her prime; so that Jeanie, her
bairn, was left to the sole care of her grandfather, who loved her
tenderly, as the old are wont to love the young.
While the women were in the midst of their dilemma, half resolved to
carry off the "lane bairnie" privately, lest the officers should
interfere, the superintendent, seeing some trouble was afoot, came over
and soon settled the matter, for there was a law on the subject that he
was bound to obey.
But we are quite forgetting old Sandy all this time. Seeing that he was
lost, and there was no help for it, that he should sit down in the
particular spot he did was a peculiar stroke of good fortune, for it was
the very house he had been seeking, and what was most wonderful, just at
that moment the door above opened, and down came Alec Deans in time to
hear Sandy's faint cry, "God help my puir Jeanie!"
Alec Deans had not heard the dear Scottish accent in many a year, so
straightway that sound went to his very heart-strings, making them
thrill and tingle with a joy that was as suddenly turned to pain, when,
stooping down, he found the old man fallen back as one dead.
With little ado--for Sandy was small and thin--he lifted him bodily,
carried him up the steps, and rang a peal which soon brought his wife to
the door. Placing the old man on a sofa in the warm sitting-room where
the light fell on his poor, pale face, Alec Deans in a moment recognized
his foster-father, and set to work to restore him. The long stormy
passage, and the trials incident to emigrant life on shipboard, added to
the fatigue and fright of his night's wanderings, had so told on the old
man's feeble frame, that after much effort on the part of Alec Deans to
revive him, he could do no more than move restlessly, murmuring, "Puir
Jeanie! Puir wee bairnie Jeanie!"
Before he could well tell his story, the most of it became known to his
foster-son, for the Commissioners, finding he did not return to Castle
Garden, sending Jeanie weeping away to the Refuge on Ward's Island, and
notifying the police, advertised the missing man in the papers.
It was on the second day after Sandy's falling into such good hands that
Alec, reading the morning paper at his breakfast table, saw the
advertisement describing Sandy to the very Glengarry cap he wore on his
head when missing.
In short order he made his way to the Rotunda at Castle Garden, told the
old man's adventure, and obtained a permit to bring Jeanie away from the
Refuge.
There was an hour to spare before the little steamboat _Fidelity_ would
start for Ward's Island, so Alec, being a thoughtful man, employed it in
purchasing a pretty fur hat and tippet and some warm mittens, lest
Jeanie should suffer from cold, for it was a bitter day to sail down the
East River.
When Alec, arriving at his destination, was taken into the long
school-room, and saw the sad pale-faced little creatures bending wearily
over their lessons, stopping only to lift timid glances to his friendly
face, as if they would gladly pour out their little hearts to him, he
was filled with a great pity and a sharp regret that he could not take
the wee things away with him, and give them each the shelter of as happy
a home as that in which his own Phemie bloomed and flourished.
"Jeanie Lowrie, step this way; you are wanted," exclaimed a teacher.
Poor Jeanie, as she came reluctantly forward with downcast eyes, looked
as if she feared some new disaster. Pale and dejected, could this be the
blooming lassie who so short a time since parted with her grandfather?
"Jeanie," said Alec, softly, "I've come to take you to your gran'daddie.
Here's some warm things; put them on, and get ready."
"Oh, sir, may I gang awa' frae here to see my ain, ain gran'daddie once
mair?" cried the lassie, the glow of a great joy dawning on her pale
face and lighting her eyes.
"Yes, Jeanie," said Alec, brokenly, "home with my Phemie: he's there.
There, do not cry; the trouble is all over," said Alec, soothingly,
carrying her away in his arms, and trying to stay the sobs that
convulsed her small body.
Arrived at Castle Garden, a new surprise awaited him and Jeanie, for who
should be there, pacing up and down in his strong impatience to see the
bairnie, but Angus Lowrie. He had left his Southern cottage, which was
prepared for their arrival, and hastened on to know the fate of Sandy
and Jeanie. And now he had his darling in his strong arms, and so great
was his joy that he could do little but press her to his breast, then
hold her off and look into her eyes again and again, seeing mirrored
there the eyes of his girl-wife Elsie, whom he had loved with a love he
would bear to his grave.
And now they must hasten to the dear old father who had braved the
perils of the wintry deep that he might bring Elsie's one and only
treasure to her husband, little recking that, far away from kith and
kin, he should lay his old bones in a foreign land. If sorrow had had
power to steal the roses from Jeanie's cheek, joy planted new and fairer
ones there; and never did a brighter light dance in the blue eyes than
when, a little later, with a soft sound of rapture, she flung her arms
around Sandy's neck, crying, "My ain, ain gran'daddie, ye s'all never,
never leave me ony mair!" Jeanie's presence did more to set old Sandy on
his feet again than all the physic in the world; so in a few days the
happy trio were whirling off to the mining village in Maryland, where
they are living and prospering to-day.
LADY PRIMROSE.
BY FLETCHER READE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
"As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May."
It was a long, long time ago that it happened--so long, in fact, that
most people have forgotten all about it--but once upon a time, as the
old, old stories tell, there lived in the village of Hollowbush an old
woman and a little girl.
And other people lived there too; but that does not concern us. The old
woman, plain and brown and wrinkled though she was, was the wisest and
kindest old lady anywhere to be found, which is reason enough for her
being in the story; and as for the little girl, you have already guessed
that she is Lady Primrose; but how she came to be Lady Primrose is what
makes the story.
The village of Hollowbush was as pretty a place as you would care to
see--a quiet, quaint little town, where the grass ran up and down the
streets in a wild, free way it had, to which no one thought of
objecting; but as year after year went by, and the little girl who lived
there grew older without, unfortunately, growing wiser, she became so
tired of Hollowbush and its grass-grown streets that she was almost
ready to run away.
"If I were only rich," she was constantly saying to herself, "then I
might go where I chose."
Now it came to pass that one day in the merry spring-time, when the
world is so sweet and fragrant that you can hardly put your nose
out-of-doors without feeling as if you had tumbled head-foremost into a
huge bouquet, this little girl sat by the open window, wishing and
wishing with all her might that she were rich.
"For then," she said to herself, "I could have a diamond necklace; and
perhaps," she added, aloud, "I might have a jewelled coronet, like a
queen."
Just then the wise old woman of Hollowbush, who had the amiable
peculiarity of appearing just when people most needed her, stopped
before the window, and said, as she looked up at her young friend, "You
were wishing for a diamond necklace, my child. What would you do if I
should tell you of a country where diamonds are as plenty as flowers are
here?"
"What would I do?"--and the child laughed at the idea of there being but
one thing she could do.
"I would go to it at once, and fill my hands with the shining, beautiful
things. But you don't mean that there really is such a place," she
added, after a pause.
The old lady smiled, and said, "If you really love gems better than
anything else in the world, I can tell you where to find all and more
than all you want."
"That would be impossible," answered the child. "I could never have more
than enough. But what a beautiful country it must be! Do tell me where
to find it."
Still smiling, this wonderful old lady, who knew all manner of strange
secrets, called the child to her, and having whispered in her ear,
pointed in the direction of the woods just beyond the village.
The girl's face looked serious, as if she were perhaps a little
frightened at what the old lady had told her; but if she could get all
the jewels she wanted, it was worth more than one fright, she thought;
so off she started without a word.
The shy little blossoms that hide their faces from the sunlight grew
here and there in the woods.
White star-flowers and purple hepaticas nodded on their slender stems,
while the crimson and white wood-sorrel fairly ran wild, creeping in and
out through bush and brier, like a host of fairies in striped
petticoats.
"A nice place enough," said the child, tossing her head, "for those who
know of nothing better; but I can't stop to admire such simple things.
Gems and jewels are the only flowers I care for."
The shadows were growing longer and deeper all around her, for the sun
was almost down, and as she looked up through the trees she could see
the pale face of the young moon peeping down at her through the
branches.
"Oh, if the wise old woman had only come with me!" said the child, in a
whisper. The shadows took on strange, ghostly shapes, and the tall
pine-trees, so high that their topmost branches seemed to rest against
the sky, sang softly and slowly and all together,
"Take care--take care--oh--oh--ough."
She had never realized before how full of sounds the stillness of the
deep woods may be, and it seemed to her as if the rustling of the leaves
and the singing of the wind were strange unearthly voices calling out to
her and warning her to go back. But in spite of the rustling leaves and
the mournful sighing of the pines the little girl hurried on. Perhaps,
just because of them, she hurried all the faster, for she felt quite
sure that she was nearing the place to which she had been directed. And
in a few moments she saw just before her the gray moss-grown rocks piled
one above another which the wise old woman of Hollowbush had described,
and heard far below the rushing and tumbling of a brook.
Surely I must have been deceived! she thought.
Here was no strange country sown with jewels, but simply a rocky ravine,
where ferns waved in the wind, clinging to the rocks, and catching the
spray from the water as it bubbled and hissed and fell in a snowy pool
below.
"This can't be the place," said the child, as she looked around; "but
while I am here I may as well see what it is."
So she clambered over the loose stones and decaying logs till she
reached the level of the stream, and there, strangely enough, scattered
among broken bits of granite, were small bright stones of a deep
wine-color. "These are not diamonds," she said to herself, "but they are
too pretty to lie neglected here, whatever they may be."
She gathered them one by one, tying her handkerchief into four knots at
the corners for a basket; and so absorbed was she that she had quite
forgotten the weird shadows and the strange noises in the wood, until
she was startled by a voice close beside her.
Her heart gave a sudden bound, as if it were going to jump away from her
without so much as saying by your leave, and turning quickly, she saw,
not the old woman--although the voice had sounded curiously like
hers--but a quaint pale-faced little man, with small faded-looking blue
eyes that blinked in the moonlight as if the brightest of June-day suns
had been shining upon him.
[Illustration: "SO YOU ARE FOND OF GEMS, MY LITTLE MAIDEN?"]
"So you are fond of gems, my little maiden?" said the small man, in a
small thin voice, winking and blinking good-naturedly as he spoke.
The child stood staring at her companion, too much astonished to answer
him a word, for she, nor you, nor I, I believe, had ever seen such a
curious being before. He was so small that she could have tucked him
under her arm and run away with him, but his pale blue eyes had a
strange light in them, like nothing seen above the ground, and she might
have gone on staring at him from that day to this if her handkerchief
had not slipped from her fingers, letting her stones roll here and there
over the ground, whereupon she uttered a low cry of disappointment.
"Oh, never mind those," said the little man, smiling; "they are nothing
but garnets. Just come with me, and I will show you stones a thousand
times more beautiful."
"So you live in the country where gems grow instead of flowers?" said
the child, recovering her voice and her self-possession at the same
time.
"Yes," he answered; "I am the keeper of the gate, and if you will come
with me, I will show you more beautiful things than any you ever dreamed
of."
This invitation was just what the child wanted, and she followed the
gate-keeper without another word.
What a strange place it was, this country of his into which he was
leading her! It was so dark that she could see nothing but gleaming
lights shining through the darkness, red and yellow and green and
crimson, like tiny magic lanterns hung at intervals high above her head
against the wall.
She began to perceive that they were going deep down under the earth,
and she shivered, partly with cold and partly with fear, as she stepped
carefully and slowly over the uneven path down which she and her guide
were descending.
"Is it far we have to go?" she asked at length, rather timidly.
"Oh no," answered her companion. "This is simply a long corridor that
runs through the base of the hills, but we have almost reached the end
of it. In a few moments I shall lead you into the presence-chamber of
the king."
"The king!" echoed the child, hardly knowing whether to be frightened or
pleased. "And am I to go before a king?"
"Yes, yes," laughed the little man. "You don't suppose we are a people
without a king?"
As he spoke he knocked three times against the wall, and a voice from
within called out, "Who's there? who's there? who's there?"
"Aleck the gate-keeper," answered her companion, and immediately a door
flew open.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
WILD-BOAR HUNTING IN JAPAN.
BY WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS.
[Illustration: SPEARING A WILD BOAR.--FROM AN ORIGINAL JAPANESE
DRAWING.]
Winter is the harvest-time of the Japanese hunter. The snow-covered
ground is a great tell-tale, and the deer, bears, rabbits, and wild hogs
can be easily tracked. Though the Japanese hunter often uses a matchlock
or rifle, his favorite weapons are his long spear and short sword. He
covers his head with a helmet made of plaited straw, having a long flap
to protect his neck, and keep out the snow or rain. His feet are shod
with a pair of sandals made of rice straw, his baggy cotton trousers are
bound at the calves with a pair of straw leggings, and in wet weather he
puts on a grass rain cloak. To see a group of hunters stalking through
the forests in Japan, as I have often seen them, reminds one of bundles
of straw out on a tramp.
I once enjoyed a dinner of fresh boar-steak at the house of a famous
Japanese hunter named Nakano Kawachi, who lived in a village at the top
of a mountain, between the provinces of Omi and Echizen. I had been
travelling all the morning on snow-shoes through the forests of Echizen.
The snow was full of tracks of deer, hogs, rabbits, woodchucks, weasels,
martens, porcupines, monkeys, and ferrets. The hunters were out in
force, and their shouts made the forest ring with echoes. Our path lay
through a valley, with rocks on either side.
Just as we were within a mile of a village named Toné, a wild boar,
closely pressed by a man with a spear, rushed down through the woods,
and around a huge mass of rocks. The hunter, knowing every inch of the
ground, sprang round a shorter curve, and reached the path at the end of
the gully just as the boar at full trot leaped down. Levelling his long
weapon, with all his might he drove the blade with a terrific lunge
between the boar's ribs, just back of the heart. So great was the
impetus of the swift animal that the hunter was nearly taken off his
feet, while the boar turned a complete somersault. We expected to see
the blade of the lance snap, or the handle wrench off; but no, steel and
wood were too true. The boar struggled and rolled over the bloody snow,
but was helpless to get on his feet again. The hunter quietly drew out
the steel, wiped it with a bunch of dead leaves, and then, with equal
coolness, drew his sword and severed the jugular vein of the dying boar.
By this time the hunter's two sons, who had helped to start the animal
from his lair, came down the hill. Passing two strands of rope made of
rice straw around the carcass, they inserted a thick bamboo pole under
the withes. Then swinging the pole over their shoulders, they started
off on a dog-trot to the village, shouting as they went. We followed
them, and when near the village gate heard a bedlam of unearthly yells
and whoops of triumph from all the boys and girls of the village, who
were proud of their famous hunter. We had entered into conversation with
him, and learned that his name was Nakano Kawachi.
Our party, at the invitation of the hunter, entered his house, first
taking off our shoes. We all sat round the fire, which was in a great
square hearth in the middle of the floor, while the chimney was a gaping
black funnel in the ceiling. My party consisted of three of my students
from the government school of Fukui, my interpreter, a brave soldier
named Inouyé, and my body-servant Sahei. The six mountaineers with huge
wide snow-shoes, whom I hired for the size of their feet to beat a path
in the snow-drift for our party, remained outside with the villagers.
They, with their children, stood in crowds outside to catch a sight of
me, as they had never seen an American before.
Our host, first unstrapping his sword, carefully wiped and cleansed his
spear, which he stands on its iron butt in the corner. We all sit around
the fire, on which turnips and rice are boiling and omelet is frying.
All around the ceiling from the smoky rafters hang strings of large
dried persimmons, almost as sweet and luscious as figs. These we munch
while Nakano cuts tenderloin steaks from half the carcass of a boar
which he speared the day before. In a few moments seven hungry
travellers are watching the sputtering, sizzling boar-steak as it wafts
its appetizing odors everywhere, as it seems, but up the chimney.
"Is this the second wild hog you've speared this winter?" asks Iwabuchi,
the interpreter.
"No, your honor," answers Nakano; "the snow began to fall ten days ago,
and this is the eighth hog I have killed; but yesterday I speared my
first boar this winter."
"How long have you been a hunter?"
"Hai! your honor, ever since I was a boy. I speared my first hog when I
was fifteen."
"What do you do with the boar's tusks?"
"Hai! your honor, they are the most valuable part of the animal. I sell
them to an agent of an ivory-carving shop in Tokio, who comes through
these parts in the spring. The Tokio men carve nétsukés from them. They
are not as good as ivory, but they do for bimbo [poor men]. My own
nétsuké is of boar's tusk."
"Meshi shitaku" (rice is ready), cried the housewife, at this moment,
and conversation was suspended. A little table of lacquered wood a foot
square and four inches high was set before each man of our party. With
chopsticks for the rice and knives for the boar-steak, we partook of the
hunter's fare. The march of eight miles in the frosty air, plodding our
way through drifts, and stepping on snow-shoes, which furnished good
exercise for our legs, had made us ravenously hungry. When full, and all
had said "Mo yoroshio" (even enough) to the polite girls who waited on
us, we walked out to the front, where a gaping crowd gazed at the
American white-face, as if they were at Barnum's, and he was the
Tattooed Man. I rushed at them, pretending to catch the children, when
they scattered like sheep. In their fright they tumbled over each other,
until a dozen or more were sprawling on the snow or had tumbled
head-foremost in the drifts. A smile, and the distribution of some
sugared cakes of peas and barley, made them good friends again. After an
hour's rest we bade the hunter, the villagers, and our snow-shoe men
good-by, and resumed our journey in single file over the mountains to
Tokio.
SEEKING HIS FORTUNE.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
A boy sat whistling on a fence. He was a lad of twelve years, and worked
at all sorts of odd chores on the river farm, which sent most of its
produce down to the city on the barges which one sees on the Hudson
River, headed by little steam-tugs, and which are commonly called
"tows." This boy, Tom Van Wyck, was a poor boy, and worked hard; he did
not much care for the beautiful hills which encompassed the winding,
gleaming river, nor the fair and fertile fields beyond, but he had an
adventurous and daring spirit, which just now was working up in the
manner of yeast when it is pushing its way through the mass of unbaked
bread. All sorts of bubbles were bothering his brain, and foremost was
the wish to leave his country home, and go to the great city of which he
had heard so much, but about which he knew little. Aunt Maria, he was
sure, would never say "yes" to his project. She looked upon the city as
a great den of thieves, and she did not want Tom to go there; but he was
tired of being a farm hand, and thought it would be fine to stand behind
a counter, to wear kid gloves on a Sunday, to be able to buy good
broadcloth and shining boots--indeed, with one bound to be a merchant
prince whose grandeur should be the town talk.
He had not very clear ideas as to how all this was to be attained, but
he knew he could work hard; he had read how many a poor boy had
struggled up to fame, and he meant to try, anyhow. And now, as he sat on
the fence whistling, he was considering a plan of action. There was no
use in being too tender-hearted. He would have to leave Aunt Maria
without asking permission. True, the little red house by the hill was a
snug little home, and his aunt toiled hard to make it so; but would he
not come home to her with silks and diamonds which should so outshine
her best alpaca that it would only do for common use? Often down at the
dock he had talked with the men on the boats, but he knew none of them
other than as Jack and Bill. His proposed plan was to leave some night
quietly, get on a barge, go to the city, and secure work; then write
home to Aunt Maria, and make his peace with her. Perhaps if Aunt Maria
had known all these thoughts, she might have been less harsh when Tom
scolded about farm-work, and called it drudgery; but she had a scornful
way of sniffing at him and his ideas, which made Tom more and more close
and reserved. On this very day, when the momentous project was ripening,
she had said he was lazy, that "a rolling stone gathered no moss," that
the "boy was father to the man," and that if all he could do was to
whistle and whittle, he had better go over to Squire Green's and help
them shuck their corn.
"Shuck corn! In a week's or a month's time he'd show her what he could
do."
It was a clear October night, calm and beautiful, and Tom rose softly,
tied his best suit up in a bundle with a couple of shirts, took off his
shoes--he had not undressed--slipped down stairs, unfastened the door,
which, however, was only latched, and crept out into the moonlight. He
paused to count the few silver pieces in his little well-worn purse,
took one long look at the red house, and especially at the window where
little Jane's yellow head was oftenest to be seen--for Aunt Maria was
mother as well as aunt to these two motherless children--and away he
went. If he had any qualms of conscience, they were soon forgotten in
the excitement of the moment. The walk was not a long one to the
river-side, and he had made a right guess as to the time the night boat
would land. One by one a sleepy head appeared from the sheds as the boat
neared the wharf, but despite the moonlight, no one noticed him
particularly as he slipped stealthily on board, and to his great relief
the truck was soon shipped, the gang-plank drawn up, and the steamboat
making its white furrow through the sparkling water. He was too
wide-awake now to think of sleeping, and after paying his fare, sat down
to watch the progress of the boat. By-and-by the moon sank, and it was
dark; the chilly dawn soon came, and then long rows of sparkling lights
appeared; the tall spires of the town; the masts of the shipping; the
flitting ferry-boats, each with its green or scarlet blaze of lantern;
rows of house-tops; docks; wharves; flag-staffs; sheds. This, then, was
the great city of his hopes.
Now there was a stirring and calling; a rush of men to the work of
unlading; a heaving of ropes, winding of cables, shouts, curses, the
rattling of carts on the piers, the tinkle of bells on the cars, the
roar of escaping steam, the scream of whistles, and the foul smells of
garbage and bilge-water. He watched the men at their work, he saw the
passengers come out, with sleepy eyes and sodden faces, and take their
departure. He too must go--but where? He wandered off the pier in a
maze. Where should he go? what should he do in all this crowd of strange
faces? He was hungry, and stopped at an apple stand, where a woman in a
huge cap and plaid shawl sold him an apple and a molasses cake. He asked
her if she knew where he could get work.
"Shure an' I don't. It is hard enough to find it for my boy Jim, lettin'
alone sthrangers."
He went up to a man pitching boxes on a cart, and asked him the same
question.
"Be off, now! none of your nonsense with me," was the reply.
To a dozen he spoke, and with little variety in the replies.
This was somewhat disheartening, but of course he could not expect
success at once. He must keep up a stout heart, so on he walked. It was
a fine clear morning, but the air seemed to him heavy with bad odors,
and he had never seen such filth as lay in the streets before him. The
children looked wan and wizened and old, the grown people cross and
care-worn; but by-and-by the streets improved; he came to the region of
shops, where it was somewhat cleaner, and now every window attracted his
gaze. There was so much to look at that he forgot himself until hunger
again attacked him. One window was most inviting--raw oysters reposing
in their shells, boiled eggs, salad, strings of sausages, and a juicy
array of pies. He went in and asked the price of a dinner. "Fifty
cents," was the reply of a personage whose florid countenance and
well-oiled locks looked unctuous.
Tom glanced at his purse in a corner. It was all he possessed, so he
turned away. A little farther on was another window of the same sort,
only the pies looked drier, and the viands staler; and as an ornament,
flanked by beer bottles, was a queer, dwarfish-looking man built of
empty oyster shells. He peered into the shop, and looked so hungry, that
a man shouted at him in a manner that was not meant to be unkind, but
which startled him much: "Vat for you comes here, hey? Can you open
oyshters? Ve vant some one to open two or tree hundert; ve have one
supper here to-night--the 'Bavarian Brüders' meet. If you can do the
vork, you may have von goot sqvare meal." Tom hardly understood the man,
but the gestures aided him, and putting his bundle down, he set to work
on the cellar steps. Talk of farm-work being drudgery any more! In the
pure, sweet October air they were gathering apples for the cider-press
to-day. Tom remembered well what would have been his portion, as he sat
on the dirty cellar steps and pegged away with his oyster-knife. It took
him a long while to get the right touch, to clip off the muddy edge of
the shells, to pry into the bivalve without injury to the luscious
morsel within, and then to slip it into the big tin pail at hand. He got
a bad cut in the palm as he did it, but he bound it up with his
handkerchief, finished his score, and asked the man for his dinner.
"You tink I gif you von plate und knife und fork und napkin; no, go to
vork at the oyshters, und here is brod a blenty." So he had to take his
meal as he could get it on the cellar stairs, but he stowed away enough
to satisfy him before he again started on his travels. The food revived
his drooping spirits, and he made bold to ask more people for work. Some
shook their heads without a word; some said, "No, my boy," in a kind
sort of way that made a lump come in his throat; others told him to go
to the place assigned to evil spirits; and others again stared at him
and passed on. This was not very promising. It was now late in the day,
and he was far from the steamboat landing. He knew nobody, and was just
wondering where he should pass the night, when a boy with a box strung
by a leathern strap over his shoulder jostled him. He was a rough
fellow, about his own age, but there was a twinkle in his eye which
emboldened Tom to speak to him.
"Do you know where I can get any work to do?"
The boy put his fingers aside of his nose, winked violently, and made a
grimace, but said nothing.
"I'm in earnest," said Tom. "I want work badly."
"Yes, in my eye!" was the response, regarding Tom's more decent apparel.
"Oh, but I do. What is your trade?"
"Now see here, feller-citizen, if you've any idea of comin' on my beat,
I jist warn ye ye'd better git at once," and he shook his fist in Tom's
face to make the reply more emphatic.
"But I have not," said Tom, anxiously. "I only want work of some sort,
and a decent lodging. I'm just from the country, and don't know a soul
in this town; besides, I've hurt my hand, and it pains a good deal."
"Let's see. I'm a crack doctor on all the fellers' cuts."
Tom unbound his hand, and the youthful Æsculapius gazed at it with great
interest.
"That'll knock you up yet," was the comforting diagnosis, with a wise
shake of the head. "Bad place to git a cut. Jim Jones had one jist in
that spot, and it festered, and hurt him so he had to go to the
hospital."
"Pshaw!" said Tom.
"Ye'd better get yer granny to poultice it."
"I tell you I don't know a human being in this city, and I haven't an
idea where I am going to sleep to-night."
The boy surveyed him doubtfully.
"You might go to the station-house."
"Not if I know it," said Tom, whose visions of grandeur, though dimmer,
were not to be brought down so low.
"Then there's the Newsboys' Lodging-House."
"Could I get in there? But I don't know the way."
"Come along with me; I'll show yer. I sleep there most o' the time."
This was, indeed, unforeseen good fortune, and Tom embraced it heartily.
As they walked along, Tim got out of him his whole story; and when it
was finished, he said to him: "You were a big fool to leave a good home
and try your luck here. For one that swims, a hundred sinks. Why, half
the time I'm hungry, and the way we fellers gits knocked about is jist
awful."
They reached the Lodging-House, and Tom, with his companion's aid,
registered his name, got his ticket, and secured a bed. He was so tired
he could hardly speak, and the pain in his hand was increasing. In the
morning his friend had gone. The matron seeing his suffering dressed his
hand, and led him on to tell her who he was and what was his errand to
the city. Kindly and patiently, she pointed out to him the great wrong
of his beginning, the wickedness of leaving his aunt in ignorance of his
whereabouts, the mistake of supposing that it was an easy matter to work
one's way up from obscurity to places of trust and honor; that if his
endeavors were sanctioned by those in authority over him, and kind
friends were willing to assist him and procure him occupation, he yet
would find that it would only be by patient labor and constant effort
that he could maintain himself, and that larks ready cooked no longer
dropped into open mouths. All this and more came home to the sorrowful
Tom with great force, for the dirt and jargon of the city were to him
very distasteful. His castles were crumbling as he wended his way again
to the docks. It was a weary time he had to find the boat which would
carry him back, and it was with a grieved spirit that he found himself
again at the door of the little red house by the hill. Grieved and weary
and hungry, Aunt Maria, whose eyes were red with weeping, perceived him
to be, and with wonderful wisdom she kept down her questions, and
silently made him comfortable. Little Jane was full of curiosity, and
more than one neighbor put their heads in to have a word to say.
[Illustration: TOM TELLS THE STORY OF HIS DAY IN THE CITY.--DRAWN BY J.
HODGSON.]
A year afterward, as Tom, Ned Green, and Jonas were busy husking corn in
the calm stillness of the fall, when the stacks were all about them,
like Indian wigwams, and the stubble only of the golden pumpkins was
left in the field, and the beautiful river wound itself away in the
distance, bearing all kinds of craft, Tom told them about his day in the
city, and said he had concluded that the country was good enough for
him, and he meant to be a farmer all the days of his life.
A GREAT CATHEDRAL.
I remember well, when a child, hearing the Cathedral of St. Peter, in
Rome, spoken of as being so immense that I thought of an ideal cathedral
little less than a mountain in size, and the dome to be seen only as if
looking at the stars. When the real cathedral was seen, of course that
exaggerated idea had then long been tempered to something like the
reality. Yet it was not without a certain pleasure to find that to get a
good view, particularly of the dome, it was necessary for me to go from
it several miles--to the Pincian hill, or a terrace of the beautiful
Villa Doria-Pamfili. The latter view is one of the finest, as nothing
else of all Rome is seen. The cathedral stands on the site of Nero's
Circus, where many Christians were martyred, and where the Apostle Peter
is said to have been buried after his crucifixion. In the year 90 an
oratory was built there, and in 306 Emperor Constantine erected a
church. It was the grandest of that time, and exceeded in size all
existing cathedrals except two, yet was only half the size of the
present building.
This cathedral was begun in 1506, and after forty years all the
foundations were not built. Then Michael Angelo, though seventy-two
years old, was persuaded to be the architect. His predecessor had wasted
four years in making a model of the proposed edifice, at a great cost,
but he, with marvellous energy, completed his model in a fortnight.
Though the work went rapidly on, he knew he could not live to see his
cathedral finished, and he patiently made a wooden model of the great
dome of exact proportions. From this model his idea was carried out.
Twenty popes came and went, pressing the work to completion; eighteen
architects planned and replanned, and expended $100,000,000, brought
from the four quarters of the globe; and a hundred and fifty years
rolled around before St. Peter's was finished. Sixtus V. employed six
hundred men, night and day, ceaselessly at work upon the dome.
The cathedral was consecrated on the 18th of November, 1626, the
thirteen-hundredth anniversary of a similar rite in the first cathedral.
It covers 212,321 square feet of ground, nearly twice the area of the
next largest cathedral, that of Milan, which is a little larger than St.
Paul's, of London. Its length is about equal to two ordinary city
blocks, its width to that of a short block, and its total height that of
a long block, or a little less than the height of the Great Pyramid of
Egypt. The circumference of the base of the dome is such that two
hundred ten-year-old boys and girls clasped hand to hand would just
about stretch around it. The dome rests upon four buttresses, each
seventy feet thick, and above them runs a frieze carved in letters as
high as a man. Then, one above another, are four galleries, from the
lower one of which a fine view of the inside of the church can be had.
The little black things seen crawling on the pavement away down below
are grown men and women. The whole inside of the dome is of
mosaic-work, and set in this are mosaics of the evangelists--colossal
figures, you may know, as the pen which St. Luke holds is seven feet
long.
The roof of the cathedral is reached by means of an easy slope, up which
one could ride on a donkey. Emerging on the roof, all Rome is seen, the
country from the mountains, and the blue Mediterranean Sea in the
distance. The roof holds a number of small domes, and dwellings for the
workmen and custodians, who live there with their families. But stranger
still is a fountain fed from the rain caught upon the roof. There we
would be as high as the top of many church steeples, but away above us,
like a whole mountain, would rise the dome, with a little copper ball on
the summit. If our courage and knees did not fail us, we would ascend to
that ball by staircases between the internal and external walls of the
dome, and find it large enough to hold a score of persons.
So vast is the cathedral's interior that it has an atmosphere of its
own--in winter slowly losing the heat of the preceding summer, and in
summer slowly warming up for another winter. In cold weather the poor of
Rome go there for comfort, as a Roman winter sometimes brings frosty
days and ice. A traveller says he once saw a great sheet of ice around
the fountain before the cathedral, and some little Romans awkwardly
sliding on it. For the sake of doing what he never thought to do in
Rome, he took a slide with them. The mosaic pictures, statues, and
monuments are almost numberless, and the pavement of colored marble
stretches away from the doors like a large polished field. Formerly, on
Easter and June 28, the dome, façade, and the colonnades of the
cathedral were illumined in the early evening by the light of between
four and five thousand lamps. It was called the silver illumination, and
is described as having been very grand and delicate. Suddenly, on a
given signal, four hundred men, stationed at their posts, exchanged the
lamps for lighted pitch in iron pans fastened to the ribs of the dome.
Then the dome shone afar as a splendid flaming crown of light.
[Illustration: TIRED OUT.--DRAWN BY A. B. FROST.]
THE LYNX.
An ugly and savage member of the great cat family is the lynx, a
creature very numerous in Canada and in the wild forests of our most
northern States. It is found all over Northern Europe as well, and in
Germany and Switzerland; a smaller variety, called the swamp lynx, is
also an inhabitant of Persia, Syria, and some portions of Egypt.
The Canada lynx is a beast about three feet long, with a short stubbed
tail, and might easily be mistaken for a large wild-cat. Its fur, which
is short and very thick, and of a beautiful silver gray, is much used
for muffs, tippets, and fur trimming. The lynx is a cowardly beast, and
seldom attacks anything larger than hares, squirrels, and birds. It will
sometimes rob a sheep-fold, as the gentle and pretty lambs have no means
of defense against its terrible claws.
It is very much hunted for its valuable fur, and some years thousands of
these beautiful skins are sent to market. The ears are very curious,
having a tuft of bristling hair on the very point; indeed, this ear
ornament is a distinguishing characteristic of all the varieties of the
lynx tribe.
[Illustration: LYNX TREED BY DOGS.]
The large and powerful dogs which are found in Canada and the northern
portions of Michigan, Minnesota, and other border States, where they are
used as train dogs to drag the mail sledges over vast wastes of snow
during the winter, are natural enemies of the lynx, and pursue it
furiously through the snow-bound forests. Their loud barking often
warns the hunter before he himself catches sight of the game that the
desired prize is treed, and awaits its fate, with arched back and fur
bristling, after the manner of an enraged cat.
The Canada lynx is a very stupid beast, and easily trapped--a method of
catching it generally adopted by the Hudson Bay Company, as in this way
its beautiful fur is uninjured by bullets.
The European lynx is a much larger, stronger, and more ferocious beast
than its Canadian brother. Its great hairy paws are like those of the
lion and tiger, which, strange as it may seem, are also members of the
pussy-cat family. It lives in wild Siberian forests (where large numbers
of trappers subsist on the proceeds of its valuable fur), in Norway and
Sweden, in Switzerland, and also in other countries where wild forests
exist. Vast numbers roam through the steppes of Asia and the uninhabited
portions of the Eastern world.
So much is this creature dreaded in Switzerland for its depredations on
the flocks that the shepherds whose sheep feed on the mountain pastures
do all in their power to exterminate this cruel enemy of their fold, and
a prize is offered by the government for every one killed.
Driven by hunger, the European lynx will often attack deer and other
large animals. A story is told of a lynx in Norway which, much against
its will, was forced to take a furious ride on the back of a goat. The
winter had been very severe, and failing to find food in the forests and
rocky barrens, a young lynx spied a flock of goats feeding among the dry
stubble of a field. Giving a quick spring, it landed on the back of a
large goat, with the purpose of tearing open the arteries of its
neck--its method of killing large animals. But the goat, feeling its
unwelcome rider, set out at a gallop for the farm-yard, followed by the
whole herd, all bleating in concert. The claws of the lynx had become so
entangled in the heavy beard of its intended victim that escape was
impossible, and the farmer by a skillfully aimed shot put an end to its
life.
Patience is largely developed in the lynx. It will lie stretched out for
hours, on a branch of a tree, watching for its prey. If anything
approaches, it crouches and springs. Should the rabbit or bird escape,
the lynx never pursues, but slyly creeps back to its branch, and resumes
its patient watch.
When captured very young, lynxes may be tamed, and have been known to
live on friendly terms with domestic animals, such as dogs and cats. But
they are never healthy away from their native woods, and usually die in
a short time. Even in the wild state the lynx is short-lived, and is
said rarely to reach the age of fifteen years. In confinement the lynx
never thrives. Specimens kept in menageries never become friendly, but
grow sullen and suspicious. Spending the day in sleep, at night they
walk restlessly up and down their cage, giving vent to hideous howls
and yells.
The glistening, piercing eyes of the lynx were formerly the subject of
strange superstitions. In the days of Pliny it was known to the Romans
by the same name it still bears. Specimens were first brought to Rome
from Gaul (the country now called France), and so terrible was the
glaring eye that it was said to be able to look through a stone wall as
through glass, and to penetrate the darkest mysteries. Hence, no doubt,
the expression "lynx-eyed," which is so often used to indicate keen and
sharp watchfulness from which nothing can escape.
THE DEAD-LETTER OFFICE.
BY MRS. P. L. COLLINS.