[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
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VOL. II.--NO. 87. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 28, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration]
DEAR ME!
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
A grasshopper lay in the garden one day,
Near a cabbage--I mean cabbage-rose--
And his eyes had no snap, and his legs they were stiff,
And turned _very_ much up were his toes--
Dear me!
His funny, incurvated toes.
Along came a bird--Mrs. Sparrow her name--
And she paused and shook sadly her head,
And said, "_Once_ at hops none could beat you, but now
Even _I_ could--because you are dead--
Dear me!
Alas! you're doornailedly dead.
"But you shall not lie there unburied, for oft
Through the night have you sang loud and shrill,
And watched while I slept; so if nobody else
Will bury you, G. H., _I_ will--
Dear me!
'Tis a sad thing to do, but I will."
Wide she opened her mouth--he was gone in a trice--
Then she quietly hopped out of sight;
And the cabbage-rose laughed till half its leaves dropped,
As I think with good reason it might--
Dear me!
With the very best reason it might.
GEORGE STEPHENSON.--THE RAILROAD.
Swift as is the steamer, the rail-car is doubly and trebly swift. Some
trains in England run at the rate of seventy miles an hour. This is as
fast as a balloon moves through the air, or a storm wind. It is the most
rapid means of travel ever known among men, and it is only within the
past thirty or forty years that the railroad has reached this rapid rate
of speed. The engine used on the rail-car is smaller and more compact
than the machinery of the steamer. Its piston, crank, and boiler must
all be confined within a very limited space. It is the most wonderful
and elegant of all the labors of the mechanic. Small, low, almost
insignificant, it possesses a giant's strength, and may often be seen
rushing with its long train of cars along the banks of the Hudson or
over the New Jersey flats, swift as the wind.
Its inventor was Oliver Evans, an American, born at Newport, Delaware,
in 1775. In 1804, he built a steam-engine that ran on the road a mile
and a half to the Schuylkill River, where it was placed on a scow, and
made to work its own passage to Philadelphia. But the man who first
placed the locomotive on rails, and showed how it could be made to draw
a train of cars, was George Stephenson, an Englishman, born in 1781. His
father worked as fireman in a colliery. The son was brought up in
poverty, destined to a life of labor. He was a tall, stout, healthy boy,
industrious and sober. He had no education but what he gained at a night
school. Rough, scanty fare and constant toil were the companions of his
youth. But his mind was always active, and he was always inventing some
rare machine. He was a fireman at fifteen; he learned to make shoes; he
became a brakeman, and at last an engineer. He married at nineteen, but
was so poor that when his father fell into distress, and he had paid his
debts, he thought of emigrating to America, but was prevented by his
want of money. Had he succeeded we might have had no railroads and
engines for another century. He staid in England making clocks, engines,
and various machines, and found employment in James Watt's factory.
There he began to study the steam-engine. He lost no opportunity of
study and improvement. His remarkable intellect was eager to get
knowledge, and he became, when he was about forty, a well-known
engineer, and the maker of steam-engines. As early as 1812 he had
planned a railroad, and even built an imperfect locomotive, but many a
year was to pass before his plan could be carried out, and lines of
railway laid from city to city.
In 1812, Fulton's steamboats were running on the Hudson, and travel by
water was shortened. On land, the stage-coach went from Jersey City to
Philadelphia in a day, and the journey from New York to Boston was a
long one. In 1881 we go to Albany in four or five hours, and to Boston
in six or eight. If our railways were more firmly built, it would be
possible to reach Philadelphia in one hour, and Boston in two or three.
But when George Stephenson, the author of these wonders, proposed his
plan for a railway, he met with few to aid him. His locomotive of
1814--very imperfect, but a great improvement over that built by
Evans--was ten years afterward employed on a railway eight miles long at
Darlington. The railway succeeded, and the next step was to project one
to run from Liverpool, the famous sea-port, to Manchester, the centre of
manufactures. A huge bog or swamp, called Chat Moss, lay between the two
cities. It was thought impossible to build a track over its treacherous
surface; but Stephenson and his friends persevered, and at last, to the
wonder of the age, in 1830 a firm road, the first of the railways of any
importance, lay ready for use. But how was it possible to move a train
to so great a distance? The locomotives were still so imperfect that
they seemed almost worthless. Stephenson alone was able to overcome the
difficulty, and when in 1829 the directors proposed a prize of £500 for
the best and swiftest engines, he produced his Rocket.
The Rocket was the first of those wonderful machines that now almost run
around the globe. It was a small, imperfect, awkward locomotive; but it
was the first to prove successful. It is still kept for exhibition in
the museum at Kensington, London, as a memorial of the maker and his
work. Stephenson now set himself to improve and enlarge his engines and
railways. He became the founder of a new system of travel. He produced
new inventions constantly, and his great and powerful mind placed him at
the head of the railway interests of England. He grew famous and
wealthy, but was always honest, modest, and true. Nothing could be more
unpopular than his railways. They were called "nuisances" by respectable
lawyers. Every one foretold their failure. It was asserted that they
would soon be abandoned and fall to ruin. Some said they would starve
the poor, destroy canals, close the taverns, crush thousands in fearful
accidents, and cover the land with horror. It was, said others,
attempting a thing nature had forbidden, and on which Providence would
never smile. But Stephenson went on building railways. They proved very
profitable, and were soon adopted in Europe and America.
It is only fifty-one years since George Stephenson's Rocket began to run
from Liverpool to Manchester. Since that time the whole civilized world
has adopted his invention, and travels and traffics by its aid. The
locomotive climbs up the Andes in Peru, runs beneath the Alps at Mont
Cenis, is imitated in Japan, and mobbed in China. The Chinese recently
tore up a railway because they thought it the work of evil spirits.
Fifty years ago, English mobs threatened to destroy Stephenson's
railways, and his men worked under the protection of a guard. There are
now twenty thousand miles of railway in England alone, and eighty
thousand in the United States.
Stephenson lived until 1848, and died honored by his countrymen and all
the world as one of its chief benefactors. Like Watt and Fulton, he was
the son of a hard-working father. He inherited a clear mind. He educated
himself, going to school at night. He was never discouraged and never
repined. He never lived for money alone, but was chiefly anxious to be
useful to his fellow-men. Every one who sees the railway train rush by,
laden with food, goods, and passengers, should remember George
Stephenson. With Fulton and Watt and Evans he has made steam the most
potent servant of mankind.
OH, WHAT A DUCK!
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"Is that the duck, Joe Biddle? The little stone on top of the big one?"
"That's the duck. Do you s'pose you could hit him from here, and scare
him off his nest?"
"Nest? Why, it's bigger 'n a peck measure, and the stone on top isn't
bigger 'n my two fists."
"The big stone's the nest. You're the first fellow I ever knew that
didn't know duck. Guess you don't have much fun in the city. Charley
McGraw, Sid Wayne never played duck in all his life."
Sid blushed in spite of himself, for he found that he was being "looked
at" with a kind of wonder; but he had some help right away from Charley
McGraw.
"Well, maybe he didn't. But we wouldn't play it with such a rig as that
over in Putney."
"Putney!" sneered Bob Wilson.
"Over in Putney!" echoed Fred Babbitt. "What do they know about duck?"
"Go ahead with your ducks," responded Charley. "That one might about as
well have been nailed on. Why, it's flat-bottomed, and the nest is
a'most flat on top, and the duck-stones you've picked out ain't fit for
cobblestones."
"Missed him!" shouted Bill Eaton, as Mort Senter's duck-stone struck the
edge of the nest, and glanced away a few feet on the ground. In an
instant more Mort was standing by his duck-stone, with his hand out
toward it, waiting his chance to seize it and "run home" to the pitching
line. It was Bill Eaton's duck on the nest, and Fred Babbitt was
watching his own stone, almost under Bill's arm. Jake Potter was already
on a clean run home, without being "touched," having made his escape
while Bill was watching Mort Senter's throw.
[Illustration: PLAYING DUCK.--DRAWN BY S. G. MCCUTCHEON.]
"You see," said Joe Biddle, in pity for Sid's ignorance, "Bill Eaton
can't get his duck away and have another chance to pitch till it's
knocked off; and he can't then unless he grabs it, puts it back on the
nest, and touches another fellow that's made a miss before that fellow
can get away home. If one of 'em tries to take his duck-stone, though,
any time, and Bill can touch him before he gets in with it, then that
fellow has to be 'duck-tender' in Bill's place. Don't you see? Jake
Potter's just got away. Now he can throw again. It wouldn't take you
long to learn."
"Guess not," said Sid, confidently.
"Well, if you're going to stay here this summer, we'll teach you lots of
things. You'll know a good deal when you go home."
Sid was aching just then for a chance to speak of some other things he
felt sure the Rockville boys did not know, but Charley McGraw once more
got in ahead of him.
"Stay here! He'd better come over to Putney. We'd show him how to play
duck. We wouldn't teach him to use such a duck-stone as that, either."
"Do you mean mine?"
"Yes. Why, it's just ragged. Knocked it out of a stone wall, didn't you?
It's all corners."
"What do you want more'n that? Isn't it big enough?"
"Yes; only you fellows stand too near. A little nearer, and you could
poke the duck off its nest with a stick. Why don't you get some smooth
clean round stones that'll throw straight, and that'll just balance and
teter when they're ducks. Why don't you get a decent nest, with a smooth
round top, that a duck'll scare from easy? We don't do things in any
such way as that over in Putney."
The Rockville boys felt that there was something awful in being lectured
after such a fashion, right before Joe Biddle's city cousin. Just as if
they didn't know how to play duck!
Nevertheless, there sat Bill Eaton's duck, solid as ever, and twice as
ugly. Every duck stone that was pitched at it tumbled to the ground in
disgrace, and lay there with an increasing look of being unfit for its
business.
"I say, Charley McGraw," exclaimed Jake Potter at last, "where do you
Putney fellows get your duck-stones? Make 'em?"
"Wade for 'em in the creek. You've got as much creek as we have. 'Fraid
of getting your feet wet?"
"Boys," suddenly shouted Mort Senter, "tell you what. Let's leave Bill
Eaton to watch his duck, while we go down to the old hole and have a
swim. Get some new stones to pitch with. Lots of 'em there--smoothest
kind."
"Better get a new nest too," said Charley. "Get a good one."
"Well; and Bill he can stand there and watch the old one till somebody
comes along and knocks it off."
Bill had heard it all, in spite of his eager watching, and he had been
by that "nest" about as long as he cared to. So at that moment one of
his feet went straight for his despised "duck," and he came forward on a
run, and joined the rest of the boys.
"No you don't. I'm out of that. Let's get some ducks that won't stick as
if they were setting hens. I know a place, just above the old hole."
Every boy of them seemed to "know a place," somewhere down that way,
supplied with pebbles of marvellously perfect finish. It looked for all
the world as if they had studied the question all up before they heard
any news from Putney.
It did not take a very long walk to bring them from the vacant lot where
they had been playing, back of Snider's grocery, down to the bank of the
creek, and it was only a quarter of a crooked mile to the swimming hole.
The "creek" was a shallow stream where it was wide, and deep only where
the banks rose a little and squeezed it narrow, so that all you had to
do, for ordinary wading, was to roll up your trousers as far as they
would go; that is, for any boy over twelve who was not small for his
age. Any boy big enough to pitch a two-pound duck-stone for thirty feet
could wade for one in that creek almost anywhere. Very small boys would
have to keep near shore, and do their pitching with pebbles suited to
their own size.
"We use the biggest kind over in Putney," said Charley McGraw.
There was fun in wading, but under the rigid inspection of the
self-appointed teacher of the great game of duck the best pebbles of
that creek bottom were fished out only to be despised and thrown away.
"I've got one," shouted Sid Wayne, as he lifted a dripping arm just high
enough to let the water trickle down toward his neck, under his
rolled-up sleeve.
"That!" said Charley. "Well, now, that'll almost do. Some of our
fellows'd take that, if they couldn't find anything better."
"They'd have to hunt, then," said Joe Biddle. "Keep it, Sid."
Just at that moment Mort Senter was whispering to Jake Potter, slyly:
"Don't tell him, Jake. Pass it round. He's only a rod to go. Don't let
him know about the hole."
Charley was too busy over Sid's really remarkable duck-stone to take
note of the winks and nods and whispers that were firing off around him,
and as soon as he discovered that there was no fault to be found with
the size, smoothness, roundness, or weight of Sid's pebble, he was again
wading on down stream.
"Sh, boys!"
Fred Babbitt was raising his hand as if warning somebody, when Charley
McGraw suddenly caught his breath with an astonished "Oh!" and went
clean under the water. He made hardly any splash; but in a moment more
his head came to the surface, and he recovered breath enough to ask, "I
say, boys, what's this?"
"Didn't we tell you we were going for a swim?" said Joe Biddle. "That's
the hole. It begins with an old rock, and it's ten feet deep. Best kind
of a hole."
"Better 'n' any thing you've got over in Putney," said Bill Eaton. "Why
didn't you wait and take your clothes off? We always do."
Charley was a good swimmer, and he was on his way to the shore before
they had said half they had to say about that hole, and the duck-stones
there were at the bottom of it. All the rest were on their way to the
bank, but they were a little careful about their footing until they got
there.
"Wring 'em out, Charley, and hang 'em up to dry while we're in," said
Bob Wilson. "I should hate to live in Putney, though, if that's the way
you fellows always go in swimming."
Charley's pluck was good, for he not only set his wet clothes a-drying,
but went right in again. It was first-rate swimming, and the search for
jewels of duck-stones went on at intervals, until a set had been
provided which it would have been hard to beat.
"Oh, but won't they pitch!"
"They'll just sit and teter."
"Scare off if they're touched."
The science of it was dawning on the Rockville boys, and when they
finally dressed for the back trip, their eyes were all around them for
the right kind of a "nest" for those ducks.
Charley McGraw got his wet clothes on, with some difficulty, and the
boys started toward home.
The right kind of a setting stone was discovered before they were half
way home, and the very weight of it suggested that the river-bank was as
good a place as any to try their hew pebbles.
"Besides," said Jake Potter, "it'll give Charley McGraw a chance to dry.
Hang your coat on the fence, Putney, and pitch your level best."
Sid Wayne went into the game with as much enthusiasm as anybody, but he
found that, for some reason, his duck-stone had more work to do as
"duck" than any other geological specimen in that crowd.
"If you spend the summer here," remarked Joe Biddle, "you'll know how to
play first-rate by the time you go home."
A STRANGE CAT-BIRD.
In the dear old cedar-tree that stands
Before my cottage door
A bird's' nest 'mid the top-most boughs
Has been a year or more;
And looking from my window, I
This morning chanced to see.
The queerest bird upon that nest
In that old cedar-tree.
For wings, an extra pair of legs
He had; for feathers, fur:
For beak, a little pinkish nose;
And for a song, a purr.
A cat-bird he, but no cat-bird
That ever hopped or flew
Would own him as a brother-bird,
Or greet him with a mew.
But there he was upon the nest,
A-blinking in the sun,
And thinking to himself, no doubt.
"Oh! this is jolly fun."
And anything much cunninger
I'm sure could never be
Than that gray kitten playing bird
In our old cedar-tree.
[Illustration: A STRANGE CAT-BIRD.--DRAWN BY SOL EYTINGE, JUN.]
[Begun in No. 80 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, May 10.]
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," ETC.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Is that thunder?" cried Harry, starting up, and knocking his head
against the canvas.
"No; it's a gun," replied Charley. "There's a vessel in distress
somewhere near us."
As he spoke, the gun was fired again. "That was close by," exclaimed
Charley. "Boys, let's run across to the beach, and see if there's
anything to be seen."
It had stopped raining, but the boys were too excited to care whether it
rained or not. They hauled up the anchor, pushed the boat ashore with an
oar, and made their way rapidly across the meadow to the beach. It was
already beginning to grow light, and they could dimly make out the form
of a vessel stranded on the bar that lies a few rods distant from the
beach.
"There's a wreck, sure enough," said Charley.
"Can't we do anything to help the men?" asked Tom.
"I don't see how we can. If the coast patrol was here, they might do
something; but they don't patrol the beach in summer."
"Let's make a fire, anyhow," suggested Tom. "It may encourage them to
know there's somebody here, and besides it will keep us warm."
"I'll go back and get the matches," said Harry, "if you'll get some
wood. The fire may help the poor men to see where the shore is."
While he was gone, the rest hunted eagerly for fire-wood, of which they
collected a large pile, and soon a bright fire was blazing on the beach.
"We don't hear the gun any more," said Joe. "That must be because they
see us."
"Or else because they can't fire it any more. They must all be in the
rigging now, trying to keep from being washed overboard. They probably
fired the gun before they struck on the bar," said Charley.
"Will they all be drowned?" asked Tom.
"They will, unless the wind and the sea go down very soon," answered
Charley. "No vessel can hold together long on that bar in such weather
as this."
"There's a light!" exclaimed Joe. "Somebody is coming this way."
The light proved to be carried by one of a party of four men from the
mainland, who had heard the guns some time before the boys had heard
them, and who had rowed across the bay. They went to one of the
coast-patrol houses, which stood in a hollow sheltered by the
sand-hills, only a rod or two from where the boys had built their fire.
The boys followed them, anxious to lend their aid if they could be of
any service.
The house was full of ropes, life-buoys, and other apparatus, besides
two large boats. Into one of these the men threw coils of rope,
cork-jackets, rockets, and a quantity of articles of which the boys knew
neither the names nor the uses, and were about to run her out through
the open door, when the leader said: "Leave that boat here, and get out
that there mortar first. We can come back for the boat if we have to use
her."
There was a small mortar in one corner of the room, and the men
proceeded to drag it out. Charley spoke to the man who seemed to be in
command, and said, "If we can do anything, please let us know."
"You can help drag the mortar, if you want to," replied the patrolman,
"and one of you can build a fire in the stove in the next room. Take one
of them lanterns, and you'll find wood and shavings alongside the
stove."
Tom instantly volunteered to build the fire, although he was very
anxious to be on the beach. The other boys helped as best they could in
dragging the mortar, which was soon planted close to the surf, and
opposite the wreck.
It had now grown so light that they could clearly make her out. She was
a large bark. The crew could be seen in the fore rigging, where they had
taken refuge. Her masts, with the exception of the foretop-gallant-mast,
were still standing; but as the sea was making a clear breach over her,
it was not to be expected that she would hold together long.
The mortar was loaded with a shot, to which a thin cord was attached. It
was hoped that the shot would pass over the vessel, so that the crew
could get hold of the cord, and that communication between the wreck and
the shore could thus be established. The shot, however, fell short, and
a second trial only made it more certain that the mortar would not throw
a shot the required distance, against the wind.
"It's no good," said the patrolman. "If the government won't give us a
mortar big enough to carry five rods, we can't be expected to work
miracles. Come on, men, and get out the boat. We'll have her on the
beach, though I don't believe we can do much with her."
Everybody went back to the house.
"We'll want all you boys to help this time," said the Captain of the
coast-guard, for such he proved to be. "It's hard work dragging a boat
through the sand."
Tom's fire was now blazing nicely, and he left it to lend a hand with
the boat. It was hard work until the loose, deep sand at the foot of the
sand-hills was passed, after which the boat was moved more easily, until
she was finally brought opposite the wreck.
"Now, men," said the Captain, "what do you say? Can we do it?"
"We can try," answered one of the men; "but I say, wait till daylight.
If that bark has held together so long as she has, she'll last an hour
longer, and by that time the sea may go down a little. Anyway, we'll
have light to work by."
"There ain't but four of us here," said another man. "I'm ready to
launch her whenever Captain Raynor gives the word; but we ought to have
another oar."
"Take me," said Charley. "I can pull an oar, and I've been drilled in
landing through the surf. It's a part of the navy drill now."
"Are you in the navy, young fellow?" asked the Captain.
"Yes, sir," replied Charley.
"You shall come along if we launch the boat. It's no fool's play,
though, you understand. Every man that gets into that boat takes his
life in his hand."
"I shouldn't offer to go if I didn't think I could do my duty with the
rest of you," replied Charley, "and I don't think my life is any more
precious than yours. Tell me what oar to pull, and you'll find that I
can obey orders."
"We'll be proud to have you along with us," exclaimed one of the men.
"If the rest of the Annapolis boys are like you, they're a good lot."
While they were waiting for daylight, the little party sat down by the
remains of the bonfire, and talked about the wrecked vessel.
"She's an Eyetalian, or something of that sort, by the looks of her,"
said the Captain. "Those fellows know about as much about navigation as
a canal-boatman. Now I'll bet that fellow didn't know where he was
within two hundred miles. Do you remember that Frenchman that came
ashore down by Fire Island light three years ago, and thought he was
steering all right for to enter Long Island Sound? So he was, if Long
Island hadn't happened to be in the way. John, how many men are there in
the rigging?--you've got the best eyes of any of us."
"I can count seven," answered the man.
"That ain't crew enough for her," said the Captain. "Some of them have
been washed overboard when she struck. There'll be more of the poor
chaps overboard before long. Look at that sea once. It buried her whole
hull."
"She won't stand many such seas," said the man who had been called John.
"What are you boys doing on the beach at this time in the morning?"
asked Captain Raynor. "Did you row across the bay?"
Charley told how he and the other boys happened to be in the
neighborhood of the wreck. The men listened with much interest, and
Charley was beginning to wonder how they could be interested in anything
but the fate of the unhappy men on board the wreck, when the Captain
rose up, and said:
"Well, there ain't no use in waiting. The sea ain't going down, and
we've got light enough. Now, men, if you're ready, get on your
cork-jackets, and we'll launch the boat."
Every one of the boat's crew, including Charley, put on cork
life-preservers, and then shoving the boat close to the surf, waited for
the order to launch her. Charley had been told to pull the oar next to
the stroke oar, and with one of the men was seated in the boat. The rest
of the crew stood with both hands on her gunwale.
[Illustration: CAPSIZING OF THE LIFE-BOAT.]
The Captain waited until he thought he saw a favorable chance.
"Now--away with her!" he cried, and the men, rushing into the surf with
the boat, leaped into her, and bent to their oars, while the Captain
managed the long steering oar. For a few moments they fought manfully
with the waves, and had nearly succeeded in getting through the
breakers, when a tremendous sea whirled the boat around, rolled her over
and over, and flung her violently on the beach. The men, who were, of
course, thrown out of her, luckily managed to reach the shore unhurt,
and Charley, to the great joy of his friends, was among them. The boat,
however, was so seriously damaged that it was out of the question to
think of trying to launch her a second time.
"You've had a narrow escape," said the Captain to Charley. "I didn't
much think we'd get through the breakers, but we had to try it."
"I'm none the worse for it," said Charley. "But there's another boat in
the house. Can't we launch that?"
"She's so heavy that we couldn't haul her down here without a team of
horses; and if we had her here, there ain't enough of us to launch her.
No, my boy; we've done all we can do. Our only chance now is that we may
fish some man out of the surf before he is drowned."
"There goes a fellow up the maintopmast-stay, Captain," called out one
of the men. "That foremast must be getting shaky."
A sailor was making his way along the maintopmast-stay with the agility
of a monkey. When he reached the topmast cross-trees, he stopped a
little while to rest, and then descended the rigging. Those on shore
watched him closely, wondering what could be his object. When he had
descended the main rigging as far as he dared to go on account of the
seas which were constantly washing over the bark, they saw him lean over
and catch the signal halyards, that were rove through the truck at the
royalmast-head. He cut the halyards, unrove them, made them up into a
coil, threw it over his shoulder, ascended to the cross-trees, and
sliding down the stay, went into the foretop.
"He's a-going to try to swim ashore," said the Captain.
But such was not the man's intention. He was presently seen to make the
end of the signal halyards fast to a billet of wood, which he threw into
the sea.
"That fellow's got some sense into him, if he is an Eyetalian,"
exclaimed Captain Raynor. "He's going to try to send us a line, and I
shouldn't wonder if he did it."
They watched closely for the billet of wood, and after a while saw it
tossing in the surf. Joining hands, the men formed a line, and waded out
until the foremost one caught the float, and with the help of the others
pulled it ashore.
Not a moment was lost in bending the end of a stout coil of rope to the
signal halyards. When this was done, the shipwrecked men all climbed
into the foretop, and hauled in the rope, making the end fast around the
head of the foremast. The shore end was then carried to the top of the
sand-hills, where it was securely anchored, and hauled taut. There was
now a strong rope connecting the bark with the shore, and at a good
height above the water.
Over this rope the shipwrecked crew made their way to the land. All of
them arrived safe, and they were immediately taken to the house, where
they warmed themselves by Tom's fire, while the patrolmen made hot
coffee for them, and then set about getting breakfast.
Not one of the rescued men could speak English, and little beyond the
fact that the bark was bound from Genoa to New York could be drawn from
them. They were, however, bright, cheerful fellows, and seemed full of
gratitude for their escape.
"Now after we've fed these men," said Captain Raynor, "we'll go down to
the bay, and help the boys step their mast. Boys, you've got to have
some breakfast with us. You've done about as much as we have, and the
government can afford to feed you."
The Captain kept his word, and after breakfast he and two of the men
went down to where the _Ghost_ was lying, and stepped the heavy mast.
Without their aid the boys would have been in an unpleasant predicament,
for they could not step the mast alone, and they did not want to row a
heavy sail-boat two miles across the bay. When the _Ghost_ was once more
ready to set sail, the patrolmen shook hands with the boys, wished them
a pleasant voyage, and told them how to steer to avoid the shallows in
the south side of the bay, and to reach the mouth of the creek which
connects the Great South Bay at Westhampton with Quantuck Bay, which
lies further east. The wind had gone down very much since sunrise, and
with a single reef in the mainsail, the _Ghost_ displayed her sailing
qualities to great advantage.
All that day the _Ghost_ was kept on her course, and at the end of the
afternoon she was moored to the shore within sight of the Westhampton
bridge, and very near the beach. It promised to be a beautiful moonlight
night, and had not the boys been tired out, they would have kept on, and
sailed until midnight. They felt, however, that they needed sleep, for
they had slept very little the preceding night. So, after a hearty
supper, they turned in, and were soon nearly asleep.
"Boys," said Joe, suddenly, "I can't go to sleep. I know I have done
wrong."
"What have you done, old fellow?" said Charley, rousing himself. "Let's
hear about it."
"I haven't been wet all day," answered Joe, solemnly.
"If you say another word, we'll get up and throw you overboard,"
exclaimed Harry.
After which there was silence in the cabin of the _Ghost_.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW THE CHILDREN CAUGHT SOME QUEER FISH.
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
"Oh, Uncle Harry, I've got another dog-fish!" shouted Charley Newton, as
he pulled in a small specimen of the genus _Squalidæ_.
"Keep on," laughed his uncle. "We'll soon have enough for dinner."
Harry Ferris had taken his nephews and niece out fishing on Long Island
Sound. They were a jolly party: there was Uncle Harry himself, who, to
use the language of one of his appreciative nephews, "had been
everywhere, and knew everything," Tom and Charley Newton, two fine boys
aged sixteen and fourteen, and Alice, their sister, a young lady of ten.
Charley had distinguished himself so far by catching only dog-fish, a
small species of shark.
"What do people call them dog-fish for?" asked Alice.
"I don't know," answered her uncle, "unless it is because they are so
tough that a dog can't eat them."
"How rough their skins are!--just like sand-paper," remarked Tom,
touching the fish Charley had just caught.
"The skins are sometimes used for making shagreen," said Uncle Harry.
And then added, in answer to an inquiring look from Alice: "Shagreen is
a sort of leather generally made from horses' or mules' hides. The
genuine article comes from Turkey, and is used for covering small boxes,
instrument cases, and the like; but the imitation made from sharks' hide
is almost as good for all practical purposes."
How much more he might have told them about shagreen I do not know, for
he was interrupted by Alice shouting, "Oh, Uncle Harry! what kind of
fish is this?" as she held up for his inspection a queer-looking fish of
a brownish color, with two pectoral fins of a size out of all proportion
to its body. She put it into a tub of water, and watched it as it folded
and opened its fins like fans. "Is it a flying-fish?" she asked.
"It is a sea-robin, Alice, sometimes known as a pig-fish," answered
Uncle Harry.
"Why is it called a sea-robin?" inquired Tom.
"On account of its fins, I suppose," answered Uncle Harry. "It is called
a pig-fish because it makes a noise like a pig." Then picking up the
fish, he tapped it lightly on its head. "Ugh, ugh, ugh," said the fish.
The children laughed, and begged Uncle Harry to make it repeat its
performance.
"What pretty eyes he has!" said Alice.
"Yes," chimed in Charley, "they are green, just like mamma's emerald."
"And what a funny flat square nose!" added Alice.
"A sort of a flat square circle, eh?" said Uncle Harry, mischievously.
"You know what I mean: its mouth is broader and its nose is not so round
as a black-fish," explained Alice.
"Do they make that noise when they are in the water?" asked Tom.
"Some species do. I have never heard these in the Sound make any noise
until they are caught. Sir John Richardson and Lieutenant White tell
strange stories about the noises made by these gurnards, as they are
called, and Baron von Humboldt says that the noise made by a school of
_Sciænoides_, which is the name of a branch of the same family
inhabiting the Indian Ocean, resembled a brass band. There are many
species of fishes nearly related to the sea-robin in different parts of
the world. One in the Mediterranean is called by the French the noisy
maigre; by the Italians, the corro, or crow. It makes a strange cooing
moan that can be heard to a depth of 150 feet. It is supposed that the
sounds of bells and singing which occasionally issue from the
Mediterranean, and which have given rise to so many legends about sunken
convents and the like, are produced by the corro. It was known as early
as the time of Aristotle, who mentions the _Choiros_, or pig-fish, as
inhabiting the river Clitor, and speaks of its power of emitting sounds.
A species in the Gulf of Mexico is called by the Spanish 'el soncador,'
and by the Americans the 'grunt.' The little ones are very playful, and
I have often watched them at their games of 'hide-and-seek,' or 'tag,'
and have landed them with a hook and line; but they made such appeals to
my compassion with their short quick groans of pain, and longer and more
plaintive ones begging for release, that I generally threw them back.
There are other kinds of fish that can make a noise as well as the genus
called by naturalists _Prionotus pilatus_, to which the sea-robin
belongs. Even the eel will squeak when caught, and the porpoise
sometimes grunts very much like the sea-robin. The drum-fish, too, which
makes a noise not unlike a drum. But here is another curious fellow," he
added, as he pulled in a small brown fish about as long as your finger.
"What is it, Uncle Harry?" asked Charley.
"It is a swell-fish, as it is called here. I do not know any other name
for it, but swell-fish is a very appropriate one."
"It looks like one of those New Orleans cigars that you used to have,"
said Tom.
Uncle Harry laughed, and turned it over.
"Old gold underneath," exclaimed Tom. "That fellow is gorgeous with his
seal-brown coat and old-gold vest; he is certainly a swell fish."
"That is not the reason that he is called so," said Uncle Harry. "You
would not believe he would take up as much room as the sea-robin. Look,"
he continued; and as he rubbed the rough under side of the fish, it
slowly began to expand and puff out with air, until, instead of a small
cigar-shaped fish, Uncle Harry held in his hand a ball as big as an
orange, with a head at one side and a tail at the other.
"It looks like an apple with a sardine for a core," said Charley.
The children laughed.
"Now watch," said Uncle Harry, as he tossed it into the tub.
"It's gone," said Alice and Charley at the same time.
"No, it has only shrunk again," said their uncle. "But I guess we had
better start for home. It is 'most supper-time, and if we don't get
home, your mamma will think that I have taken you off to be pirates."
As they skimmed over the water toward home, Tom asked, "Are there other
kinds of swell-fish in foreign waters?"
"I suppose so," said Uncle Harry. "While in Florida, I formed quite a
friendship with a pair of porcupine-fish that lived behind an old log.
They would eat worms from my hand, and would even allow me to take them
up, but as this was accompanied by an immense puffing up of their
bodies, I seldom attempted it."
"What became of them?" asked Alice.
"I do not know," answered Uncle Harry, with mock solemnity. "The
pleasantest friendships, like the pleasantest days, must come to an end,
and so our acquaintance was stopped short by my leaving for home, as
to-day's sport was."
The children reached home in time for supper, tired and happy; but,
hungry as they were, they could scarcely stop to eat, so eager were they
to tell mamma about the sea-robin and the wonderful swell-fish.
[Illustration: THE CLOWN'S AUDIENCE.]
ODIN'S FEAST AND BRAGI'S TALE.
A SCANDINAVIAN MYTH.
A great battle had been fought on earth, and Odin's feast was now
waiting in Valhalla to welcome Hakon, a brave Norwegian King, with many
other heroes who had been engaged in the war. Around the hall went the
war-god Tyr, polishing the shield-hung walls, and rehanging the coats of
mail. Great buckets of mead stood about, milked from the she-goat
Heidrun, which always browsed on the life-tree Igdrasil. Freya, Goddess
of Love, had woven wreaths for the approaching guests, while Heimdal,
the warder, standing at the gate, waited with his huge trumpet to
announce their arrival. At the head of the feast sat Odin, with Friga
his Queen, while around him were the gods and goddesses. The other seats
were filled by an immense host of warriors, among whom were Hakon's
eight brothers, who were overjoyed at his coming. Suddenly, at a loud
blast from Heimdal, the doors flew open, and in came the Battle-Maidens,
bearing the heroes on their shields. The place of honor was given to
Hakon, and when the rest were seated, the feast began. You may know
this was a merry scene. Beautiful maidens poured out the mead, while the
roasted boar Sachrimnir tasted very good after so much hard fighting on
earth. At last, Hakon remarked how happy they all were in Valhalla, and
Bragi (God of Song) answered that they had been so ever since the
punishment of Loki and his children. As Hakon knew nothing of the
matter, Odin promised that Tyr should tell the story after Bragi had
related the stealing of Iduna (Immortality), which showed how well Loki
deserved to be punished. All being quiet, Bragi began, while his wife,
Iduna, leaned over him:
"Once while Odin, Hoenir, and Loki were travelling, they saw some oxen
feeding, and being very hungry, killed one, but could not roast the
flesh, no matter how hot a fire they made. Soon they heard a strange
noise, and looking up, saw an enormous eagle perched on a tree close by.
"'If you will give me a share,' said the eagle, 'the flesh shall be
roasted fast enough.'
"On their agreeing to this, down flew the bird, and snatched a great
piece of the meat. Loki, enraged, seized a pole, and struck the eagle
over the back, thinking to kill him.
"It was no bird, however, but the fierce giant Thiassi in his eagle
disguise. Loki soon found this out, for while one end of the pole stuck
fast to the feathers, his hands were glued to the other. Away flew the
eagle-disguised giant, trailing Loki over mountains and forests, until,
almost bruised to death, he called for mercy. But Thiassi would not let
him go until he promised to bring Iduna and her apples to his castle.
Then Thiassi released him, and back Loki went to Asgard in a sad plight.
These apples that Thiassi desired so much were very rare; but Iduna had
a casket full, of which the gods ate to keep young. Finding the goddess,
Loki told her he had just seen better apples than hers in a forest near
by. Deceived by his word, she took her casket and went out to the wood
with him; but no sooner had they entered than down swooped Thiassi, and
catching up Iduna, flew off with her to Giant-land. The gods were
terrified by her loss; the apples gone, they were becoming gray-haired
and wrinkled, while the flowers withered and diseases appeared. They at
once held a council, and at length found out that Loki had done the
mischief. Threatening him with instant death if he failed, they ordered
him to bring back Iduna and her apples. Loki borrowed Freya's falcon
plumage, and hastening to Giant-land, found that Thiassi was away
fishing, while Iduna sat alone in the castle. Quickly changing her into
a nut, he flew back as fast as the wind with her between his claws.
"Just then home came Thiassi, who at once seized his eagle wings, and
gave chase. He sped like lightning, and soon gained on them, but the
gods, who were watching, laid huge bonfires on the walls. As soon as
Loki had flown over safely with the nut, they fired the piles. Now
Thiassi, being in full flight, could not stop in time, so his wings were
burned, and he fell among the gods, who immediately killed him. Thus
youth returned to Asgard, and the gods were saved."
STUDYING WASPS.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
We had a lecture at our place the other day, because our people wanted
to get even with the people of the next town, who had had a returned
missionary with a whole lot of idols the week before. The lecture was
all about wasps and beetles and such, and the lecturer had a magic
lantern and a microscope, and everything that was adapted to improve and
vitrify the infant mind, as our minister said when he introduced him. I
believe the lecturer was a wicked, bad man, who came to our place on
purpose to get me into trouble. Else why did he urge the boys to study
wasps, and tell us how to collect wasps' nests without getting stung?
The grown-up people thought it was all right, however, and Mr. Travers
said to me, "Listen to what the gentleman says, Jimmy, and improve your
mind with wasps."
Well, I thought I would do as I was told, especially as I knew of a
tremendous big wasps' nest under the eaves of our barn. I got a ladder
and a lantern the very night after the lecture, and prepared to study
wasps. The lecturer said that the way to do was to wait till the wasps
go to bed, and then to creep up to their nest with a piece of thin paper
all covered with wet mucilage, and to clap it right over the door of the
nest. Of course the wasps can't get out when they wake up in the
morning, and you can take the nest and hang it up in your room; and
after two or three days, when you open the nest and let the wasps out,
and feed them with powdered sugar, they'll be so tame and grateful that
they'll never think of stinging you, and you can study them all day
long, and learn lots of useful lessons. Now is it probable that any real
good man would put a boy up to any such nonsense as this? It's my belief
that the lecturer was hired by somebody to come and entice all our boys
to get themselves stung.
As I was saying, I got a ladder and a lantern, and a piece of paper
covered with mucilage, and after dark I climbed up to the wasps' nest,
and stopped up the door, and then brought the nest down in my hand. I
was going to carry it up to my room, but just then mother called me; so
I put the nest under the seat of our carriage, and went into the house,
where I was put to bed for having taken the lantern out to the barn; and
the next morning I forgot all about the nest.
I forgot it because I was invited to go on a picnic with Mr. Travers and
my sister Sue and a whole lot of people, and any fellow would have
forgot it if he had been in my place. Mr. Travers borrowed father's
carriage, and he and Sue were to sit on the back seat, and Mr. Travers's
aunt, who is pretty old and cross, was to sit on the front seat with Dr.
Jones, the new minister, and I was to sit with the driver. We all
started about nine o'clock, and a big basket of provisions was crowded
into the carriage between everybody's feet.
We hadn't gone mornamile when Mr. Travers cries out: "My good gracious!
Sue, I've run an awful pin into my leg. Why can't you girls be more
careful about pins?" Sue replied that she hadn't any pins where they
could run into anybody, and was going to say something more, when she
screamed as if she was killed, and began to jump up and down and shake
herself. Just then Dr. Jones jumped about two feet straight into the
air, and said, "Oh my!" and Miss Travers took to screaming, "Fire!
murder! help!" and slapping herself in a way that was quite awful. I
began to think they were all going crazy, when all of a sudden I
remembered the wasps' nest.
Somehow the wasps had got out of the nest, and were exploring all over
the carriage. The driver stopped the horses to see what was the matter,
and turned pale with fright when he saw Dr. Jones catch the basket of
provisions and throw it out of the carriage, and then jump straight into
it. Then Mr. Travers and his aunt and Sue all came flying out together,
and were all mixed up with Dr. Jones and the provisions on the side of
the road. They didn't stop long, however, for the wasps were looking for
them; so they got up and rushed for the river, and went into it as if
they were going to drown themselves--only it wasn't more than two feet
deep.
George--he's the driver--was beginning to ask, "Is thishyer some
swimmin' match that's goin' on?" when a wasp hit him on the neck, and
another hit me on the cheek. We left that carriage in a hurry, and I
never stopped till I got to my room and rolled myself up in the
bedclothes. All the wasps followed me, so that Mr. Travers and Sue and
the rest of them were left in peace, and might have gone to the picnic,
only they felt as if they must come home for arnica, and, besides, the
horses had run away, though they were caught afterward, and didn't break
anything.
This was all because that lecturer advised me to study wasps. I followed
his directions, and it wasn't my fault that the wasps began to study Mr.
Travers and his aunt, and Sue and Dr. Jones, and me and George. But
father, when he was told about it, said that my "conduct was such," and
the only thing that saved me was that my legs were stung all over, and
father said he didn't have the heart to do any more to them with a
switch.
AUNT RUTH'S TEMPTATION.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
CHAPTER I.
If you don't know Aunt Ruth, I can scarcely expect you to understand
just how lovely she is: the most unselfish, good-humored of women. She
is not very tall, but there seems to me something queen-like in her
manner. She is very pretty, but the charm of her face is its sweetness.
When she smiles, her eyes grow very tender; when she is serious, a look
comes into them of a peace I can not describe.
Aunt Ruth lives in a big old-fashioned house in the country, at which
her many nieces and nephews are always welcome, and all the country
people adore her. Though there is so much of what papa calls
_personality_ about her, yet she never seems to be thinking of herself,
i and one day when the girls and I were clustering about her in her own
sitting-room, I exclaimed: "Aunt Ruth, do you ever think about
_yourself_ for one moment? You seem just made for other people."
Now a sudden strange look came into Aunt Ruth's face. It was not pain
exactly, but of some recollection that seemed to grieve her for a moment
even as she smiled. I know Aunt Ruth thinks me rather the spoiled child
of her little circle of nieces, and when she looked at me and smiled,
and said, "Why, Kitty dear, we can make ourselves what we like, with
help," I felt a little conscience-stricken. I supposed I was lazy and
selfish; but how could Aunt Ruth know what it was to take care of three
little brothers and sisters; get up early in the morning to study; stay
in-doors, lovely June weather, sewing and patching and mending?
Everything came easily to Aunt Ruth that was for other people. Perhaps
she read my thoughts in my face. Her own brightened, and she said,
pleasantly: "Girls, I wonder if you would like to hear a story--a
chapter out of my own experience. I have often thought of telling it to
you."