Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 137. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 13, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
CAPTAIN BANNER'S LYNX.
BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.
[Illustration: THE DOGS HOLDING THE LYNX AT BAY.]
Captain Banner, of the Yellowbird Ranch, sat upon a flat hot rock,
half-way up a certain California hill-side, eating his luncheon. A few
feet from the Captain stood tethered his good horse Huckleberry, who had
no luncheon. No more had the three stout mongrel dogs who commonly ran
along with Captain Banner, when the straying off of some of his cattle
forced him to spend the day in getting at their whereabouts.
The dogs sat composedly on their haunches, two of them staring down into
the ravine below, and the other one, Poncho, with his tongue out,
watching every mouthful that the Captain took with much interest. But
his master was in anything but a good-humor. He had ridden since early
daylight, and not a single horned runaway had been sighted. No wonder he
was discouraged.
"Upon my word," he said to the group of dogs, tossing a bit of cheese
into Poncho's jaws, "you're a pretty set of brutes, I must say!
Stringing along all day after Huckleberry's heels, and no more good at
keeping a herd together or recovering it than--than greyhounds. Now if
any one of you had the least-- My good gracious!" he exclaimed, breaking
off, "what _is_ up?"
Before he had time for another syllable, away went the three dogs, heels
over head, down the hill, and into the ravine, leaping and barking like
mad creatures. One of them had suddenly caught a scent on the breeze; a
second later espied with his keen eye a large tawny animal stealthily
crossing the dried-up rivulet below. The trio were on full jump after it
at once, like four-legged tornadoes. It seemed to be springing and
dashing ahead of them like a beast resolved to get away at any price.
Captain Banner threw himself on Huckleberry, and clattered down after
the dogs and it.
The dogs gained ground. "After him, Poncho!" shouted the Captain,
wondering very much what "him" might stand for. All at once he heard a
violent snarl and a loud yelp of pain. Poncho, the black dog, was on his
back, struggling to regain his footing. Plainly the foe had bestowed a
rousing whack with his paw upon the nearest pursuer, as a caution to
come no closer. The chase, too, was slackened. The Captain came plunging
along on his horse just in time to see a curious picture.
Rising up from the furze a few yards beyond was another flat rock. Upon
that rock, with a thick thorn bush to defend him in the rear, half
crouched, half stood, a great California lynx, all muscle, pluck, and
grit, and seemingly full of fight from the end of his nose to the tip of
his thick tail. The three dogs, including Poncho, leaped and bounded
furiously around the rock, and barked with all their might and main; but
they warily kept quite out of the reach of a dazzling set of teeth and
enormous claws all displayed for action. The lynx remained compressed
into the smallest possible space, growling and sputtering, and
apparently contriving to look at each one of the three dogs at once.
There was no doubt about it; he was clearly master of the field.
"Shame on you!" cried Captain Banner; "and three of you, too! At him,
Turco; catch him by the throat, Poncho," he continued calling, while he
prepared his lasso. But though, inspired by these encouragements, Turco,
Poncho, and Red Jacket bayed and leaped up and about the lynx as if they
would part company with their stout legs entirely, the great cat raised
his thick paw and sputtered so savagely that all three beat a prudent
retreat.
"Steady, Huckleberry!" came the Captain's voice. The lasso was thrown.
Unluckily Huckleberry was nervous in such close relations to a lynx. He
whined and started, and not the lynx, but poor Poncho, was successfully
encircled by the flying noose, and rolled over, howling dismally and
half choked. Nevertheless, this episode changed the current of the
battle. The lynx realized that his enemy on horseback was more dangerous
than the dogs. He sprang up and bounded away amongst the brush. The two
free dogs tore after, and Captain Banner, hastily rescuing the gasping
Poncho, spurred on too, coming up to the next battle-ground just when as
close a rough-and-tumble fight as ever one could behold was under way.
The lynx had been overtaken. Turco had thrown himself upon him and
pulled him down, while Red Jacket also sprang to his companion's help.
But theirs was by no means the victory. The ground sloped considerably.
The lynx grappled with his antagonists, and dragged them with him in his
fall. The attacked and the attackers rolled down the ravine, an
undistinguishable mass of legs and bodies, howling, spitting, snarling,
and making the hair and fur fly to a degree that completely took away
the Captain's breath, and made him wonder in what sort of condition the
coveted skin would be when the struggle was over.
At one moment the lynx was under--now the dogs. Here leaped one of them,
torn and bleeding, while his brother gladiator was dragged further along
into the thicket, tugging to disengage himself from the gripping muscles
that were rending and strangling him. But Poncho, comparatively fresh
for a new onset, rushed up, and turned the tide of the fray. He fell
upon the lynx like a small-sized tiger. Turco was freed, and the lynx,
shaking off Poncho, gave a furious bound directly toward the Captain and
Huckleberry (it was hard to say which was the more excited by this
time), who were charging along well on the left. The lasso fell true at
this second cast, though it had been an extremely hasty throw. The cord
fell full over the furious creature's neck. It was taut in a second. The
lynx struggled and gurgled, but it was too late.
Keeping off Poncho and Turco with his whip, the Captain finished up the
enemy with the noose, and saved what was uninjured of his fine coat. Its
late owner measured some four feet as he lay stiff and still upon the
earth, so that the Captain as he rode back up the hill-side did not feel
that his time and the chase had been lost. Poncho, Turco, and Red Jacket
probably had their own private doubts about the matter, for one had lost
an ear, another had suffered a cruel gash in his shoulder, and all of
the trio were badly disfigured by scratches, bruises, and bites, and
limped along rather dolefully.
The lynx's skin adorned Captain Banner's wall for weeks after, until it
went with him up to San Pedro, and was converted into a goodly number of
hard dollars.
THE JUNE ROSES.
BY MARY D. BRINE.
Oh, the red roses, the pretty red roses,
That come with the June-time so fragrant and fair--
The sweet crimson roses that bud and that blossom
So joyously out in the soft summer air!
Under the hedges and over the hedges,
Out in the meadows, and down in the lane,
Blushing and blooming and clinging and nestling,
Grow the sweet roses again and again.
Beautiful, are they? But I have some fairer,
And, oh, so much sweeter! Look yonder, and see
The cluster of rose-buds, than none e'er grew rosier--
The freshest and daintiest of rose-buds for me.
The little white sun-bonnets--go, peep beneath them;
Mark the bright faces, where through the glad day
The breezes and sunbeams lay kisses in plenty,
And dimples and smiles chase each other in play.
Three little maidens so dainty and rosy,
Three little sun-bonnets all in a row,
Six little hands that are merrily twining
Crimson-red wreaths where the June roses grow.
Oh, how they welcome the bright smiling weather,
My little rose-buds that blossom for me!
And I tumble them out in the sunshine together,
And help them grow sweet as June roses should be.
THAT HORNETS' NEST.
BY CHARLEY GRAYSON.
Boys never have such splendid times anywhere as they do at their
grandfathers'. How some fellows get along the way they have to without
any grandfathers or grandmothers I never could make out. Just fancy
having no grandfather to go and see Christmas and Thanksgiving and
summer vacations! The fact is, a boy without any grandfather can't begin
to have half a good time.
Fathers and mothers are all very well, but, you see, as mother explained
the last time father had to whip us, they feel a responsibility. Now,
grandfathers and grandmothers haven't any such responsibility. They can
just give themselves up to being good-natured, and let a fellow have a
good time. If he turns out bad, you see, it ain't their fault, and they
don't have to worry about not having done their duty by him.
My grandfather lived just out of Blackridge, on a large farm. There was
an academy at Blackridge, and so mother sent me to live there for a
while and go to school; and Uncle Jerry's two boys, Ham and Mow (right
names Hamilton and Mowbray), lived there all the time, and Uncle Jerry
and Aunt Anna too, and we had just the best fun that ever any boys did
have: I don't mean Uncle Jerry and Aunt Anna; they didn't go in for fun,
you know. Uncle Jerry kept a store in the village, and Aunt Anna staid
in the kitchen with grandma.
We always had to behave ourselves, and never thought of doing things
without leave, for grandpa was not one of the kind to be disobeyed;
besides, we loved him too well for that. But he was always ready to let
us have a good time, and said that he liked to see boys enjoy themselves
when they did it in the right way.
Besides Ham and Mow, there were the Davis boys, about five miles off,
who went to the academy too; and once a week or so we spent the day with
them, or they came to spend it with us. Real good fellows, both of them;
and I think we liked the visit to them best, there were such lots of
things to do there. Mr. Davis, you see, was what grandpa called "a
progressive man"--I used to wonder what that meant, and say it over to
myself whenever I saw him--and he wanted Frank and George to understand
everything that was going on; and he used to get them all the improving
boys' books that came out, and they had a tool chest, and a
printing-press, and all kinds of drawing things, and the greatest lot of
scrap-books; and they collected stamps and coins, and taught us how; and
we used to make things when we went there, and Mr. Davis always gave a
prize for the best.
Mr. Davis's right name was "Hon. Charles M. Davis." I saw it on his
letters when the boys brought them from the Post-office, and they were
very proud of their father's name. He had been to Congress, people said,
and I used to wonder if this was as far off as the Cape of Good Hope.
Mrs. Davis used to train round (I don't mean that she acted bad) in a
real handsome dress mornings, and she smiled at us pleasantly, and said
that she liked boys, and hoped we wouldn't make her head _quite_ split
(Ham guessed there must be a big crack in it somewhere); and then she
went off, and we didn't see her again until dinner-time.
I used to get 'most sick then, because Mrs. Davis said she thought boys
could never have too much to eat; and she kept piling things on our
plates, and it wouldn't be polite to leave them; and I was the littlest,
and it really seemed as if I couldn't hold them all. Aunt Anna always
said that "visiting didn't agree with Phil"; but I went all the same.
This was the way we got there: grandpa would let us have a horse when it
wasn't too busy a day on the farm, and we all took turns in riding him.
It was prime fun, and gave each of us just about enough walking. There
was the one-mile mill, and Heckles's pasture, and the brook, and old
Mrs. Junkett's little red house, and lots of places, where the boy that
was on got off, and the next one took his turn; and we never quarrelled
about it, and always came back feeling just about as good as when we
started.
One morning in July we set off, expecting to have just the grandest kind
of a time. Mr. Davis had got the boys something new from the city, and
they wouldn't tell us what it was until we came. It was Saturday, of
course, and most amazingly hot. Kitty (that was the horse) did not care
about going very fast, and she crawled along with us, turn and turn,
till we got about a mile from Mr. Davis's.
"A hornets' nest!" shouted Mow, who had walked on ahead of Kitty. "Come
on, boys!"
"Stop," said Ham; "let's tie Kitty safely first."
So we led her to the shade of some trees on the edge of a piece of
woods, where she would be safe from the hornets, and tied her fast; then
off we went, full tilt, after Mow. He was staring up into a hollow tree,
where we could just see the hornets' nest, looking like a brown-paper
parcel full of holes--and a big fat one it was.
"There's millions in it," said he, as we came up; but he didn't mean
money, only hornets.
This pleased us very much; not that we were exactly fond of hornets, but
it made it more exciting. No matter what a boy is doing, he always has
to go for a hornets' nest when he sees it; and we never thought about
being warm or anything else, but just to send those hornets flying. We
could see a few of them crawling in and out, and hanging round their
paper house, and we meant to give them a hint that they'd been living in
that hollow tree about long enough.
The tree was quite low, and we got long sticks and went at them. We had
a lively time of it. The hornets came swarming out at us like ten
thousand red-hot locomotives, burning us everywhere at once, for they
stung us like fun; and we ran for dear life, and then came back and
hacked away at them, our faces blazing with heat, and perspiration
oozing from every pore. We took off our jackets at the beginning of the
fray, or there would not have been much of them left, for the hornets
were as mad as they could be, and so were we.
We kept it up for hours, never thinking how hot we were, or that it was
time to be hungry, and we got that nest pretty well demolished. When the
hornets were nearly gone, and there wasn't much of the nest to be seen,
three tired boys limped off rather lamely to Kitty's cool bower, and
throwing themselves down on the ground, fell fast asleep.
When they awoke, each looked at the other in great amazement. Ham's
upper lip was puffed 'way out, and one eye closed; Mow's nose looked
like a large pink potato: while as for me, the hornets seemed to have
attacked every feature I had. The lengthening shadows warned us that it
was supper-time, and with a puzzled feeling about our visit at the
Davises', we turned our highly ornamented faces homeward.
"What has happened?" cried grandma, as we came within sight of the
family gathered on the porch. "Do look at these boys!"
Of course every one looked at us; and as soon as they had settled what
was the matter, they made us look ten times worse than ever by daubing
our faces with mud.
We were rather afraid of punishment, at least by being sent supperless
to bed; and I think we never loved grandma so much as when, calling us
into the kitchen, she gave us one of the best suppers we ever had in our
lives.
All that was ever said to us was said by grandpa the next morning, with
a comical twist of his eye. "Boys, when you want another hornets' nest,
you needn't go quite so far after it. There's a splendid one over the
northeast end of the barn."
The Davises had a man with a wonderful magic lantern that day.
THE "PORTUGUESE MAN-OF-WAR."
BY SARAH COOPER.
Some one has probably imagined that this curious floating animal looks
like a Portuguese war vessel, and on that account has given to the
innocent and defenseless creature a name which seems to us very
inappropriate. We will not be dismayed, however, by a forbidding name,
for the graceful animal is not in the least warlike. I hope you may all
have the pleasure some day of seeing one floating over the sea like a
fairy vessel, not minding the winds or the storms. You will be delighted
with its beauty, and you will wonder how so frail a bark can withstand
the waves.
When we examine it we shall find it to be a transparent pear-shaped
bladder, about nine inches long, throwing off like a soap-bubble bright
blue colors tinged with green and crimson. On top of the bladder there
is a wavy rumpled crest of delicate pink. This may perhaps act as a
sail.
[Illustration: PORTUGUESE MAN-OF-WAR.]
From one end of the bottom hangs a large bunch of curious-looking,
bright-colored threads, and bags, and coiled tentacles which trail after
it. You will see these streamers in the picture, and you may be
surprised to learn that they are separate animals, forming a little
colony, and floated by the same bladder. Still, they are not entirely
distinct; they have various uses, and each contributes its share to the
good of the colony. Some produce eggs, some do the swimming, some do the
eating, and others are provided with lasso cells to procure food.
In such colonies of animals as this, the food which is taken by one
individual helps to nourish all the others. This is accomplished by the
circulation of fluids throughout the whole colony carrying nourishment
to each one.
In animals that are more highly developed we shall find these offices
performed by special parts of the same body. These different portions of
the body, which are set apart to perform certain duties, are called
organs. Thus we speak of the eye as the organ of sight, the ear as the
organ of hearing, etc.
The tentacles of the Portuguese man-of-war are more than twenty feet
long, yet they may be drawn up to within an inch of the bladder. It is
exceedingly interesting to watch them as they are drawn up and then let
down again. They are furnished with lasso cells, which not only wound
the prey, but sting bathers or any persons who come in contact with
them. Even after death the tentacles produce irritation when they are
touched.
These beautiful creatures are found in tropical seas. They are abundant
in the Gulf of Mexico, and they are often carried by the Gulf Stream
into Northern waters. Occasionally they drift upon our own shore. Do you
think you would recognize one floating on the ocean when you had not
expected to see it? If you should ever have one in your possession, do
not fail to dry it or keep it in alcohol, for although its delicate
beauty can not be preserved, it will still be interesting to those who
have never seen living ones.
One might suppose these animals were fond of society, since they float
together in large companies, which have been fancifully called fleets.
Travellers sometimes speak of meeting with them in great numbers,
studding the surface of the ocean, and composed of both large and small
animals, probably the young ones out sailing with their parents.
Shall I tell you a true story of a Portuguese man-of-war which was run
down and captured by an American vessel?
Not many years ago a party of summer visitors on the quaint island of
Martha's Vineyard, wishing to go to Gay Head, hired for the purpose a
little steam-tug, and started one morning in fine spirits. Gay Head, I
should tell you, is a promontory at the southwestern extremity of the
island, remarkable for the curious manner in which the layer's of
different-colored clays are deposited, making it look gay indeed. If you
should see it, you would think it had been properly named. For quite a
distance out at sea we may detect the distinct layers of black and white
clays, with bright red and many soft shades of gray and yellow clay
placed one above another, and all slanting from the top of the cliff at
one side to the bottom of the other side.
The merry little party on board the steam-tug were enjoying the quiet
waters and picturesque shores of Vineyard Sound, when a shrill cry from
the children, "Portuguese man-of-war!" brought the whole party to that
side of the boat in time to see the curious animal gliding past. It
seemed to move very fast, but that was a deception caused by the rapid
motion of the boat in the opposite direction.
Some of the party had a desire to catch the little thing floating so
gallantly on the great waters, and as the Captain was easily persuaded,
after a little delay the steamboat was turned about in its course, and
started in pursuit. Does it not strike you as an uneven race? The eager
company of men, women, and children, and the Captain too, and the pilot,
with the steam-engine at their bidding, all intent upon overtaking the
Portuguese man-of-war! So it appeared to some of those who were present,
and the capture seemed rather an ignominious one. One little girl
wondered how they had the heart to catch such a beautiful thing.
The little tug looked large and awkward as it came up beside the
graceful creature gliding over the waves without the slightest effort.
It seemed especially clumsy, as it had to back several times and make a
fresh attempt to get within reach of the animal without swamping it.
The water was so clear that the whole length of the tentacles could be
seen, and all on board were filled with admiration for the elegant form
and delicate colors of the creature whose fate was sealed.
There was at least one on board who wished it was possible to warn it of
its peril, and to suggest sinking in the water as its only means of
escape. But it seemed to scorn the thought of danger, and floated
proudly on right into the scoop-net that awaited it.
It was a moment of great excitement. The Portuguese man-of-war was
lifted carefully on board, and placed in a pail of sea-water, where each
one had an opportunity to examine it. The movement of its tentacles was
curious. At times some of them were drawn up so as scarcely to be seen,
then those were let down suddenly, and others drawn up; sometimes they
were all lowered to the bottom of the pail, and were curled and twisted
in a peculiar manner.
In lifting it from the water the tentacles hung so far over the edge of
the boat as to leave no doubt about their being fully twenty feet in
length. A gentleman lifted them into the pail with the handle of a
broom. He must have touched the lasso cells in some way, for,
notwithstanding his precaution, his hand was badly stung; the swelling
extended the whole length of his arm, and it soon became very painful.
The company examined some of the lasso cells with a microscope, and they
were surprised that such fine white threads could cause so much pain.
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
CHAPTER XI.
CHANGE OF PLANS.
Toby was thoroughly surprised, when he awoke, to find that it was
morning, and that his slumber had been as sweet as if nothing had
happened. He dressed himself as quickly as possible, and ran
down-stairs. Uncle Daniel told him the doctor had just left, after
saying he thought Abner would recover.
It was a sad visit that Toby paid Mr. Stubbs's brother that morning. The
tears came into his eyes when he thought of poor Abner, until he was
obliged to leave the monkey to himself, after having tied him so that he
could take a short run out-of-doors.
Then he visited the ponies in the stable, and when he returned to the
house he found all his partners in the circus enterprise, as well as
several other boys, waiting to hear an account of the accident.
Dr. Abbott had reported that Abner had been injured; but as he had not
given any particulars, the villagers were in a state of anxious
uncertainty regarding the accident.
After Toby had told them all he knew about the matter, and had allowed
them to see the monkey and the ponies, which some of them seemed to
regard as of more importance than the injured boy, Bob asked:
"Well, now, what about our circus?"
"Why, we can't do anything on that till Abner gets well," said Toby, as
if surprised that the matter should even be spoken about.
"Why not? He wasn't goin' to do any of the ridin', an' now's the time
for us to go ahead, while we can remember what they did at the show
yesterday. It don't make any difference 'bout our circus if he did get
hurt;" and Bob looked around at the others as if asking whether they
agreed with him or not.
"I think we ought to wait till he gets better," said Joe, "'cause he was
goin' in with us, an' it don't seem fair to have the show when he's so
sick."
"That's foolish," said Ben, with a sneer. "If he hadn't come up to the
pasture the other day you wouldn't have thought anything 'bout him, an'
he'd been out to the poor-farm, where he belongs now."
"If he hadn't come up there," said Toby, "I'd never known how lonesome
he was, an' I'd gone right on havin' a good time without ever once
thinkin' of him. An' if he hadn't come up there, perhaps he wouldn't
have got hurt, an' it seems almost as if I'd done it to him, 'cause I
took him to the circus."
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Toby Tyler!" and Ben Cushing spoke
almost angrily. "You act awful silly 'bout that feller, an' father says
he's only a pauper anyway."
"It wouldn't make any difference if he was, 'cause he's a poor lonesome
cripple; but he ain't a pauper, for old Ben's goin' to take care of him,
an' he pays Uncle Dan'l for lettin' him stay here."
This news was indeed surprising to the boys, and as they fully realized
that Abner was under the protection of a "circus man," he rose
considerably in their estimation.
They were anxious to know all about the matter, and when Toby had told
them all he could, they looked at the case in such an entirely different
light that Ben Cushing even offered to go out in the field, where he
could be seen from the windows of the room in which Abner lay, and go
through his entire acrobatic performance, in the hope the sight might do
the invalid some good. Leander Leighton also offered to come twice each
day and play "Yankee Doodle," with one finger, on the accordion, in
order to soothe him.
But Toby thought it best to decline both these generous offers; he was
glad they had been made, but would have been much better pleased if they
had come while it was still believed Abner's only home was the
poor-house.
When the boys went away, Toby pleaded so hard that Aunt Olive consented
to his sitting in the chamber where Abner lay, with the agreement that
he should make no noise; and there he remained nearly all the day, as
still as any mouse, watching the pale face on which death seemed already
to have set its imprint.
Each day for two weeks Toby remained on watch, leaving the room only
when it was necessary, and he was at last rewarded by hearing Abner call
him by name.
[Illustration: "MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER WAS BROUGHT IN."]
After that, Aunt Olive allowed the two boys to talk a little, and a few
days later Mr. Stubbs's brother was brought in to pay his respects to
the invalid.
Many times during Abner's illness had the boys been up to learn how he
was getting on, and had tried to persuade Toby to commence again the
preparations for the circus; but he had steadily refused to proceed
further in the matter until Abner could at least play the part of
spectator.
Uncle Daniel had had several letters from Ben inquiring about Abner's
condition; and as each one contained money, some of which had been sent
by the skeleton and his wife to "Toby Tyler's friend," the sick boy had
wanted for nothing. Ben had also written that he had gained the consent
of the proprietors of the circus to have the ponies driven for Abner's
benefit, and had sent a dainty little carriage and harness so that he
could ride out as soon as he was able.
Chandler Merrill had grown tired of waiting for his pony, and had taken
him from the pasture, while Reddy had long since returned the blind
horse to its owner.
But during all these five weeks the work of getting ready for the circus
had gone slowly but steadily on. Leander had become so expert a musician
on the accordion that he could play "Yankee Doodle" with all his
fingers, "Old Hundred" with two, and was fast mastering the intricacies
of "Old Dog Tray."
As to Ben Cushing, it would be hard to say exactly how much progress he
had made, the reports differed so. He claimed to be able to turn
hand-springs around the largest circus ring that was ever made, and to
stand on his head for a week; but some of the boys who were not partners
in the enterprise flatly contradicted this, and declared that they could
do as many feats in the acrobatic line as he could.
Joe Robinson had practiced howling until Reddy insisted that there was
little or no difference between him and the fiercest and
strongest-lunged hyena that ever walked. Bob could sing the two songs
his sister had taught him, and had written out twelve copies of them in
order to have a good stock to sell from; but Leander predicted that he
would not be able to dispose of many, because one was the "Suwanee
River," and the other "A Poor Wayfaring Man," the words of which any boy
could get by consulting an old music-book.
Reddy had made a remarkably large whip, which he could snap once out of
every three attempts, and not hit himself on the head more than once out
of five.
Thus the circus project was as promising as ever, and Abner, as well as
the other partners, had urged Toby to take hold of it again; but he had
made no promises until the day came when Abner was able to sit up, and
Dr. Abbott said that he could go out for a ride in another week if he
still continued to improve.
Then it was that Toby told his partners he would meet them on the first
day Abner went out for a ride, and tell them when he would take up the
circus work again, which made every one more anxious than ever to see
the poor-farm boy out-of-doors.
From the time when the tiny little carriage and the two sets of harness
glistening with silver had come, Toby had been anxious for a drive with
the ponies; but he had resolutely refused to use them until Abner could
go with him, although Uncle Daniel had told him he could try them
whenever he wished. He had waited for his other pleasures until Abner
could join him, and he insisted on waiting for this one. One day, when
Aunt Olive spoke to him about it, he said:
"If I was sick, an' had such a team sent to me, I'd feel kinder bad to
have some other boy using it, an' so I'm goin' to let Abner be the first
one to go out with the ponies."
It was hard not even to get into the little carriage that was so
carefully covered with a white cloth in the stable; but he resisted the
temptation, and when at last the day did come that Aunt Olive and Uncle
Daniel helped the sick boy down-stairs, and lifted him into the
prettiest little pony-carriage ever seen in Guilford, Toby felt amply
rewarded for his self-denial.
They drove all over the town, stopping now and then to speak with some
of their friends, or to answer questions as to Abner's health. When it
was nearly time to return home, Toby turned the ponies' heads toward the
pasture, where he knew his partners were waiting for him according to
agreement.
"We'll go on with the circus now," he said to Abner, "for I can take you
with me in this team, an' you can stay in it all the time we're
practicin', so's it'll be 'most as good as if you could do something
toward it yourself."
Abner was quietly happy; the tender, thoughtful care that had been
bestowed upon him since his mishap had been such as, in his mind at
least, repaid him for all the pain.
"I hope you will have it," he said, earnestly, "for even if I can't be
with you all the time, I won't feel as if I was keepin' you from it."
Then he put his hand in a loving way on Toby's cheek, and the "boss of
the circus" felt fully repaid for having waited for his pleasure.
At the pasture all the partners were gathered, for Toby had promised to
tell them when he would begin operations; and as he drove the ponies up
to the bars, he shouted:
"Abner an' me will be up here about nine o'clock to-morrow mornin', an'
we'll bring Mr. Stubbs's brother with us."
There was a mighty shout, and Ben Cushing stood on his head when this
announcement was made, and then Toby and Abner drove home as quickly as
their ponies could scamper.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A WONDERFUL LAKE.
BY C. J. M.
Carniola, in the western part of Austria, and fronting on the Adriatic
Sea, is a region remarkable chiefly for its subterranean streams and
immense caverns and abysses. It is very mountainous, being traversed by
spurs of the Alps, and covers an area of 3857 square miles. Its
inhabitants are a hardy, thrifty race, engaged in the cultivation of
wine, timber, maize, and millet.
Of all the wonders of nature to be met with in this country the one most
deserving of notice is the lake of Zirknitz. This lake takes its name
from a small market-town with a population of 1500, and situated about
thirty miles northeast of Trieste, the principal sea-port city of
Austria.
Lake Zirknitz lies in a deep valley surrounded by beautiful hills. It is
a fair sheet of water, six miles long and three miles broad, and teeming
with fishes and water-fowl. The monotony of this large expanse of water
is relieved by five small islands, on one of which is the village of
Ottok. These islands are favorite resorts for picnic parties. The bottom
of the lake is formed of limestone rock, and is full of clefts and
fissures. During prolonged dry weather the waters pass into these
caverns, carrying their finny inhabitants with them. The church bells
give warning when the first sign of the sinking of the lake is observed,
and the people hasten to make the most of the fishing while there is yet
time.
When the water has entirely disappeared, a crop of luxuriant herbage
takes its place, affording pasture for the cattle of the neighboring
farmers, who are thus enabled to reap where before they went a-fishing.
With the recurrence of heavy rains the lake gushes forth from its
under-ground retreat, rises speedily to its normal level, and resumes
its ordinary appearance.
Until a comparatively recent time the causes of the periodical
disappearance of the lake were involved in mystery, and people were
content to accept as a fact that which they could not explain. In later
years, however, scientific men have devoted many years of their lives to
the task of exploring these under-ground recesses, and with the happiest
results.
Although the subterranean geography of this region has been, to the
present, only sketched out, still enough has been discovered to satisfy
them that many of the under-ground passages extend to long distances,
and it has been conclusively proven that the waters of the Zirknitz Lake
at the periods of their recession flow through under-ground channels
into the river Unz, which further on joins the river Save, a tributary
of the Danube.
THE LITTLE GRANDMOTHER.
BY MARY A. LATHBURY.
It had been an eventful morning in the attic. There were six of
us--three of the Guernsey cousins and three of ourselves. Fanny Guernsey
and our Ned had been reading _Robinson Crusoe_ and the _Swiss Family
Robinson_, and so we had all suffered a most horrible shipwreck, and had
finally been cast upon a desert island. The ship was an ancient cradle,
into which we were packed like sardines, and which, owing to Ned's
vigorous efforts at "the wheel," lurched around the attic in a fearful
way, and finally tumbled us all out in a heap upon an old-fashioned
braided rug in a corner. We found ourselves too dense a population for
"the island," and so Jamie Guernsey and I paddled off to the wreck, and
got aboard. Then all at once a change passed over the wreck, and we (Jem
and I) were Mr. and Mrs. Noah, urging our sons and daughters to hurry
into the ark, and be saved. They at once saw that they were huddled upon
the highest peak of a mountain, and must soon be drowned, so in they
clambered, bringing two dolls with them to make out eight souls, and
again we went sailing over the floods. It was Ned who first thought of
our little oversight in forgetting to take animals into the ark.
"What on earth are we to do?" he cried.
"There isn't any earth. It's all water," said Fanny.
"Well, when we _do_ get on earth, what are we to do for meat and milk
and wool--and--and--"
"Oh, it's all up, and we might as well stop being Noah and his wife,"
said Jem to me, impatiently. "What's an ark without the animals? And
there isn't room for a mouse."
"Oh, Jem, you and the girls get on the chest," said the fertile Ned,
"and we'll be pirates, and swoop down on you."
"I don't want to be swooped down upon," said Jem, unreconciled.
"Oh, it's fun. Come on, Phil!" And upon that we were tumbled out, and
Ned and Phil leaped into the cr--cruiser with such a piratical mien, and
turned so fiercely upon us, that we were glad--Fanny and Jessie and
I--to clamber up on the old chest for refuge. Then the cruiser, with a
black neck-tie flying from a cane mast, bore down upon us so hotly that
Jem was forced to come to our defense, and manfully he fought, too. Poor
Jessie shrank into a little heap, and screamed. Fanny, her eyes
flashing, and her tumbled, shining hair full of dried thoroughwort
leaves from a great bunch hanging close above her, was struggling
desperately with Ned, who, instead of carrying her off in his arms, as a
true pirate should do, was pulling her aboard his cruiser by one foot,
while with a crutch that used to be our grandfather's I was pushing her
off--not Fanny, but the cruiser, I mean--into deep water. I was
succeeding finely, when Phil kicked the foot of the crutch aside as I
was throwing my whole weight upon the top, and in a trice I had rolled
into the hold of the pirate ship.
This was too much for Jamie, who seized the mast of the cruiser, with a
cry of "Down with the black flag!" and dealt Phil a blow upon the back
that added another voice to the general chorus of shrieks.
In the midst of the uproar we heard a soft voice from the extreme end of
the attic, calling,
"Children! children!"
One by one we ceased our outcries, and listened.
"Children"--what a soft thread of a voice it was that came out of the
darkness!--"children--Ned, Fanny, Phil, Jessie, Bessie, Jem--come here."
We all looked at each other, until Ned rose bravely and started for the
voice, the rest of us creeping after him. Midway we stopped, and the
voice called,
"Come, children, come."
There was no mistake now; it was the portrait. We huddled together, but
drew nearer and nearer, for there was enchantment in the voice, and as
it grew upon us in the dim light there was enchantment in the face and
figure also.
[Illustration: "LITTLE GRANDMOTHER."]
It was the portrait we were all familiar with, and which we called the
"Little Grandmother." It was the portrait of our mother's grandmother,
taken at the age of sixteen, and which had always hung in the library
until the last holidays, when Phil had by mischance let a missile from
his new toy gun fly in the direction of the portrait. It made an ugly
hole in the canvas among the dark curls of our pretty Little
Grandmother. It was considered a family calamity, but until it could be
sent to a reliable restorer of pictures, it was set up on an old dresser
at the end of the attic. It _had_ had a piece of green baize thrown over
it, which was removed, and now lay on the dresser beside it. Had she
taken off the veil herself?
"Children," she continued, looking right on up among the rafters, as if
she were talking to herself instead of to us, "you never heard me speak
before, and you will never hear me speak again; so open your ears.
Phil"--Phil started and began to quake--"I am sure I hold no personal
grudge against you for that unlucky shot that mutilated my poor head in
this way, but your general conduct is a distress to me. A boy of twelve
should begin to show his knightly qualities, if ever he hopes to bear
the grand old name of gentleman. _Gentle_man, indeed! to shoot his
great-grandmother, with scarcely a pang of regret, and trip his girl
cousin, and witness her fall with a laugh! _Gentle_man, indeed! And,
Ned, you are scarcely a whit behind. You are brave, in a sense, but the
bravery that attacks weakness, and shouts over its own triumphs, is a
spurious bravery. A fine Sir Galahad or Sir Philip Sidney you would
make! There is as crying need of brave and courtly men now as in the
days of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, but where are they?
The dear maidens must hope in vain for protection from evil men and evil
beasts if 'the boy is father to the man.' Jamie, you are not as strong
and as full of action as Ned and Phil, but you are a true knight, and
perhaps one of these days you can say,
"'My strength is as the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure.'
"You have nothing to fear, Sir Jamie."
By this time Fanny, Jessie, and I had sunk in a little heap on the
floor. How pretty she looked, this girl grandmother! Her dark curls
clung so daintily around her olive face, and the dark eyes shone out
from the shaded brow with such a clear, honest light. We fancied we
could see the red lips move, and the creamy white dress, with its bit of
a waist and short puffy sleeves, tremble with the beating of her heart.
Our own almost ceased to beat when she resumed.
"Fanny, Bessie, Jessie, you are dear girls, though I fear you are going
to lack nobility and dignity of character; but what can be expected of
girls that are taught French instead of their catechism, and the waltz
in place of the minuet! Really, girls, I never _screamed_ in my
life--not even when a shell from a man-of-war burst in front of our
house; and I must say I never witnessed such a romp as this among boys
and girls in all the eighty-five years that I lived."
Eighty-five years! We looked from our Little Grandmother to each other
in astonishment, and then the voice went on:
"But girls are not as they used to be, and perhaps they can not be. The
world is growing weaker and wiser, and you have more already in your
little noddles than I ever learned from books. I did not mean to scold
you, my dears, but I have often wished to give you a bit of advice, and
I have never had so fine an opportunity as this. If the great-grandsons
of Mary Angela Bascombe are knightly men, brave, tender, and true, and
her great-granddaughters are ladies, indeed, gracious, gentle, loyal,
and loving, she will be grateful for the happy misfortune that sent her
to the attic."
There was a long silence. Then Fanny drew a long breath, and each one of
us immediately did the same. Ned, always the leader, stepped forward a
little, and said, "Little Grandmother, we mean, you know, to be all
right--but--but--"
"And we'll do our best after this; indeed we will," added Jamie.
"That's so," put in Phil, rather awkwardly.
"We _love_, you, Little Grandmother!" burst out Fanny--clasping her
hands--in a little ecstasy, while Jessie and I murmured something in
chorus about wishing to be like her; but there was no response from the
portrait to anything that we said.
We had not noticed that the dim light was fading from the attic, and the
portrait losing its outlines, until the sound of a bell below recalled
us to outward things. Then, clutching each other as we went, we passed
down the attic stairs and through the halls, and gathered in a very
quiet knot in the tea-room. One by one the family gathered there also,
and the seats around the long table were quietly filled.
"What is the matter with you youngsters?" said my father, scanning our
faces keenly. "You are as mute as mice, and look as if you had seen your
grandmother's ghost."
"We--we _have_," said Fanny, with a hysterical laugh, that ended in a
sob; and at that Jessie and I put our napkins to our faces and began to
sob too, while the boys looked at each other and smiled in a sickly sort
of way.
"What does this mean, Ned?" said my father, laying down his napkin; and
my mother nearly shivered a cup and saucer, she set it down so suddenly.
"Why, the--the portrait, you know, up in the attic--the Little
Grandmother--has been talking to us, and we don't just know what it
means," said Ned, making a strong effort to overcome his tremor.
"Talking to you! What did it say?" my father demanded again.
Here Phil came to the rescue, and said, sturdily, if not defiantly, "She
said we were no gentlemen, sir."
"_Gentle_men, indeed!" echoed Cousin Rob, in a sweet falsetto voice,
from the end of the table; whereupon Ned, Phil, and Jamie rose in their
seats, nearly overturning their chairs. Fanny and Jessie caught each
other around the neck, and sobbed a short sob, with a little shriek at
the end of it, and I fled crying to my mother.
It was a very trying scene. My father lost all patience, and my mother
was in real distress, and as five or six were talking at the same
moment, the matter became more and more hopeless, until Ned, who had
gone over to speak to Rob at the end of the table, set up a clear,
ringing, healthy laugh that silenced us all, and turned the force of my
father's wrath full in that direction.
"Ned, we want no more of this nonsense. If this is one of your offensive
practical jokes, explain at once."
"It's not mine--it's Rob's," cried Ned.
"Well, Robert?" said my father, trying to control himself.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle James," said Robert. "I am wholly to blame,
but I did not anticipate such a scene as this. Aunt Fanny sent me to the
store-room at the end of the attic about an hour ago for some corn for
the children to pop after tea. I went up by the back attic stairs. There
was fun, I can assure you, in the main attic. I never heard such a
Babel. I went to the little open window that was made to let light
through from the store-room into the main attic, and saw that you had
set the portrait on the old dresser on the other side, and so covered
the window; but through that ugly hole that Phil made in the Little
Grandmother's head I could see that Ned and Phil were making terrible
havoc with the girls, while Jamie was trying to defend them. When I saw
poor Bessie go under, I thought it time to interfere, and began calling
to them. Then the funny fact of talking through the Little Grandmother's
head grew upon me, and I assumed the falsetto voice that you heard a few
minutes ago. I was the falsetto in the college quintette club, and so
became an expert in the use of it. I found that the youngsters really
thought the Little Grandmother was calling them, and so I improved the
golden opportunity. I'm afraid I didn't lecture in character. I beg the
Little Grandmother's pardon if I did not, but I think I managed to make
a few timely suggestions to Ned and Phil; and I saw and heard one thing
that I shall never, never forget. It was Fanny, when she clasped her
hands like this; and gushed: 'I _love_ you, Little Grandmother.'"
Here all the children, who had returned to their normal state of mind,
fell into fits of laughter, and were joined by the mollified father and
relieved mother.
All the children, except Fanny. She cried with vexation, and did not
promise to forgive "Brother Rob" until he had promised to forget.
And this is the story of the Little Grandmother.
[Illustration]
WRENS AND THEIR NESTS.
BY EESUNG EYLISS.
"Uncle Horace, do, please, come out here and look. It is just too funny.
When papa was here last summer he left a pair of old boots, and this
spring some one threw them out on the pile of rails behind the barn. I
was around there a few minutes ago, and I found that two little birds
had gone into one of the boots and built a nest there. I looked in, and
I saw the nest and three eggs. Do come out and tell me what birds they
are. Just now one of them scolded at me very much because he thought I
went too close to the boot."
"I think I can tell you before going what the bird is, for there is only
one which would fairly be apt to adopt the boot as a place for
housekeeping. The birds are probably wrens, Bennie, but we will go and
see."
As we were passing around toward the rear of the barn I heard, sure
enough, the song of a wren from the branches of a cherry-tree which we
passed, and when we reached the "boot," out flew the mate of the
songster, and without going further than the nearest fence post, she
stopped and began to scold us at a furious rate.
"That is just the way she went on before, Uncle Horace. What a spiteful
little thing she is!"
"Oh no, not spiteful, Bennie; she is only standing up for her rights.
She evidently thinks that the boot belongs to her, and that we have no
business here."
"But is it not queer that they should take such a place for their nest?
An old boot!"