[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 86. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 21, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: THE ARREST OF EMILY GEIGER.]
THE FAIR MESSENGER.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
On a warm, hazy day in January, 1849, I was at Orangeburg, South
Carolina, eighty miles west of Charleston. My purpose was to visit the
battle-ground of Eutaw Springs, on the right bank of the Santee River,
forty miles distant. I hired a horse and gig for the journey. The steed
was fleet, and the road was level and smooth most of the way. It lay
through cultivated fields and dark pine forests, and across dry swamps
wherein the Spanish moss hung like trailing banners from the live-oak
and cypress trees.
At sunset I had travelled thirty miles. I lodged at the house of a
planter not far from Vance's Ferry, on the Santee, where I passed the
evening with an intelligent and venerable woman (Mrs. Buxton)
eighty-four years of age. She was a maiden of seventeen when the armies
of Greene and Rawdon made lively times in the region of the Upper
Santee, Catawba, Saluda, and Broad rivers. She knew Marion, and Sumter,
and Horry, and other less famous partisans, who were frequently at her
father's home, on the verge of a swamp not far from the High Hills of
Santee.
"We were Whigs," she said, "but the Tories were so thick and cruel
around us, when Rawdon was at Camden, that father had to pretend he was
a King's man to save his life and property. Oh, those were terrible
times, when one was not sure on going to bed that the house would not be
burned before morning."
"Did you witness any exciting scenes yourself?" I inquired.
"Yes, many. One in particular so stirred my young blood that I actually
resolved to put on brother Ben's clothes, take our old fowling-piece,
join the Swamp Fox, as the British called Marion, and fight for freedom
to call my soul my own."
"What was the event?" I asked.
"You have read, maybe," said Mrs. Buxton, "how Lord Rawdon, after
chasing General Greene far toward the Saluda, suddenly turned back,
abandoned Fort Ninety-Six, and retreated toward Charleston. Well, Greene
sent Harry Lee, with his light-horse, to get in front of Rawdon before
he should reach the ferry on the Congaree at Granby. He was anxious to
call Marion and Sumter to the same point to help Lee. Sumter was then
encamped a dozen miles south of our home."
The venerable woman's dark brown eyes sparkled with emotion as she
proceeded with the story. She said her cousin, on Greene's staff at the
time, told her that when the General called for a volunteer messenger to
carry a letter to Sumter, not one of the soldiers offered to undertake
the perilous task, for the way was swarming with Tories. Greene was
perplexed. Brave and pretty Emily Geiger, the young daughter of a German
planter in Fairfield District, had just arrived at head-quarters with
important information for the General. She rode a spirited horse with
the ease and grace of a dragoon. Emily saw the hesitation of the
soldiers, and Greene's anxiety. Earnestly but modestly she said to the
General, "May I carry the letter?"
Greene was astonished. He was unwilling to expose her to the dangers
which he knew awaited a messenger, for the Tories were vigilant.
"They won't hurt a young girl, I am sure; and I know the way," said
Emily.
Greene's want was great, and he accepted the proffer of important
service, but with many misgivings. Fearing Emily might lose the letter
on the way, he informed her of its contents, that she might deliver the
message orally. She mounted her fleet horse, and with the General's
blessing, and cheered by the admiring officers, she rode off on a brisk
gallop. She crossed the Wateree River at the Camden ferry, and pressed
on toward the High Hills of Santee.
Emily was riding at a rapid pace through an open, dry swamp, at noonday,
when one of three Tory scouts, who were on the watch, seized her bridle
and bade her halt. With perfect composure and firm voice she demanded by
what authority she was arrested. The young man was confounded by the
appearance and manner of his prisoner. They had observed a woman riding
in apparent haste from the direction of Greene's army toward the camp of
Sumter, and suspected her errand. She proved to be a young maiden as
fair as a lily, with mild blue eyes, and a profusion of brown hair. The
young scout, smitten with her beauty and air of innocence, released his
hold upon the bridle, when an older companion, made of sterner stuff,
seized the reins, and led the horse to an unoccupied house on the edge
of the swamp, and bade her dismount. The younger scout gallantly
assisted her to alight, and she was taken into the house. With proper
delicacy, the scouts sent for Mrs. Buxton's mother, living a mile
distant, to search Emily's person.
"I went with mother," said Mrs. Buxton, "to see a woman prisoner. The
door of the house was guarded by the younger scout, who was Peter
Simons, son of a neighbor two miles away--and a right gallant young
fellow he was. After the war he married my sister, and that youngster
who took your horse when you alighted is their grand-child."
"Then you saw the young prisoner?" I said.
"Yes, and I helped mother search her. We were amazed when we saw,
instead of a brazen-faced middle-aged woman, as we supposed a spy must
be, a sweet young girl about my own age, looking as innocent as a
pigeon. Our sympathies were with her, but mother performed her duty
faithfully. We found nothing on her person or in her manner that would
afford an excuse for a suspicion that she was a spy. She was released by
the scouts, who offered her many apologies for detaining her. She had
been too smart for them. While alone in the house, guarded by Peter
Simons, she had eaten up Greene's letter, piece by piece. So secured
from detection, she willingly submitted to our search, and told us
frankly who she was.
"'My name is Geiger--Emily Geiger,' she said. 'My father is a planter
near Winnsborough, in Fairfield, and I am on my way to visit friends
below.'
"Wasn't she smart?" said the old lady. "She _was_ going to 'visit
friends below'--Sumter and his men; _our_ friends likewise, for that
matter. When the scouts dismissed her we took her to our house, gave her
some refreshments, and urged her to stay with us until morning. But she
could not be persuaded, saying the two armies were so near it might soon
become impossible to reach her friends. Peter Simons had accompanied us
home, and offered to escort Emily to her friends as a protector. She
declined his offer, and rode away, bearing our silent blessings. We saw
no more of her until some time after the war."
"Did she reach Sumter's camp in safety?" I inquired.
"Yes, and delivered Greene's message almost word for word as he had
written it."
Sumter and Marion joined forces, and hurried to Friday's Ferry, at
Granby. Rawdon, baffled, did not attempt to cross the Congaree, but fled
before the pursuing Americans toward Orangeburg, on the Edisto.
"You say you saw no more of Emily Geiger until some time after the war,"
I remarked. "What was her fate?"
"A happy one. She had married a rich young planter on the Congaree named
Thurwitz. They had been on a visit at her father's house in Fairfield,
and went out of their way to visit the scene of her exploit in 1781.
They crossed the Wateree at Camden, as she had done before, visited the
house in which she had been searched, and drove to our home to thank my
mother for her kindness on that occasion. They had with them their sweet
little baby, a few months old. Peter Simons was then my sister's
husband, and at our house Emily stood face to face with her jailer of an
hour. She freely told her story, and owned that she was much startled
when Peter seized her bridle, but controlled her feelings. She told us
of her dinner on Greene's letter, and thought how silly the young scout
was in leaving her alone in the house while he guarded the door on the
outside. Peter wasn't much of a Tory, and we all rejoiced that a kind
Providence had protected Emily from detection.
"The ways of God are mysterious," said the venerable matron, laying her
hand on my knee. "Peter's son married Emily's daughter--the sweet little
baby she brought to our house--and their son owns a plantation a few
miles from here."
HOW TOM JONES LOST HIS PROMOTION.
BY MRS. FRANK McCARTHY.
Tom Jones began to wheeze and sneeze last spring, and pretty soon a
cough set in that alarmed his mamma, and she was just making up her mind
to send for the family physician, when Tom was seized one morning with a
fit of coughing which ended in a prolonged, unmistakable whoop. No
Indian on the war-path ever seemed better satisfied with a whoop than
Mrs. Jones did with this one of Tom's.
"Why, Tommy's got the whooping-cough!" she exclaimed, joyfully, to her
husband.
"Does a legacy usually come with it?" said Mr. Jones.
"Well, it's a comfort to know it isn't anything settling on his lungs,"
replied Mrs. Jones. "He's got to have whooping-cough some time, and it's
a good time to have it now, when the warm weather is coming. Now we
needn't wait for vacation to go to the country."
"You are in luck, Tom," said Mr. Jones. "You can take a long legal
holiday, and need not play hookey any more."
"Catch me taking a holiday till the rest of the boys do, and you'll
catch a weasel asleep: Joe Brown ain't going to get ahead of me," said
Tom, whose father knew he never "played hookey."
"But, my son, you don't want to give away the whooping-cough? It's
something nice to keep; you mustn't be too generous with it."
"There's nothing stingy about me," said Tom, who, in truth, was a
whole-souled little fellow, always sharing what he had with his
playmates. "If it's a good time to have it, why can't I go and give it
to the whole class?"
"There's a prejudice against people being too generous," said Mr. Jones;
and patting Tom's head, he went off to business.
Tom gathered up his books, but his mamma explained to him that he
couldn't go to school with whooping-cough.
"How long does this thing last?" said Tom, impatiently.
"Oh, quite a while," said Mrs. Jones, cheerfully--"two or three months,
perhaps."
"Two or three months," echoed Tom, with dismay. "Why, Joe Brown'll be
away ahead of me by that time, and I sha'n't be promoted!"
"Well, never mind, dear," said his mamma; "it can't be helped, you know.
You'll have to have it some time, and it's a good time to have it now."
Mrs. Jones began humming a tune, and went up stairs to pack her trunks,
not dreaming of the tempest that raged in the bosom of her son Tom. He
threw down his books, put both elbows on the table, and let his chin
fall into his hands. It was all he could do to keep up with Joe Brown
now. Joe was a sickly fellow, but he had great pluck and perseverance,
and would do his examples with a handkerchief tied around his head--to
keep it together, as he said. He lost many days by sickness, but always
made it up by extra work, and the extra brains that he had stored away
somewhere in that rickety noddle of his. Tom admired him and loved him.
They had been neighbors, chums, and classmates as long as he could
remember. Their wood sheds joined at the back of their yards, and every
morning each climbed up to have a long talk with the other about the
boy-business of the day. Tom admired and loved Joe, but he feared him
too. Joe's delicate health and extra brains about struck a balance with
Tom's rugged constitution and average intellect; but how about these
extra months of whooping-cough? These would leave fearful odds on Joe's
side. Tom could never catch up with him again--never! It was mean. It
was hard. It was not to be borne. Why couldn't Joe get the pesky old
whooping-cough too? But Tom thought of Joe's hollow cheeks and sunken
eyes, and put that temptation away from him. He made up his mind he
would caution Joe at once, and ran out to Bridget for a yellow rag that
he had seen about the kitchen. Taking it out to the wood shed, he
hoisted it upon a hastily improvised pulley.
"What's that?" said Joe, who had been waiting for Tom.
"I'm in quarantine," shouted Tom. "Don't breathe this way. You know that
cough of mine? Well, it's _whooping-cough_!"
Joe darted back. "Gracious!" he said; "I wouldn't have it for anything.
I couldn't go to school. I'd lose all chance of promotion."
"That's my case exactly," said Tom, bitterly.
"It's too bad, Tom," called Joe, keeping well out of breathing distance.
"But I say, old fellow, you can study all the same, you know. You're a
sturdy chap; it won't hinder you. It would knock me higher than a kite.
I can't afford to lose any flesh and blood. I'm next door to a skeleton
now."
Tom remembered that. He was glad then he had hoisted the quarantine
flag.
Joe went on shouting: "I'll keep you posted in the lessons, Tom, so you
won't fall behind. I'll stick to you like bees-wax. Eh, Tom, is that all
right?"
"All right," called Tom.
The quarter bell rang. Joe and Tom parted for many a day. Tom went out
to his grandfather's farm with his mother, and Joe went to school.
To an indifferent observer it would seem that there was no comparison
between Tom's luck and Joe's. To have a grandfather was a good deal, in
the first place; Joe hadn't any. He hadn't even a father. But to have a
grandfather that owned a farm! Here was what you might call downright
good fortune. Tom did enjoy it. His whooping-cough was of a light
variety, and didn't disturb him much. But he was all the while thinking
of the boys fighting away at those examples, and how much easier it was
to puzzle them out in the class-room than out there in the haymow. There
was so much to distract a fellow. If the boys at school made as much
fuss over doing a sum as the hens did about laying an egg, they'd drive
the teacher mad. Then the swallows went circling around the top of the
barn until it made a body's head swim, and that young rascal of a colt
gnawed the manger, and kicked and coaxed to go afield with Tom, and if
ever there did happen to be a lull in the racket, something in that hay
made a fellow so sleepy--must have been some poppies dried in that
grass. And, worst of all, Joe Brown had turned traitor. He had been as
good as his word at first, and had kept Tom posted right along; but for
more than a month he hadn't sent him a line. It was so hard to plod
along almost in the dark. His father helped him when he came out on
Saturdays, and Tom didn't give up. He studied on out of spite; but it
was harder work for a boy with a heart like Tom's to strive for spite
than love. Tom felt that he might perhaps pass with the rest of the
boys, and keep abreast with Joe Brown after all, but there wasn't much
comfort in it.
His father took him back to the city the last week in June, and on the
night of his arrival Tom went out to the wood shed to have it out with
Joe. He made up his mind to tell him what he thought of him, and never
speak to him again; but he felt very miserable over it, very miserable
indeed.
Bridget was out there splitting wood, and called to Tom as he began to
climb:
"You needn't rache up to see the boy beyant. He'll climb no more. He's
lyin' in bed these three weeks, and they say he's wastin' away. That
nasty 'hoopin'-cough wint bad wid the poor little craythur."
"Whooping-cough!" cried Tom. "Did Joe get it?"
"Av coorse he did, wid all the rest of the gossoons; but it wint wrong
wid poor Joe's windpipe, bad luck to it, and ruined him intirely."
Tom ran out in the street. He felt so sorry, and so glad--so sorry Joe
was sick, and so glad he was true. His heart leaped up to think he had
found his friend again, and then sank because what Bridget said had
given him a nameless fear. The very first boy Tom met told him the
doctor said he didn't think Joe Brown would live to go to school again.
Tom ran in to his father, with so pale a face that it frightened Mr.
Jones; but he was Tom's confidant, as well as his father, and soothed
and comforted him.
"Come," he said, taking Tom by the hand, "let's go around and see Joe."
They found him in bed, and as white as the wall he was propped against.
He held out his wasted hand to Tom. "You've come back in time for the
examination," he said, with a little bitterness in his smile. "You've
got all the odds now, Tom; go in and win. I told you this thing would
cripple me. I'll never tackle an example again."
Tom grew almost as pale as Joe, and looked imploringly at his father.
Big tears rolled out of Mrs. Brown's eyes.
"He's all I have in the world," whispered the poor widow to Mr. Jones.
"Well, please God, madam," said Mr. Jones, "Joe will be all right yet.
With your permission we'll get him out in the country on Tom's
grandfather's farm. What he wants is country air and rest, and to give
up this wicked struggle for supremacy. There's a better victory, my
boys, than that with a mathematical problem--to do the best you can, and
bid godspeed to the one that can honestly do better. There are some
things far better than a class promotion, and you'll find them out there
on the farm: health, contentment--"
"And the jolliest colt you ever saw, Joe," broke in Tom, "and no end to
dogs and pigeons."
Joe began to look so much brighter and better. "Wait till you go back
and pass the examination, Tom," he said. "I've been awfully mean and
envious of you; but I'd take as much pride in it now as you would."
"Wait till you're able to go with me," said Tom. "I've been mean and
envious too; but we'll begin all over again, Joe, in grandpop's barn."
So the boys went back to the country together, and Tom lost his
promotion; but when Joe was able to first set his foot in Tom's
grandfather's barn, and see that colt, Tom was one of the happiest
fellows in the world.
[Illustration: BASHFUL.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY SINGHI ("BINGHAMTON'S FOTOGRAFER").]
[Illustration]
Oh, Charley would a sailor be,
And live for aye on the bright blue sea--
Yo ho!
[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 VII.
The next morning the sky was gray, and filled with flying clouds. The
wind was blowing fresh and cold from the northwest, and the boys
shivered, until their morning bath set their blood racing through their
veins.
"What do you think of the weather, Tom?" asked Charley, as they were
drinking their coffee.
"I don't think much of it," interrupted Joe. "It isn't half as good as
the weather we had last summer."
"Junior officers will please not give their opinions until they are
asked for," said the young Captain, in his severest official manner.
"I think," replied Tom, "that we're going to have a windy day, and I
shouldn't be surprised if it rained before night."
"Not unless the wind backs around to the southwest," said Charley. "I
think it will blow hard; but it doesn't very often rain with a northwest
wind."
"Never mind if it doesn't rain," said Joe; "we'll get wet somehow, you
can be sure."
"I think," said Charley, "that we'd better get up our anchor right away,
for after awhile it may blow so hard that we'll have to run into some
harbor for the rest of the day."
The _Ghost_'s jib and mainsail were set, and with the wind on her port
quarter she began to pile up the foam under her bow. In spite of the
gloomy appearance of the sky and water, the speed of the boat put the
boys in high spirits. The bay was covered with white caps, and in some
places there was quite a heavy sea; but as the _Ghost_ was running
before it, no spray came on board, and Joe, in spite of his conviction
that he must get wet, was dry and comfortable. The wind steadily
increased, and before long Charley saw the necessity of reefing. So he
brought the boat with her head to the wind, let go the anchor, and
lowered the sails.
"Do you mean to say that we've got to anchor every time we reef?" asked
Harry, as he was knotting the reef-points of the mainsail.
"It isn't necessary to anchor. We could put in a reef if we had no
anchor with us; but with as much wind as we have now, it makes the work
of reefing a good deal easier if we are lying at anchor."
"Why couldn't we reef while the boat is running under her jib?" inquired
Tom.
"You can't tie the reef-points unless the sail is down, and you can't
get the sail down while the boat is before the wind, and the sail is
full. We could throw her head up into the wind, and get the sail down,
and then let her run off under the jib until we get through reefing; but
then we'd have to haul down the jib, and pull her head around with an
oar, before we could set the mainsail again. Anchoring saves a whole lot
of trouble, and there is no reason why we shouldn't anchor when we are
where the anchor will take bottom."
With the reefed mainsail the _Ghost_ behaved better than she had done.
She rolled less, and steered more easily. The boys were delighted with
the way in which she raced over the water, but occasionally, when they
looked at the curling seas which followed her, and seemed to just miss
breaking over her stern, they were a little uneasy.
"There is no danger from those seas as long as we can carry all this
sail," remarked Charley. "The boat is moving faster than they are, and
they can't overtake her."
But it was soon evident that sail would have to be shortened again. The
wind was now blowing a gale, and not a sail was visible on the bay.
Charley did not care to come to an anchor, for he had noticed a point of
land about a mile ahead, and intended to run under the lee of it, and
put in a second reef. So he was about to order Joe to slack the peak
halyards, when, without the slightest warning, the _Ghost_'s mast went
over the side with a tremendous crash, tearing up part of the deck, and
very nearly dragging Joe overboard with the halyards, which caught him
around the neck.
"Keep cool, boys," cried Charley. "Let go the anchor, and then get hold
of the jib, and try to drag it in clear of the wreck."
A few vigorous pulls brought the jib on deck, where it was thrown into
the cockpit, and an effort was then made to get the spars alongside, and
lash them together. The boys worked hard, but the weight of the
mainsail, soaked as it was with water, made their efforts unsuccessful.
While they were still working, the sea suddenly swept the wreck away
from them, and to their dismay they found that the one rope which had
attached it to the boat had parted, and that the mast and mainsail had
started on an independent cruise. Harry would have jumped overboard in
chase of it, but Charley forbade him, and assured his comrades that the
wreck would drift quietly across to the beach, where they could find it
after the wind went down.
"And have we got to stay here all day?" exclaimed Harry. "I don't like
the notion at all. Why shouldn't we drift down to the beach after the
wreck?"
"Because the seas would fill us full of water long before we could get
there. I'm not sure, though, but what we can sail there."
"I'd like to know how we can set a sail without a mast?" said Harry.
"Suppose you and Tom take hold of the ends of a rubber blanket, and
stand one on each side of the deck, so as to spread the blanket out as
wide as possible. Joe could stand between you, and let the blanket blow
right against him. If you fellows could hold it, I believe we could run
down to the beach in a very little while."
"Come on," exclaimed Harry; "let's try it. I'll get out a blanket, while
somebody gets up the anchor."
"And I'll try to get her round before the wind with an oar," said
Charley. "Be ready with the blanket as soon as I give you the word. You
must stand up near the bow, about the same place where the mast used to
stand. Now, are you ready with that anchor, Tom?"
"Ready, sir."
"Then up with it as quick as you can. Now go forward with that blanket,
and the minute I get her head off a little, help her to swing clear
round before the wind."
[Illustration: "UNDER A HEAVY PRESS OF INDIA-RUBBER BLANKET."]
The crew obeyed orders perfectly, and in a very few minutes the _Ghost_
was running under a heavy press of India rubber blanket for the distant
beach. She had fully two miles to go, but as she was sailing fast enough
to keep out of the way of the sea, there was no doubt that she would
cross the bay safely. It took all the strength which Harry and Tom
possessed to hold the blanket, while poor Joe, with his back braced
against it, had the satisfaction of knowing that if it blew out of the
boys' hands, it would carry him overboard.
As they approached the shore, having passed the drifting spars on the
way, the prospect was not encouraging. The sea was breaking heavily on
the low edge of the meadow which lay between the bay and the sand-hills
of the beach, and there was no cove into which the boat could be run.
There was nothing to be done but to anchor and wait for pleasant
weather. Accordingly, the blanket was taken in, and the anchor dropped
about thirty yards from the shore.
"Now if the anchor holds as it ought to," said Charley, "we are all
right."
"And if it doesn't hold," said Harry, "we shall be all wrong. It's going
to hold, though, for there's a good sandy bottom here."
"I wish it was a mud bottom," said Charley. "The anchor would hold twice
as well in mud. However, I'm not afraid that we shall drift, unless it
blows a regular hurricane."
"Now's the time to mend the deck," remarked Tom. "We've got nothing else
to do."
"What in the world made that mast go overboard?" asked Joe. "It didn't
break, did it?"
"No," answered Charley. "Either something gave way at the step, or else
it wasn't properly stepped. We ought to have made absolutely sure that
we had stepped it right that day we got through Coney Island Creek. We
weren't careful enough about it, and this is the way we are paid for
it."
There were some small pieces of pine board stowed away in the boat,
which Harry had taken along in order to split them up for kindling wood.
With the aid of the few tools which the boys had brought with them, they
contrived to mend the deck, so that with the help of a piece of canvas
and a little white lead it would shed water. An ugly scar remained to
show where the mast had torn its way out; but for all practical purposes
the deck was as good as ever.
This work finished, dinner was made ready, and the boys began to think
that riding out a gale at anchor was not half so tiresome as they had
supposed it would be.
"There are our spars at last," exclaimed Joe. "I had made up my mind
that they had missed the way, and had given up looking for us."
"There they are, sure enough," said Charley, "and a great deal too near
us. First thing we know they will drift right down on us." So saying, he
sprang forward and seized the cable, with the hope of giving the boat a
sheer that would keep her out of the way of the wreck.
He was too late, for the spars drifted against the cable, and their
weight, added to that of the boat, was more than the anchor could hold.
The _Ghost_ began to drift slowly toward the shore. Nothing could be
done, and the boys could only wait for the inevitable moment when the
boat would strike.
"I told you I was bound to get wet some time to-day," said Joe. "You see
I was right."
"Let's be glad that we've nothing worse than a wetting to dread," said
Charley. "The water can't be more than three or four feet deep here, and
we couldn't drown ourselves if we were to try. Why, it isn't up to my
waist," he added, as he measured the depth with an oar. "Come, let's get
overboard, and shove those spars out of the way. We may save the boat
from going ashore yet."
They all instantly sprang overboard, and tugged manfully at the wreck;
but it was too heavy and unwieldy for them, and they were too near the
shore. The _Ghost_ struck while they were still in the water, and the
sea instantly began to break over her.
"No help for it, boys," said Charley, cheerfully. "We're shipwrecked,
and we must grin and bear it. Hurry up, and let's get these spars out of
the way, and perhaps we can tow the boat off again."
The spars were finally shoved away from the boat, and then the boys
tried to get her afloat by hauling at the cable, and by putting their
backs against her and shoving with all their might. It was all in vain.
She was hard and fast on the shore, and could not be moved.
Such things as could be easily taken out of her were carried ashore, to
prevent them from getting any more wet than they already were. The mast,
with the boom, gaff, and sail attached, was then dragged ashore, and the
sail spread out to dry. While this work was in progress, Charley had
noticed that the wind was gradually changing its direction, and was
evidently about to back to the southwest. Before the afternoon was over
it had done so, and as a result, the sea ceased to break on the shore
where the _Ghost_ was lying, and she was finally got afloat, and bailed
out.
"We're going to have rain before dark," said Charley. "I can feel it in
the air. We'd better rig up our cabin, and get the things on board
again, before the rain catches us. If we don't take care, Joe will get
wet again."
"No, he won't," replied Joe. "He can't get any wetter than he is. Do you
know, boys, I believe I'm getting to be like a sponge. I shouldn't
wonder if I weighed two hundred pounds, with all the water that has
soaked into me since the cruise began."
The _Ghost_, in the position in which she was now lying, was to a great
extent sheltered from the gale by the sand-hills, and it seemed to the
boys as if the wind had gone down. So strongly did Harry insist that the
gale had blown itself out, that Charley proposed that they should all
walk over to the sand-hills, which were not more than an eighth of a
mile distant, and settle the question whether the wind had gone down, or
was, as he asserted, blowing as hard as ever. So they made their way
through the rank beach grass, and climbed the sand-hills. The first
blast of wind convinced them that the gale had increased rather than
diminished. The sea was a magnificent sight, and the surf was breaking
on the beach with a noise like thunder. There were only two sails
visible in the distant horizon, and the sky in the southwest was black
with approaching rain. There could be no doubt that a wild and terrible
night was at hand, and the boys went back to the boat feeling awed at
the might of the elements, and somewhat oppressed by a feeling of
loneliness and helplessness.
They had everything in order before the rain reached them, and though it
came down in sheets, they managed to keep dry. They were not sleepy, and
so they talked over the events of the day as they lay in their narrow
but warm and comfortable cabin.
"By-the-bye, Charley, we haven't heard you say anything about Nina
to-day," said Harry, mischievously.
"Who's Nina?" said Charley. "Oh, I remember--the girl we met yesterday.
Why, what should I say about her?"
"Oh, nothing; only I was thinking that you'd probably forgotten all
about her. Now Joe thinks that it would be a nice thing to get her to
come on a cruise with us."
"That's nonsense. She couldn't go without her mother, and her mother
wouldn't go without her father. We'd have to get a regular yacht, with
state-rooms, and all that. Don't let's talk about girls, Tom. Did you
ever see a canoe?"
"I've seen birches, if that's what you mean."
"No; I mean a wooden cruising canoe, such as the fellows that belong to
the American Canoe Club have. Do you know that you can sail or paddle
anywhere in a canoe, and sleep in it at night? That's the sort of thing
to cruise in."
"I've seen one," said Joe. "It was a perfect beauty, all decked over,
and with water-tight compartments to carry things in, and two masts. If
you'll believe it, the whole thing, masts and all, didn't weigh over
seventy pounds."
"Now if we had canoes," continued Charley, "we could cruise in any kind
of water. We could come down a shallow river all full of rapids, or we
could sail in deep water, and keep dry in any sort of sea. I'd like
nothing better than a canoe cruise, and I wish you'd all think about
trying it next summer."
The conversation was successfully turned from girls to canoes, and the
boys discussed canoes and canoeing until they finally fell asleep, with
the rain beating heavily on their canvas covering, and rattling like a
constant shower of peas on the deck. They had been asleep for several
hours when they were suddenly awakened by the heavy report of a cannon,
fired apparently but a little distance from them.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
WHAT ROBIN TOLD.
BY GEORGE COOPER.
How do the robins build their nest?
Robin Redbreast told me.
First a wisp of amber hay
In a pretty round they lay;
Then some shreds of downy floss,
Feathers too and bits of moss,
Woven with a sweet, sweet song,
This way, that way, and across:
That's what Robin told me.
Where do the robins hide their nest?
Robin Redbreast told me.
Up among the leaves so deep,
Where the sunbeams rarely creep.
Long before the winds are cold,
Long before the leaves are gold,
Bright-eyed stars will peep and see
Baby robins one, two, three:
That's what Robin told me.
RECKLESS SPARROWS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
Once upon a time, perhaps this summer, perhaps last, four reckless young
sparrows lived in Central Park. Of course there were very many more of
their kind there, but these four had formed a sort of club by
themselves, and all the staid, respectable sparrows were really shocked
by the way in which these youngsters behaved.
They would fly in on to the paths, picking up crumbs almost from beneath
the feet of the visitors, and then fly back among the bushes, as if they
believed they had displayed a wonderful amount of bravery. They
twittered and chirped around the heads of the sacred cattle, and darted
back and forth past the ostriches, until it was a wonder they were not
killed.
Now these young sparrows never would take the advice of their elders,
but continued in their wild ways, with a twitter that was very like a
laugh whenever any of their relatives lectured them on the folly of
recklessness and foolish daring.
Finally the time came when they felt they needed a change, and one of
them proposed, while they were making an early breakfast from a fat worm
that had come in their way just in time, that they all go down to the
city for a regular lark.
With such a party as that, the idea was a good one, for it not only
promised plenty of sport and adventure, but would show younger or more
sedate sparrows what could be done by fellows who had the proper amount
of courage.
At the risk of indigestion the worm was eaten hastily, and stopping only
long enough to use a blade of grass as a napkin, they started on their
journey, just a trifle confused by the noise and bustle, but determined
that no one should know they had never been around the town before.
The busy sparrows in the streets, who were obliged to work industriously
all day in order to get sufficient food, had very little to say to these
young fellows who assumed so many foolish airs and graces, flying about
first this way and then that, as if they had taken leave of their
senses.
They flew down the streets among the horses, until they came near
getting run over two or three times; darted around among the boys, until
one came so near being caught that he lost two of his tail feathers in
the struggle; and then the party seated themselves on the roof of a
house to decide what was best to be done.
In a window almost opposite where they were sitting was a stuffed
sparrow, mounted so skillfully that it looked as if it was alive.
It was not many moments before the party from the Park saw the
motionless bird, and without a thought that it was dead, proposed to
have some sport with the stranger.
"He's a terribly glum-looking fellow," said the youngest of the party.
"Let's go over and wake him up."
"He sits there as if he owned the whole city," said another, "and it
will do him good to let him know that there are some in town who amount
to as much as he does."
"Let's all fly down at once, and scare him," proposed the third; and no
sooner was the idea suggested than it was carried into execution.
Down the four flew with a rush, directly past the solemn bird; but
instead of showing signs of fear, he never winked.
Then the visitors perched on the ledge of the window, daring the
stranger to come out and knock them off, and making use of a great many
unsparrowly remarks; but no reply was made.
"I'll go up and flirt my wings in his face," said the most reckless one
of the party; "and if that don't make him speak, I'm mistaken."
Full of the idea that he was about to do some brave thing in thus
attacking one poor lone bird, this impudent sparrow did as he had said
he would, and great was the surprise of all four when the stranger
tumbled over as stiff as a poker.
[Illustration: "HAVE WE KILLED HIM?"]
At first the party were afraid they had carried their sport too far, and
committed murder. For a moment they were so frightened that their only
thought was of flight; and then they noticed that the stranger had not
moved a muscle since he had been struck, but lay with raised wings just
as he had been sitting.
There was something strange about it all, for it surely did not seem as
if a little blow like the one given could have killed the bird, and
they ventured in to examine the supposed victim. So intent were they
upon the examination that they did not notice that any one had entered
the room, until they heard a low voice say, "Oh, Nellie, get some salt
quick, and we can catch them all."
Their recklessness was gone as they looked up, and saw a little boy and
girl coming directly toward them. How their hearts beat, and how
frightened they were! They had heard their mother say that if they got
salt on their tails they would surely be caught, and fastened in a cage,
and they dashed around the room wildly in their efforts to escape, too
much excited to fly directly out of the window at first.
They did manage to get out after a time, however, and when they went
back home they were anything but a jaunty-looking party. One had scraped
his wing against the wall until it bled, two others had lost nearly the
whole of their tails, while the youngest had his feathers firmly glued
down by syrup from the bread the little girl had in her hand.
It was a hard lesson for them, but it did them good; and to-day, if it
were possible to find those young sparrows, they would tell you, if they
could, that they had decided to listen to the experience of their
parents rather than bear the possible suffering by trying to find out
for themselves.
LANDING A RIVER-HORSE.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"'What were we there for?'" said Uncle Marbury. "Why, we wanted to kill
a hippopotamus."
"Was Mr. Lloyd a great hunter too?" asked Cal.
"Yes; he'd hunted all sorts of wild animals, and so had I. We could each
say we'd killed lions and tigers and elephants, but we had never before
gone after any hippopotami."
"Hippopotamuses? Were there any there?"
"That's where they belong. But don't say 'musses.' One is a
hippopotamus. I killed five while I was there, and as soon as I had two
of them, they were hippopotami."
"My!" exclaimed Robert, "I never heard that before."
Cal had his school atlas out on the table, and his finger was already
pushing along up the west coast of Africa.
"There's Angola."
"Now find the river Coanza. There's any number of them, and they're all
alike. Where are my spectacles?"
"I've got it," said Cal. "Was that where you found 'em?"
"They live along all those rivers. The banks are all woods and swamps
and mud, and the rivers are just about fit for river-horses to wallow
in."
"River-horses!" exclaimed Rob, who was staring at a cut of one in his
Natural History. "He's no more like a horse than this house is."
"Well, no," said Uncle Marbury; "there isn't much horse about them, but
they spend most of their time in the river, so half their name is
correct. The first one I killed tipped over all our boats, so we had to
swim for it."
"Did he get a bite at any of you?"
"It wasn't his fault that he didn't. We found out that fishing for
river-horses was a serious piece of business."
"Fish for them? What! with a hook and line?"
[Illustration: KILLING A HIPPOPOTAMUS IN WESTERN AFRICA.]
"Not exactly. It was a good deal more like fishing for whales. Mr. Lloyd
and I went after them with a lot of black hunters. We took our guns, and
they took their harpoons, and such a time as we had you never saw."
Cal and Rob were getting a good deal waked up on the river-horse
question, and their mother dropped her book in her lap, although she had
heard that story once or twice before.
"Now, boys," she said, "don't interrupt your uncle. Let him tell it all
his own way."
Cal and Rob looked at each other. Cal had at least three questions in
his mouth, and Bob had two, all ready to ask, but they shut their lips
hard, and Rob took a tight grip of his chair, so he shouldn't let go of
those questions.
Uncle Marbury leaned back in his Sleepy Hollow chair, and went right on:
"The black men go for them in boats, with harpoons that they make
themselves. They take a stout pole, of a hard, heavy wood that grows
there, and cut it to about ten or twelve feet long and three or four
inches thick. That's the shaft of the harpoon. The head is made of a
tough piece of iron, thicker than my finger, and about a foot long. It
has a barbed spear-head at the end, and when those barbs get under the
tough hide of a hippopotamus, all the plunging and struggling he can do
won't make them pull out.
"They bore a hole in the end of the pole just big enough to take in a
few inches of the iron foot of the barbed head, and it fits loosely, so
it'll come out. That's just what they want it to do. I'll tell you why.
Just as soon as a hippopotamus is wounded, he turns to bite at the thing
that hurt him, and if his great jaws and sharp teeth shut down on a
piece of wood, they'd grind it to splinters, no matter how hard and
strong it might be. If it was a rope, they'd cut it right off, and the
hunters would lose their harpoon and their game too. So they leave the
iron head loose, to come out, and fasten it to the pole by a sort of
long band that is made of ever so many tough strong cords, not very
large, any one of them, and these slip around among the teeth, and if
some of them do get cut off, there are always enough left to hold by.
"The other end of the pole has a long rope, like a whale line, tied to
it, and that is coiled up in the boat, and they let it run out or pull
it in, just as they see fit.
"We had two of those harpoons in each of our boats, and all of the black
men had spears, and Lloyd and I had double-barrelled rifles, and our
first river-horse was almost too much for us in spite of them all."
"Did he fight hard?"
"Calvin!" said his mother.
"I'll tell you. Lloyd and I had a good yawl boat we had brought with us,
and half a dozen black men to paddle, and there were two canoes, each
with three black men in it, but we didn't bring any canoes home. Mr.
Lloyd and I and my black servant were the only men in those boats that
had any clothes on to speak of.
"Now, you see, boys, the hippopotami are a good deal like you--they have
favorite spots along the river where they go in swimming, and sometimes
a good many will go in together, and have a good bath of mud and water.
The black hunters find out these places, but it wouldn't do to go
straight for them. You'd only scare them away if you did that.
"Mr. Lloyd and I let the black hunters do things their own way; and they
had made our camp, the night before, two good miles above one of these
wallowing-places. So, when we started, we let the boat and the two
canoes float down with the current, just steering them a little, and you
never saw so many men keep so still. It was dreadfully warm, and we'd
have envied the black men if it hadn't been for the mosquitoes. They
didn't seem to mind them, but we were glad enough there were some spots
on us where the ugly little scamps couldn't bite to do any harm. I
believe, though, that my black servant would have stripped off his
clothes if he hadn't been so proud of them. Suddenly one of the black
hunters in my boat put his hand on my arm, and pointed at something a
little ahead of the canoe on the left.
"It was something big and black coming slowly up through the water. A
little pair of ears very wide apart; then the great eyes that seemed to
stick right out; then the nose--there was no use in asking whose head
that was. Just enough of his body followed above the surface to give the
black hunter in the prow of that canoe a fair mark for his harpoon. He
was close up when he threw it; and he drove it in good and deep, now I
tell you. I felt sure it would stick, but it must have astonished that
river-horse. He gave a tremendous angry sort of grunt and a great jump,
and the head of the harpoon came out of the socket, just as it was meant
to, and off he started down stream. He pulled that canoe along fast
enough, and the rest of us paddled for dear life.
"I tried hard to get a shot at him, and so did Lloyd, whenever any of
him showed above water, but our bullets must have glanced from his hard
wet hide, if any of them hit him, and I'm not half sure they did.
"You've no idea at what a rate he managed to travel. It was hot work to
keep anywhere near him. We wanted him to go ashore or into shallow
water, where we could get at him. They're a good deal more dangerous in
the water than they are out of it.
"He was more scared than hurt, though, and he didn't care a copper what
we wanted; but in one of his turns he gave me a chance to put a
rifle-bullet into his side."
"Did it kill him?" Both boys had spoken at once.
"No, it didn't kill him, but it made him angry, and just then one of the
black hunters drove a spear into him.
"Then the fight began. He was furious with pain, and didn't seem to care
any more for spears and bullets after that than I did for the
mosquitoes. He dived and rose, and dived and rose, and tried every way
to get at us, and the black men had to ply their paddles more than their
spears.
"He snorted and squealed with rage, and made the water fairly foam for a
few minutes, and then he tried a piece of cunning. He swam around under
water for nearly a minute, and the harpoon rope was out so loose and
long that we couldn't keep very close track of him.
"Suddenly the black hunters in one of the canoes gave a frightened yell,
and sprang out. I saw a great gaping pair of jaws shutting down over the
side of that canoe, and they crunched it in pieces as easily as you
would bite through a brittle ginger-snap. He had spoiled the canoe at
one bite, and then he dashed fiercely around in all directions, looking
for the men. They swam well, but he'd have caught some of them if it
hadn't been that the harpoon in him belonged to the other canoe, and the
crew of that were hauling on it with all their might. The upset men
scrambled into my boat, and Lloyd and I got some shots at the
hippopotamus that weakened him. It was well we did, for they pulled too
hard on the harpoon rope, and got too near, and in a moment more they
too were in the river, and their canoe was being bitten to splinters. It
was hard and dangerous work to save those men, but we did it, and our
yawl was terribly crowded when they were all in. It began to look like a
doubtful fight, for we had lost hold of the harpoon rope; but the
hippopotamus had managed to bring us all nearer the bank, where the
water was not so deep, and he had no notion of running now. He stood at
bay a minute or so later, half out of water, and the black hunters
sprang out, and went at him with their spears like heroes. I never saw
such daring fellows; but Mr. Lloyd and I were doing all we could with
our rifles, and the river-horse hardly knew which way to turn. Something
was hitting him from every direction. I was just beginning to wonder if
he could be killed at all, when he made a sudden turn and a rush, and
over went our boat, and we too were sprawling in the river. I must say I
felt a little queer when I went under; but when I got my head out again,
there was the hippopotamus within ten feet of me, his mouth wide open
for a bite, but staggering and falling over on his side.
"He went right to the bottom, but we didn't lose him. Some of the black
men righted our boat, and some dived and searched for the guns and
things, and found them, and some of them worked away at the hippopotamus
till they got a strong rope hitched around his lower jaw. Then we all
tugged and pulled till we had him half out of water, at the shore of the
river. He was an enormous fellow, and more like a big black hog than
like any horse I ever saw."
"Did the natives carry him home?" asked Cal.
"Well, yes, a good part of him. But they cooked and ate him first. They
built a big fire on the bank, and kept on cutting off slices and
roasting and broiling till I wondered when they'd stop."
THE DAISY COT.
A STORY In TWO PARTS.
BY MISS LILLIAS C. DAVIDSON.
PART II.
Weeks and months went by, and each week found Mercy better and brighter
and stronger, until her tongue used to go like a mill clapper, and a
continual stream of chatter overflowed from the Daisy Cot.