[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
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VOL. II.--NO. 99. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, September 20, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
$1.50 per Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: THE LAST DAY AT THE SEA-SIDE.--DRAWN BY JESSIE
SHEPHERD.]
"RIGHT ABOUT FACE."
BY MARY D. BRINE.
"Now, right about face!" September cries,
"Right about face, and march!" cries she;
"You, Summer, have had _your_ day, and now,
In spite of your sorrowful clouded brow,
The children belong to _me_.
"Come, fall into line, you girls and boys,
Tanned and sunburned, merry and gay;
Turn your backs to the woods and hills,
The meadow ponds and the mountain rills,
And march from them all away.
"Are you loath, I wonder, to say farewell
To the summer days and the summer skies?
Ah! time flies fast; vacation is done;
You've finished your season of frolic and fun;
Now turn your tardy eyes
"Toward your lessons and books, my dears.
Why, where would our men and women be,
If the _children_ forever with Summer played?
Come, right about face," September said,
"And return to school with me."
SOMETHING ABOUT SHIPS.
Sailing vessels carry either square-sails or fore-and-aft sails. A
square-sail is one the head of which is "bent" or made fast to the
jack-stay--an iron rod on a yard. Fore-and-aft sails, instead of being
bent to yards, are mostly supplied with a boom or gaff, or both. The
lower corners of square-sails are called clews. The fore-sail and
mainsail are often called the courses. Sail is seldom carried on the
cross-jack (pronounced krojik) yard, the lowest yard on the mizzenmast.
The courses, when "set," are kept down by means of ropes leading from
the clews fore and aft, called tacks and sheets. Above the courses come
the topsails; above the topsails, the top-gallant-sails; and next above,
the royals. Some very large ships carry still loftier sails, called
sky-sails.
Most merchant ships carry double topsails, one above the other, for
greater ease in handling; but on men-of-war, having large crews, single
topsails are the rule.
The head-sails are those which the bowsprit and the booms it supports
carry forward. These are the foretopmast stay-sail, the jib, and
flying-jib. Large vessels carry even more head-sails. The spanker, or
driver, as our merchantmen sometimes call it, is a fore-and-aft sail,
and is the aftersail of a ship or bark.
A compass being divided into thirty-two points, sailors consider the
horizon at sea as having an equal number of divisions, and speak of a
ship as sailing within five or six points of the direction the wind is
blowing from.
When the sails of a ship are filled with wind, they are said to be
drawing or full. A good sailor is never so happy as when with a
whole-sail breeze he sees all his canvas spread and drawing, and feels
himself "off before it."
THE BROKEN VASE.
BY MRS. W. H. SNYDER.
"Now," said Mary, impatiently, as she came in from school, "I shall have
to draw another hateful old design, for she wouldn't accept the one I
took in this morning. She said it was drawn carelessly, and that I
hadn't followed her directions, and that I had made thick lines, and
hadn't properly erased my guide lines. She was ever so hard to please,
and I hate her."
"I am sorry to see my little girl in such a bad humor to-day," said
mother. "I thought I heard her say this morning that Miss Jones was 'so
nice.'"
"Oh yes, but she isn't always nice. She's dreadfully particular
sometimes--at least with me. She was pleasant enough to Jenny Kirkland
and Clara Sackett, and she almost always says to those two girls, 'You
have done very well, and you deserve a great deal of credit.' And to
make matters worse, Miss Howland had to go and say, 'Mary, you must
bring in a better design to-morrow, or I shall have to discredit you.'
Well, I'll bring her in a design to-morrow," and she added, in an
under-tone, "I'll just copy it off of grandpa's old Nantgru vase." So
saying, she approached the table upon which stood the vase, with a few
flowers in it tastefully arranged, and throwing her hat and books
petulantly down, the corner of her geography struck the vase, and it
fell upon the floor, and was shattered into half a dozen pieces.
Emma and Walter, hearing the crash, hastened in.
"See what I have done!" said Mary, sitting down upon a chair with tears
in her eyes, and holding up a portion of the broken vase. "I am so sorry
that I have broken dear grandpa's vase."
"And grandpa will be sorry too," said Emma, "for he highly prizes his
vase. Grandpa"--as the old gentleman walked feebly into the room--"Mary
has broken your vase, and she is very sorry."
[Illustration: "GRANDPA TOOK THE FRAGMENTS IN HIS TREMBLING HAND."]
Grandpa took the fragments in his trembling hand, and looked almost
lovingly upon them.
"Oh, grandpa," exclaimed Walter, sympathetically, "I think father will
be able to mend it with some of his new cement when he comes home
to-night."
"I hope so, my boy," said the old gentleman, "for I value it very much.
It was given to me many years ago by my friend Mr. Barr, who had a large
porcelain manufactory in Worcester, England."
"Please, grandpa," said Walter, "tell us something of the history of
your vase."
Grandpa sat down in the large easy-chair, and the children gathered
around him, anticipating a pleasant story, for grandpa told a great many
pleasant things about events that happened during his youth.
"One sultry day in May, in the year 1811," began grandpa, "I went to
visit my friend Mr. Barr in Worcester. Mr. Barr had one of the most
celebrated china manufactories in England. Barr, Flight, & Barr was a
firm widely known in those days.
"I accompanied my friend to his factory, for I was greatly interested in
the manufacture of porcelain, and indeed of any article. After spending
several hours in passing from room to room, I noticed that it was
growing dark, and drawing out my watch, saw that it was but little after
four o'clock. Mr. Barr remarked at the same time, 'I shouldn't be
surprised if we had a shower before long.' Just as we were speaking we
heard the rumbling of distant thunder.
"We then walked to a window that looked out toward the east, and noticed
that very dark clouds were rising in that direction, and that they
extended to the south. We stood some time watching the rising storm. The
sky in an incredibly short time presented a very threatening appearance.
Inky clouds piled up rapidly in huge masses, and the continuous roar of
distant thunder and the terrible flashes of forked lightning filled us
with apprehension as to what the storm would be when it reached us.
"About this time Mr. Barr's attention was directed to something in
another part of the building, and for a while we lost sight of the
storm, but suddenly we were startled by a tremendous clap of thunder,
accompanied by a flash of dazzling brightness, and then the storm swept
upon us in all its fury.
"The roar of the tempest, the crashing of thunder, and the dashing of
hail-stones against the windows and upon the roof of the factory were
really appalling. Awe-stricken, we stood and listened.
"Presently a man rushed into the room, and approaching Mr. Barr, said,
'Oh, sir, I do believe that every winder in the whole factory is broke
with the hail. I never in my life see such stones before; they are
surely five or six inches round.'
"This was no exaggeration. We hurried through the rooms on the exposed
sides of the building, and everywhere destruction met our view: broken
glass, hail-stones, and broken china were scattered over the floors. The
tempest continued to rage with unabated fury long after ordinary storms
would have exhausted themselves or have passed away.
"After a while men came in with pale and anxious faces, and told us that
the river Severn had risen six feet in one hour, and that it was still
rapidly rising, and they feared great distress would be occasioned by
the flood.
"The time seemed interminable while we waited and watched for the storm
to subside. At last, as if reluctantly, the thunder became more and more
distant, and the lightning flashes less dazzling and terrific. Every one
breathed more freely now. We felt as if a terrible dream had been upon
us, and we were just waking from it. By-and-by the clouds drifted away,
and only occasionally a far-off flash illumined the horizon. The air was
wonderfully pure, and the moon and stars shone out brightly over a scene
of desolation.
"That night I spent at Mr. Barr's house, and the following morning,
after visiting the factory, we took a drive through the town, and out
into the surrounding country. In the city, gardens were laid waste,
trees were torn and almost stripped of their foliage, and nearly every
window that faced the east was broken. One of the newspapers of the day
said that the town looked as if it had been besieged.
"But the country--oh, how sad and desolate it looked! The fields of
grass and corn that yesterday were so beautiful, and the luxuriant crops
that promised such all abundant harvest, were everywhere beaten down and
destroyed. The river, too, had risen twenty feet during the storm, and
had swept madly over the adjacent fields, carrying away houses and
barns, destroying many peaceful and pleasant homes, and sweeping herds
of cattle from the pastures."[1]
[1] A true account.
"As we reached the top of a certain hill, I looked anxiously toward the
river for a picturesque little cottage that I had often admired on
account of its pretty porch that was overrun with roses and honeysuckle,
and because of the fine elms that overshadowed it. I had always imagined
that place to be the home of some refined person. All the surroundings
indicated it, although it was quite apparent that the owner was not
wealthy.
"'Ah,' said Mr. Barr, looking in the same direction, 'the Professor's
little cottage has gone too!' He reined in his horses, and sat silently
looking toward the spot.
"'Mr. Barr, sir,' said a man, approaching the carriage, 'last night was
a fearful night. We narrowly escaped with our lives.' And pointing in
the direction of the cottage: 'The Professor yonder was drowned, and his
house swept away by the flood. The Lord help his little gurl!'"
"'Where is she?' asked Mr. Barr.
"'She's with me wife in the hut over on the hill, and she's entirely
heart-broken with the loss of her father, sir.'
"'We must do something for her at once,' said my kind-hearted friend.
Then turning to the man: 'Jump in; we are going to drive up to the hut.'
"We drove on at a brisk pace, while the man related his sad story.
"'You see, sir,' he began, 'the storm got so fierce, and the water riz
so high about the cabin, that I told Betsey to get the children ready
and we'd take to the boat. Now the big boat had capsized at the stake,
and I had naught but the little one, and I wuz afeared the weight of us
would swamp her in sech a sea. Just as we neared the cottage the
Professor he come out on the shed and shouted to me, sez he, "James, for
the love of Heaven save my child." I sez, "Ay, ay, sir, I'll do me
best." It wuz no small thing to get her aboard, I can tell yer, sir. The
wind wuz a-blowin' a gale, and it wuz all I could do to keep the boat
steady before it. After a good deal of hard work, and no little danger,
we got her under the lee of the house, and took the little gurl in.
"'Oh! but, sir, it would hev made yer heart ache to see her there cryin'
about leavin' her father. I really do think she'd hev staid with him and
died if he hadn't hev sed, "Mary, my child, you must get into the boat
at once; then I will only have myself to look after, and I will be much
more likely to be saved. God keep you, my darling!" Them was the last
words I ever heerd him say.'
"By this time we had reached the top of the hill, and we were not long
in getting to the hut.
"What a lovely child it was that ran out to meet us as we approached,
but soon stopped, and looking wistfully at us, inquired, in a low sad
voice, 'Have you found my father yet?'
"The boatman in his gentlest manner said, 'Not yet, dear.'
"The child's large blue eyes instantly filled with tears, her lips
quivered, and she turned quickly and went back into the hut. I felt a
sudden sickness at my heart, and I saw my friend pass his hand across
his eyes.
"Presently we followed her in, and Mr. Barr took her hand and kindly
said, 'My child, you can not remain in this place. Come home with us,
and we will take every possible means to find your father.'
"'Ay,' said the boatman's wife, 'Mr. Barr is a good gentleman, and he'll
do all he ken for ye.'
"The child was attracted by his kindly manner, as indeed every one was
with whom he had to do, and she readily consented to go.
"We gave some money to the boatman to relieve his present necessities,
and tenderly placing our little charge in the carriage, drove rapidly
back to the city. It is needless to say that her father was never found.
"Before I left Worcester I told Mr. Barr that as I was a young man of
some means, and happily for myself had a disposition to do some good in
the world rather than to live in selfishness, I would esteem it a favor
if I might be permitted to educate this little girl, so that she could
sustain herself in a manner that would not be burdensome, and that would
at the same time give her a place among refined people. Mr. Barr was
pleased with my request, and willingly gave his consent; so little Mary
was at once placed in an excellent school."
"Grandpa, what was her name besides Mary?" asked Walter.
"I will tell you by-and-by," said grandpa.
"Shortly after this," continued the old gentleman, "I returned to
America, and it was several years before I visited England again; but
finally business compelled me to cross the ocean once more, and you may
be sure that I was not long in seeking my old friends and my little
protégée. But she was no longer little; she had grown to be a lovely
young lady, gentle, intelligent, and beautiful."
"And what was her name?" we all asked, in chorus.
"Her name was Mary Ames."
"Mary Ames!" we exclaimed; "why, that is grandma's name."
"And she is grandma," he said, with a smile.
"What a beautiful story!" we cried, "and all about grandma."
"But you haven't told us about the vase yet," said Walter.
"Well, my boy," said grandpa, "Mr. Barr gave Mary an elegant set of
china, such china as is rarely seen in these days; and he said to me,
'Farrington, I will give you a specimen of this new porcelain that I
have been experimenting upon so much of late. I regard this as quite a
success. We call it Nantgru.' And so I came by the vase, and on account
of these associations I value it."
"Here comes father," said Walter. "Now I'll ask him to mend your vase,"
and away he ran to meet his father.
"Dear grandpa, how good you are!" said little Mary, standing very close
to his chair. "I am so sorry that I broke your vase!"
[Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.]
TIM AND TIP;
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.
CHAPTER VIII.
MINCHIN'S ISLAND.
"I thought I told you to go below," said an angry voice, and, looking
up, Tim saw it was the Captain who was detaining him. "If you so much as
make a motion to go on shore, I'll whip you within an inch of your
life."
Then, without giving him an opportunity to disobey, the same heavy hand
pushed him back on the deck, and Mr. Rankin led him forcibly below.
"I won't stay here. I won't go down stairs an' leave Tip there to
drown," cried Tim, passionately. "It's awful wicked, an' I won't do it."
"Listen to me, Tim," said Mr. Rankin, kindly but firmly. "There is no
possible chance that your dog will drown, and you must come below, for
it is the Captain's orders."
"But I must go an' get him," wailed Tim.
"Suppose you could get him before we leave the dock, which you can't,
and suppose you should get him aboard without the Captain's seeing you,
which is an impossibility, what would be the result? Captain Pratt would
throw him overboard after we got out to sea again, and then he would be
sure to drown."
Tim knew the steward's reasoning was correct, and yet he refused to be
comforted. He was led below despite his struggles, but when he reached
the main-deck he ran to the rail, from where he could see all that was
going on in the water.
"Do you s'pose he will get ashore all right?" Tim asked of Mr. Rankin,
as he watched Tip's exertions to save himself.
"Of course he will; he's almost there now, and in five minutes more
he'll be just as safe as ever, and a good deal cleaner."
By this time the freight for the island had been landed, and the steamer
was already leaving the wharf. Tim was in an agony of fear lest he
should be obliged to depart without assuring himself that Tip was a
saved dog.
But in order that the steamer should be put on her course again it was
necessary to back her for some distance, and that was a bit of good luck
for Tim, since they moved in the direction taken by Tip. Tim could see
Bobby at the extreme point of land that jutted out into the sea, urging
the dog to increased exertion, and aided by all the boys who were on the
wharf at the time Tip was thrown overboard, as well as by a number of
others who had learned of the excitement by seeing Bobby as he ran
around the shore.
Just as the steamer's paddle-wheels ceased to force her back, and began
to urge her in the opposite direction, Tip's short legs touched the
bottom, and in another instant Bobby was holding him, all wet and
dripping, high up in the air, while he executed a sort of triumphant
war-dance before Tim's delighted gaze.
Tim stood looking with his very heart in his eyes as the _Pride of the
Wave_ carried him farther and farther from the only friend he had, and
when he saw Tip run along the beach and shake himself, he laughed from
very joy.
But in another instant he understood that if the dog was safe, he was
being separated from him very rapidly.
"I sha'n't see him ever again in the world," he wailed, "an' he is the
only feller that cares anything about me."
Then he ran to the little hole which had served Tip as a state-room, and
there gave vent to his sorrow in passionate weeping.
When Tim had so far recovered from his grief as to present himself for
work again, Minchin's Island was far astern, and the voyage drawing
rapidly to an end.
Those who were friendly to the boy thought the wisest and kindest course
to pursue was to say nothing about poor Tip, and as those who were not
friendly did not speak of him, Tim got on without giving way to his
grief in public. Captain Pratt seemed to have forgotten his threat of
punishing Tim for venturing on the upper deck, or he may have thought
best to wait until the end of the trip, for he said nothing to the boy,
which was far more kind than he had any idea of being.
At the different landings Tim did not have curiosity enough to look at
the towns, but worked as hard as he could, in order to prevent thinking
about poor Tip. Captain Pratt summoned him to the wheel-house several
times, and whenever he went there he felt certain he was to receive the
promised whipping; but he was mistaken, for after ordering him to do
some trifling work, the Captain paid no attention to him.
At about six o'clock on the afternoon of that day the steamer was made
fast to the wharf at Bedlow, and the trip was ended.
After the work of cleaning the cabin was done, Mr. Rankin said, "You can
go ashore and see the town if you want to; but be back by nine o'clock."
Tim shook his head; he had no desire to see anything new, since Tip was
not there to enjoy the sights with him, and he crept off to his dirty
berth in the forecastle, where he cried himself to sleep.
On the next morning he succeeded in supplying the Captain's wants at the
table as quickly as that gentleman thought proper, and yet no mention
was made of the events of the previous day.
The steamer was to leave Bedlow on her return trip at noon, and Tim took
no interest in the bustle and excitement on the wharf, save that each
succeeding moment was one less in the time that must elapse before he
saw Tip again.
As the steamer started, his spirits rose, and he watched her course
carefully, fretting at the time spent at each landing, content only when
she was going at regular speed toward Minchin's Island and Tip.
He had formed no plan as to what he should do when he got there. He knew
that Mr. Rankin's advice that Tip be left there was good, and should be
followed, but he could not make up his mind to do so. Parting with Tip
seemed like parting with a portion of his very life, and he could not
bring himself to say that he would leave this his only friend, no matter
how short the time.
It was nearly night-fall when the steamer neared Minchin's Island, and
Tim was as far in the bow as he could get on the main-deck, in order
that he might catch the first glimpse of Tip, for he felt sure Bobby
would bring him to the wharf.
At last he could distinctly see the different objects on the wharf, and
his heart sank when he failed to see any one who at all resembled Bobby.
He looked eagerly among the crowd assembled, and could not even see one
boy, when on the day before there had been at least twenty there. He was
at a loss to account for this cruelty on Bobby's part. He knew the dog
had been saved, for he had surely seen him held aloft in Bob's arms, and
a cruel suspicion came into his mind that perhaps the boy was keeping
out of sight with the intention of claiming Tip as his own.
The boat arrived at the wharf, and was made fast. Not a single boy or
dog could be seen.
Tim's heart was full to bursting, and as he leaned against the rail he
thought it was not possible for greater trouble to come to him, since he
was denied even a sight of Tip.
Now he would willingly have promised that the dog should remain with
Bobby if by making such promise he could see and hug him each time the
boat arrived at that place.
So absorbed was he with his grief, caused by what looked very like an
act of unkindness on Bobby's part, that he failed to notice what several
of the employés on the steamer saw and wondered at. A man had called
Captain Pratt on shore, and was talking to him in such a manner as to
make him angry. So excited was he that he paid no attention to the fact
that the steamer was ready to continue the trip, and that every one
waited for him.
Tim saw nothing of all this; but when the Captain called loudly to him
he started as if he had been caught in wrong-doing.
"Come ashore here," cried the Captain, much as if he was angry with
himself for giving such an order.
Tim walked on to the wharf in a perfect maze of surprise, and when he
went near his employer his wonder was increased by hearing that
gentleman say to the one he had been talking with, "Here's the boy, and
I wish you joy of him." And then to see him go quickly on board the
steamer.
Before Tim had time to recover from his surprise the steamer had
started, and as she was leaving the wharf he was almost knocked down by
some soft substance that hit him on the legs.
[Illustration: TIM RECOVERS HIS LOST PET.]
It did not take him many seconds to discover that this substance which
had struck him so suddenly was his own little bob-tailed Tip, and then
he sat right down on the wharf, and hugged him desperately, giving no
heed to anything save the happy fact that he had his pet to himself once
more.
Some time before he had finished hugging and kissing Tip a noisy crowd
of boys appeared from behind one of the freight sheds, where they had
evidently been in hiding, and gave him such a welcome to Minchin's
Island as he never expected to receive anywhere.
Bobby was among the number, of course, and it was so long before he
could calm himself down sufficiently to explain the meaning of all the
strange occurrences, that Tim was left some time in doubt as to whether
he had really escaped from the savage Captain Pratt, or if it was all a
pleasant dream, from which he would awake to receive the promised
flogging.
When Bobby did sober down sufficiently to talk understandingly, Tim
learned that owing to his friend's pleading, and tales of how he had
been abused, Mr. Tucker had promised that he would oblige Captain Pratt
to let the boy come ashore at Minchin's Island, where he should have a
home for a time at least.
Relying on that promise, Bobby had gathered all the boys of the town
together to give Tim a proper welcome, and all had been hidden behind
the shed when the steamer came in, so that the surprise should be as
great as possible. By what means Mr. Tucker had induced Captain Pratt to
part with the cabin-boy he was "breaking in" no one knew, and no one
seemed to care, since it had been so successfully accomplished.
When Bobby looked around for his father, to introduce to him the boy for
whom he had done so much, he was nowhere to be seen, and Bobby said in
apology: "I s'pose he thought we would want to talk a good deal, and so
he went off; but we'll see him when we get home."
"But am I really going to live with you?" asked Tim, hardly able to
believe the good fortune that had come to him so suddenly.
"You're goin' to live with me a good while anyhow, an' I guess for all
the time; but father didn't say." Then, as the boys started up the
wharf, he added, eagerly: "We're goin' over to Bill Thompson's father's
schooner now. We've got some chowder, an' Bill's father said we could go
over there an' have supper, so we're goin' to show you one of the best
times you ever had."
The countenances of all the boys told that some big time was near, and
more especially was that the case with Bill Thompson. By his very manner
he showed that he considered himself of the greatest importance in that
party, and walked on in advance, almost unable to contain himself
because of his excessive dignity. Instead of going up into the little
town, Bill led the way around the shore, and as the boys reached the
headland where Tip had first touched the land of Minchin's Island, Bobby
pointed to a small fishing-schooner that lay at anchor a short distance
from the shore.
Then the other boys began to tell about the supper and the good time
generally, until it was impossible to distinguish one word; but Bill
Thompson walked on in silence, looking neither to the right nor the
left. It was enough for him that he was the one on whom the pleasure
depended, since it was to take place on his father's vessel, and he
could not lower his dignity by talking.
A dory hauled up on the beach served to convey the party to the
schooner, and once there, Bill Thompson led the way to the cabin, where
every preparation had been made for the feast of welcome.
The table, formed by letting down a shelf from the side of the cabin,
was large enough to accommodate half the party, and was laid with every
variety of crockery and cutlery such as would be likely to be found on
board a fishing vessel. The only food on the table was crackers, but a
huge pot, which was bubbling and steaming in a contented sort of way on
the stove, told that there was enough to satisfy the wants of the
hungriest boy there.
"Set right down to the table, Tim," said Bill, unbending from his
dignity a little, "an' the rest of us will do the work; you're the
company, you know."
Tim took the place of honor, the only arm-chair in the cabin, and was
more than gratified to find that a seat had been placed close beside him
for Tip, who had already jumped on it, sitting there looking as wise and
hungry as a dog could look.
The entire boy portion of the population of Minchin's Island had worked
hard and earnestly to prepare this feast of welcome, and the result of
their labors was the chowder, which was being served by means of a
cocoanut-shell dipper, with a large hole in the side that somewhat
delayed the progress.
At last all were served, and those who could not find places at the
table were seated on the sides of the berths, on trunks, fishing-tackle,
or any available space, and the feast was begun.
Tip had his share in a saucer, and he ate it in as dignified a manner as
the best-behaved dog could have done.
For several moments all gave their undivided attention to the chowder,
which was not exactly as good as they were accustomed to at home, but
which, being the product of their own labor, tasted better than anything
they had ever eaten before.
Especially to Tim was it good, because of the spirit which prompted its
manufacture, and because it was an evidence of their good-will to him.
Tip rather turned his nose up at it, however. Since his arrival at
Minchin's Island he had been petted and fed by every boy in town, thanks
to Bobby's stories of his ability as a bear dog, until now it required
something more than ordinary food to tempt his appetite.
But the feast was not the only way by which the boy who had come among
them was to be honored, as Tim soon found out. A very elaborate
programme had been arranged, and not one single detail was to be
omitted.
Bill Thompson, with his mouth uncomfortably full, arose to his feet in
such a clumsy manner that he upset what remained of Bobby's chowder,
very much to the disadvantage of the table-cloth and his trousers, and
said, with some hesitation:
"Mr. Babbige, we fellers heard all about you last night from our
esteemed feller-citizen Mr. Bob Tucker, an' we wanted to do something to
show you what we thought of you."
Here Bill stopped to swallow a portion of the cracker that impeded his
speech, and Tim looked around him in blank amazement, not understanding
this portion of the proceedings. Bill continued in the most serious
manner:
"We knowed what a hard time you was havin' on the _Pride_, an' we wanted
to have you come an' live here, 'cause we thought we should like you,
an' 'cause you had such a fine dog. This little chowder welcome ain't
all we've got for yer. To-morrer we're goin' to take Tip an' you out in
the woods, an' we've decided that the first bear he kills shall be
skinned, an' the skin nailed up on Bobby Tucker's father's barn, where
everybody can see what your Tip has done."
At this point Bobby Tucker slyly pinched Tip's stub tail, and he uttered
such a yelp that the remainder of the company applauded loudly, thinking
he must have understood what was said.
When the noise ceased, Bill bowed gracefully to Tip as an acknowledgment
of his appreciation, and having swallowed that which had been in his
mouth, was able to speak more plainly.
"Mr. Babbige, we fellers want to 'gratulate you on gettin' off the
_Pride_, an' more 'specially on comin' to this town, where the fellers
will treat you an' Tip as you ought to be treated. We hope you'll stay
forever with us, an' never want to go away. Now, fellers, I say three
cheers for Tip and Tim Babbige."
The cheers were given with a will, causing Tim's face to turn as red as
a boiled beet, while his confusion was as great as his face was red.
As soon as the noise had died away, Bobby was on his feet ready to
express his opinion on the subject.
"Mr. Tim--I mean Tim--no, Mr. Timothy Babbige," he began, very
earnestly; but his difficulty in getting the name right so confused him
that he forgot what he was to say next. He cleared his throat until his
voice was as hoarse as an aged frog's, and yet no words came. Then he
seized a glass of water, drinking it so fast that he gasped and choked
until the tears came into his eyes, and his face was as red as Tim's.
"Mr. Babbige," he began, and Tim's big eyes were fixed on him so
pityingly that he was all at sea again so far as words were concerned,
and making one desperate effort, he said, "Well, we're glad to see you
here, Tim, an' we mean to make it jest as lively for you as we know
how."
Then Bobby sat down very much ashamed that he had made such a failure;
but when the boys cheered him as loudly as they had Bill, he began to
think it was quite a speech after all.
Now every one looked expectantly at Tim, and he knew he was obliged to
make some reply. He gazed at Tip, and Tip gazed at him; but no
inspiration came from that source, and he stood up in a desperate way,
feeling that as a rule he had rather go hungry than pay such a price for
a supper.
"Fellers," he said, loudly, believing, if the thing must be done, the
more noise the better, "I want to thank you all for what you did for Tip
when you pulled him out of the water, an' for what you've done for me.
The chowder was splendid--"
Here he was interrupted by loud and continued applause as he paid this
delicate compliment to their skill as cooks, and it was some moments
before he could continue.
"Tip an' me have had a nice time eatin' it, an' we're a good deal more
glad to be here than you are to have us."
He could think of nothing more to say, and was about to sit down when
Bobby asked, "What about killin' the bears?"
"I'd 'most forgotten about them," he said, as he straightened himself up
and looked down at Tip with pride. "If you've got any bears 'round here
that wants to be killed, Tip will fix 'em for you; but if you want to
save the skins to nail up on the barn, you must rush in an' catch Tip
before he chews 'em all up. Why, I saw Tip catch a woodchuck once, an'
before you could say 'scat' he'd chewed him awfully. So you'll have to
be kinder careful of your bears when Tip once gets his eye on 'em."
That was the end of Tim's speech, for the applause was so great that for
the next five minutes it would have been useless for any one to try to
make himself heard.
It was very near nine o'clock by the time the formal welcome to Tim was
concluded, and after the cabin had been cleaned, Bill Thompson said, as
he wiped the dishwater from his hands, smoothed down his hair, and made
himself presentable for an appearance at home, "I guess we'd better go
now, an' to-morrow mornin' we'll go 'round back of Bobby Tucker's
father's wood-shed an' fix up about the bear-hunt."
The idea that they were to start the ferocious bear from his lair so
soon caused a fresh burst of enthusiasm, and each one made another and a
personal examination of Tip, until the much-inspected dog came very near
being cross.
It was rather a sleepy party that clambered over the side of the
schooner that night, but it was a party that had the most absolute faith
in Tip Babbige's ability to kill all the bears on the island.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: A VISIT TO THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.--DRAWN BY HENRY BACON.]
PIGEONS AND DOVES.
Very likely more than one boy will say, when he reads the heading of
this article, that any fellow knows how to take care of doves, and that
it is perfectly needless to tell him anything regarding them. But
however many there may be who know, or think they know, exactly how
these feathered pets should be treated, there certainly are some who
have had difficulty in keeping their pigeons at home, or found it almost
impossible to raise any young ones.
It is for the benefit of this last class of readers that this article is
written, and all others may pass it over if they choose.
Certainly it is a very easy matter to keep pigeons or doves, for they
are pets that require but little care; but this care consists in
something more than putting them into a box that is nailed to the side
of the building, and then allowing them to get along as best they can by
themselves.
The dove-cote should either be placed on a pole at such a height that it
can readily be reached with a ladder, in order that it may easily be
kept clean, or inside a building with the entrance facing the south, in
order that the inmates may, in a measure, be sheltered from the winter
storms.
In this dove-cote should be separate apartments for each pair of birds,
and at the entrance should be a broad ledge for them to alight on when
coming home, or to sun themselves on when they do not care to go on a
visit. These little houses should be cleaned at least once each month,
and plenty of gravel and old mortar spread on the floor. A little salt
must be sprinkled around once in a while, and every precaution taken to
guard against the invasion of rats or mice.
Wheat, oats, or barley should be fed each morning, with plenty of water,
and green food if they are confined any length of time. Care should be
taken to have the food fresh and clean, and not allow it to decay in the
cotes.
If there is any trouble in keeping the birds at home, or if they persist
in flying back to their old quarters, do not clip their wings or pull
their tail feathers out, for both practices are barbarous. Instead of
doing that, clean the dove-cote thoroughly, and sprinkle the floor with
lavender, assafoetida, or anything that gives forth a strong odor. A
sweet, cleanly house, with good food, will make home bodies of your
doves more quickly than anything else, and once they begin to build a
nest, there will be no longer any difficulty in persuading them to
remain.
Doves that are cared for properly will produce from ten to twelve pairs
of young each year, and at this rapid rate of increase it may readily
be seen that the young fancier need not buy a large stock to begin with.
Of the different varieties of these feathered pets there are so many
that it is impossible to name them all in the space given here; but a
few of those best known to fanciers generally can be mentioned.
Among the high-priced pigeons is the Crowned Gouri, which comes from the
Indian Archipelago. It is a beautiful purple-brown, with gray breast,
and has white bars across the wings, while on its head is a light blue
or delicate gray crown.
The Nicobar also has a crest. The upper portions of this bird are green,
shading to bronze and steel, while the head is slate-colored, with
purple shades. Long pointed feathers grow from the neck, showing almost
every color in the different degrees of light.
The Top-knot comes from Australia, and is a large silver-gray bird,
striped with black, having a crest on his forehead and another on the
back of his head.
The Bronze-winged pigeon also comes from Australia, and is brown and
gray, with bronze-green spots on the wings.
From India and Java comes the Aromatic Vinago, with back and neck of
dark red and purple, while the under feathers are green; the forehead is
green, the throat yellow, and the tail blue, gray, green, and brown.
The Passenger-pigeon is too well known in this country to need any
description, since he is to be seen by scores in almost any market.
The Carrier-pigeon should be dark blue to possess the color supposed to
be the requisite of a good bird, but he is often seen of a dun or
cinnamon color.
The Tumbler-pigeon may be of any color, and his antics in the air, as he
turns all sorts of somersaults, are very funny. There are many varieties
of these pigeons, such as the German Feather-footed, the Baldpate,
Short-faced, and Almond, while according to their color they are known
as Rocks, Blues, Checkers, Silvers, Duns, Kites, Reds, Yellows, Buffs,
Drabs, Mealies, Gray-mottled, Blue-black, Strawberries, and so on
through every shade and combination of color.
Of the Pouter there are the Ring-headed, Swallow-tailed, Rose-pinioned,
and Bishoped, nearly all of which varieties the boys are familiar with,
since with his apparently swollen crop the Pouter always attracts
attention.
The Runt is a common bird, and the easiest of all his tribe to keep. The
chief varieties are the Roman, Leg-horn, Spanish, Friesland, and
Frill-back. The first is the largest, and the last the most singular of
the species, since the feathers seem to grow from the tail toward the
head.
The Nun is a nice little bird, with a tuft of feathers at the back of
the head, and it is from the shape and color of this that the varieties
are known as the Red, Black, or Yellow headed Nuns.
The Archangel is dark blue and copper-color, and is a good bird for the
dove-cote.
Then the Fan-tail, or Broad-tailed Shaker, with his tail spread out like
an angry turkey-gobbler's.
The Trumpeter is usually a yellowish-white bird, with a crest on his
head, and what looks very like a mustache.
The Jacobite has a ruff around his neck; the Turbot looks as if it had
on a ruffled shirt front; the Owl has a hooked nose and great staring
eyes, similar to the bird for which he is named; the Laugher makes a
noise like the gurgling of water; the Barb has pink wrinkled skin around
the eyes; the Mawmet, Magpie, Helmet, and Spot are varieties but seldom
seen.
But though there are so many varieties of beautifully colored and formed
birds, the ordinary Dove-house pigeon is by far the most satisfactory to
raise, and repays its owner far better both in young and domestic habits
than do those which are not only rare, but difficult to rear.
[Illustration: A RAINY DAY.--DRAWN BY F. S. CHURCH.]
HOW THE DAY WENT.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"It was your work, Put, all of us fellows getting down here this
morning. Now what'll we do?"
"Well, now, Dan, it's the last day of vacation, and school begins
to-morrow, and we've just got to do something!"
"I don't care a cent for ball," remarked Charley Farrington at that
moment, as he listlessly pitched a flat stone into the shallow river.
"You don't catch me on the green to-day, anyhow. It's too near the
'cademy."
"Might go a-fishing," said Abe Larrabee, with a look of sadness on his
sunburned face. "Jim Chandler, does your scow leak as bad as it did?"
"Worse and worse, and there isn't a fish left. I tried 'em yesterday all
the way down to the mill."
"Nothing to shoot," said Dan Martin, "and no powder nor shot either.
Boys, this 'ere vacation of ours is windin' up."
That was about it, or else it was very nearly run down, and there they
all were on the bank, just above the old bridge, and not a boy of them
could think of anything he cared three buttons to go and do. It was a
trying time, and they all broke down under it, for in less than an hour
there were five listless boys sauntering along up the hill toward
Beecher's Woods, across lots, without any earthly reason to give for
doing it. They could not travel straight, somehow, even then, for they
went around through Deacon Chittenden's pasture lot. There was a level
stretch in the middle of that pasture, and in the middle of that level
there was a hole about five feet across. It had been a round hole once,
Put Boswell remarked, but he may have been wrong in adding:
"You see, boys, he had two old wells at the house, and this was the
meanest; so he carted it up here, and drove it into the middle of his
cow lot."
"Didn't drive it in very deep," said Charley Farrington. "Not more'n ten
feet. If I should tumble in there, I could climb out again up that
broken side."
"Water's pretty deep."
"Guess not. The Deacon isn't the kind of man to throw away anything.
That's why he saved up his old well."
Put Boswell must have had his reasons for disliking Deacon Chittenden,
from the way he talked about him; but the whole party was too full of
that end of their vacation, and of talk about all they had done since
they got hold of it by its July end, and they began to walk on. They
walked as far as Beecher's fence, but they were unwise to trust
themselves on the rotten top rail all at one time, for Abe Larrabee was
just saying, "If there ain't Beecher's prize ram! look at his horns!"
when there was a cracking sound under them, and down they came, in a
tangle, with a length of the rickety fence criss-crossed beneath them.
Worse than that: Abe had pointed straight at the ram, and the insulted
animal was coming in a hurry to see why there had been such a gap made
in his boundaries.
"Run, boys, run!" shouted Put Boswell. "He's the all-killingest butter
in the county!"
They had found something to do, and so had the ram, and he seemed, in a
minute more, to have decided that his duties included the care of Deacon
Chittenden's cow lot.
It was odd, but every one of those five boys had the same idea in his
head: "If I can only put that well between him and me."
They ran straight for it, and the ram was so close on Charley
Farrington's heels when he reached it that there was nothing left for
Charley but a long jump. Well for him that he was a good jumper on a
run, and he landed three feet beyond the well, while the other four were
dodging around it.
Where was the ram?
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
Either he had begun his leap too soon, or he had not made it long
enough, for it had carried him with great accuracy to the very middle of
the old well, and his piteous voice was now coming up from just above
the surface of the water at the bottom.
"Beecher's lost his prize mutton."
"Hear him! Oh, but doesn't he feel bad!"
"He isn't drowning, anyhow."
"Not exactly drowning, but it's an awful cold bath."
"Boys," said Put Boswell, "we must get him out. Old Chittenden'll be
sure to find out that we fellows were up here, and they'd lay it all to
us."
"They lay pretty much everything to us now," remarked Dan Martin. "But
how'll we ever work it? Put, you go down and lift him up, while we get
hold of him. You ain't afraid of a sheep, are you?"
"Not where there's any chance to run, if he wanted to bite me. You go
down. The water's real nice and cool."
Not one of them wanted to go down, and the council they held around the
mouth of that well used up a good deal of what was left of that morning.
"Tell you what," said Jim Chandler at last, "I'm getting hungry. Let's
go for dinner, and not say a word to anybody about it, and come back
with a rope. We can rope him out."
There was a unanimous vote in favor of that, for Jim was not the only
member of the council who had been thinking about his dinner. There was
not an ounce of listlessness among them all the way back to the village,
and there was plenty of rope at the side of the old well early in the
afternoon.
"Is he there yet?" said Charley, eagerly, as he came up.
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!" arose in response from the dismal depths, where the
ram was awaiting his deliverance.
"Ain't his feet wet by this time? Let's get some fence rails," said Put.
"Good ones, too."
"Or we may join the ram," remarked Dan Martin. "That's it, Put, make a
slip-noose."
"I'm going for his horns, soon as the rails get here."
That was quickly enough, and there was no special difficulty in dropping
a wide noose over the horns of that ram, and in drawing it tight.
"We've got him now, unless his horns come off," shouted Abe Larrabee.
"He's safe."
In the bottom of a well, and fastened by his horns to five boys and a
fence rail, there was not a particle of danger that Beecher's prize ram
would get away. The problem yet to be solved was at least as deep as the
old well, nevertheless, and there was no telling how soon Mr. Beecher or
Deacon Chittenden might put in an appearance.
"It's got to be done," said Put. "We can't leave an unfortunate
fellow-creature in such a fix as that. Let's haul on the rope over the
rail, and see how far we can draw him."
There were a good many experiments tried, hand running, and every boy
had had his turn, sitting on the fence rails in the middle, and studying
the ram after he had been let down again. It was beginning to look a
little dark for him, when something put it into the head of Charley
Farrington to grasp the rope tight at the rail where it was hitched, and
swing down a little, with his feet on the projecting stones of the rude
siding.
It was too bad for Dan Martin and Jim Chandler to get up from the rails
to come and see what he was doing, for the one with the rope wound
around it began to turn, with Charley's weight to turn it, and in five
seconds more he was standing at the bottom of the well, by the side of
what Put had called his "unfortunate fellow-creature."
"Boys! boys! pull me up."
"You're the man for me," responded Put Boswell, for it was plain no harm
had been done. "That's just the thing. Now we'll haul on the ram, at the
broken side, and we'll get him up. There's just slant enough, if you'll
boost him behind and get him started. Is the water very warm?"
"Hurry up, then. It's cold as ice. I'll shove him."
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
"Don't those two feel bad?" unfeelingly remarked Abe Larrabee. "Let's
hurry, boys. Charley's all right. He's a brick, too."
So he was, and when the moment of trial came he lifted and helped with a
will. All the ram really needed was to be helped to put his fore-feet on
the tumbling stones, and then to be hauled and shoved until his
hind-feet were compelled to follow.
Ten minutes more, and then, with a big pull and a great shout, out came
the unlucky sheep. It had been an unsettled question in the minds of the
boys, until that instant, whether his horns, or his neck, or the rope
might not give way, and as for themselves, a redder-faced lot had not
been seen in the whole valley since school closed.
"Now, boys," shouted Charley, "the rope. Hitch it strong."
Charley's weakness was for climbing, and he would have scorned the idea
of not being able to master so simple a situation as that.
"Here comes the other sheep," shouted Put. "Charley, are your feet wet?
Look at your friend."
He was worth looking at, for he was himself looking at the well mouth as
if he was studying, under his much-pulled horns, how on earth he ever
got out of that thing.
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
"I'll take the rope off, and then we'll cut."