[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 100. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, September 27, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
$1.50 per Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: READY FOR THE ATTACK.]
[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.
CHAPTER IX.
THE FAMOUS BEAR-HUNT.
When Tim went home with Bobby he saw Mr. and Mrs. Tucker, and from them
received such a kindly greeting that he thought he must be remarkably
good in order to repay them for their kindness! He was a happy boy when
he went to bed that night, and made more so by seeing Tip stretched out
on a rug by the side of the bed whenever he took the trouble to look
that way.
On the first morning after Tim's arrival Mr. Tucker, without saying what
his intentions were regarding the future of the homeless boy, told him
and Bobby they could enjoy themselves after their own fashion for two
weeks, at the end of which time school began. Therefore there was
nothing to prevent the bear-hunt from taking place, unless it should be
the failure of the bears to show themselves.
Bill Thompson was the first of the party to arrive at the rendezvous
back of the shed, and almost before he spoke to the boys he made another
and a more critical examination of Tip. Bill was not only eager for the
fray, but he was thoroughly well armed. He had a murderous-looking
carving-knife stuck in a belt that had been hastily made of a strip of
black cloth, and in his hands he carried a small shot-gun, which he
might have some difficulty in discharging, owing to the fact that he was
obliged to carry the lock in his pocket.
When Bill's attention was called to this fact, he explained that he did
not depend so much upon the gun to shoot with as he did for use as a
club, with which the bear's brains could be easily dashed out. The knife
was the weapon in which he put more dependence, and he proved that it
was a good one by making shavings of fully half a shingle in less than
five minutes.
This display of weapons and air of ferocity on Bill's face so pleased
Tim and Bobby that they blamed themselves severely for not having made
their own preparations for a fight. That oversight was quickly remedied,
when Bobby produced an old army musket, the weight of which made him
stagger, and a veteran revolver that had lain at the bottom of the ocean
for nearly a year, and was now preserved by Bobby's father as an
ornamental rather than a useful relic.
"You'll want the pistol, Tim," he said, as he handed that weapon to his
friend, "'cause it'll be a good deal handier to fire when you're close
up to the bear, an' you know you'll have to go pretty snug to him so's
to keep Tip from eating the skin."
Bobby, with all possible precaution against accidents, loaded the army
musket with the powder taken from six fire-crackers, and rammed home
five or six small stones in place of bullets. He had no percussion-caps;
but he felt certain he could discharge it as well by holding a lighted
match at the nipple as if he had all the caps ever made. Owing to
Bobby's mother's decided refusal to loan two of her carving-knives, they
were obliged to get along without anything of that sort, and depend on
the one carried by Bill to skin their game when it was killed.
The other hunters arrived in parties of twos and threes, and each new
arrival thought it necessary to make another and more minute examination
of Tip, in order to be certain that he was in the best possible
condition for the hunt. Each of the new-comers was armed, but none could
boast of having more destructive weapons than those carried by the three
leaders.
Bill was anxious to start at once, in order, as he said, to get the skin
nailed up on the barn before night; and as they were about to set out,
Bobby exclaimed:
"Here! how do you s'pose we can get any bears if we let Tip go on ahead?
Why, he'll rush off jest as soon as he sees one, an' we can't catch him
before he eats 'em all up."
It was almost a shudder that ran through the party as they realized how
near they had been to losing their game before it had been caught.
"What shall we do?" asked Bill, completely at a loss to arrange matters.
And then, as a happy thought came to him, he cried, "I know now: we can
take turns carryin' him."
A look of scorn came upon Bobby's face as this brilliant idea was given
words, and he said, almost with a sneer:
"Now what a way that would be, wouldn't it? How do yer s'pose he could
smell out the tracks if we didn't let him run on the ground?"
That one question made Bill Thompson feel very cheap indeed, for it
showed plainly that he was not posted in bear-hunting, and he was
anxious to be looked upon as one who knew all about it.
"What shall we do, then?" he asked, mournfully.
"We must tie a rope round his neck, so's we can hold him back."
Bill actually looked ashamed when this very simple plan was proposed,
and he was angry with himself for not having been the first to think of
it. But he saw a way to save his reputation.
"That's a good plan," he said, gravely, as if he had thought of
it--before, but had not suggested it, hoping a better one would be
proposed, "but you'll want more'n one rope. Why, if Tip should see a
bear suddenly, he'd break the biggest rope we could get, an' go after
him before we'd know anything."
Every boy there agreed with Bill, and they again regarded him as an
experienced bear-hunter.
Bobby got two pieces of an old clothes-line, each about five yards long,
and these were fastened securely around Tip's neck, while Tim and Bobby
each held an end, with the understanding that if the dog struggled very
hard to get away, the others of the party were to rush in and help hold
him.
The party was ready for the start, and the precautions they took even
before they were clear of the shadow of the wood-shed told that they did
not intend to lose any game by carelessness. Tim and Bobby went in
advance, leading Tip, who did not make the slightest effort to get away,
and followed by Bill Thompson, carrying his gun in one hand and his
knife in the other. Then came the remainder of the party, near or at a
distance, as their fear of bears was much or little.
Although it could hardly be expected that any bear had been so
venturesome as to cross a field almost in the centre of the town, Tip
was encouraged to smell of the ground, and each of the boys was ready
for an immediate attack before they were beyond the sound of Mrs.
Tucker's voice.
The march to the edge of the grove was necessarily a slow one, for Tip,
finding that he was encouraged to run from one side of the path to the
other, did so to his heart's content, while the boys expected each
moment to see him start off like a race-horse, and were ready to spring
at once to the aid of Tim and Bobby.
If their caution was great before they left the field, it would be
almost impossible to find a word to express their movements when they
entered the woods. Every weapon was handled as though it was to be used
at once, and the greater portion of the time every eye was fixed on Tip.
But not once had he pulled at the ropes that held him; not once had he
shown any desire to start away at any furious rate of speed. But after
half an hour he suddenly smelled of the ground, and then started away on
a run.
"He's after the bear now, sure," cried Bill Thompson, as he brandished
his knife savagely, and swung his gun around so that it would be ready
for use as a club.
At this startling announcement one or two of the boys who had been
careful to keep well in the rear ran considerably slower, as if they
were perfectly willing their companions should have all the glory and
fight, while one of the party actually turned back, and went home.
On sped Tip, now really pulling on the ropes, and Bobby's face grew pale
as he thought how rapidly he was being forced toward the dangerous and
anxiously expected fight.
Tip, not understanding that two boys were obliged to follow directly
behind him, and still hot on the scent of some animal, suddenly darted
between a couple of trees standing very near each other.
It was impossible for both Tim and Bobby to pass through this narrow
space together; but in their excitement they did not stop to think of
that, and the consequence was that they both fell sprawling to the
ground, while Tip was brought to a very sudden stop.
The dog seemed rather discouraged by the sudden check to his speed, and
it was some time before he could be persuaded to start again. This
second race had just begun, and the boys were growing eager again, when
Bill Thompson shouted:
"There he is! there he is! Hold on to your dog now, an' let's get all
ready before we rush in."
"Where is he?" "Where is he?" asked each one, as he halted and tried to
distinguish the form of the animal in the direction pointed out by Bill;
but none of them feeling quite as brave as they did a moment before.
"Look right there;" and Bill pointed to a certain spot in the woods
where the trees grew thickest. "Now watch, an' you'll see him move."
It was possible to see some dark-colored body moving among the thick
foliage, and there was no longer any doubt but that one of the animals
they were in search of was very near to them.
A shade of fear came over the faces of quite a number of that hunting
party then, and the most frightened-looking one was Bobby Tucker. He who
had been so proud a few moments before because he had been given the
post of honor was now perfectly willing that some one else should hold
Tip when the expected rush was made, and he appeared to have suddenly
lost all desire for the bear-hunt.
Bill Thompson now assumed the command of the party, and no one
questioned his right to do so. The orders he gave were obeyed as
promptly as could have been expected under the circumstances, and he
began the delicate task of posting his men in those positions best
calculated to bring out their fighting qualities.
Tim and Bobby, being nearer the dangerous animal than the others, were
ordered to keep strict watch of the spot where the bear was last seen,
and on no account to let him get away without their knowledge.
"Keep your eyes right on him," shouted Bill to the two who were
preventing Tip from eating the bear. "The first minute he starts to run
let Tip go, an' yell as loud as you can."
Then he ordered this boy behind a tree, and another into the branches,
making such a warlike hubbub as probably was never before heard in those
woods. Meanwhile Tip had concluded the best thing he could do was to
take a rest, and he lay at full length under the tree, as if such an
idea as chewing a bear had never entered his head.
Finally Bill made all his arrangements, and cautiously stepped a yard or
two in advance, with both knife and gun ready for instant use.
"What do you think, Tim, had we better rush right in, or shall we throw
a stone, an' let Tip catch him when he runs out?" he asked, in a
whisper, as if he was afraid of scaring the beast after all the noise
that had been made.
"Heave a stone in; that's the best way," said Bobby, quickly, not liking
the idea of being one of the party who were to make the rush.
Nearly all the boys showed that they preferred the most peaceable way of
commencing the fight, and Bill prepared to start the savage beast from
his lair.
At first he was at a loss to know what to do with his weapons while he
cast the stone that might do so much mischief: but finally he arranged
it to his satisfaction by holding the knife under his left arm, so that
it could be drawn readily, and by keeping the gun in his left hand.
"Now look out!" he shouted, "an' be ready to let Tip go when the bear
comes out. All yell as loud as you can when I fire, so's to scare him."
Then Bill raised his hand, took deliberate aim at the centre of the
clump of bushes, and threw the stone.
The instant he did so he grasped his knife, and the others set up such a
cry as ought to have startled a dozen bears.
It was some seconds before any sign was made that the animal in hiding
even knew the stone had been thrown, and then there was a movement in
the bushes as if it had simply changed its position--nothing more.
Bill stood silent with astonishment; he had expected to see that bear
come out of the bushes with a regular flying leap, and he was thoroughly
disappointed.
"Better let Tip go in an' snake him right out," suggested Bobby, who was
afraid Bill would again propose a charge by the party.
Bill looked at Tim to see what he thought of such a plan, and the dog's
owner nodded his head in approval.
"Then all get ready, an' take the rope off his neck," shouted Bill, as
he set his teeth hard because of the struggle that it was evident would
come soon.
Having the most perfect faith in the ability of his dog to kill any
animal not larger than an elephant, Tim cautiously untied the ropes. But
Tip did not appear to be excited by the prospect; he did not even get up
from the ground, but lay there wagging his stub tail as if he was
playing at "thumbs up."
"Set him on!" cried Bill, tired of the inactivity; and Tim, now afraid
his pet might be accused of cowardice, set him on with the most
encouraging cries of "s't-aboy." But Tip, instead of running toward the
bear, seemed to be bewildered by the noise, for all hands were shouting
at him; he jumped to his feet, and ran round and round his master, as if
asking what was wanted of him.
Tim grew nervous, more especially as he saw some of the boys who had
appeared the most frightened when the stone was first thrown now smile,
as if they were saying to themselves that Tip couldn't be so very much
of a bear dog after all, if he was afraid to kill one that had been
found for him.
Tim walked as near the bushes as he dared to go, pointed with his
finger, and urged Tip to "go an' bring him out," but all to no purpose.
The dog seemed willing enough, but it was evident he did not understand
what was wanted of him. Then Tim picked up a piece of wood, and after
showing Tip that he was to follow it, threw it in the direction of the
supposed bear.
This time Tip understood, and he bounded into the thicket, while each
one of the party almost held his breath in suspense, and grasped his
weapons, ready for immediate use.
The moment Tip was hidden by the bushes he began to bark furiously, and
there was no doubt but that the battle had commenced. Even Bill Thompson
appeared to be a little timid, and he no longer advised a rush, even
though there was a chance that the skin was being destroyed. However, he
did suggest that Tim and Bobby should go in and put a rope around Tip's
neck, so that he could be pulled away as soon as the bear was dead; but
his advice was not taken, nor did there seem any chance it would be.
Once Bobby took deliberate aim in the direction of the noise made by
Tip, and was just lighting a match to discharge the weapon, when Tim
stayed his hand.
"You might kill Tip, an' then we'd have to fight the bear all by
ourselves, 'cause Tip must have bit him some by this time, and made him
mad."
No suggestion could have been made which would have stopped Bobby
quicker, and he turned very pale at the thought of being deprived of
Tip's protection, dropping his gun very quickly.
Just at this time, when all were growing nervous and excited, the sounds
in the bushes told that the beast was at last being driven from its
lair. Quite a number of the party lost all interest in the matter when
they found they were to have a full view, and immediately retreated to a
safe distance.
The crackling and crashing of the bushes told that some large animal was
being driven out by Tip; and as they watched in breathless--perhaps
frightened--anxiety, one of the causes of the commotion stalked out into
view, while at the same time an exclamation of disgust and relief burst
from Bill Thompson's lips:
"Gracious! it's only Bobby Tucker's cow."
And so it was. The bear had turned into a peaceful, rather
sleepy-looking old cow, who had sought the shade of the bushes only to
be driven from her cool retreat by Tip Babbige and a lot of noisy boys.
How brave they all were then, and how they laughed at each other's
cowardice, declaring that they had only feared it might not be a bear
after all! But they patted Tip's head, and spoke to him kindly, as if he
had relieved them from some terrible peril, instead of only disturbing a
cow.
After the first excitement attending the finding of the cow had
subsided, the question arose as to the proper course to pursue, and it
was decided that the bear-hunt must be continued, as it would not be at
all the right thing to delay another day in nailing a skin to Bobby
Tucker's father's barn.
This time the march was not made with so much caution, and Tip was
allowed to roam about loose, in the hope that he might find the bear's
trail more quickly. Bobby even proposed to shoot a squirrel; but this
plan was quickly frowned down by Bill Thompson, who reminded him that he
had no more powder, and that the bear might come upon them at the very
moment when the gun was empty.
Tip ran on, joyous at having recovered his freedom, and in a short time
was out of sight. Then the boys ceased even to keep a look-out for large
animals, growing so careless as to watch the squirrels, hunt for birds'
nests, and to act in every way unbecoming bear-hunters.
But suddenly they were roused into activity and excitement by furious,
angry barking some distance away.
"He's caught one this time!" shouted Bill, as he drew his knife from his
belt, and started forward rapidly, followed closely or afar off by the
remainder of the party, according to their degree of courage.
As the scene of the conflict was reached, and it was positive that a
fight was in progress, because Tip's barking had changed to short angry
yelps, the greater portion of the party found that they were too tired
to run any farther, and fell into such a slow pace that they could not
arrive until the battle was over.
"I can see them!" shouted Bill, exultantly; "an' it ain't a very big
bear, only a small one. Come on quick."
As the leaders of the party dashed into a small cleared space they saw
Tip actually fighting, and this time it was no cow, but a small
dark-colored animal, which, if it really was a bear, must have been a
very young one.
Bill was not afraid of so small an animal, and he jumped forward with
his knife; but Tim cried: "It's only a young one. Let's get him away
from Tip, an' take him home alive."
He spoke too late to save the animal's life, for just then Tip gave the
small bundle of fur a toss in the air, and when it came down it was
dead.
Tim caught Tip by the neck to prevent any further attack on his part,
and the boys gathered around the victim. It was no bear, but a woodchuck
Tip had killed, as they all knew after a short examination, and the
disappointment they felt at not having slain a bear was greatly lessened
by the fact that they had really killed something.
How they praised and petted Tip then! Not a boy among them, from that
moment, but believed he could have killed a bear as easily as he had
killed the woodchuck, and Tim was happy.
That night there was a skin nailed on Bobby Tucker's father's barn, but
it was not a bear-skin, and it was wofully cut and hacked, owing to
Tip's teeth and Bill Thompson's very unscientific skinning.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SPARROWS AND SQUIRREL IN MONTREAL.
BY FRANK BELLEW.
[Illustration: THE SPARROWS AND THEIR ENEMY.]
Very early one morning, as I was strolling along one of the quiet
streets of Montreal, and feasting myself with the wonderful beauties of
that most beautiful city, my attention was attracted by a great
commotion going on among a flock of sparrows, which flew together from
one place to another, sometimes alighting in the roadway of the street,
and sometimes among the branches of the trees. At first I could see no
cause for all this unusual fuss; but presently my eyes fell upon a
little squirrel on the sidewalk, which seemed quite as much excited as
the sparrows. If he ran along the street, the sparrows flew after him;
if he stood still, the sparrows alighted, and faced him like a regiment
of soldiers; if he scampered up the trunk of a tree, the sparrows
collected in the branches above him, with a great chattering, until he
ran down again, and then they followed him as before. The poor little
fellow seemed fairly distracted, and I felt quite sorry for him. But
then he was a thief. He had come down from the mountain at the back of
the town to rob the sparrows' nests of their eggs, just like some
Scottish Highland chief of old descending on the Lowlands to levy
black-mail. What became of him I do not know, for after watching the
encounter for ten or fifteen minutes I moved on. No doubt he was driven
back to his mountain home a wiser and a better squirrel, having learned
a lesson to content himself with vegetable diet, and not hanker after
the luxuries of the city.
Many a country boy can draw a moral from this, if he chooses.
CHILDREN OF BOHEMIA.
BY LAURA LEDYARD.
The Daisies have come to town:
Perhaps here and there a new gown,
But mostly in tatters--oh, not that it matters;
Not one of them cares half a crown
If they are.
They'll pitch their small tents on your lawn,
And if you should bid them begone,
Will smile in your face with the sunniest grace,
And nod to you gayly next morn
If you scoff.
A happy-go-lucky young crew,
As merry as heaven is blue,
These gypsies of flowers will stay a few hours,
And then tell your fortunes for you,
And be off.
[Illustration: M. DE LESSEPS AND HIS CHILDREN.]
THE CHILDREN OF M. DE LESSEPS.
The picture which we give on the preceding page presents the famous
builder of the Suez Canal, and seven of his children, as they are to be
seen in the Paris Park, the Bois de Boulogne. The gray-haired father is
seventy-six years of age. His companions in the "village cart" are
Mathieu, ten years old; Ismaïl, nine, named after the man who ruled
Egypt when the great canal was dug; Ferdinande, eight, named for her
father, and his special pet; Bertrand and Consuelo, twin boys of six;
Hélène, five; and Solange, between three and four. Besides these the
sturdy old man has two sons, grown-up men, whose mother is dead, and a
little blonde baby about a year old, for whom, small as he is, there
seems no room in the cart. M. De Lesseps has his ideas about children's
health and habits. All his little ones go with bare arms and legs summer
and winter, and are toughened with active life in the open air.
Ferdinande, who travels much with her father, is as brown as an Indian,
and very self-helpful. She goes about without a maid, cares for herself,
and has as much pluck and as little fear as her father. The mother of
this happy-looking family is a native of the island of Mauritius, and a
very bright and lovely lady. Her wedding with M. De Lesseps took place
twelve years ago, in Egypt, the morning after the great festival that
was held at the opening of the Suez Canal. In spite of her large family
she finds time to keep her house open to many guests, who come gladly
and go away delighted.
Of the children in our picture three have been in this country. They are
Mathieu, Ismaïl, and Ferdinande, who bears the queer pet name of Tototé.
They went with their father in the winter of 1879 and 1880 to the
Isthmus of Panama, the strip of land which unites North America and
South America. M. De Lesseps has started a canal across this isthmus--no
small task for a man three-quarters of a century old! He finds the work
much harder than across the Isthmus of Suez, because on the Isthmus of
Panama there are very high and very rocky hills--a strip, so to speak,
of the great backbone of mountains which runs all the way down the two
continents of North and South America. The lowlands, moreover, are
terribly unhealthy, and already the poor workmen, brought mostly from
China and from the West Indies, are dying rapidly from the fever. But
such vast works only too often cost many human lives. When the canal is
finished, ships can sail through it, which now have to go around Cape
Horn, at the south end of South America, or else have to land their
passengers and loads to send them across the Isthmus by a railway. Many
well-informed persons in this country think that the last great work of
M. De Lesseps is a mistake, and will not be of much real use. But it is
surely a very great and daring thing for an old man to try to do.
A PRICKLY PET.
How many boys know that they can have one of the oddest kind of pets,
and yet at the same time have one which their mother and all the
servants will look upon with the greatest possible favor, however much
they may dislike pets generally?
Such a pet is a hedgehog, a sort of walking pincushion or animated burr,
which is easily tamed, easily cared for, and in return simply for a
place to sleep and something to drink will rid the house of rats, mice,
cockroaches, beetles, spiders, or, in fact, anything of that kind to
which housekeepers particularly object.
The writer once caught a hedgehog in a box trap, he having ventured
there probably in search of a spider, and in two weeks he was so tame as
to run around the kitchen in a very much more harmless way than a cat,
making himself generally useful and contented by sleeping all day and
working all night. He was the most industrious mouser one could ask for,
and in addition to these duties, he cleared the house entirely of
roaches, not one showing his head there until after a very fat cook
ended his useful life by stepping on him. When the dog attempted to be
too familiar with him he rolled himself into a prickly ball, lying
perfectly quiet and safe, until the dog had fully convinced himself that
he had no very urgent business with such a globe of spines, and then
Master Prickle would begin to unroll himself; first the snout would
appear, then the head, then the feet, and the old fellow would trot off
toward the pantry, grunting in the most contented fashion. Prickle was
quite fond of being petted, and with his spines lying down like hair,
would make a queer little sound indicative of pleasure at being
caressed.
A hedgehog is really no hog at all, but simply resembles one in having a
snout with which to dig in the ground, for when cold weather comes he
digs a hole and buries himself in it, where he awaits the approach of
spring. The spines with which he is armed are rather uncomfortable if
one chances to get them in his flesh, and will cause a sore, as would
any foreign substance, if not removed; but if they are immediately
removed there is no more to be feared from them than from the prick of a
pin.
During the autumn, or until the first frost comes, is the best time to
catch hedgehogs, and a common large box trap, baited with a piece of
fresh meat, is all that is needed. Select such a place in the woods as
these prickly pets have taken up their temporary abode in, and then
cover the trap as nearly as possible with leaves or underbrush. The
hedgehog will scent the bait, and then proceed to dig for it, very
likely overturning the trap unless it is weighted down.
It is possible to secure them after they have retired to their
winter-quarters by digging them out of their holes, but by such a course
it is almost impossible to secure the animal without injuring him in
some way, thus perhaps depriving him of his usefulness.
Having once secured your needle-pointed prize, make a cage for him of a
reasonably large box, inside of which is a smaller one filled with hay
or straw, where he can hide until his first fright is over. Feed him
with meat, eggs, bread, or, in fact, as you would a cat, and give him
plenty of milk to drink. Serve him his meals about sunset or very early
in the morning, and do not attempt to force him to show himself for a
week or ten days.
At the end of that time leave his cage open in the kitchen, or any other
place most infested with roaches and mice, and after that first night's
work his education in the way of becoming a pet is completed. In the
morning he will probably be found curled up in one corner of the darkest
closet, sound asleep, looking as if he had been having a very hearty
dinner.
Do not disturb him then, but leave him to his own devices a few days
longer, and he will make no attempt to leave the place where he can get
his food so easily. In two or three weeks he will have become so tame
that he will no longer raise his quills when any one tries to pet him,
but will allow himself to be fondled like a cat or dog.
When it becomes necessary to feed him--and he will so clear the house of
vermin that in a few weeks his own larder will have become exhausted--he
should be given animal food, as well as milk and water, for without such
food he will die.
He is remarkably fond of raw eggs, and if while he is hunting for mice
he finds any, he will bite off the smaller end neatly, sucking them
without spilling so much as a drop. But he does not climb trees for the
purpose of biting off the fruit, as some of his enemies charge, nor is
he guilty of many mischievous things of which he is accused, save, as
has been said, in the way of sucking eggs. He would probably prefer meat
to mice, and would take it if it was left in his way; but that a cat
will do, and she will also kill birds, if any are kept as pets in the
house, which sin can not be laid to the hedgehog's door.
Treat him as you would a cat, and you will find him equally as pleasant
to pet, at the same time that he is more industrious.
CHATS ABOUT PHILATELY.
BY J. J. CASEY.
VI.--BHOPAL.
[Illustration]
Among the most interesting and curious stamps are those issued by a few
of the native states of India. The cut represents one of the stamps
issued for the state of Bhopal. The first series, the date of which is
not yet settled by collectors, consisted of two values, a quarter-anna,
represented in the cut, and a half-anna, similar to it. The central
portion of the stamp is embossed without color. The inscription between
the lines is "H H Nawab Shah Jahan Begam," or the name and title of the
native ruler--Her Highness, Nawab Shah Jahan, Begam (or Begum) of
Bhopal--a lady, as will be seen. The characters in the lower part of the
octagonal frame represent the value. The quarter-anna was printed in
black, the half-anna in red, the central design or seal being, as was
stated, without color.
In 1878, this series was replaced by one smaller and rectangular in
shape. The inscription given above is arranged in an oval; the oval is
filled with what is presumably the signature of the Begum. The value is
below. These stamps also have the uncolored embossment as in the first
series.
Like its predecessor, this series has also two values, the quarter-anna,
green, and the half-anna, red. I believe that these stamps are intended
to prepay postage only within the limits of the kingdom of the Begum,
and are not officially recognized by the general government of India.
Bhopal is a native state in Malwah, in Central India. The length of the
state from east to west is 157 miles, breadth from north to south, 76
miles, the estimated area being 8200 square miles. It was founded in
1723 by Dost Mohammed Khan, an Afghan adventurer. In 1818, a treaty of
dependence was concluded between the chief and the British government.
Since then Bhopal has been steadily loyal to the British government, and
during the Mutiny it rendered good services. The present ruler is a
lady, and both she and her mother, who preceded her as head of the
state, have displayed the highest capacity for administration, and their
territory is the best-governed native state in India. The Queen, or
Begum, has the power of life and death. She is a Knight Grand Commander
of the Order of the Star of India (G. C. S. I.), and is also a member of
the Imperial Order of the Crown of India, instituted the 1st of January,
1878, and composed exclusively of ladies of high degree.
A TALK ABOUT TRAVELLING.
BY CAROLINE B. LE ROW.
Of course every intelligent and ambitious American boy and girl wishes
to go to Europe, and hopes to do so at some future time. The wish is a
sensible one, for it shows an appreciation of the things to be seen
abroad, and a desire to know more about them than can be learned by mere
reading or study.
In the mean time, while "waiting for papa's ship to come in," you are
going to school, busy with the conjugation of irregular French verbs and
the pronunciation of "Ich," the location of Mont Blanc and the length of
the River Rhine, the Elizabethan age of English literature and the poems
of Wordsworth, the cause of the Thirty Years' War and the reason why
Charles the First had his head cut off.
Sometimes all these things grow tiresome, and seem both needless and
stupid, but in reality this school-time is giving you the best chance
that you will ever have to prepare for that trip across the Atlantic of
which you like to think and talk.
For such a trip needs preparation. It is true that you might enjoy
everything to be seen abroad without knowing anything about it, as a
child delights in the bright colors of a picture--just as well upside
down as any other way. But no sensible person could be content with
that, and to rely on guide-books, although they are necessary for much
that can not be learned elsewhere, is like depending upon stilts or
crutches for getting along in the world.
An English wit was once asked some simple question in history. "_I_
don't know," he replied, with a wave of his hand. "You'll find it in
some book. Books are made to keep such things in." But we can not carry
a whole library around with us, even in the Handy Volume or Vest Pocket
series. It is troublesome enough to carry a dictionary, and a small one
at that. A great many things we can trust to books to keep for us, and
go for them when they are wanted. You would not think of carrying a
glue-pot on your arm or a bottle of arnica in your pocket all the time.
You need them only once in a while, and know where to find them when you
do. But your pencil and your handkerchief--these of course you want with
you every hour of the day, wherever you may be. Your school-time is
spent in selecting from books facts in history and geography, literature
and science, and putting them safely away in your mental pockets.
Of course you read as well as study. What? The world is full of books
which are as bright and sweet as sunshine and apple blossoms. There are
good books which make you want to be noble and generous and heroic; wise
books which teach you how great men and women have thought and worked,
and what they have done for the good of the world in which they lived.
Read the best books, and read for the best purpose, not simply to amuse
yourselves, for you will get heartily tired of that after a while, nor
to kill time, which is one of your best friends, but to take for your
own possession the knowledge which the wisest of all men calls "more
precious than rubies." When you start upon that dreamed-of and
longed-for trip, you will be surprised to find how much the pleasure and
profit of every mile of the way will be increased in exact proportion to
the amount of what is well called "general information." Even the voyage
is a different thing from what you imagine, and whether on sea or
shore, you will find that ignorance is worse to carry about than a
Saratoga trunk in a country which never checks baggage.
Last summer one of the Scotch steamers carried out a large number of
young people, who quickly became acquainted, and were the best of
friends.
"Where are you going?" asked one boy of another.
"To Scotland," was the answer.
"Scotland! I thought you were going to Europe. _We_ are."
"Well, Scotland's in Europe, isn't it? I suppose you mean the
Continent," which was exactly what he did mean, although he did not know
it.
Four days out, and the steamer was feeling her way through a fog so
thick that the whistle was obliged to do nearly all of the work on
board.
"We are just getting off the Banks," the Captain said, in answer to a
question from a young lady.
"The Banks?" she repeated, in a puzzled tone.
"Yes; Newfoundland."
She was more mystified than ever. "Why, Newfoundland is on the coast,
and we have been out four days."
The Captain laughed, and passed on.
That evening, as a variation from concerts, tableaux, mock trials, and
the usual kinds of amusements devised to pass away time on shipboard,
there was a school and a spelling match in the cabin. The Captain,
passing through, and catching sight of the young lady, said, with a
twinkle in his eye, "Ask 'em all round where's Newfoundland."
Every one was sure it was on the coast. Most of them thought it was east
of Nova Scotia, though a few were doubtful on that point. All were sure
that it was north-east of Maine, and that Maine was one of the New
England States. But the New England States joined New York, and it
seemed strange that the ship had sailed fully one-third of the distance
between New York and the British islands, and yet was not beyond those
mysterious Banks.
The ship's surgeon drew a large triangle on a sheet of wrapping paper,
placing the steamer at one angle, New York and Newfoundland at the
others. This was hung up in the saloon, a perpetual reminder to the end
of the voyage--and, it is to be hoped, afterward--of the practical
reality of latitude and longitude.
But when you find yourselves in John Knox's old house in Edinburgh, at
Alloway-Kirk, in Ayr, in the Douglas chamber of Stirling Castle, on the
field of Marston Moor, at the ruins of Kenilworth, at famous Rugby
School, at Stonehenge, at Canterbury Cathedral, where is your stock of
geography, history, literature, and general information? What do you
know of the great reformer and the times he lived in? of the poet Burns
and the circumstances of his life? of the tragedy of the beautiful
Scottish Queen? of Lord Leicester and poor Amy Robsart? of Dr. Arnold,
the Druids, and the assassination of Thomas à Becket? What interest can
you have in a castle if you do not know who lived in it? or a
battle-field, unless you know for what cause men fought upon it? or a
poet's favorite haunts, if you know nothing that he has written about
them? Read profitably and study hard, not only to fit yourselves for
sensible, contented stay-at-homes, faithful workers in your own fields
of usefulness, but for intelligent and appreciative travellers if
leisure and good fortune give you the opportunity to go abroad.
[Illustration: "SAY GOOD-BY, DOLLY."--DRAWN BY F. S. CHURCH.]
[Illustration: GATHERING APPLES.--DRAWN BY MILLER AND HAYDEN.]
THE VIOLET VELVET SUIT.
BY MARY A. BARR.
One morning last winter Katie Dawson stood at the window looking out
upon the avenue. She stood amid flowers as fresh and green as if it were
July instead of January. The fire in the bright steel grate burned
cheerily, and the room was cozily warm and comfortable.
She was dressed for the street, and she made a very pretty picture. Her
face was bright and piquant, her figure graceful, and her abundant hair
carefully and becomingly arranged. But her whole attitude expressed a
secret dissatisfaction, and she cast frequent discontented glances at
her costume. And yet it was a very pretty one; Madame Dubaney had
declared it to be her ideal school-girl's toilet. It was of fine
material and exquisite fit, and the girl's Ulster and cap, boots and
gloves, were alike neat and stylish.
She stood slowly buttoning the latter when her mother entered the room.
"Katie, do you know the time? You will lose your place in the French
class. Listen;" and as she spoke, the clock on the mantel-shelf chimed
in clear silver tones _ten_. "There, child, you ought to be in school
now."
"I know, mamma, but I have no heart for French this morning."
"I am sorry for that, Katie. What is the matter?"
The girl was silent a moment, and then, in a low tone, she said,
"Mother, can I have a velvet suit made for school?"
The answer was prompt and decisive: "Certainly not, my dear. The suit
you have on is perfectly appropriate. I should not think of wearing
velvet myself, except as an evening or visiting costume. It would be
absurd in a school-room."
"Clara May has a velvet suit; so have Jenny and Julia Smith; and Cecile
Bradley's is very nearly all velvet. I think that papa can afford it
just as well."
"It is not a question of money, but of good taste and propriety. If you
wear velvet as a school-girl, what do you propose to wear when you are a
young lady? I am sorry you have missed your French in order to make a
request so silly. Now, dear, had you not better hurry a little? Madame
disapproves of late pupils."
Katie took up her books, and went off with a frown on her pretty face.
All the way to Madame's she was considering how to accomplish her wish.
Her grandfather would give her the dress, or her aunt Lucy; but even
then her mother would not permit her to wear it to school, and if she
could not wear it in the presence of Clara May and the Smith girls,
there would be no consolation for her in velvet.
When she reached school her class had finished its recitation; she had
lost her place, and Madame was cross. Katie to-day was careless of these
things. Her mind was occupied with one ambition, a very foolish one,
doubtless, but a very important one in her own eyes.
Never before, either, had Clara May looked so triumphantly happy and
handsome. She had taken Katie's place at the head of the class, and the
bright winter sun fell upon the girl's fair hair, turning it to gold,
and made dark lustres in the folds of the envied black velvet. The
Smiths were awkward, angular girls, and she scarcely envied them
costumes which were not in the least becoming. As for Cecile Bradley's
suit, it was _home-made_. Katie's critical eyes had detected that fatal
fault at once. It was Clara May who sat in Katie's sunshine; for
handsome and stylish as Clara was, Katie was certain if she only had a
velvet suit she would far eclipse her.
Now it is a fact that among girls to be the belle of the school-room is
quite as envied a position as it is to young ladies to be the belle of
the ball-room. Hitherto Katie Dawson had been the recognized belle of
Madame Blanc's fashionable classes. She had been an authority on the
subject of braids and curls, and on all matters pertaining to rose-bud
toilets. But Clara May--quite a new-comer--was heading an "opposition."
She had declared she would not wear braids because Katie Dawson did,
that frizzes suited her better; and frizzes, though still in the
minority, held their own against remarks of the most cutting kind.
There is no contest some girls so thoroughly enter into as that of
outdressing rivals. The black velvet suit was Clara's last defiance, and
Katie was at a loss how to take it up.
"I will go and tell Agnes Hilton about it this afternoon," she thought,
and in the mean time she kept a sulky silence, equally proof against
curiosity and sympathy.
Agnes was older than Katie, but they had been companions for years, and
now, though Agnes was released from regular school routine, and was
"finishing" comfortably with private masters, she still regarded Katie
as her chief friend and adviser.
Agnes had a bad cold, and was nursing it in her room. A good talk over
things with Katie Dawson was just what she liked. She was soon helping
Katie to take off her Ulster and cap, and she noticed at once--as it was
meant she should--Katie's look of anxious annoyance.
"What is the matter, dear?"
Then Katie drew a large comfortable chair opposite her friend's, and
told her all about her school troubles.
"I never thought Clara May had any style at all," said Agnes, with the
authority of sixteen.
"Still, the girls copy her, and she is so unbearably independent. I
merely said that frizzes and curls were going out of fashion, and she
said pretty things were always in fashion, and that even if they were
not, they suited her, and she meant to wear them. Why, you know, Agnes
love, if every one was to follow that rule, there would be absolutely no
fashions at all. Then," added Katie, after an effective pause--"then she
came to school in a velvet suit, and immediately the Smith girls and
Cecile Bradley imitate her."
"Get one still handsomer."
"Mother won't hear of it--says it is ridiculous, and unsuitable, and all
that. Of course mother can't feel as I do about it, though I remember
very well that she would not have diamonds at all unless they were
bigger than Aunt Jemima's."
"Could you not get her to buy you a velvet suit for church, and then
contrive to wear it once to school, just to show it? For a general
stand-point you could take your mother's argument--it sounds sensible."
"I don't think mother would do it. Grandfather might, but there would be
the delay, and very likely Clara would say I had copied her."
"What color did you say Clara's was?"
"Black."
"Oh, that is very common. See here, Katie;" and Agnes went to her
wardrobe, and brought forward a most suggestive box. The two girls bent
over its contents in a kind of rapture; Katie could only exclaim, with
her pretty hands thrown upward,
"_Violet velvet!_"
"That is _the_ shade, dear. Now look here;" and the dress was carefully
unfolded. "Do you see the linings? They are all of pale violet satin. Do
you see the bunch of violets worked on the cuffs, collar, and left
breast? Ah, it is exquisite! I got it last week for Lydia Lane's
wedding. It was the prettiest dress in the church. Katie, you stay here
all night, and wear it to school to-morrow morning. You know to-morrow
is Wednesday. The classes close early for the matinée, and you can say
you dressed on that account. You could even apologize to the girls for
the unsuitable school toilet, which would be quite a snub, you know, to
those who consider velvet the proper thing for school suits."
"Oh, Agnes, you are an oracle! There is nothing I should enjoy so much."
Then the dress was tried on, found to fit admirably, and Katie laid it
away while she wrote a note to her mother, telling her that she was
going to spend the night with Agnes.
The next morning was as perfect as if made to Katie's order. The sun
shone brilliantly over the bright, breezy streets and squares, and Katie
got up with a sense of triumph in her heart. The girls had breakfast in
their own room, and then the toilet was made. Certainly the dark violet
velvet set off Katie's delicate, flower-like beauty, and her crown of
yellow hair, just as a violet velvet cushion sets off the lustre of a
diamond. There were a few exclamations, but for the most part the
dressing was done in an eloquent silence. Then the Ulster was carefully
buttoned over the magnificence, and the two girls kissed each other
good-by.
Katie timed herself perfectly. She entered the class-room at the last
moment, when the girls were all seated, and Madame in her place. They
would have to endure her appearance in decorous silence, and she knew
exactly how it would affect them. She advanced to her place, with a
graceful indifference which she felt to be a triumph. Her place this
morning was at the bottom of the class; she took it with a kind of
deliberate pleasure. She knew that she was effectually scattering the
wits of her class-mates, and some one would change with her before the
recitation was over.
In ten minutes she had taken her seat at the head again. Clara May had
not been equal to participles and conjugations in the presence of that
violet velvet. On the contrary, there was a distracting calmness about
Katie, and when the quarter's recess came she was not to be confused by
the questions and compliments that assailed her.
"Where _did_ you get it?" said Julia Smith, who was not the least
jealous.
"It is an imported suit."
"Worth's?"
"Oh dear no. Worth is becoming quite common. It is from De Lisle's."
"It fits exquisitely."
"I think it does."
"And is so becoming."
"Yes. Agnes Hilton says I look charming in it."
Katie was far too wise to undervalue herself in any way, and she
accepted the girl's compliments as her right.
"Are you going to wear it every day?" asked little Florence Dixon, as
she touched admiringly the wrought violets on the cuffs.
Katie stroked her curls with a patronizing kindness, and answered: "No,
Miss Foolishness, that would be wretched taste. To the school-room, the
school dress. Ladies have the proper toilet for all occasions." Then,
before any one could answer her, she dropped her little air of
instruction, and said, with the frankness of equality: "Girls, you must
excuse me appearing in such a morning toilet. The fact is, I am going to
the matinée, and one likes to be early at a Gerster matinée. You know
how little time Madame gives us to dress in."