Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 145. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 8, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TOBY RESCUES THE CROWING HEN FROM MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BREAKING UP OF THE SHOW.
Now that the boys had found cages ready-made, and needing only some bars
or slats across the front, they did not think it necessary to hurry.
They staid for some time to talk of Abner, and to test some doughnuts
Aunt Olive was frying. It is very likely that they would have remained
even longer if the doughnut-frying had not been completed, and the
tempting dainties placed upon a high shelf beyond their reach, as a
gentle intimation that they had had about as many as they would get that
afternoon.
After leaving the house they walked leisurely toward the barn, little
dreaming what a state of confusion their property was in, until Reddy
rushed out of the tent, his jacket torn, his face bleeding, and his
general appearance that of a boy who had been having rather a hard time
of it.
"Why, what's the matter? Why don't you stay an' watch the animals?"
asked Bob, in a tone intended to convey reproach and surprise that one
of the projectors of the enterprise should desert his post.
"Watch the animals?" screamed Reddy, in a rage. "You go an' watch 'em
awhile instead of eatin' doughnuts, an' see how you like it. Mr.
Stubbs's brother picked a hole in the bag so my cat got out, an' she
jumped on the calf, an' he tore 'round awful till he let the hen an'
Mrs. Simpson's cat loose, an' I got knocked down an' scratched, an' the
whole show's broke up."
Reddy sat down on the ground, and wiped the blood from his face after he
had imparted the painful news; and all the party started for the tent as
rapidly as possible.
It was a scene of utter ruin which they looked in upon after they had
pulled aside Mr. Mansfield's flag, and one which was well calculated to
discourage amateur circus proprietors.
Mr. Stubbs's brother was seated amid Reddy's paper and paint, holding
the crowing hen by the head while he picked her wing feathers out one by
one. Mrs. Simpson's cat and kittens each had one of Bob's mice in its
mouth, while Reddy's cat was chasing one of the squirrels with a
murderous purpose. The calf was no longer an inmate of the tent; but a
large rent in the canvas showed that he had opened a door for himself
when the cat scratched him; and afar in the distance he could be seen,
head down and tail up, as if fleeing from everything that looked like a
circus.
The destruction was as complete as it could well have been made in so
short a time, and the partners were, quite naturally, discouraged. Toby
retained sufficient presence of mind, amid the trouble, to rescue the
crowing hen from the murderous clutches of Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the
monkey scampered up the tent-pole, brandishing two or three of the poor
creature's best and longest wing feathers, while he screamed with
satisfaction that he had accomplished at least a portion of the work of
stripping the fowl.
"The show's broke up, an' that's all there's to it," said Bob,
sorrowfully, as he gazed alternately at the hole in the canvas and his
rapidly vanishing calf.
"Are the squirrels all gone?" asked Joe, driving the cat from her
intended prey long enough to allow Master Bushy-tail to gain a refuge
under the barn.
"Every one," replied Reddy. "The calf kicked the box over when he come
toward me, an' it looked as if there was as many as a hundred come out
jest as soon as the cover was off. I could have caught one or two; but
somehow Mrs. Simpson's cat got out of the basket jest then,' an' she
flew right into my face."
The marks on Reddy's cheeks and nose told most eloquently with what
force the cat "flew," and search was at once made for that pet of the
Simpson family. She, with her kittens, had taken refuge under the barn
as soon as the boys entered, and thus another trouble was added to the
load the circus managers had to bear, for that cat must be returned to
her mistress by night, or trouble might come of it.
The mice were entirely consumed, two tails alone remaining of what would
have been shown to the good people of Guilford as strange animals from
some far-off country.
The squirrels were gone, the calf had fled, the hen was in a thoroughly
battered condition, and nothing remained of all that vast and wonderful
collection of animals except Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the rabbits,
protected by the cage which their master's thoughtfulness had provided.
"I guess I'll take the rabbits home," said Leander, as he lifted the box
to his shoulder. "It wouldn't do to have only them for animals, an' it
ain't very certain how long they'll stay alive while that monkey's
'round."
"He's broke up the whole show, that's what he's done," and Ben shook his
fist at Mr. Stubbs's brother, while he tried to soothe his half-plucked
hen.
"What _are_ we goin' to do?" asked Toby, almost in despair.
"I know what I'm goin' to do," said Ben, as he again placed the hen
under the basket; "I'm goin' to crawl under the barn an' try to catch
that cat, an' then I'm goin' home with my hen."
It seemed to be the desire of all the partners to get home with what
remained of their pets, and as Ben went under the barn on his hands and
knees, Leander started off with his rabbits, Bob went to look for his
calf, Reddy gathered up his bundle of paper, and Joe seized his
pasteboard box, all going away where they could think over the ruin in
solitude.
But high up on the post the cause of all this trouble chattered and
scolded, while his master sat on the ground, looking at him as if he
wondered whether or not it would ever be possible to reform such a
monkey.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A TIGRESS HUNT.
On a dark evening in December the little village of Sundapoor, Northern
India, presented a picturesque appearance. Each bamboo hut whose inmate
could afford it had hung out a red or yellow paper lantern; fire-works
exploded gayly amongst the banyans and tamarind-trees; the whole
population of the place was gathered around three large bonfires at the
east end of the single street. This demonstration was all in honor of
the arrival an hour before, of Sir Dyce Hanchett--of whom so many boys
and girls have read--the famous young English sportsman from Madras. Sir
Dyce Hanchett had come full twenty miles out of his route expressly to
attempt ridding Sundapoor and its neighborhood of its dreaded curse for
so many long months, the detested man-eater Kali.
No single tiger had ever wrought such destruction within a little
district. The herds had been thinned beast by beast. In August the old
Buddhist priest Padará had been seized in the moon-lit street before his
door, and borne away, crying out feebly, into the jungle before help was
at hand; two women, one at the well in the afternoon, and the other a
few days later while returning from her milking at twilight, were no
more heard of until their bones were found whitening in a dry ravine.
But the dry ravine was not the home of Kali--for so they called her,
after the Hindoo goddess of murder--nor could they find it. The timid
villagers' hunting parties had been to no purpose. Their second one
indeed was overtaken by night, and before Sundapoor was reached a roar
was heard in the midst of the group; a terrible creature leaped across
their smouldering camp fire, and disappeared with one of their number.
In the morning, a mile away, the half-devoured body of the man was found
and buried. Kali had not carried it to her lair. No wonder that the
unhappy people of Sundapoor began to believe that the tigress was some
evil spirit in quadruped form that no eye should trace nor bullet kill.
Sir Dyce, however, only laughed at the superstition of the group, as he
sat, surrounded with his men, in the largest bungalow of the little
place, organizing his party for the morning. Even Ram Banee, the
greatest coward of all, exclaimed: "I have comfort when I behold this
stately Englishman, his guns, his bullets. And hearken to his elephant
eating behind the bungalow!"
At dawn he and his party were off. Out through the village street with
horns and tam-tams the procession moved. The preceding afternoon a
bullock had been seized. The crushed twigs and jungle grass, often
spotted with gore, were now traced for a mile by the trackers. Suddenly
a shout went up from these. "The bullock! the bullock!" Sure enough,
when Sir Dyce had forced his way with two others into the open, there on
the jungle's edge lay what was left of the unlucky animal. "Hurrah!"
cried the enthusiastic Englishman; "she can not be far away. Get
together, all of you, quickly. Beat the bush on the other side of
us--yonder, across the clearing."
Sir Dyce left his elephant, and joined on foot the excited natives. The
open was crossed. Wild cries and shouts, the clanging of the cymbals and
tam-tams, filled the morning air. The bush was thoroughly beat, every
eye and ear on the alert.
Sir Dyce and his party located themselves carefully in the underbrush
within easy shot of the carcass. It was their best chance. The afternoon
passed slowly. Each member of the little ambuscade had become a
sentinel. But no tigress came slinking into sight. The shadows grew
purple. Sir Dyce began to doubt the wisdom of further remaining in so
exposed a spot without a regular camping out. Or had not they best
return to Sundapoor? The elephant had been stationed some hundred yards
to the rear. Suddenly an old native laid his hand warningly upon Sir
Dyce's sleeve. The English hunter started, and looked out from behind
their screen toward the little clearing. Full in face of them, every
line and curve of her beautiful form brought into relief by the distance
and the green shade behind her, was seated at last a tigress on the
opposite side of the open. The great beast was indeed returning from her
lair, either to finish her supper here and now, or else to forage for
another one.
She sat there upon her haunches very composedly, looking over at the
bullock. Perhaps she suspected something. At all events, she seemed
reluctant to stir just yet. She remained well out of range, licking her
paws, and preening herself precisely like pussy before the fire.
The natives with Sir Dyce in his lurking-place would have risked a shot
already had he not checked them. After a moment, however, the great cat
raised her head, then lowered it, smelling the ground, and finally
advanced slowly toward the dead bullock. The excitement of the natives
upon actually beholding before them the dreaded marauder and murderess
of their district was evinced by their breathless watchfulness of every
motion she made.
The tigress gained the side of the bullock. Thereupon she stooped, and,
much to Sir Dyce's discomfiture, instead of beginning her supper then
and there, began easily and rapidly to drag the bullock back toward the
opposite thicket.
There was no time in such an event to be wasted. The elephant was not
available. Sir Dyce stepped quickly from cover and fired. Two of his
native companions followed his example. The tigress started, uninjured,
dropped the carcass, and turned. Perceiving the hunters, she stood for
an instant in a dignified attitude, then roared, lashed her tail
furiously, and charged down upon them. The natives shrieked, and rushed
pell-mell back. Sir Dyce fired, and pierced the brute's shoulder. She
now charged furiously upon him as he stood alone just forward of the
edge of the jungle. His last bullet met her. She leaped into the air,
rolled over and over in her death-agony, and then lay rigid and
motionless. No more cattle or priests or women would Kali bear away from
Sundapoor or any other village.
The natives approached the dead beast tremblingly, and offered prayers
to the great goddess whose name they had given it, before they ventured
to take the creature home in triumph. Sir Dyce had a rude ovation in
Sundapoor that evening that he often smiled over afterward. He cared
less for the songs sung in his honor, less for the fire-works and
drumming and the procession around his camp-stool, than he did for the
noble skin that afterward he took to his English home for his little
sons to roll upon. But then only an Indian village that has been long in
terror from a man-eater can appreciate what a relief he and a good
English gun had given it.
HISTORICAL TREES OF MEXICO.
BY HELEN S. CONANT.
Certain species of trees live to a very great age. There are trees in
existence which are supposed to be more than a thousand years old, and
many of them are intimately connected with historical events of the
past. In Morat, a town in Switzerland, where in 1476 a great victory was
won by the Swiss over Charles the Bold, is a famous lime-tree under
which Charles and his Generals sat down to rest before the battle; and
in another Swiss village a lime-tree is still standing, flourishing and
green in its old age, upon whose trunk in 1530 was pasted the
proclamation of the Reformation.
Many of our youthful readers will remember the account of some
historical trees of the United States given in the second volume of
YOUNG PEOPLE, and the interest it awakened for collecting and exchanging
leaves and twigs from these noble old landmarks, and we think they will
be interested to hear about two magnificent cypress-trees near the city
of Mexico. The oldest trees in the world are supposed to exist in the
cypress forests of Mexico. These cypresses grow to an immense height,
and the trunk which supports the great crown of feathery foliage is
sometimes more than one hundred feet in circumference.
When in 1519 Cortez landed on the Mexican coast, at the point where the
city of Vera Cruz is now situated, he found the country populated with
Indians, who received him in the most friendly manner, and very soon he
was visited by two messengers, who came from a certain great King called
Montezuma. They brought him rich presents, but entreated him to leave
the country. Now Cortez was a man of very determined character. He had
come to Mexico to make new conquests for the Emperor Charles V.; so he
paid no heed to Montezuma's message, but prepared himself and his
Spanish soldiery to march inland, and see the great magnificence which
he was told existed at the court of this powerful King. Fearing that a
portion if not all of his army might desert him, he burned his ships,
and thus cut off all means of retreat.
After a long and weary march, Cortez and his men arrived at the city of
Mexico, where the beautiful sight that appeared before their astonished
eyes made them feel as if they had reached the gates of an enchanted
realm. This capital of the great Aztec nation was built in the centre of
a large lake, and was connected with the surrounding country by broad
causeways. The surface of the lake was dotted with floating gardens, and
in the city great towers and temples and palaces of solid masonry rose
above the trees. Many of the streets were broad and well paved, others
were waterways like those of Venice, and crowded with canoes that went
back and forth loaded with fruit, flowers, and all kinds of merchandise.
But in the midst of this fair city was a terrible spot, where dreadful
deeds were done, for which the people well deserved the punishment which
soon fell upon them. It was the great Temple of the Sun, and upon its
summit stood a huge hideous idol of stone, which the people worshipped,
and before which they sacrificed many thousands of poor men, women, and
children.
[Illustration: THE FAVORITE TREE OF MONTEZUMA.]
Montezuma, the great Aztec King, thought himself a very wise ruler. He
had magnificent palaces and pleasure-gardens filled with flowers and
noble trees. One of his favorite palaces was situated several miles from
the city. It was built on a hill, and from its windows the King could
overlook the beautiful valley in the centre of which stood the city, and
watch the great volcano of Popocatepetl, which at that time often threw
forth smoke and burning lava. At the foot of the hill, all around the
palace, was a great park, in which grew many large cypress-trees. One
was Montezuma's favorite tree. He had a seat built under it, and was
accustomed to meet his warriors there and confer with them. That was
more than three hundred and sixty years ago, but the tree still stands,
strong and flourishing, and showing no signs of decay. It is thought to
be one of the oldest trees in the world. On sunny afternoons little
Indian boys and girls play around its enormous trunk in the shade of its
broad-spreading foliage, and they will all tell you that it is
Montezuma's tree under which they are playing, for it still is
remembered in connection with its ancient owner. This wonderful tree has
witnessed many strange events. It saw the downfall of Montezuma, and the
end of the terrible human sacrifices; it was a silent witness while the
Spaniards held rule over New Spain, as Mexico was for a time called; it
stood safely through the great revolution of sixty years ago, when the
Mexicans fought for liberty, and throwing off the Spanish yoke, founded
a republic of their own. In 1847, the bullets of American soldiers
whizzed through its branches, as our army, led by General Scott, stormed
under it and up the hill to take the Mexican fortress built on the
heights where centuries ago stood the pleasure-palace of Montezuma.
During the three years' rule of the French in Mexico, from 1864 to 1867,
when the republic was crushed, and Maximilian of Austria was Emperor,
this old tree shadowed the pathway where Maximilian and his Empress
passed on their way to their beautiful pleasure-palace, which crowned
the height above as in the days of Montezuma. This hill was called
Chapultepec by the ancient Aztecs, which signifies the hill of
grasshoppers, and it bears the same name still.
[Illustration: "THE TREE OF THE NOCHE TRISTE."]
The other historical cypress-tree stands on a village green about three
miles from the city of Mexico. Until nine years ago it was a noble tree,
but one night a party of Indians kindled a fire which burned out the
entire centre of the immense trunk, and left it only a scorched wreck of
its former splendor. Many of its branches are still adorned with
feathery foliage, and it is draped with hanging gray moss, similar to
that which grows on many trees in the Southern United States, which
gives it a venerable and hoary appearance suited to its great age. It is
called "The Tree of the _Noche Triste_," meaning the sad night. To
understand its name, we must follow the adventures of Cortez and his men
after their arrival at the city of Mexico.
Montezuma, although very suspicious of these white-faced strangers who
came riding on horses, which were animals unknown to the Aztecs, and
bringing with them great cannon which made a noise like thunder,
received them kindly, and gave splendid banquets in their honor.
But Cortez had not come to Mexico to live in luxury, but to gain
possession of the country, and the horrible human sacrifices which he
daily witnessed strengthened his resolution to break down the Aztec
power at any cost, and to establish the government and religion of
Spain. The task was difficult, for he was alone in a strange land, with
only a handful of men at his command. His first attempt ended in
disaster. He succeeded in seizing the person of Montezuma, the King, but
the Mexicans rebelled against the rule of the Spanish soldiery. In one
of the battles Montezuma was killed, which only increased the fury of
the Mexicans against the strangers with white faces. After losing many
of his men, Cortez finally decided to retreat from the city. It was a
dark rainy night in the summer of 1520 when with the remnant of his army
he passed out over one of the great causeways, closely pursued by the
furious Mexicans, who fired showers of sharply pointed arrows after him.
When at last he found himself in the open country, free from his
enemies, who had returned to their strongholds, Cortez sat down under
the great cypress-tree to rest. For the first time his heart failed him,
and all alone, in the dark stormy night, the stern warrior shed bitter
tears. And to this day the tree preserves the memory of that sad hour in
the name by which it is known.
The determination of Cortez to conquer Mexico became stronger than ever
after this bitter defeat. He immediately set to work to re-enforce his
army by making friends with tribes who had suffered oppression from the
powerful Aztecs. Fresh troops also arrived from Spain, and in a year
after the sad night, Cortez saw conquered Mexico at his feet, and its
great cities in the hands of Spanish soldiers. The temples stained with
the blood of so many unfortunate victims were overthrown, and in their
places churches were built, with towers bearing the sign of the cross.
Idolatry and human sacrifice on Mexican soil were ended forever.
[Illustration: FEEDING HIS PETS.]
RUTH'S OPPORTUNITY.
BY BELLE WILLIAMS.
A brighter morning never dawned on the little township of Greenville than
that of a certain day in the summer of '81. The sun rose with a fierce
glare, boding intense heat before night-fall. Every ray seemed like a
fiery dart sent down to destroy the few lingering traces of verdure, for
rain had not fallen in weeks, and plants and animals were alike consumed
with thirst.
The sun had wide range for havoc on Mr. Leonard's farm, and it blazed
relentlessly down upon his well-tilled acres, upon his roomy barns and
stables, which sheltered the panting cattle, and upon a little
"root-house," used as a storage for winter vegetables, that stood half
underground and covered with earth. But on this retreat the tyrant cast
his beams in vain. The shadowy room within was delightfully cool, and
there in the doorway lay little Scott, the five-year-old baby of the
household, with his chin resting on two chubby palms, his elbows planted
in the damp earth, and heels beating the air, intently watching a swarm
of ants. The old root-house had been a favorite haunt of the little
fellow during the hot, sultry days of summer, for it was so near the
kitchen that he never felt lonely there.
"Breakfast 'most ready, Ruthie?" he called out, still surveying the
interesting ant colony.
"Almost, little man," said sister Ruth, appearing at the porch door to
see what the small lord was about.
Ruth Leonard made a charming picture as she stood there shading her eyes
with her hand, framed in by a clustering mass of honeysuckle vines. Yet
no one called her a pretty girl. Though only sixteen, she was very tall
and strong for her age; every well-formed limb indicated the possession
of muscular strength, and her broad shoulders seemed just fitted to bear
burdens. Her thick brown hair was brushed plainly back from a low
forehead and braided, but the braid was oftener coiled up in a loose
knot to "get it out of the way." Not a suspicion of a curl was to be
seen, for Ruth always forgot to "put up her hair," and Nature had
evidently intended it to hang straight. A pair of keen gray eyes that
often grew dark with unsatisfied longing, yet hid in their depths a
world of conscious power, a straight nose, and full red lips, complete
the picture--a picture which had become to father and mother as their
daily bread.
Ruth turned away smiling, and went on with her work of setting the
table. Suddenly a shrill voice echoed through the room. "Hi, Betty! ho,
Betty! it's all in m'eye!" came with piercing distinctness from the open
doorway, accompanied by scuffling as of a brigade of robbers, and
boisterous Hal presented himself.
"Now, Hal--" began Ruth.
"Now, grandmother," reiterated Hal, striking an attitude, "don't reel
off more than a yard of lecture before breakfast."
"Henry, behave," commanded a stern voice from the other side of the
room, which caused a noticeable decline in Hal's spirits.
There stood Mr. Leonard, having just come down-stairs unnoticed by the
young scapegrace. He held little Lou by the hand, a delicate, sensitive
child, older than Hal, though scarcely taller than her sturdy brother.
"Here come the provisions," remarked Hal, as Ruth brought in a smoking
omelet from the kitchen.
"Go call Scott," said his father; which, cruel mandate obliged the young
gentleman to remove his admiring gaze from the repast.
"Ay, ay, sir," he responded, and in a few minutes he reappeared with
Scott, who was very red in the face, and howling most frantically. Hal
had the little fellow's skirts gathered tightly in one hand, while with
the other he firmly grasped the neck of his dress, just as he had picked
him up from the ground, "making him walk Spanish," as he termed it.
The family gathered around the table, and Mr. Leonard asked a blessing
on the food in a sad, pleading voice. For several minutes the children
seemed awed into silence. At length Ruth broke the stillness.
"Did you see the doctor again last night, father?"
"Yes, daughter."
"What did he say?" she eagerly asked.
Mr. Leonard could not at once trust himself to speak, but after a moment
he replied, in a husky voice, "The doctor says your mother will never
walk again."
The quick tears sprang to the girl's eyes as she thought of the dear
little Quaker mother upstairs, lying so patiently on her bed of
suffering, who only a year ago, before that terrible fall which hurt her
back, had been well and happy.
Lou began to sob outright, and great-hearted Hal again brushed his coat
sleeve over his face, but this time to wipe away the tears.
"Does mother know it?" asked Ruth.
"Yes."
"How does she feel about it?"
"Cheerful as ever," replied Mr. Leonard. "She never thinks of
complaining, but only of comforting us."
The children brightened up a little at these words, for their blithe
spirits refused to be long downcast, especially when they felt sure of
seeing the same bright, loving mother unchanged--all except Ruth; her
sober face too well expressed her thoughts.
"Oh, father," broke in Hal, presently, "Jake Murphy says the fire has
caught over at Liberty."
"Yes," replied his father, absently, "they are having a desperate
struggle with the fires this summer."
Lou's great blue eyes had grown brighter and brighter while they were
talking, and a pink spot glowed in each cheek as she asked, "Do you
think it _could_ get here?"
"No, I think not; the wind is decidedly westward, and the people of
Liberty will probably take all possible measures for checking its
progress."
Mr. Leonard sighed as he spoke, and he seemed to be looking straight
through Ruth rather than at her. Perhaps he was wondering how the four
bairns and the sick wife were to be fed and cared for all winter if no
rain came to save his failing crops.
Just then a low call was heard for Lou.
"Yes, ma'am," answered the little girl, running to the foot of the
stairs.
"Will thee bring mother a nice glass of cold water?"
"I will, mother," rang out Ruth's cheery voice; "I'm coming up anyway."
Ruth went out to the well with her tin water pail, that her mother might
have a draught fresh and sparkling. As she lowered the bucket, peering
down into the mossy depths, she noticed how low the water was--lower
than she had ever seen it, for their well was never known to fail, and
in these times of drought the neighbors from far and near drew their
daily supply from Farmer Leonard's spring. "We'll have to be very
careful of it," she thought, "or it will give out."
Ruth returned to the house with her cool refreshment, and taking one of
the best goblets from the pantry, gave an extra polish with a fresh
towel, and filled it with the water, "because it would taste so much
better out of that."
"I thank thee, deary. How good it looks!" said the invalid, drinking
eagerly. "Thee takes a deal of trouble for thy mother."
"And why shouldn't I? Thee is the best of mothers," responded the girl,
tenderly hugging her.
Ruth now began to busy herself about the room. She wheeled out a big
arm-chair by the window, padded it out with pillows into comfortable
proportions, placed in front of it a little stuffed cricket, and threw a
large soft shawl over the whole arrangement. She then gathered up all
the stray dishes, placed everything in order, and carefully dusted the
room.
A pair of loving eyes watched these operations, following every motion;
but not a word was spoken, not a word of the doctor's decision, not a
word of the life-long suffering in store.
"Now, mother," said Ruth at last, pausing in front of her, "we'll have
thee up in a twinkling;" and with one strong motion she quickly lifted
the slender form, so light in its best days, and so reduced by pain and
suffering now, into the chair.
When she had settled her comfortably, and arranged the blinds so as to
make a pleasant shade in the room, she brought the mate to the little
stuffed cricket, and sat at her mother's side.
"What is it, daughter?--what troubles thee?"
"Oh! a great many things, mother," answered Ruth, laying her head on the
sympathetic breast.
"Well, suppose thee tell mother the greatest trouble, and then the
second, until thy mind is unburdened?" and the soft hands gently
smoothed the brown hair.
"Well, the first is about thee;" and the tears would come in spite of
her.
"Why, my dear child, do not grieve over that. Almost a year has gone by,
and another will soon pass; and think what a calm, peaceful time I may
have with so busy a little housekeeper to do everything."
"Ah! but that is just the trouble, mother," said Ruth, earnestly, as she
lifted her tear-stained face. "I feel so good-for-nothing when I have
only the same homely little duties every day. I do so long for a chance
to be great and good."
"My daughter"--and Mrs. Leonard took both trembling hands in her
own--"does thee know that the only way to be good and great is to do
faithfully the work that is nearest thy hand? Let thy whole heart be
drawn into each homely duty, and when an opportunity comes to do a great
work, it will find thee ready."
Ruth said nothing, but the deep, strong look in the gray eyes expressed
a firm resolve.
Presently there was a clatter of stout boots heard on the stairs.
"Harry is coming," said the mother with a smile.
In burst the noisy urchin, all aglow with excitement, his hair flying,
eyes blazing, and breath so nearly spent that he could hardly speak.
"Don't you smell the smoke?" he gasped. "Something's up! Father--and a
crowd of men--have gone off--into the woods--to see what's the matter.
There's danger, I tell you. Come on, Scott, let's sit on the big post
and watch."
"Thee'd better go down and see about it," said Mrs. Leonard to Ruth, as
the two sat staring blankly into each other's faces.
"I will, mother," assented Ruth, recovering her wonted energy, as she
ran down the stairs.
A strong wind greeted her upon opening the outer door, blowing into her
face a sickening smell of burned wood. The whole sky seemed overcast,
and a thick, heavy haze was settling down upon fields and buildings as
far as the eye could reach.
"Harry! Harry!" she called, excitedly, "where's father?"
"Gone to the woods, I told you. Oh, there he comes!" and Hal peered into
the gloom as he looked in the direction of the woods.
Ruth saw a dark moving object coming toward them. She waited for no
second look, but sped away like the wind into the nearest field.
"Oh, father, what's happened?" she cried, breathlessly, running up to
him and catching his arm as she turned to keep pace with his long
strides toward the house.
"We're going to burn out," he answered, with set teeth, "and there's no
time to lose. Go get your mother ready to move, while I harness the
horses. We must reach the lake within an hour, or--"
"How can we?" uttered Ruth, aghast. "Ten miles!"
"It must be done. Quick, daughter!"
The girl needed no further bidding, but ran homeward, calling to Hal as
she passed, and charging him to keep near the house with Scott.
Ruth made straight for the store-room, and filling her arms with a pile
of blankets, she carried them to the door and threw them on the ground,
ready to spread in the wagon. She then hastened to her mother's room,
and found her pale and composed, trying to quiet Lou, who was sobbing
hysterically.
"Mother, we're gone. Not a thing can be saved. Father's getting the
wagon ready to drive us to the lake;" and Ruth began to dress her
mother, slipping on a loose wrapper, and covering her with shawl after
shawl as a protection from the scorching air.
"Try and gather up some of the clothing, Ruth, if there's time," said
Mrs. Leonard, controlling herself into calmness.
Ruth obeyed, pulled a sheet from the bed, and crowded into it such
articles as were nearest at hand.
"Oh, mother!" screamed Lou, and hid her face, as a blinding smoke burst
into the room enveloping the place in darkness.
"We must go," Ruth, cried, as she snatched her mother up in her arms,
and stepped firmly toward the door, clasping her burden tight to her
breast, and followed by Lou, clinging frantically to her skirts.
Hurriedly Ruth groped her way down the staircase and through the lower
rooms, stumbling over the furniture, until they reached the scorching
blast without. Upon emerging from the house a burning shower of cinders
met them.
Not a sign of father or the wagon.
"Come, put your dress over your head, Lou," panted Ruth, whose hands
were smarting with pain.
There was not a moment to be lost. They must flee somewhere, for the
house was already ablaze. An awful yellow glare lit up the dense
darkness, and on every side the crash of falling trees filled the air
with a terrible din. On they rushed through the blistering heat,
scarcely knowing where, Ruth still bearing her precious burden, and the
children clinging to her in wild despair.
How long they pursued this headlong flight no one knew. All sense of
time was lost; it might have been minutes, or it might have been hours.
Suddenly Ruth lost her balance. She gave utterance to one piercing
shriek, but she never let go her burden, and then she slid down, down,
down. The terrified children screamed as they rolled over and over, and
then all was silence and darkness.
Ruth was the first to recover.
"Mother?"
"I'm safe. The children?"
"Oh, where are we?" moaned the little ones, creeping on their hands and
knees toward the familiar voices. They managed to reach the sheltering
embrace of mother, who lay unhurt amid her wrappings just as she had
slipped from the stanch arms that saved her life.
Ruth began to feel around; for even the ghastly light of the flames had
vanished, and not an object was visible in the thick, deep gloom.
Brambles and briers and low bushes upon all sides. With each turn the
dry twigs and leaves crackled, and in attempting to move, the girl found
her clothing caught upon thorns that projected on all sides. It was with
difficulty that she managed to extricate herself, bruised and benumbed
as she was, but it was necessary to explore further. The ground felt
hard and clayey, and was covered with stones. Turning halfway round,
Ruth found a little clear space, and creeping forward, soon came to
rising ground. Catching hold of a bush, she pulled herself a little way
up the slope, when an idea of their situation suddenly flashed upon her.
"Why, we're in the creek--the dry creek down by the meadow lot," she
called out. "Where are you all? I've lost you."
"Here," replied her mother's voice not three yards away. "Is Scott with
thee? Harry and Lou are safe."
"No," answered Ruth, aghast, hastening with all possible speed to her
mother's side.
"Where is the child?" she cried, immediately calling aloud with all her
strength, "Scott! Scott!"
But no answer.
"He must have hidden somewhere when the darkness came," was the mother's
despairing conclusion.
"The root-house!" Ruth's words told the awful story.
"If I _could_ save him!" And with a silent prayer for strength, she once
more dashed into the stifling smoke.
* * * * *
Hour after hour crept by; it seemed to the terrified children as if they
must have sat there for days; and they were so hungry! and Ruth never
would come!
Presently, after long waiting, the darkness began to lift somewhat, and
they could see each other's faces. Little by little the gloom cleared
away until the whole atmosphere was of a dusky hue. And still they
waited. At length, starting up with an exclamation of joy as rapid
footsteps approached, they heard their father's voice.
"Ruth? Hal?"
"Here," roared Hal, starting to his feet.
In a moment more Mr. Leonard bounded down the steep bank of the creek,
and with him Jake Murphy, who had started from the village to warn Mr.
Leonard, reaching the farm just as that first overwhelming darkness
dropped upon the village.
They had found shelter in the old well, for Mr. Leonard was overtaken in
his preparations for flight, and could not reach the house before it
burst into flames. When the crisis was past, almost wild with grief and
despair, he commenced a search for wife and children, fearing at every
step to come upon their lifeless bodies. For a moment he stood overcome
with thankfulness as he found them unharmed.
But two were missing. Mrs. Leonard hurriedly told of little Scott's
disappearance, and of Ruth's effort to save him.
The two men hastened to the root-house. It was still standing, though
blackened and charred, and no sign of life appeared. The door was
tightly closed, and upon opening it a sight met the father's eye which
almost overpowered the strong man. There lay Ruth, white and still,
tightly clasping the little fellow to her bosom.
It was but the work of a moment to carry them out of the dark building.
Both were unconscious, though they bore few traces of the fire. Might
there not yet be a chance of life?
Quickly the men bore the motionless forms to the creek. All the remedies
which they could obtain were applied, but it seemed in vain; the loving
ones could do little but watch and wait.
At last Ruth stirred, and slowly opened her eyes. The brave heart once
more began to beat, though for many a long, weary day the blistered
hands and arms refused to move. But Ruth was spared.
Little Scott lay there for hours, until it seemed that the family must
lose their baby, when he wonderingly gazed around upon the anxious
group, and inquired, "Did you try to cook me for dinner?"
All the pent-up feelings found vent in a tearful laugh, and then the
laugh turned to joy, and the joy to thanksgiving.
When the flaming hurricane had swept onward in its mad course of
destruction, and the sun, which had risen in such fierce glory, sent a
last sickly glimmer through the murky air, it revealed the little
village of Greenville a waste of smoking ruins. But the fire had
mercifully stopped upon reaching Farmer Leonard's grassy meadow, and
thus had the fugitives in the creek been saved.
The strong men set to work with a will. It took but a few hours to raise
a little shed for protection; and day after day his prospects
brightened, as the timely aid and sympathy of friends helped him to
rebuild his ruined home.
It would have been hard to find a happier household than this reunited
family. Slowly strength returned to Ruth's wounded arms, and a sweet
peace shone through the gray eyes as she once more became able to enjoy
the blessings which had so nearly been taken from her.
Her great opportunity had come, and it had found her ready.
[Illustration: "WAIT FOR PUSSIE, FIDO!"]
HOW A BOY WAS HIRED OUT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
BY GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.
When Michael Angelo was twelve years of age, although he had had no
instruction in art, he did a piece of work which greatly pleased the
painter Dominico Ghirlandajo. This artist at once declared that here was
a lad of genius, who must quit his studies, and become a painter.
This was what the little Michael most wished to do, but he had no hope
that his father would listen for a moment to the suggestion. His father,
Ludovico Buonarotti, was a distinguished man in the state, and held art
and artists in contempt. He had planned a great political career for his
boy, as the boy knew very well.
Ghirlandajo was enthusiastic, however, and in company with the lad he at
once visited Ludovico, and asked him to place Michael in his studio.
Ludovico was very angry, saying that he wished his son to become a
prominent man in society and politics, not a dauber and a mason; but
when he found that young Michael was determined to be an artist or
nothing, he gave way, though most ungraciously. He would not say that he
consented to place his son with Ghirlandajo; he would not admit that the
study of art was study, or the studio of an artist anything but a shop.
He said to the artist: "I give up my son to you. He shall be your
apprentice or your servant, as you please, for three years, and you must
pay me twenty-four florins for his services."
In spite of the insulting words and the insulting terms, Michael Angelo
consented thus to be hired out as a servant to the artist, who should
have been paid by his father for teaching him. He had to endure much,
indeed, besides the anger and contempt of his father, who forbade him
even to visit his house, and utterly disowned him. His fellow-pupils
were jealous of his ability, and ill-treated him constantly, one of them
going so far as to break his nose with a blow.
When Michael Angelo had been with Ghirlandajo about two years, he went
one day to the Gardens of St. Mark, where the Prince Lorenzo de'
Medici--who was the great patron of art in Florence--had established a
rich museum of art-works at great expense. One of the workmen in the
garden gave the boy leave to try his hand at copying some of the
sculptures there, and Michael, who had hitherto studied only painting,
was glad of a chance to experiment with the chisel, which he preferred
to the brush. He chose for his model an ancient figure of a faun, which
was somewhat mutilated. The mouth, indeed, was entirely broken off, but
the boy was very self-reliant, and this did not trouble him. He worked
day after day at the piece, creating a mouth for it of his own
imagining, with the lips parted in laughter, and the teeth displayed.
When he had finished and was looking at his work, a man standing near
asked if he might offer a criticism.
"Yes," answered the boy, "if it is a just one."
"Of that you shall be the judge," said the man.
"Very well. What is it?"
"The forehead of your faun is old, but the mouth is young. See, it has a
full set of perfect teeth. A faun so old as this one is would not have
perfect teeth."
The lad admitted the justice of the criticism, and proceeded to remedy
the defect by chipping away two or three of the teeth, and chiselling
the gums so as to give them a shrivelled appearance.
The next morning, when Michael went to remove his faun from the garden,
it was gone. He searched everywhere for it, but without success.
Finally, seeing the man who had made the suggestion about the teeth, he
asked him if he knew where it was.
"Yes," replied the man, "and if you will follow me I'll show you where
it is."
"Will you give it back to me? I made it, and have a right to it."
"Oh, if you must have it, you shall."
With that he led the way into the palace of the Prince, and there, among
the most precious works of art in the collection, stood the faun. The
young sculptor cried out in alarm, declaring that the Prince Lorenzo
would never forgive the introduction of so rude a piece of work among
his treasures of sculpture. To his astonishment the man declared that he
was himself the Prince Lorenzo de' Medici, and that he set the highest
value upon this work.
"I am your protector and friend," he added. "Henceforth you shall be
counted as my son, for you are destined to become one of the great
masters of art."
This was overwhelming good fortune. Lorenzo de' Medici was a powerful
nobleman, known far and wide to be a most expert judge of works of art.
His approval was in itself fame and fortune.
Filled with joy, the lad went straightway to his father's house, which
he had been forbidden to enter, and forcing his way into Ludovico's
presence, told him what had happened. The father refused to believe the
good news until Michael led him into Lorenzo's presence.
When the Prince, by way of emphasizing his good-will, offered Ludovico
any post he might choose, he asked for a very modest place indeed,
saying, with bitter contempt, that it was good enough "for the father of
a mason."
THE HARDEST TUG OF ALL.
A BAVARIAN STORY.
BY DAVID KER.
The sun was just beginning to sink over the beautiful hills of Southern
Bavaria. A big red-bearded man, with arms bare to the elbow, stood at
the door of a little mountain inn upon one of the higher slopes,
watching, with his broad brown hand arched over his eyes, a group of
five men who had just issued from the mass of dark green pines that
covered the crest of the opposite ridge.
"One, two, three, four, five," counted the landlord. "They're all there
but Hermann; but they've found no game, I can see. Where can Hermann be,
I wonder? _He_ won't come back empty-handed, I'll be bound."
"Hermann's late," said one of the foresters, "but I warrant he'll be
ready for his supper when he does come."
"And well he may, if he has found any game, for I can tell you, lads,
that to carry a quarter of venison from the Riesenberg to my door, on a
roasting day like this, would be a job for Strong Schalk himself."
"And who may Strong Schalk be?" asked a sunburned peddler who was
sitting beside the window.
"_Who?_" echoed the landlord, staring; "why, brother, you must be a
stranger in these parts to ask that. But if you want to know about him,
all you've got to do is to go down to Kreuzweg town yonder and ask any
man, woman, or child you may meet about 'Strong Schalk,' and they'll
tell you something that'll astonish you."
"And if that's not enough," struck in one of the hunters, with a grin,
"let him go into Schalk's shop and challenge him to wrestle, and he'll
be astonished still more--eh, Father Baum?"
"Ugh! don't talk of it!" grunted the landlord, making a wry face; "you
make my fingers ache with the very recollection."
"Why, he must be a perfect giant!" cried the peddler, who had been
listening open-mouthed.
"No, that's the strangest part of it. He's no bigger than another
man--rather smaller, in fact--and a tailor into the bargain; and yet he
can do feats worthy of Hans Stronghand in the story."
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked a deep voice from the door.
"Of Strong Schalk, the tailor of Kreuzweg, Friend Hermann," answered the
landlord, shaking hands with the new-comer, a powerful young fellow,
with an air which showed that he had no small idea of his own
importance.
"The mischief take Strong Schalk!" cried Hermann, angrily. "I'm sick of
his very name;" and with the full power of his mighty voice he rolled
out the song:
"There were a host of tailors,
Brave fellows one and all;
Then drank they, all the ninety,
Ay, nine times nine-and-ninety,
Out of a thimble small.
"And when this draught had quenched their thirst,
Then weigh themselves would they;
Yet could not all the ninety,
Ay, nine times nine-and-ninety,
A single goat upweigh.
"Then homeward trudged they all--but lo!
The door was locked within;
Then hopped they, all the ninety,
Ay, nine times nine-and-ninety,
Right through the key-hole, in."
The boisterous chorus had hardly died away, when a quiet but
unmistakably firm voice was heard to say:
"Stop there! enough of this!"
All turned with a start, and saw that the silent stranger near the door
had risen from his seat.
"Gentlemen," he continued, amid the universal hush of amazement, "I must
tell you that _I_ am a tailor, and that I object to hear any man speak
ill of my trade."
"Do you, really?" cried Hermann, with a laugh. "Well, then, I must tell
you that you will either keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll have
to show you the difference between an honest forester and a fellow who
lives on cloth clippings and ends of thread."
"Better live on them than on stolen game," retorted the unknown, with
biting contempt.
At this last insinuation, honest Hermann--who certainly was said to be
not overparticular whether the deer that he shot belonged to the park or
to the forest--lost patience altogether, and laid his hand upon his long
hunting-knife. But instantly the landlord thrust himself between them.