[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 120. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, February 14, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: "NO ONE HAD A LARGER SUPPLY THAN THEODORA AND BESSIE."]
A VALENTINE AND A MISSION.
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
Electa Eliza was never seen without that baby. Ever since it was three
weeks old--it was born in August and now it was February--she had taken
the whole care of it every day, excepting Sundays, from morning until
night.
Mrs. Googens, her mother--her father was dead--when she wasn't out
washing and ironing, was washing and ironing at home and having no other
children besides Electa Eliza and the baby, of course the care of the
small boy fell almost entirely on his sister.
This was rather hard, for she was only twelve years old, and lame
besides, and it requires a great deal of patience and good nature to
mind a baby, especially a lively, wide-awake baby who jumps, and
"pat-a-cakes," and "goos," and "guggles," and wants to go "day-day" all
the time.
It wasn't a pretty baby, and it wasn't an ugly baby. It had round blue
eyes, round red cheeks, round wee nose, and a very bald head, and
sometimes it looked so wise you couldn't help thinking it wasn't a baby
at all, but a jolly, lazy old gentleman dwarf just making believe to be
one, to be carried around and waited upon.
Electa Eliza had gone to school before the baby came, and had been a
very good scholar--at the head of her class, in fact; but ever since she
had been obliged to stay at home altogether, and it was but seldom she
got a chance to look at her books.
Now around the corner from the house where Electa Eliza lived was a
church, and on the steps of this church, sheltered by the porch, she
often rested when tired walking with the baby.
Indeed, it was her favorite resting-place, and even when the weather was
quite cold, she spent many hours there, watching most of the time the
house directly opposite, at whose windows often appeared another girl
and another baby.
This young girl, who was about three years older than Electa Eliza, and
whose name was Theodora Judson, and her little brother were her mother's
only children, just as Electa Eliza and her baby were her mother's only
children.
But, ah! how far apart their paths in life were!
The Judson baby had a nurse-maid in constant attendance upon him, his
sister only playing with him when she felt so inclined, and Miss
Theodora had a French and German teacher, and a music teacher, and a
riding-master, besides being one of the day-pupils at a celebrated
academy famous for its excellent scholars. And her father and mother
were the most indulgent of parents, refusing her nothing that she
desired.
But yet Theodora was not contented, but was continually wishing to be
something that would make her of more importance in the world, and
wondering when, if ever, she would find a mission. On St. Valentine's
morning--Valentine's Day happening that year to fall on a Saturday--she
was holding forth, as she had held forth a hundred times before to her
mother, who was listening patiently, as mothers usually do, on the
subject which always lay nearest her heart.
"I'd like to become famous," said Theodora, her eyes sparkling and her
cheeks glowing; "be an artist, or an author, or an inventor, or somebody
great. It seems so hard to live in this big world, and be a woman and
nothing more. To paint a lovely picture, to write a beautiful book, to
make a discovery that would gain me the praise and thanks of thousands
of people--ah! if I dared to dream I should ever do any of these things,
I should be perfectly happy."
"My dear," said her mother, mildly, "there are many other ways besides
those which you have mentioned by which praise, and thanks, and love,
and happiness can be gained. It isn't easy to become famous, but it is
easy--that is, if one's heart is in the work--to do a great deal of good
to one's fellow-beings. Young as you are, I have no doubt there are many
sad hearts you might gladden, and many gloomy homes to which you might
bring brightness."
"Oh, mother, can you show me one?" said Theodora, eagerly.
"I could, many a one," answered the mother, smiling; "but surely so
bright and intelligent a girl as yourself ought to be able to find out
who needs your help and encouragement without my assistance."
It was now just about the hour for the morning's mail to come in, and
within ten minutes of the time when this serious conversation took
place, Miss Theodora and her friend Bessie Lee were on their way to the
post-office.
What a hurrying and skurrying there was! what a laughing and shouting!
How did the deaf old clerk in the post-office ever manage to take charge
of such dainty missives? There were big valentines and little
valentines, valentines with coarse figures accompanied by bad poetry,
and valentines that were marvels of art. There were hearts, and darts,
and Cupids, and roses, and posies, and everything that goes to make the
valentine a wonder and delight.
No one had a larger supply than Theodora and Bessie, and arm in arm they
walked down the street displaying their treasures, and demanding
everybody's sympathy, from the old doctor, on his way to treat a
critical case, to Pussie Evans, the minister's little girl, who was
forbidden to leave the door-step, and had to wait for somebody to bring
her valentines to her.
Not one of the merry party noticed Electa Eliza. Yet there she was, and
without the baby--a fact so remarkable that it might well have attracted
attention had there been a person in the world to give the poor child a
thought.
But Electa Eliza had a special interest in this Valentine's Day. Not
that she expected a valentine; such a thing would have been too absurd.
Still, her interest in those wonderful missives at the post-office was
quite sufficient to induce her to give up fully one-half of her dinner
to a friend who agreed to mind the baby for an hour. Then with her
little crutch she mounted the hill to the post-office, waiting quietly
about until Miss Theodora received the gay envelopes addressed to her.
Now when this young lady reached home she found among the great bundle
handed her by the old clerk a large yellow envelope on which her name
was written in a print-like hand.
With rather a scornful expression on her pretty face Theodora opened it,
and found a rude drawing of two babies looking smilingly at each
other--at least it had been intended that they should be looking
smilingly at each other--one with very round eyes, nose, and mouth, and
plain dotted slip; the other with indistinct features, but a most
elaborately embroidered dress, over which floated an immense sash.
Underneath the picture was this verse:
"You are such a pretty girl
With your lovely hair in curl
With your lovely eyes of blue
How I wish that I was you."
And underneath the verse was the following letter:
"DEAR YOUNG LADY,--I am a poor, little girl and I'm lame too because of
a dreadful fall I got once and broke something in my knee. Maybe you
have saw me sittin cross the way from your house on the church steps
with a baby. Hese awful heavy but hese good but I cant go to school
cause I have to mind him and he wants to mused ever so mutch but hese
very good and I love pictures and books and now Alonzo that's my baby's
name is a beginin to go to sleep erly and if I had some Ide be so glad.
I named him out of a story I read once and I thort maybe you had some
picktures and books you dident want no more and you might give them to
me. I wrote this potry I had to say pretty girl cause lady woodent go
with curl and I drawed the babies I coodent make his face right cause I
never seen him close but I think his dress is right my mother washes
dresses like them sometimes I did it when Alonzo was asleep he dont
sleep mutch days hese a very lively baby but hese good If you will let
me have some of your old picktures and books I will thank you ever so
mutch and so will Alonzo when hese big enuf cause he rely is a very good
baby Your baby's nurse told me your name and she says your baby is a
sugar plum from Heaven.
"ELECTA ELIZA GOOGENS."
"What a queer valentine!" said Theodora, laughing, as she finished
reading it.
"What a nice one!" said her mother. "Far above half of those all lace
and nonsense that you have received to-day. And, Dora, those babies are
drawn better than you could have drawn them."
"Yes," said Theodora, frankly, "they are."
"So it appears this poor child has more artistic talent than you."
"And the verse is but little worse than I might have done myself. I'll
save you the trouble of saying that, mother," said the daughter,
merrily; "and so she may stand just as good a chance of becoming a
writer or an artist as I do, she being so much younger. Poor little
thing! I've seen her sitting on the church steps, with the baby that is
so 'good,' many a time, but I am ashamed to say I never gave her a
second thought."
"And yet, my dear," said Mrs. Judson, "there was your mission right
before your eyes waiting for you to take it up. Help this poor child to
the learning for which it is evident she longs so much. Give her and
Alonzo some happy hours. And who knows?--you may at the same time be
helping the world to a noble woman and a noble man, and what greater
work than that could be found?"
"I will, mother--dear, wise, good mother, I will," said Theodora, and
she flew to the window and beckoned to Electa Eliza, who had resumed the
charge of Alonzo, and although the snow was falling fast, sat under the
church porch, with Alonzo, well wrapped in an old woollen shawl, in her
arms.
And that was the beginning of the "Star in the East Mission School."
From one little girl and a baby it grew in a year to forty children
small and large, and now--for the valentine was sent and the mission
founded several years ago--a hundred and more bless the name of their
pretty young teacher and friend, Miss Theodora Judson, and look up with
affection and pride to her clever assistant, still younger than herself,
Miss Electa Eliza Googens.
"PICCIOLA."
BY MRS. SOPHIA B. HERRICK.
There is a beautiful little French story which has been translated into
English, and called "Picciola," the Italian for little flower. It is the
story of a French nobleman who was thrown into prison on an unjust
charge of plotting against the government of his country. He was a man
of talent and education, as well as of wealth and position. Somehow,
with all his life had given him, it had never taught him to look with
open eyes at nature, or to see beyond nature a God who had created it.
He was restless and impatient in his close cell and the little strip of
court-yard where he paced up and down, and up and down, in his misery,
longing to be free. One day he saw between the heavy paving-stones of
the yard the earth raised up into a tiny mound. His heart bounded at the
thought that some of his friends were digging up from below to reach
him, and give him his liberty again.
But when he came to examine the spot closely he found it was only a
little plant pushing the earth before it in its effort to reach the
light and the air. With the bitter sense of disappointment which this
discovery brought, he was about to crush the little intruder with his
foot, and then a feeling of compassion stopped him, and its life was
spared.
The plant grew and throve in its prison, and the Count de Charney became
every day fonder of his fellow-prisoner; he spent hours, which had
before been empty, watching it as it grew and developed, until it became
the absorbing interest of his life. As he watched it day by day, and saw
the contrivances by which it managed to live and grow, he was compelled
to believe that there must be somewhere a great and wonderful power that
could design and make so marvellous a thing. The little flower was like
a little child taking him by the hand; and leading him away from his
dark, bitter, unbelieving thoughts into the light of God's love.
I want to take some common flower, something you have seen a hundred
times every summer of your lives, and show you a few of the marvellous
contrivances that make it able to live and grow and bear blossoms and
fruit. If you will study them closely for a while, it will not seem so
strange then that the Count de Charney, who had lived so many years
without learning anything of the wonders of nature, should have had them
opened for him by one little flower that he had carefully watched and
studied.
Most plants are alike in having roots, stems, and leaves, and some sort
of flower and seed-vessel. But the parts look so very different in
different plants that it is sometimes a little hard to tell which is
which. In some the roots grow in the air, and in others the stems grow
underground. It is only by studying what the parts do that it is
possible to be sure what they are. The most important part of every
living thing is its stomach, because everything that lives must eat and
drink, or die. There are some very curious plants which have regular
stomachs into which their food goes, just as it does in an animal, and
is digested, but these are not very common. Some day, however, when we
have learned a little more about simpler things, I mean to tell you
something about these strange plants. Ordinary plants have roots to
supply them with food and water in the place of a stomach.
Let us study the roots of some plant. Almost anything will do. If you
can do so, get a hyacinth glass and bulb. The bulb is the root, and
looks very much like an onion; the glass is a vase made for the purpose
of growing hyacinths in water. It slopes in from the bottom upward, and
then bulges out suddenly. The bulb rests in this bulging part, and has
water below it and around its lower part. The glass being clear, you can
see the roots grow as plainly as you can see a leaf or a flower bud
unfold. Perhaps you have no hyacinth glass, and can not get one; then
try to make one for yourself out of a small glass jar. There will
certainly be a pickle bottle or a preserve jar about the house that will
answer perfectly well. All you want is to have the bulb rest half in and
half out of the water, with room below for the roots to spread through
the water. Be careful to keep the water up to the right mark by adding a
little every day as the plant soaks it up.
Or you may take a dozen grains of seed corn, soak them overnight, and
then plant them an inch deep in a box, having about six inches or more
depth of good earth. In about three days the blade will come above
ground. Put your hand or a trowel down beside one of the plants, and
scoop it gently up. Be sure you make your hand or trowel go away down
below where the seed was planted, so as not to bruise the tender
growth. Shake and blow the dust away, and you will see several little
white thread-like roots coming from the grain. If you take up in this
way all the young plants, one or two every day, you will see how they
sprout and grow.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--CORN AND MAGNIFIED ROOT.
1, Corn four days planted: _r r_, Roots; _l_, Leaf; _a_, Grain of corn;
2, Root magnified; _c_, Root cap; _g_, Growing point.]
If you have a microscope[1] and a sharp knife, carefully split the end
of one of these roots and look at it. If you have not, you will have to
trust me so far as to take this drawing as correct (Fig. 1). All these
tiny roots have a cap over their growing end, so that when they have to
push their way among the hard earth and stones, the growing part will
not get bruised. These roots take in all the water and the food which
the earth supplies to the plant.
[1] I recommend No. 3055 of James W. Queen's Catalogue, price $3, as a
very good glass--The Child's Microscope.
The hyacinth can grow in water alone, because it has been a provident
little body, and stored away enough food in the little round carpet-bag
of a bulb to supply the plant for the few weeks of its life. It only
asks for the water it needs to keep it alive and growing. When the
thirsty little roots have sucked up water enough, the bulb begins to
grow in the other direction. If you look, you will see a solid lump of
pale green come up from the top like the horns of a calf, or a baby's
tooth. This is the young plant coming up out of its dark cradle into the
light and air and sunshine. The delicate growing end of the plant, which
will after a while bear its beautiful spike of bells, is very tenderly
wrapped up in the leaves. After it gets through the tough skin of the
bulb, the plant grows straight up. It stretches itself after its long
sleep in the sweet air and light, the leaves lengthen and broaden and
open out, and the stem with its little knobby buds comes up in the
midst. These will soon grow and unfold into beauty and fragrance, and
you will be rewarded for all your long waiting, if watching the
wonderful growth day by day has not carried its own reward with it.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--GERANIUM PISTIL.
_p_, Lily pistil; _b_, Pollen grains; _c_, where cut was made across; 2
_c_, the cut piece showing ovules; _o_, ovule.]
Many plants are grown from roots or bulbs, but a greater majority by far
come from seed. Tulips and lilies, onions and potatoes, are all
instances of plants grown from roots which sprout out from the old ones.
The root is in every case the beginning, the seed the ending, of the
life of a plant.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.--GERANIUM STAMEN AND POLLEN GRAINS.
_a_, Stamen with pods burst open; _b_, Pollen grains; 2 _b b b_, Pollen
grain much enlarged.]
Take two of the commonest of our window and garden plants--the geranium
and the heart's-ease. Let us take the geranium first. On the cluster of
bloom we will probably find flowers partly withered, flowers full blown,
and buds nearly ready to open. Look at a full-blown flower. You will see
with your naked eye something standing up in the middle which looks like
a tiny pink lily; around it are little rounded white spikes. If you
carefully strip off the green cap outside, and then the colored petals,
you will find a lily like the one in the figure (Fig. 2); this is called
the pistil. Now open one of the nearly blown buds; you will find the
lily pistil still closed, and on two of the spikes around it two
double-barrelled rosy pods. When the pods, or stamens, are nearly ripe,
they look for all the world like a pink gum-drop made in the shape of a
French roll. If they are ripe they look as you see in Fig. 3.
To make a perfect seed the stamen and pistil have to enter into
partnership. The stamen sends out thousands of clear orange pollen
grains (Fig. 3, _b_), and when these fall on the top of the lily or
pistil, as some have done in. Fig. 2, they stick fast. The lily, for all
its innocent look, has laid a trap for them; it is covered with a sticky
substance that holds them fast. The tiny little grain begins to send out
a tube like a little hose-pipe, which grows down and down to the bottom
of the lily. There it finds some very small egg-shaped bodies called
ovules (Fig. 2, _o_). The busy little hose-pipe pushes its way into a
little opening at the end of one of the ovules, pumps away till the
pollen grain is empty, and the liquid out of it is all safely stored in
the ovule, and then it withers away. The ovule when it is ripe is a
seed, but if the pollen has not emptied itself in the way just
described, the ovule dies.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.--PISTIL OF HEART'S-EASE.
1, Side view of pistil sliced in two. _b_, Pollen grains which have
found their way in; _o_, ovules; 2, Front view of pistil not cut.]
If you look at Fig. 4 you will see the pistil of a pansy, or
heart's-ease. No. 1 is a side view of the pistil sliced down so you can
see into it, as you can into a baby-house. You see the pollen grains,
_b_, sending down their tubes to the ovules, _o_. No. 2 in this drawing
is the front view of the heart's-ease pistil. The beautiful colored
leaves of a flower are only meant to cover and protect the pistil and
the pollen of the plant, as the fruit is meant to cover its seed. There
has been a tender care for us in all this that the covering for both
should have been made so beautiful and so delicious.
THE TALKING LEAVES.[2]
[2] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
An Indian Story.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER XIX.
Fortune had been hard upon Bill and his two mates, or at least they
thought so. The trees to which they had been tied by the Lipans were so
situated that it was only necessary for them to turn their heads in
order to have a good view of what was doing on the plain to the
westward. They saw their captors ride out, and heard their whoops and
yells of self-confidence and defiance.
"Don't I wish I was with the boys just now!" growled Bill. "Three more
good rifles'd be a good thing for 'em."
"Skinner'll fight, you see 'f he don't. He'll stop some of that
yelling."
"He's great on friendship and compromise," groaned Bill. "He may think
it's good sense not to shoot first."
The three gazed anxiously out toward the scene of the approaching
conflict, if there was to be one. They could not see the advance of
their comrades, but they knew they were coming.
"Hark!" suddenly exclaimed Bill. "That's the boys. Opened on 'em. Oh,
don't I wish I was thar!"
The other two could hardly speak in their excitement and disgust. It was
a dreadful thing for men of their stamp to be tied to trees while a
fight was going on which might decide whether they were to live or die.
Suddenly a squad of Lipans came dashing in; the cords that bound them
were cut--all but those on their hands; they were rudely lifted upon
bare-backed ponies, and led rapidly away to the front of the battle.
They could not understand a word of the fierce and wrathful talking
around them; but the gesticulations of the warriors were plainer than
their speech. Besides, some of them were attending to wounds upon their
own bodies or those of others. Some were on foot, their ponies having
been shot under them. More than all, there were warriors lying still
upon the grass who would never again need horses.
"It's been a sharp fight," muttered Bill, "for a short one. I wonder if
any of the boys went under? What are they gwine to do with us?"
A tall Lipan sat on his horse in front of him, with his long lance
levelled as if only waiting the word of command to use it. It remained
to be seen whether or not the order would be given, for now
To-la-go-to-de himself was riding slowly out to meet Captain Skinner.
"He can't outwit the Captain," said one of the miners. "Shooting first
was the right thing to do this time. Skinner doesn't make many
mistakes."
It was their confidence in his brains rather than in his bones and
muscles which made his followers obey him, and they were justified in
this instance, as they had been in a great many others. The greetings
between the two leaders were brief and stern, and the first question of
old Two Knives was: "Pale-faces begin fight. What for shoot Lipans?"
"Big lie. Lipans take our camp. Tie up our men. Steal our horses. Ride
out in war-paint. Pale-faces kill them all."
The chief understood what sort of men he had to deal with, but his pride
rebelled.
"All right. We kill prisoners right away. Keep camp. Keep horse. Kill
all pale-faces."
"We won't leave enough of you for the Apaches to bury. Big band of 'em
coming. Eat you all up."
"The Lipans are warriors. The Apaches are small dogs. We are not afraid
of them."
"You'd better be. If you had us to help you, now, you might whip them.
There won't be so many of you by the time they get here. Pale-faces are
good friends. Bad enemies. Shoot straight. Kill a heap."
Captain Skinner saw that his "talk" was making a deep impression, but
the only comment of the chief was a deep, guttural "Ugh!" and the
Captain added: "Suppose you make peace. Say have fight enough. Not kill
any more. Turn and whip Apache. We help."
"What about camp? Wagon? Horse? Mule? Blanket? All kind of plunder?"
"Make a divide. We'll help ourselves when we take the Apache ponies. You
keep one wagon. We keep one. Same way with horses and mules--divide 'em
even. You give up prisoners right away. Give 'em their rifles and
pistols and knives."
"Ugh! Good! Fight Apaches. Then pale-faces take care of themselves. Give
them one day after fight."
That was the sort of treaty that was made, and it saved the lives of
Bill and his mates, for the present at least.
It was all Captain Skinner could have expected, but the faces of the
miners were sober enough over it.
"Got to help fight Apaches, boys."
"And lose one wagon, and only have a day's start afterward."
The chief had at once ridden back to announce the result to his braves,
and they too received it with a sullen approval, which was full of
bitter thoughts of what they would do to those pale-faces after the
Apaches should be beaten and the "one day's truce" ended.
The three captives were at once set at liberty, their arms restored to
them, and they were permitted to return to the camp and pick out,
saddle, and mount their own horses.
"The Captain's got us out of our scrape," said Bill. "I can't guess how
he did it."
"Must ha' been by shootin' first."
"And all the boys do shoot so awful straight!"
That had a great deal to do with it, but the immediate neighborhood of
the Apaches had a great deal more. To-la-go-to-de knew that Captain
Skinner was exactly right, and that the Lipans would be in no condition
for a battle with the band of Many Bears after one with so desperate a
lot of riflemen as those miners.
The next thing was to make the proposed "division" of the property in
and about the camp. The Lipan warriors withdrew from it, all but the
chief and six braves. Then Captain Skinner and six of his men rode in.
"This my wagon," said Two Knives, laying his hand upon the larger and
seemingly the better stored of the two.
"All right. Well take the other. This is our team of mules."
So they went on from one article to another, and it would have taken a
keen judge of that kind of property to have told, when the division was
complete, which side had the best of it. The Lipans felt that they were
giving up a great deal, but only the miners knew how much was being
restored to them. It was very certain that they would take the first
opportunity which might come to "square accounts" with the miners.
Indeed, Captain Skinner was not far from right when he said to his men:
"Boys, it'll be a bad thing for us if the Apaches don't show themselves
to-morrow. We can't put any trust in the Lipans."
"Better tell the chief about that old man and the boy," said one of the
men.
"I hadn't forgotten it. Yes, I think I'd better."
It was easy to bring old Two Knives to another conference, and he
received his message with an "Ugh" which meant a good deal. He had
questions to ask, of course, and the Captain gave him as large an idea
as he thought safe of the strength and number of the Apaches.
"Let 'em come, though. If we stand by each other, we can beat them off."
"Not wait for Apaches to come," said To-la-go-to-de. "All ride after
them to-night. Pale-faces ride with Lipans."
That was a part of the agreement, but it had not been any part of the
intention of Captain Skinner.
"We're in for it, boys," he said, when he returned to his own camp. "We
must throw the redskins off to-night. It's time to unload that wagon.
We're close to the Mexican line. Every man must carry his own share."
"Guess we can do that."
"I don't believe we can. It'll be as much as a man's life's worth to be
loaded down too much with all the riding we've got before us."
"We won't leave an ounce if we can help it."
"Well, not any more'n we can help."
It was a strange sight, a little later, the group those ragged,
weather-beaten men made around their rescued wagon, while their leader
sat in front of it with a pair of scales before him.
"Some of the dust is better than other some."
"So are the bars and nuggets."
[Illustration: "EVERYTHING'S GOT TO GO BY WEIGHT. NO ASSAY-OFFICE IN
THIS CORNER OF ARIZONA."]
"Can't help that," replied Captain Skinner. "Everything's got to go by
weight. No assay-office down in this corner of Arizona."
So it was gold they were dividing in those little bags of buckskin that
they stored away so carefully. Yellow gold, and very heavy.
Pockets, money-belts, saddle-bags, all sorts of carrying places on men
and horses were brought into use, until at last a miner exclaimed:
"It's of no use, boys. I don't care to have any more load about me.
Specially if there's to be any running."
"Or any swimming," said another.
"Swimming! I've got enough about me to sink a cork man."
"And I've got all I keer to spend. Enough's as good as a feast, I say."
One after another came to the same opinion, although Captain Skinner
remarked:
"We're not taking it all, boys. What'll we do with the rest?"
"Cache it. Hide it."
"For the Lipans to find the next day? No, boys; we'll leave it in the
wagon, under the false bottom. That's the safest place for it, if any of
us ever come back. No redskins ever took the trouble to haul a wagon
across the mountains. It'll stay right here."
The "false bottom" was a simple affair, but well made, and there was
room between it and the real bottom to stow a great deal more than the
miners were now leaving.
They would have had no time to dig a hiding-place in the earth if they
had wanted to, for messengers came from To-la-go-to-de before sunset to
tell them he was nearly ready to start, and from that time forward the
keen eyes of strolling Lipan horsemen were watching every step that was
taken in the camp of their pale-face allies.
"If they want to know how much supper we eat," said the Captain, "we
can't help it. I only hope I can blind 'em in some way before morning."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
TIGER TOM.
AN ADVENTURE ON THE WEST COAST OF AFRICA.
BY DAVID KER.
"Any sign of a breeze yet, Mr. Brown?"
"No, sir."
"Humph!"
The Captain's discontented grunt, as he ran his eyes over the lifeless
sea and the hot, cloudless sky, was certainly not without reason. To be
suddenly becalmed when one is in special haste to get home is at no time
the most agreeable thing in the world; but to be becalmed off the
pestilential coast of Western Africa, with food and water beginning to
run short, and good cause to expect an attack at any moment by an
overwhelming force of savages, might overtask the patience of Job
himself.
"I guess we've just got to grin and bear it," muttered the Captain. "If
the niggers'll only keep as still as the air does! But I'll bet my last
dollar they won't. They must have seen us by this time, and a ship in
distress to _them_ is like an open door to a tramp."
As he spoke, his keen eye wandered with a troubled look along the
endless line of the African coast, one impenetrable mass of dark thicket
as far as the eye could reach, except at one single point. Just
opposite, the becalmed vessel, a long, low reef of brown rock, masking
the mouth of a small river, broke the interminable perspective of
clustering leaves; and it was to this point that the Captain's watchful
look was most often and most anxiously directed.
His uneasiness seemed to have infected the officers and the crew
likewise. Just abaft the foremast a tall, wiry Portlander was turning a
grindstone, upon which another sailor was sharpening in turn five or six
rusty cutlasses; while a gaunt, keen-looking fellow from Maine was hard
at work cleaning the Captain's double-barrelled shot-gun--unluckily the
only fire-arm on board.
But there was _one_ on board who seemed to trouble himself very little
about the matter. This was the cabin-boy--a brown-faced, curly-haired,
bright-eyed little fellow, active as a leopard and fearless as a lion.
The way in which he was employed, amid all this bustle and anxiety,
would have rather astonished a stranger. With a piece of raw meat in his
hand, he dived down the fore-hatchway, ran along the low narrow passage
that led between-decks, and opening the door of a small dark recess just
abaft the store-room, called out, "Tom!"
A very strange sound answered him, partly like the squall of a cat, and
partly like the growl of a wild beast.
"He's hungry, poor old boy," said the lad, stepping forward and holding
the meat to the bars of a cage in the farther corner, through which was
dimly visible the gaunt outline of a young tiger, bought cheap in
Southern India by the Captain, who expected to make a profit by selling
it to some menagerie when he got home. For a tiger, it was tame enough;
but the only one of the crew for whom it showed any liking was the
little cabin-boy, who had named it Tom, after his favorite brother, and
never lost a chance of talking to it, always insisting that it
understood him perfectly.
"You see, Tom," said he, as the tiger seized the meat, "there ain't much
for you, 'cause _we're_ gittin' short ourselves; but you'll have plenty
by-and-by, never fear."
The beast rubbed its huge yellow head caressingly against the hand which
Jack thrust into the cage as unconcernedly as if he were only petting a
kitten, and lifted, in obedience to the familiar call of "Shake hands,
Tom," the mighty fore-paw, one stroke of which would have crushed the
boy like an egg-shell.
But just as the two strangely assorted playmates were in the height of
their sport, a sudden clamor of voices from above startled them both.
"Can't stop now, Tom," said the boy, as gravely as if he were excusing
himself to one of his messmates. "There's something up, and the
Captain'll want me to help him manage the ship, you know. By-by."
And up he went like a rocket.
When he reached the deck, the cause of the tumult at once became
apparent. From behind the low reef five rudely built native boats, each
with ten or twelve men on board, were creeping out toward the doomed
vessel.
"They're coming now, sure enough," muttered the Captain through his set
teeth; "but I guess they won't be here for another twenty minutes yet,
for them boats o' their'n are too heavy and lubberly built to go fast.
Say, boys, we must fight for it now, for them black sarpints won't leave
a man of us livin' if they git the best of it. You that hain't got
cutlasses, take boat-hooks or capstan bars, and jist break a few
bottles, and scatter the glass around the deck: it'll astonish their
bare feet some, I reckon. Hickman, lay that grindstone on the gunnel,
and be ready to tip it over on to the first boat that comes alongside.
If these black-muzzled monkeys want our scalps, they've got to pay for
'em."
The men obeyed his orders; but they did so with a subdued air which
showed how little hope they had of anything beyond selling their lives
as dearly as possible.
In truth, the bravest man might have been pardoned for despairing in
such a situation. Even including the officers, the ship's company
(already thinned by storm and sickness) could muster only sixteen men,
while the savages numbered nearly sixty, all big and powerful fellows,
whose huge muscles stood out like coils of rope on their bare black
limbs. In weapons, again, the advantage, if there was any, was on the
side of the assailants; for although the latter appeared at first sight
to be unarmed, the Captain's spy-glass soon showed him clubs and spears
and bows, with one or two muskets as well.
On came the human tigers over the smooth bright water, with the
cloudless blue of the tropical sky overhead, and the dark green mass of
clustering leaves, surmounted here and there by the tall slender column
of a palm-tree in the background. They had evidently chosen the heat of
noon for their hour of attack in the expectation of finding the white
men asleep; and there was a visible start among them as the Captain's
tall figure appeared from behind the main-mast, gun in hand.
"Keep off!" roared he, as they made signs of wishing to trade. "Keep
off! you ain't wanted here."
But seeing that they swept on unheeding, he let fly both barrels into
them, the double report being followed by a sharp howl from the foremost
boat as the buckshot rattled among its crew. Four out of the twelve
oarsmen were struck down, overthrowing several others in their fall, and
the clumsy craft, turning half round, lay completely helpless for
several minutes. But on came the other four boats, and ran alongside,
two to port and two to starboard. The carpenter launched his grindstone,
but the ponderous missile splashed harmlessly into the water within a
foot of the nearest boat, and in another moment the whole deck was
flooded with yelling savages, thirsting for blood.
All that followed was like the confusion of a hideous dream--blows
raining, blood flowing, men falling, and death coming blindly, no one
knew whence or how. Despite the fearful odds against them, the American
sailors, fighting like men who fight for their lives, were still holding
their ground, when an exulting yell from behind made them turn just in
time to see the eight surviving rowers of the fifth boat (which had
crept up unperceived in the heat of the fray) clambering over the stern.
Another moment and all would have been over, but just then a tremendous
roar shook the air, and a huge gaunt, yellow body shot up through the
after-hatchway, right among the startled assailants. Little Jack had
crept aft and let loose the tiger, which fell like a thunder-bolt upon
the blacks, four or five of whom lay mangled on the deck almost before
they could look round.
This unexpected re-enforcement ended the battle at one blow. The
superstitious savages, taking the beast for an evil spirit raised
against them by the white men's magic, leaped panic-stricken into their
boats (some even tumbling into the sea in their hurry), and made off
with all possible speed. A light breeze, springing up from the eastward,
soon bore the vessel far beyond their reach.
"Well done, Jack, my hearty!" cried the Captain, grasping the little
hero's slim brown hand with a force that made every joint crackle. "That
was a mighty cute trick of yours, and no mistake. I guess you'll make a
smarter sailor than any of us before you've done; and it sha'n't be my
fault if you don't git something good for this when we see New York
again."
And the Captain kept his word.
[Illustration: CURLING-MATCH AT CENTRAL PARK, JANUARY 30.]
THE GAME OF CURLING.
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
Curling is a Scotch game. For centuries past everybody who has been
anybody in the Land o' Cakes has played golf in the spring, summer, and
autumn, and curling in the winter; and wherever Scotchmen have gone to
live they have introduced their national games.
For a good game of curling a sheet of clear ice and a number of
curling-stones are necessary. But what is a curling stone, or "channel
stane," as it is sometimes called, from the fact that stones found in
the channels of rivers were formerly used in the game? It is a large
stone, of such a shape as an orange would be if it were crushed down so
that its sides bulged out without breaking. The stone is generally about
twelve inches in diameter, and four or five inches high. It is polished
until it is perfectly smooth, and on the upper side it has a handle,
something like that of a smoothing-iron, so that it may be thrown with
greater ease and accuracy. Its weight is from thirty to fifty pounds,
but in days gone by heavier weights were used. One well-known curler
played with a stone weighing seventy pounds, and his uncle used one that
was even heavier. What a remarkable family that must have been!
A match at curling is called a "bonspiel," and many a tale of
hard-fought bonspiels in the "auld countree" can an old Scot tell. But
we have bonspiels even here. On January 30 the great bonspiel of the
year in this country was played on one of the lakes in Central Park, New
York, and our artist has depicted the scene on this page. Americans were
matched against Scotchmen, and were not ashamed to suffer defeat at
their hands, for of late years American curlers have enjoyed more than
their share of victory. In this match eight rinks were prepared, and
four players of each side played at each rink. And now let us describe
the rink.
It is a stretch of ice swept perfectly clean, and measuring forty-two
yards by eight or nine. A few feet from each end is a mark, called the
"tee," and around this a circle is drawn measuring fourteen feet in
diameter. This circle is called the "hoose." Each player has two stones,
and they take turns to throw their stones along the rink, and try to let
them stop as near the "tee" as they can.
It may seem easy to throw the stone along the glassy surface of the ice
to that distance, and so it is. There are instances on record of a
curling-stone having been thrown across a pond a mile in width; but it
is not so easy to make the stone stop just where the player wants it to.
There are all sorts and varieties of play in this game. See, nearly all
the men have played their stones. The rink is thick with them at the far
end. Some are right up close to the "tee," most of them have reached
the "hoose," but some have fallen short.
There is only one opening left by which a stone can reach the "tee." The
next player is unsteady. Can he get through, or had he better send a
slow one to close the "port" against the next player, his adversary? He
is a young player, and old heads are better than young ones in curling.
His "skip" (Captain) advises the latter course. But, alas! he throws too
gently. The stone seems tired out almost before it has reached the
middle of the rink. Then there arise shouts of "Soop! soop!" (sweep,
sweep), and his comrades fall to with a will, and sweep the ice in front
of the lagging stone as if life depended on it.
What is the meaning of this? Well, it means that when a stone is
travelling very slowly, the least bit of snow is liable to bring it to a
stand-still, and so the players are armed with brooms to clear away
whatever snow may have been blown on the rink.
Perhaps next to skill in throwing the stone, judgment in sweeping is the
most valuable accomplishment for a curler. It is very like working the
brake on a horse-car. If you do it too much, you stop the car too soon,
and the ladies have to get off in the mud instead of at the clean
crossing. So, in curling, if you do not sweep enough, the stone will
stop before it reaches the hoose; but if, on the other hand, you sweep
too much, the stone reaches the hoose, and perhaps passes the tee, and
then your opponents begin to "soop," and make the ice so smooth that
your stone passes clear out of the hoose, and so is lost, amid cries of
"Weel soopit!" (well swept).
The last play of the "head," or end, is reserved by the "skips" of the
two sides, for they are always the best players, being chosen skips on
that account. The excitement grows intense. The way is blocked, but the
experienced eye of the skip sees how the stones lie. "Wick, and curl
in," cries an eager comrade, by which he means carom off an outlying
stone, and curl in so as to avoid the stones that lie in front. This the
skip does. By a peculiar turn of the wrist he gives a twist to his
stone, so that when it touches another stone it glances sharply off, and
avoiding the block, makes straight for the tee.
When the last stone of the head has been played, the excitement of
counting begins. Only one side can count at one time, and that side can
only count as many as it has stones nearer to the tee than the nearest
stone belonging to the other side. Thus the nearest stone may belong to
the Scotchmen, and the next to the Americans, and after that the
Scotchmen may have three or four nearer than the next American stone;
but the Scotchmen can only count one. It often happens that the distance
is so nearly equal that it is impossible to decide between two stones,
and then the measuring string is produced to settle the claims of the
rival players. A bonspiel generally consists of twenty-one ends at each
rink, and as many rinks are used as are necessary to accommodate the
players, eight playing at each.
[Illustration: MR. THOMAS CATT AND FAMILY AT DINNER.]
BITS OF ADVICE.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
PRESENCE OF MIND.
Presence of mind is that quality which leads a person to do the right
thing at the right moment. There are times of sudden peril, times of
accident, and times of illness when the person who has presence of mind
becomes the leader, and helps everybody else.
If a fire break out in a building where a crowd is assembled, there is
often a panic, and people trample upon and kill each other in their
fright. Some months ago an alarm of fire was caused by the appearance of
smoke in a New York public school. Fortunately the lady principal was a
person who had presence of mind. She controlled herself and her pupils,
and they all marched safely into the street, without hurry or riot. She
knew what ought to be done, and she did it promptly.
People who know what ought to be done do not always do it at once,
however, or they are flustered, lose their wits, and do something
dreadful. A very loving mother once scalded her baby so that it will
bear the marks of the burn for its life, because she lost her presence
of mind. She knew that a child in a convulsion should be put into a warm
bath, and in her terror she immersed her little one in a _boiling_ bath,
the hot water running from a faucet at that point of heat.
A person whose clothing catches fire should be rolled at once in a rug,
or quilt, or large shawl, to stifle the flame. When a fire breaks out
anywhere the doors and windows should be shut as quickly as possible, to
prevent a draught. But most people rush out-of-doors, screaming, in
their terror, and others rush after them, throwing pails of water, or
doing anything but the right thing. If a person is wounded or cut, the
way to stop the flow of blood is to bandage tightly above the wound,
between that and the heart; but instances are not rare where people
bleed to death because nobody at hand has enough knowledge or presence
of mind to attend to this simple thing at once. Like other desirable
qualities, this one can be cultivated, and you may possess it as well as
another.
MISS HOLSOVER'S "TREASURE."
A Story of St. Valentine's Day.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
"Mr. North!--please, Mr. North!"
The voice, a delicate, childish one, seemed to be almost caught up and
whirled away in the snow-flakes. The speaker--a little boy of about
twelve years, scantily clad, and carrying a heavy basket--was running as
well as he could along the dreary country road, while he tried to make
himself heard by the invisible occupant of a wagon lumbering ahead of
him.
It was a covered wagon, and to the boy's eyes it seemed to be the
embodiment of comfort and warmth. He was chilled to the bone, thoroughly
tired, and disheartened. What could he do if Mr. North failed to hear
him?
But he did not. Suddenly he pulled up his horses, and peered around him
in the gloomy twilight.
"Be some one a-calling?" he said, loudly.
"Yes, sir, please." The boy's voice was just audible.
"Why," said Mr. North to himself, "derned if that bean't Miss Holsover's
boy!"
It _was_ Miss Holsover's nephew, Jesse Grey, and he was soon at the side
of the wagon, looking up into the driver's kindly weather-beaten face.
"Oh, please, Mr. North," the little fellow said, trying to get his
breath, "I'm so tired! and I thought, perhaps, you'd give me a lift."
"Of course I will," Mr. North answered, good-humoredly. "Come, can ye
git in there?" and he lifted the little figure into the back of the
wagon, where, with many bundles, there was a pile of straw. "You be
about as wet as water. I declare to mercy! Where _hev_ you been?"
Jesse was comfortably seated on the straw by this time behind Mr.
North's burly figure, and as the wagon jogged on he almost forgot his
fright and fatigue.
"I've been in to market with butter and eggs," he said, "and brought
back a basketful of things for Aunt Jemima."
"Humph!" Mr. North's exclamation was characteristic as he looked around
at the delicate face of the child, which had about it so many tokens of
refinement that it was hard to believe he really was the nephew of the
coarse, hard-featured woman who lived in grim seclusion at Holsover
Farm.
"I say, Jesse," he said, shortly, "how comes it you be a relation o'
hern?" He jerked his head toward the cross-roads they were approaching.
Jesse's face flushed. "I'm not, _really_," he said, with a little quiver
of the lip. "I know I have a real aunt somewhere in Boston, if I could
only find her; but Aunt Jemima never will tell me anything about her."
There was a pause, and then Jesse added, quickly: "Oh, Mr. North, _do_
you suppose you could hunt for her when you go to Boston next time? Oh,
I know her name--Marian Lee. I know that because I have a book of hers.
'From Helen to Marian Lee,' it says in it, and Helen was my mother"--the
child's eyes looked very wistful and pleading. "And when Bill was home
he told me it was my aunt's, and she lived in Boston. I never could get
him to say any more."
"Why, how come you to be up to Miss Holsover's?"
Jesse shook his head. "I don't know," he answered. "I've always been
there."