Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 153. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, October 3, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "ALL ABOARD!"]
THE SOLDIER'S CHEESE.
BY DAVID KER.
Any one who had come down the St. Gothard to the village of Andermatt,
just at daybreak one cold winter morning in 1799, would have seen a very
curious sight. All night long the village folks had been busy packing up
and carrying away in carts or on horse and mule back whatever they could
most easily remove. The first gleam of dawn saw the hindmost fugitives
slinking away into the passes of the northern hills, looking fearfully
back every now and then at the towering crest of the St. Gothard, as if
expecting the whole mountain to fall upon them at once, or to send forth
a torrent of fire that would sweep them all away.
The danger from which they were flying was not long behind them.
Scarcely had the sun peered above the surrounding hill-tops when the
great white slope of the St. Gothard seemed to grow black all at once,
like a white cloth swarmed over by flies. Instantly the whole
mountain-side was alive with bear-skin caps, and glittering bayonets,
and prancing horses, and bright epaulets, and rumbling wheels, and
shining cannon.
Down they came, still downward, thousands upon thousands--tall sallow
grenadiers in long overcoats of gray frieze, sharp-faced, narrow-eyed
Cossacks with long lances in their hands, black-capped gunners,
glittering hussars, blue-nosed, shivering staff officers--and high above
all, fluttering gayly in the keen morning breeze, the bullet-torn
standard that bore the imperial ensign of Russia.
At sight of the deserted village there was a murmur of satisfaction
among the Russian soldiers; for it was now forty-eight hours since any
of them had touched a morsel of food, and they were all as hungry as
wolves.
"These mountain goats have run away at the very sound of our coming,"
said a big grenadier; "but so long as they've left some food behind
them, it's all right."
"Isn't this the place where they said the famous cheese was made?"
suggested a gaunt, red-bearded Cossack.
"Sure enough!" cried one of his comrades, joyfully. "Hey, brothers!
won't we have a good feed when we get down there!"
A good feed they certainly _did_ have, a few minutes later. Scarcely had
the foremost battalion entered the village when a shout of "Cheese!
cheese!" from the front drew every one in that direction. The little
shop into which the starving men had rushed was hardly big enough to
hold twenty of them at a time; but Russian soldiers, after a two days'
fast, are not the men to be over ceremonious. In a trice the plank front
of the store was beaten in and torn down, the shining yellow blocks
which made such a tempting show were tossed into the street by hundreds,
and there began such a feast as Andermatt had not seen, for many a year,
even upon a market-day.
But just as they were at the busiest, munching and gnawing away like so
many rats, a few dropping shots in front, followed by the roll of a full
volley, made them all spring up and seize their arms.
"Infantry, form!" roared an officer, galloping in among them.
"Skirmishers, advance! Forward! march!"
And now the work began in earnest. The French had covered their retreat
by filling the wood beyond the village with sharp-shooters, and as the
Russians moved on, the pine-clumps around them seemed alive with
crackling musketry and quick puffs of white smoke, while the gray coats
of fallen soldiers dotted the snow on every side.
But presently up came three or four light guns at a hard trot, and sent
a shower of grape-shot rattling into the thickets, stirring the
crouching marksmen from their covert like rabbits. On pressed the
Russians; back fell the French; when suddenly a deep, hoarse roar was
heard above all the din of the firing, and right in front of the
charging Russians, as they broke from the wood, yawned a chasm as deep
and narrow as if made by the cut of a sword. A quaint old bridge of
moss-grown stone spanned the gulf, over which the last of the French
soldiers were just filing at a run.
No time to lose, evidently. Forward sprang the Russians with a loud
hurrah, when suddenly there came a report, sharp as a thunder-clap,
while the whole air was filled with smoke and dust and whizzing masses
of stone. The bridge had been blown up, leaving an impassable gulf
between the two armies; and a taunting laugh from the French,
accompanied by a volley of musketry, answered the yell of rage that
broke from their pursuers.
What was to be done? Unless they could reach the enemy with the bayonet,
the superior numbers of the Russians would avail them nothing; and if
they stayed where they were they would be shot down like sparrows.
"This won't do, lads," cried a tall, handsome man in a rich gold-laced
uniform, turning to the Cossacks who stood around him. "Follow me."
All obeyed without a word, for the speaker was no other than Prince
Bagration, one of the best generals in the Russian army. Creeping round
behind the thickets, that the enemy might not see what they were about,
they came out again upon the river about half a mile higher up, at a
point where the edge of the precipice, though quite bare and rocky on
their side of the gap, was thickly wooded on the other.
"If we had three or four of those trees over here," said the Prince,
"they'd bridge this gap for us famously. But how are we to get at them?"
"Twist the officers' sashes into a rope, your Highness," suggested a
Cossack beside him, "knot a stone in the end of it, fling it across so
as to catch in one of the branches, and send somebody over on it. I once
robbed a house that way myself at home in Russia."
"_Did_ you?" said the General, with a broad grin. "Well, then, you shall
make up for it by being the first man to cross. Off with your sashes,
gentlemen."
The impromptu rope was soon twisted, the stone knotted in it, and flung
so dexterously across the chasm that it caught in the fork of a tree at
the first cast. The daring Cossack, with a sapper's axe slung round his
neck, swung himself nimbly over the fearful gulf, and went to work upon
the trees with such vigor that it was not long before three of them lay
right across the gap, bridging it completely.
Then the Prince and his men, stirred to frenzy by the increasing uproar
of the battle below, scrambled like mad-men across the perilous bridge,
and rushing up the heights beyond, commenced firing down upon the French
on the other side. Confounded by this unexpected attack, the enemy broke
and fled, and the fight was won.
* * * * *
"Well done, my children," said Marshal Suvoroff, as he passed along the
Russian lines after the battle, with a glow of honest admiration on his
rough old face--"well done, indeed! You have given those French dogs a
lesson, and shown them that Russian bayonets have points."
"If _you're_ satisfied with us, father, that's all we want," replied a
grim old grenadier, with a face criss-crossed with scars, like a railway
map; "but, after all, we might well fight stoutly when we'd just had
such a big meal of that good cheese."
"Cheese, eh? Where did you get it?"
"In the village yonder. We ate a whole shopful in passing through. I've
got a bit left yet, if your Excellency would like to taste."
And opening his pouch, the veteran displayed to the old General's
astounded eyes a half-gnawed piece of _yellow soap_.
A roar of laughter, which even the presence of the Commander-in-Chief
could not restrain, broke from the staff officers around, and for many a
day after the "good cheese" of Andermatt was their standing joke.
THE MOON LENDS A HAND.
BY CHARLES BARNARD.
If you drop a lump of sugar into a cupful of tea, or stir the tea about
with a spoon, there will be little bubbles, floating on the surface.
Watch these bubbles, and you will see that they soon slide off and
gather along the edge of the cup. Boys in the first class in philosophy
know what that means. It is the attraction of the cup. It is larger than
the bubbles, and, as they are free to move about on the tea, they are
attracted or pulled toward the sides of the cup.
If you lift the tea-cup, you find it is heavy. The great earth, that is
millions of times larger than the cup, pulls it downward. We call it
weight. We say the cup is pulled down by the attraction of gravitation.
Out of doors you can see the sun. It too has an attraction for the cup
and for the whole round world and all it contains. It is bigger than our
earth, and is pulling it toward itself. So strong is this attraction for
the sun that everything that is lying loose on the earth would fly away
if it were not that the world is so much nearer, and is attracting it
the other way at the same time. There are some things that really start
to go to the sun every day, but very fortunately they soon come back
again.
Then there is the moon. She too is trying to pull everything toward
herself. Poor Mrs. Moon! She is in an unfortunate position. She is
pulled away toward the sun, and at the same time the earth attracts her
this way. She wants to fly away and tumble into the sun, and she feels a
great desire to fall down upon the world. She can't go both ways at
once, so she contents herself with flying round the world once every
day, and keeping us company in our journey round the sun.
The moon has her revenge on the earth. It pulls hard on the world all
the time, and some of the things on the surface, that, like the bubbles
in the tea-cup, are free to move, try every day to jump up to the moon.
There is the air and all the water in the sea. They can move about, and
whenever the moon passes overhead they move up as if to meet it. They
can't go far, but they make a good start, and never seem tired of
trying. If we could go up in a balloon to the top of the air we would
probably find the air at one place piled up in a heap, as if it wanted
to fly away to the moon if the earth would only give it a chance.
As it is not convenient for us to go up to the top of the air, we will
go down to the beach to see how the water behaves when the moon goes by.
No matter what time of the day or night you go to the sea-shore, you
will find the water either rising up toward the moon or falling back
again. It never seems to be discouraged, but as soon as it fails it
starts again. You can not see it move, but if you put a stone at the
edge of the water, and wait an hour or two, you will find the stone has
been covered by the water or is left quite high and dry. It seems as if
the whole of the great sea was forever slowly rising or falling, up and
down, with a slow and solemn motion.
Any boy who lives by the shore knows that this is the tide. He knows
that all his fun depends on this regular rising and falling of the tide.
At high tide the fishing is good. At low tide the flats are bare, and
the boys can dig clams or watch the long-legged plovers wading about in
the shallow water. This curious rising and falling of the tide is caused
by the attraction of the moon. The sun also helps, but in a lesser
degree. How and why it all happens would take a long time to explain. We
do not care for that just now, as the strange effects of the tides upon
the land are more interesting.
I have already told you something of the way in which the sea and the
waves are at work cutting out, tearing down, or building up the dry land
on which we live. Perhaps you remember the stories of the walking
beaches and the fight between the rivers and the sand-bars? We can now
see what the moon has to do with this business.
The tide is like a wave. It is not very high, but wonderfully wide. It
is so broad that a single tide-wave will reach half round the world. Out
at sea it is impossible to tell whether it is high or low tide at any
time. Near the shore the tides behave in a curious and often wonderful
manner, and we can walk along the beaches and see how they work. One of
the best places to do this is the vicinity of New York city.
South of this city is the harbor. Still farther south, past the Narrows,
is the beautiful bay called New York Bay. Sandy Hook at the south and
Coney Island at the north mark the broad entrance to this bay from the
Atlantic Ocean. The Hudson River, that stretches far back into the
country, runs along the west side of the city. On the east is the narrow
and crooked arm of the sea called the East River. You know all this, and
it may seem a trifle like a school-book, but your books never told you
of half the wonders of this familiar place. The East River opens into
Long Island Sound, and the Sound opens into the Atlantic at the farther
end of Long Island. Thus it is possible for ships to start from New York
and go to sea by the way of the harbor and bay, past Sandy Hook, or they
may sail up the East River into the Sound, and reach the sea at Block
Island, more than a hundred miles to the east of Sandy Hook.
In the same way the tide coming in from the sea may reach New York by
the way of Long Island Sound and the East River, or by the way of Sandy
Hook and the bay. Suppose it is low tide off Block Island, at the east
end of Long Island (you should look on your map for all this). The tide
begins to rise, and enters the Sound. In two hours the wave reaches
Sand's Point, and begins to enter the East River. Now happens a curious
thing. The Sound grows narrower, and the river is narrower still, and as
all the water has to pass at the same time, it rises higher and runs
faster. At Block Island the tide rises only two feet. At Hallet's Point,
near the city, it rises more than seven feet. The quiet peaceful tide at
Block Island becomes here a swiftly flowing stream that surges with foam
and fury between the rough rocky banks, and making many a dangerous eddy
and whirl-pool. It is no wonder the sailors used to call this place Hell
Gate.
Let us look at this place a moment. The East River is open to the sea at
each end. It is not like a real river, flowing down hill, and with a
current constantly flowing in one direction. It has no current of its
own, and were it not for the tides that surge backward and forward
through the place twice every day, its waters would be dull and stagnant
as any of the quiet lagoons behind the beaches that we have been
studying. You can guess what would happen then. The place would soon
fill up with mud and sand. Oysters and shell-fish would make it their
home; sea-weeds and mosses would cover the bottom, and before long the
river would be filled up, and Hell Gate would be closed. This wild
turmoil of water just here, this swift-flowing current, keeps the place
clear. The tides scour out the river-bed, and help keep it clean for the
ships. There are more vessels passing through Hell Gate in a year than
at any other place on this continent. If it were closed, our commerce
would be sadly injured. Millions of dollars have been spent to make the
channel clear, but it is the moon that keeps this great water gate open.
The same tide that first appears off Block Island, and travels through
the Sound, also travels along the southern shore of Long Island, and
reaches Sandy Hook. As the water grows more shallow, the tide piles up
higher, and at Sandy Hook it is more than four feet high. It sweeps on
into the bay, and past the Narrows into the harbor, growing higher at
every step. It rushes past the Battery, and into the East River, and now
it is a swift and powerful current. It rushes onward along both sides of
Blackwell's Island, and at Hell Gate the two tides meet. This only
increases the war and turmoil of the waters. One tide seems to be piled
upon another, and the currents become more furious. In a very little
while one or the other gives way. The current turns, and rushes as
swiftly the other way. All this strange performance is the work of the
moon and the sun.
Everywhere on the sea-coast all round the world the moon lends a hand to
help the sea carve out the land. At Sandy Hook it also holds the key of
the bay, and keeps the harbor open, that ships may pass out and come in.
Were it not for the moon, Sandy Hook would creep slowly out over the
shallow waters until it nearly reached Coney Island. The friendly tide
comes sweeping in from the sea, and spreads far and wide over the bay.
It fills miles and miles of bays and rivers with water, and then when
the moon passes on, and the water can follow her no farther, it turns in
a mighty flood, and scours and sweeps out all the channels. The
outflowing tide is a big broom to brush away the sand and mud, and keep
the front door of our port open to all the ships of the world. Did not
the sea every day try to reach after the moon, perhaps there would be no
tides. Were the tides to stop, our grand front gate would soon be shut,
and our convenient back way into the Sound would be closed. It is in
this way a great and wise Creator has commanded even the moon to lend a
hand in controlling the sea and the land.
[Illustration]
GOLDEN-ROD.
BY M. R. COLQUITT.
Oh, mamma, I've heard such charming news
From the Bobolink down in the lane;
He knows many beautiful stories,
And promised to meet me again.
He told me about this rich Golden-Rod,
And whence came its glowing hue;
And I'm sure the bright little gossip
Wouldn't care if I should tell you.
He says when dear little Titania
Was proclaimed the fairies' Queen,
There was such a splendid banquet
As never before was seen,
And Titania's gorgeous costly robe,
All puffed with fold on fold,
Was made of a sunset tissue
Of shining dazzling gold.
The Knight of the Topaz Helmet
Was chosen to dance with her,
And he tore her beautiful court train
With the point of his diamond spur.
The wonderful exquisite fragment
Fluttered about in the breeze,
Now lighting the spears of the bending grass,
Now floating among the trees,
Till 'twas caught by the old head gardener,
Who gazed at it long, and said;
"This, fugitive flying sunbeam
Has put something new in my head,
"And our royal lady's accident
Has strangely given a hint,
And furnished me just what I longed for--
An idea of shape, and a tint
"For the flower that must be ready,
As soon as the dancing is done,
To present to our lovely sovereign
In token of fealty won.
"I'll take its form from the flashing plume
Of the Knight who threw in my way
This fleecy fluttering fragment,
So delicate, dainty, and gay.
"And if she accepts the token,
And prints with her gracious hand
The mystical sign upon it
That shows it from Fairy-land,
"I'll blow its seed to the outer world,
And scatter them over the sod,
And christen my feathery favorite
Queen Titania's _Golden-Rod_."
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER VIII.
There is no place more unfit for a sudden and unexpected bath than the
lock of a canal. The sides and the gates are perpendicular and smooth,
and present nothing to which a person in the water can cling. Charley
had no difficulty in supporting himself by throwing one arm over the
stern of Harry's canoe, but had he been alone in the lock he would have
been in a very unpleasant position.
As soon as the gates were opened the boys paddled out of the lock, and
went ashore to devise a plan for raising the sunken canoe. Of course it
was necessary that some one should dive and bring up the painter, so
that the canoe could be dragged out of the lock; but as canal-boats were
constantly passing, it was a full hour before any attempt at diving
could be made. There were half a dozen small French boys playing near
the lock, and Charley, who was by no means anxious to do any unnecessary
diving, hired them to get the canoe ashore, which they managed to do
easily. It was then found that nearly everything except the spars had
floated out of her, and the rest of the morning was spent in searching
for the missing articles in the muddy bottom of the canal. Most of them
were recovered, but Charley's spare clothes, which were in an
India-rubber bag, could not be found.
This was the second time that the unfortunate _Midnight_ had foundered,
and Charley was thoroughly convinced of the necessity of providing some
means of keeping her afloat in case of capsizing. It was impossible for
him to put water-tight compartments in her, such as the _Sunshine_ and
the _Dawn_ possessed, but he resolved to buy a dozen beef bladders at
the next town, and after blowing them up, to pack them in the bow and
stern of his canoe. Tom, whose "Rice Lake" canoe was also without
water-tight compartments, agreed to adopt Charley's plan, and thus avoid
running the risk of an accident that might result in the loss of the
canoe and cargo.
When the fleet finally got under way again there was a nice breeze from
the south, which sent the canoes along at the rate of four or five miles
an hour. Chambly, the northern end of the canal, was reached before four
o'clock, the boys having lunched on bread and water while in the canoes
in order not to lose time by going ashore. They passed safely through
the three great locks at Chambly; and entering the little lake formed by
the expansion of the river, and known as Chambly Basin, they skirted its
northern shore until they reached the ruins of Chambly Castle.
More than one hundred and fifty years ago the Frenchmen built the great
square fort, with round towers at each angle, which is now called
Chambly Castle. At that time the only direct way of communication
between the settlements on the St. Lawrence and those in the valleys of
the Hudson and the Mohawk was up the Richelieu River, Lake Champlain,
and Lake George. It was this route that Burgoyne followed when he began
the campaign that ended so disastrously for him at Saratoga, and it was
at Chambly Castle that he formally took command of his army. The castle
was placed just at the foot of the rapids, on a broad, level space,
where Indians used to assemble in large numbers to trade with the
French. Its high stone walls, while they could easily have been knocked
to pieces by cannon, were a complete protection against the arrows and
rifles of the savages, and could have withstood a long siege by any
English force not provided with artillery. In the old days when the
castle was garrisoned by gay young French officers, and parties of
beautiful ladies came up from Montreal to attend the officers' balls,
and the gray old walls echoed to music, and brilliant lights flashed
through the windows, the Indians encamped outside the gates must have
thought it the most magnificent and brilliant place in the whole world.
Now there is nothing left of it but the four walls and the crumbling
towers. The iron bolts on which the great castle gate once swung are
still imbedded in the stone, but nothing else remains inside the castle
except grassy mounds, and the wild vines that climb wherever they can
find an angle or a stone to cling to.
The canoeists made their camp where the Indians had so often camped
before them, and after supper they rambled through the castle and
climbed to the top of one of the towers. They had never heard of its
existence, and were as surprised as they were delighted to find so
romantic a ruin.
"I haven't the least doubt that the place is full of ghosts," said
Charley, as the boys were getting into the canoes for the night.
"Do you really believe in ghosts?" asked Tom, in his matter-of-fact way.
"Why," replied Charley, "when you think of what must have happened
inside of that old castle and outside of it when the Indians tortured
their prisoners, there can't help but be ghosts here."
"I don't care, provided there are no mosquitoes," said Joe. "Ghosts
don't bite, and don't sing in a fellow's ears."
Any one who has camped near a rapid knows how strangely the running
water sounds in the stillness of the night. Joe, who, although there
were no mosquitoes to trouble him, could not fall asleep, was sure that
he heard men's voices talking in a low tone, and two or three times
raised himself up in his canoe to see if there were any persons in
sight. He became convinced after a while that the sounds which disturbed
him were made by the water, but, nevertheless, they had made him rather
nervous. Though he had professed not to be afraid of ghosts, he did not
like to think about them, but he could not keep them out of his mind.
Once, when he looked out of his canoe toward the castle, he was startled
to find it brilliantly lighted up. The light was streaming from the
case-mates, loop-holes, and windows, and it was some moments before he
comprehended that it was nothing more ghostly than moonlight.
Toward midnight Joe fell asleep, but he slept uneasily. He woke up
suddenly to find a dark object with two fiery eyes seated on the deck of
his canoe, and apparently watching him. He sprang up, with a cry of
terror, which awakened his comrades. The strange object rushed away
from the canoe, and stopping near the gate of the castle, seemed to be
waiting to see what the boys would do.
By this time Joe had recovered his senses, and knew that his strange
visitor was a wild animal. The boys took their pistols. Tom, who was the
best shot, fired at the animal. He did not hit it, but as Tom advanced
slowly toward it the creature went into the castle.
"It's a wild-cat," cried Charley. "I saw it as it crossed that patch of
moonlight. Come on, boys, and we'll have a hunt."
[Illustration: HUNTING FOR A WILD-CAT IN CHAMBLY CASTLE.]
With their pistols ready for instant service, the canoeists rushed into
the castle. The wild-cat was seated on a pile of stones in what was once
the court-yard, and did not show any signs of fear. Three or four
pistol-shots, however, induced it to spring down from its perch and run
across the court-yard. The boys followed it eagerly, plunging into a
thick growth of tall weeds, and shouting at the top of their lungs.
Suddenly the animal vanished; and though Tom fancied that he saw it
crouching in the shadow of the wall, and fired at it, as he supposed, he
soon found that he was firing at a piece of old stove-pipe that had
probably been brought to the place by a picnic party.
Giving up the hunt with reluctance, the canoeists returned to their
canoes; at least three of them did, but Joe was not with them. They
called to him, but received no answer, and becoming anxious about him,
went back to the castle and shouted his name loudly, but without
success.
"It's very strange," exclaimed Charley. "He was close behind me when we
chased the wild-cat into those weeds."
"Has anybody seen him since?" asked Harry.
Nobody had seen him.
"Then," said Harry, "the wild-cat has carried him off or killed him."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Charley; "a wild-cat isn't a tiger, and couldn't
carry off a small baby. Joe must be trying to play a trick on us."
"Let's go back, and pay no attention to him," suggested Tom. "I don't
like such tricks."
"There's no trick about it," said Harry. "Joe isn't that kind of fellow.
Something has happened to him, and we've got to look for him until we
find him."
"Harry's right," said Charley. "Go and get the lantern out of my canoe,
won't you, Tom? I've got matches in my pocket."
When the lantern was lit a careful search was made all over the
court-yard. Harry was greatly frightened, for he was afraid that Joe
might have been accidentally shot while the boys were shooting at the
wild-cat, and he remembered that in his excitement he had fired his
pistol in a very reckless way. It was horrible to think that he might
have shot poor Joe; worse even than thinking that the wild-cat might
have seized him.
The court-yard had been thoroughly searched without finding the least
trace of Joe, and the boys were becoming more and more alarmed, when
Charley, whose ears were particularly sharp, cried, "Hush! I hear
something." They all listened intently, and heard a voice faintly
calling "Help!" They knew at once that it was Joe's voice, but they
could not imagine where he was. They shouted in reply to him, and
Charley, seizing the lantern, carefully pushed aside the tall weeds, and
presently found himself at the mouth of a well.
"Are you there, Joe?" he cried, lying down on the ground, with his head
over the mouth of the well.
"I believe I am," replied Joe. "I'm ready to come out, though, if you
fellows will help me."
The boys gave a great shout of triumph.
"Are you hurt?" asked Charley, eagerly.
"I don't think I am; but I think somebody will be if I have to stay here
much longer."
It was evident that Joe was not seriously hurt, although he had fallen
into the well while rushing recklessly after the wild-cat. Tom and Harry
ran to the canoes, and returned with all four of the canoe painters.
Tying one of them to the lantern, Charley lowered it down, and was able
to get a glimpse of Joe. The well was about twenty feet deep, and
perfectly dry, and Joe was standing, with his hands in his pockets,
leaning against the side of the well, and apparently entirely unhurt, in
spite of his fall.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
"THEIR GIRL."
A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," "MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER," ETC.
I.
"She had on a dress that was silk all over it, an' it was almost as much
as you could do to see her hands for the lace an' fringe an' ribbons.
She was a good deal handsomer than them wax images in Smith & Jones's
store, an' when she bought a paper of pins of me she give five cents,
without waitin' for the change."
"Wot's five cents when jest as likely as not she had as much as five
dollars in her pocket?" said Johnny Davis, the newsboy, who was
sometimes spoken of, and to, by his proper name, but more often as
"Water-melon Davis," because of his enormous appetite for the watery
fruit.
Johnny spoke almost contemptuously of that which Katy Morrison, the
"black-pin girl," considered a piece of good fortune, and if he did not
actually turn his nose up in disdain, it was because nature had already
so elevated that rather prominent feature of his face that it was
impossible for him to get it any higher.
"Well"--and Jimmy Green, Johnny's partner in business, as well as
particular friend of Katy's, spoke very slowly, as was customary with
him--"five cents ain't to be sneezed at when a feller's only expectin'
to get one, an' if Katy could get enough of 'em she'd make three, four
dollars a day."
"How I wish I could!" said Katy, enviously, as with her stock of pins in
her lap she sat on the door-step of an unoccupied store, her chin
resting on one hand as she rattled the pennies in her pocket with the
other. "If I could make that much, I'd buy me a whole dress, an' real
shoes without any holes in 'em, an'--an'--an' I'd buy a pair of
bracelets, that's what I'd do."
"Bracelets!" sneered Johnny, as he folded the paper that was undoubtedly
fated to remain on his hands as stale goods from his morning's stock.
"It makes me feel almost like gettin' mad, Katy, to hear you talk about
buyin' bracelets, when you can get a pair of boxin'-gloves down to
Levy's for as much as you'd pay for bracelets."
"Well, I don't know 'bout that," said Jimmy, as he rubbed his chin
reflectively. "P'r'aps they'd do her more good than the gloves would,
'cause, you see, Katy don't know nothin' 'bout boxin'."
"Then she oughter learn," was the very decided response from Master
Davis. "Girls could box as well as fellers if they'd get somebody to
show 'em how."
"But I don't want to learn, an' I do want the bracelets," said Katy,
thinking that possibly she had the right to say how this prospective
money of hers should be spent. "That's all you boys think about, how you
can hurt each other, an' you don't care what you wear nor how you look.
I'd like to wear dresses that wasn't all torn, an' I'd like to look the
way girls do what have mothers, an' don't have to live in such a old
house as we do, an' pay 'most all our money for what Mother Brown calls
board an' lodgin'. Then when I want bracelets, you tell me to get
boxin'-gloves."
"Well, if you don't want 'em, don't get 'em," said Johnny,
philosophically, and looking much as if he fully understood how
difficult it is to persuade girls as to just what they really need. "Buy
the bracelets, an' then you'll look fine, won't you? sellin' pins fur a
cent a paper with a big pair of gold bracelets slippin' down over yer
hands every time you try to shy a stick at a dog."
"I never throwed a stick at a dog in my life," said Katy, indignantly;
and then she added, quickly, "'cept once, when Dutch Pete cheated me
outer two herrin's, an' I hit his dog to get even with him."
"I tell you what it is, fellers," said Jimmy, who had been making mental
calculations based upon this argument he had unwittingly started, until
he believed he understood it better than either of his companions did:
"neither one of you hain't got the money to buy either the bracelets or
the gloves, so wot's the use of makin' a fuss over it? When I get a
paper stand of my own, I'm goin' to buy Katy everything she wants, an' I
ain't goin' to let her sell pins, neither."
"Ain't you kinder tired talkin' 'bout that stand, Jimmy? We've heard
'bout it ever since you an' I was pardners, an' you hain't got no nearer
to it now than to owe Mother Brown five cents on last week's board."
Johnny said this in a reproving tone, but it is very probable that he
did it more to hide his confusion, caused by his partner's first remark,
than for any other purpose, for he was usually careful not to hurt
Jimmy's feelings.
"I'll have it jest the same," was the calm reply, and then Jimmy
relapsed into another fit of chin rubbing, from which he did not arouse
himself until one of his friends in the same line of business rushed up
with the startling intelligence that there had been "a big accident on
the railroad, an' papers are jest goin' to fly to-night."
* * * * *
It was not until quite a late hour in the afternoon that the three
friends, who boarded in the same house, met again after their interview
was broken in upon by the news of a probable activity in the newspaper
business, and when they did meet both the boys were in the highest
possible state of excitement.
The prediction that papers would "fly" had been verified, and more than
one of Mother Brown's boarders had been made happy. Particularly was
this happiness apparent in Jimmy's case. Even while the rush of trade
was at its height he had been thinking of what Katy had said about
wearing a dress that was not torn, and as his profits accumulated he
conceived a plan so brilliant that he could hardly wait to meet Katy
before he explained it.
The stores had been closed, and Katy, finding no customers for her pins,
was walking slowly toward the not very cheerful place where Mrs. Brown
kept a boarding-house for those children of the streets who have no idea
of what home is, save as they see it from the outside, peering curiously
in at those more fortunate ones who have a father, mother, home, and
everything which goes to make up happiness and content.
She had walked nearly down town--for, as may be imagined, Mrs. Brown's
house was not in the most pleasant portion of New York--and she was just
beginning to wonder where her friends were, when she saw them coming
toward her, looking quite as important and a great deal more satisfied
than the most prosperous merchant on the street.
"Say, Katy," shouted Jimmy, while he was yet some distance away, his
secret having grown so overpowering in the last few moments that he
could hardly keep it until he saw the girl, "I've made a dollar 'n'
forty-one cents, an' what d'yer s'pose I'm goin' to do with it?"
"Goin' to start your stand?" and Katy seemed quite as much pleased by
the good fortune as Jimmy was.
[Illustration: "NO, SIR; I'M GOIN' TO BUY YOU A NEW DRESS."]
"No, sir! I'm goin' to buy you a new dress, after I pay Mother Brown,
an' give Tom Brady the cent I owe him. That'll leave me a dollar 'n'
thirty-five cents, an' you shall have the best one we can find in the
city. I shouldn't wonder if we'd have money enough to get the bracelets
too," he added, in the tone of one who is certain, but prefers to let
the matter remain in pleasing doubt for a time.
"Oh, Jimmy," cried Katy, in delight, for the thoughts of what she might
have if she only had the money had made her very nearly unhappy during
the remainder of that afternoon, when trade had been dull, "_are_ you
goin' to spend that money for me?"
"Every cent," was the decided reply, as the money was rattled to give
greater emphasis to the words.
"But you mustn't, Jimmy," said Katy, as she began to understand that her
friend needed it quite as much as she did. "You can get your stand with
that, an' I can wear this dress as well as not."
"But I'm goin' to buy the dress, an' the bracelets, an' a lot of
things," was the reply, in a tone that admitted of no argument.
"An' ef he hain't got enough, I can put out the balance," said Johnny,
speaking thus tardily because there had been a great struggle in his
mind as to whether or no he would not be doing Katy a greater favor by
buying the boxing-gloves for her.
Never since Katy Morrison could remember had she worn a dress that was
made of new material. Even before her mother had died, leaving her to
the anything but tender care of Mrs. Brown, her dresses had been made of
old ones, and now the mere idea of having one without a hole in it
seemed almost too good to be true.
She did make another protest against her friends spending their money
for her, though she admitted that if the pin market remained in its
present overstocked condition she could never hope to buy one from her
earnings; but Jimmy had made up his mind, after much rubbing of his
chin, and nothing she could have said would have caused him to change
it. He and Johnny discussed the question of what color the dress should
be--that it was to be of silk was understood, and Katy hardly knew how
to contain her joy, so impossible had such a thing seemed a few hours
before.
While they were talking they had passed through City Hall Park, and as
they started to cross the street they were still eagerly discussing the
question of color, Johnny being decidedly in favor of red, while Jimmy
believed a bright green would be more suitable. Katy was just behind
them, taking no part in the conversation, because one color would please
her as well as another; the "whole" dress, whatever its shade, was
sufficient for her.
So heated had the argument become that neither of the boys noticed, amid
the general bustle of the square, the clatter and rush of a horse
attached to a light express wagon, nor did they hear the warning cries
of the driver until it was close upon them.
Then they had only time to escape being knocked down by the horse. As
they jumped suddenly they heard a cry from Katy, another from those on
the sidewalk, and they turned just in time to see the poor girl, whose
thoughts of a new dress had rendered her careless to everything around
her, lying on the pavement, with a great crimson stain, that grew larger
and larger, upon her hair.
Before they could reach her a policeman had carried her to the sidewalk,
and they were obliged to stand on the outside of a large crowd of
curious ones, who always gather at anything unusual as if by magic,
while the only being in the world who loved them and whom they loved,
was perhaps dying, perhaps dead.
Clutching each other's hands tightly, while the great tears of a sorrow
that had almost stupefied them rolled down their cheeks, the two stood
there, near the curb-stone, not knowing what to do or say. They did not
even know how long they remained there; but when the ambulance came, and
they saw the still, lifeless form of "their girl," as they called her,
lifted into the black, ominous-looking wagon, there was such a lump in
the throat of each that it seemed as if he could not breathe.
The ambulance started off at full speed, its bell clanging the warning
to drivers of other vehicles to clear the way, and without knowing where
it was going, or anything save the fact that "their girl" was in it, the
two boys ran after it regardless of fatigue or danger.
On and on the precious load was carried, until finally, when it seemed
to Jimmy a physical impossibility that he could run any further, the
ambulance was stopped before a huge building, which both the boys knew
was the hospital.
One more glimpse they had of Katy as she was carried through the gate,
and then they waited in painful suspense, as if they expected some word
would be sent to them.
It was late in the evening when one of the attendants came out of the
building, and found the boys crouching close by the gate. Before he had
time to ask them what they were doing there, they overwhelmed him with
questions as to the fate of Katy, and when he finally understood who
they were inquiring about, he told them that it was impossible to say
whether she could recover or not, as her injuries were believed to be
very severe.
For several moments the boys stood looking at each other in mute fear,
after the man had passed on, and then Johnny said, solemnly,
"Jimmy, did you ever pray the same as the rich folks do?"
"No."
"Let's do it now, an' p'r'aps Katy'll get well."
"Well, let's," replied Jimmy, earnestly, and there, upon the dusty
street, two boys whose ragged coats covered true, kindly hearts, prayed,
after their fashion, to the God of whom they had but seldom heard, for
the life of "their girl."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: "BREAD-AND-BUTTER DAYS."--FROM A PAINTING BY WEEDON
GROSSMITH.]
AN UNKNOWN HERO.
Deep down in a mine in Wardley Colliery, Newcastle, England, there is a
brave boy who deserves to be called a hero. In a situation of sudden
peril he used precautions which prevented a dreadful explosion, simply
by behaving with courage and presence of mind.
He noticed that his lamp flared up, a sure sign of the presence of
dangerous gas. Had he hastily rushed away, his light might have burst
through the wire gauze which surrounds a miner's lamp, and setting fire
to the gas, caused a heart-rending accident.
The lad did nothing so silly. When questioned by the Superintendent as
to how he had found out that there was gas in the neighborhood where he
was at work, he replied, "Because my lamp flared."
"And what did you do then?" asked the gentleman.
"I took my pricker, and pulled down the wick, but the lamp still
flared."
"Well, my boy, and how did you manage then?"
"Why, I put the lamp inside my jacket, and covered it up tight, and the
light went out."
Of course, the lamp could not burn without air.
To think of the right thing to do, and then promptly to do it, boys,
that is what makes the difference between a common man and a hero.
This little fellow, whose name is not mentioned--Mick, or Ted, or
Jack--has in him the making of a grand man, cool, resolute, and clever.
Fortunately there was an overseer near him, who, when, he heard from the
lad about his lamp, went bravely through the gas, in total darkness, and
set open a door, the closing of which had forced the gas into the
main-ways of the mine.
All honor to them both.
DEACON DODD'S CALF.
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
Three of us boys--Will Harald, his cousin from the nearest city, who was
visiting him, and myself--went down to Deacon Dodd's farm one Friday
afternoon, after tea. We found the old gentleman mowing the grass in the
front yard.
"Come in, boys; set down on the steps there. Hot, isn't it?" He wiped
his forehead vigorously with his red silk handkerchief.
"Deacon," said Will, "we came to ask you for a peck or so of your pound
sweets, for our fishing excursion to-morrow."
"Have a drink of cold water? Pound sweets, eh? Well, now, I'm sorry.
Won't anything else do you? Fact is, every pound sweet I've got's
promised; there wa'n't many this year, and they're a skurse kind, you
see. But you can have anything else you can find on the farm, and
welcome. The bell-flowers are tiptop--help yourselves."
We thanked him, but didn't care for anything else. We had plenty of
other apples ourselves, and had set our minds on having some of the
Deacon's great yellow pound sweets. We wandered discontentedly into the
orchard without finding anything we wanted, peeped at the big
snapping-turtle by the spring, patted the pretty gentle Jersey cow and
her half-grown calf, both of which were the pride and delight of the
Deacon's heart, and then sat down in the open doorway of the great barn.
"He's a mean old skinflint, I say," said George, the boy from town. Will
and I knew he wasn't any such thing, but we were out of humor at having
our walk for nothing, and did not take the trouble to argue the matter.
"I don't think he would have missed a peck," I said.
"Wants to sell 'em, I s'pose. Seems to me I'd oblige a few boys even if
it was a few cents out of my pocket."
"Let's play a trick on the old codger," said George. "Last summer our
teacher wouldn't give us a holiday when we wanted it, so we shut him up
in the school till late at night."
"And what came of it?" we inquired, in great interest.
"Oh, well, one or two of us got expelled for awhile, but that just
suited us."
This did not sound to me like a very successful issue of the trick, but
George went on:
"Let's run off his calf."
"How do you mean?" asked Will.
"Why, lead it clear off, and tie it up somewhere, so he'll think it's
lost."
"He thinks about as much of that cow and calf as he does of his
children," I said, with some misgivings.
"All the better--he'll be in a jolly sputter over it. We won't hurt
anything; just have a little fun on the old fellow. Nobody'll know. Come
on."
Somehow I couldn't help feeling that I hated to do anything like playing
a trick on the Deacon, for as a general thing he was very good to us
boys. But then, on the other hand, it did seem perfectly unreasonable
for him to refuse to give us just a few of those apples when we knew he
had three times as many as he and all his family put together could eat.
Still, I don't think I would have given in if George hadn't urged the
matter so. He is one of those fellows who always takes the lead, and the
rest of us just follow on. He started off, and Will and I went after
him.
We quietly stole round the back of the barn to the lot in which we had
seen the cow and calf. No one happened to be about just then. We found a
rope, tied it to the calf, and led her into a lane. Soon she got tired
of being handled by so many strangers, and I tell you she gave us a
lively time. She was a stout, skittish little creature, and we boys had
no end of exercise getting her along. She would walk quietly enough for
a few steps, and then make a jump forward, which would nearly jerk us
off our feet; or she would stop suddenly and turn back, tipping over a
boy or two, like enough. At last we put our apple-bag over her head, and
she travelled a little easier, but you'd better believe all our hands
were sore hanging on to that rope. At last we tied her in a bushy grove
about half a mile from the far end of the Deacon's farm.
We had thought it great fun as long as we were all together, but when I
was at home alone it didn't seem half so smart to be putting a joke on
an old man, and a good kindly old man at that. I woke up several times
in the night with the stinging and burning in my hands, and thought what
if anything should happen to the calf. Not a word had been said between
us as to how it was to be got back again--I don't believe any of us had
thought so far ahead as that.
It is dreadful hard work to sleep when you've got anything troublesome
on your mind. I tossed about and thought it over just what the Deacon
would say when he found the calf was gone; and how Mrs. Dodd would
worry. Finally I thought of the piles of doughnuts she had given us boys
at one time and another. I got so wretched that I couldn't stand it any
longer.
I didn't know how long George intended to keep it hidden, but I made up
my mind to get up with the first streak of day, and went to see if I
couldn't get the calf back by myself. Then I meant to leave George and
Will to bother themselves awhile, wondering what could become of it. It
was a long walk, but at last I reached the place, and then I tell you I
stood and stared--that calf was gone!
I hunted and hunted all about there, but it was no use. The faces of
Will and George grew as blank as my own as I told them, and we joined
the fishing party of a dozen or so boys with a heavy sinking at our
hearts, and many doubts as to what might be the outcome of our clever
joke on the old Deacon.
Early in the afternoon we saw a spring-wagon working its way along under
the willows where we were fishing. Two men were in it, one of whom, a
stumpy, freckle-faced Irishman, I recognized as Deacon Dodd's new hired
man. The other was a neighbor of ours, and it was not until he had
beckoned George and Will and myself a little apart from the other boys
that I remembered all of a sudden, with a great addition to the weight
on my mind, that he was the deputy-sheriff.
"Yis, sor, thim's the very b'ys," said the Irishman, with a very
positive nod of his head at us.
The deputy-sheriff looked puzzled.