Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 822. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
JOE'S SCHEME.
BY J. SANFORD BARNES, JUN.
The sharp crackling of the gravel, and the sound of a horse's hoofs
coming up the driveway which led to the Thompsons' house, told Joe that
Ned was going to be as prompt as he always was when the two boys had
made any appointment, so he dropped his book, and ran to the door just
as a neat little buckboard pulled up at the doorstep.
"Hello, Ned!" said Joe; "just on time. I knew that was you the moment I
heard the rig turn in the gate. Wait till I get my hat and I'll drive to
the stable with you. Say, will you stay to lunch? Jerry'll take care of
him," he nodded toward the little roan, and disappeared in the doorway.
In a moment he was back again, and jumping in with Ned they spun off to
the stable, where Jerry, the coachman, promised to see that Tot should
get his full measure of feed at noon.
"Now, to work," said Joe, "and after lunch we'll start off for the lake.
Just you wait till you've heard my scheme, and you'll think it a dandy;
see if you don't."
"Well, what is it?" said Ned. "There's no use keeping it to yourself
forever."
"Come up in the workshop, for we've got to spend the rest of the morning
there, and I'll tell you all about it."
The boys on leaving the stable turned down towards the farm barns, where
in one of the vacant rooms Mr. Thompson had fitted up a neat little
carpenter shop for his son. In one corner was a first-class lathe for
all kinds of wood-turning, and across the room was a long carpenter's
bench with all the appliances complete, while over in one of the other
corners was what remained of Joe's first scroll-saw, rather dilapidated
and cheap-looking now, but still of some service. Joe would not have
parted with it even if he did not use it, for with it he developed his
first love for carpentry, which had finally led to the present shop.
"Now look here," said Joe; "my scheme is the simplest in the world; it's
a plan to catch those bass in Laurel Lake which we can't get any way
we've tried so far. It isn't the bait. Jingo! we've tried everything,
from grasshoppers, dobsons, and live bait down to worms; they just look
at it, and then look up at the boat over their heads, and scoot.
Remember that monster we saw off Sea Lion last Tuesday? What would you
give to get him, eh?"
"What would I give? Why, Joe, he's the biggest bass in that lake. I'd
give--now, let me see," said Ned, scratching his head as he turned it
from one side to the other; "I'd be willing to throw my new rod in the
lake and stop fishing the rest of the summer."
"So would I," said Joe. "But look here, just get that cross-cut saw and
help me get this plank so that we can get at it, and I'll explain as we
go along." Joe measured off on the board ten divisions of eight inches
each, and started sawing across the first line. "Now, you see," said he,
"what I propose is that we take each of these ten pieces, cut up that
old line of mine into lengths of about eight or nine feet, and
then--see? Isn't that easy? The beauty of it is that we have a chance in
ten different places; just string them along the shore, leave them, and
while we wait jump in and play fish ourselves off Baldwin's Cliff; we
can easily watch the floats from there. Catch?"
Ned had been listening eagerly, and approved the scheme heartily, only
wondering why it had not occurred to them before. When Joe finished, Ned
raised the question of bait, but was put off by Joe's saying there would
be time enough to get all the grasshoppers and crickets they wanted, and
maybe a few frogs, so they went to work, coats off, and sleeves rolled
up in a businesslike manner. In the course of an hour or more they had
that part of the work all done, and a short time afterwards they started
up to the stable with their arms full of their invention, and deposited
it complete in the box under the seat of Ned's buckboard.
"Now for bait," said Joe; "you take this box and keep along by that old
stone wall and look sharp for crickets. There are lots of old boards and
stones there; turn them all over and you'll get enough. I'll stick to
this field and get the 'hoppers."
They separated, and were soon hard at work, both using their hands to
catch the wily bait; Ned said he never had any luck with 'hoppers or
crickets that were caught with a butterfly net. After an hour they
decided they had enough, and turned down toward a small stream which ran
through the meadow, and got a dozen or more frogs, and so complete in
all the details of their plan they came into the house and sat down to
lunch. It seemed to both the boys entirely too long, and Joe fidgeted so
much that his father noticed it, and tried to find out what the cause
was.
"No, nothing's the matter, only we want to hurry up and get to the lake.
We've got a scheme, and later we're going to have a swim."
"What is it, Joe?" said Mr. Thompson. "What's up? You're not going to
catch that Jonah's whale you told me about with dynamite or anything
like that, are you? You had better try putting salt on his tail," he
added, jokingly, and he quietly passed the salt-cellar to Joe. "Come,
fill your pockets; you'll need it."
Now it might as well be said right here that Mr. Thompson owned many a
fine split bamboo rod, and two or three beautiful guns, and that there
were pictures of partridges and woodcock in his den. Two fishing
pictures in particular, which had always been Joe's delight, hung near
the door, one of a great trout rolling up to take a fly as it skimmed
the surface of the water, while the other, its mate, was of a fine
small-mouthed bass clearing the water, and shaking himself in the air in
his efforts to break away from the hook which had tempted him. In fact,
Mr. Thompson was a sportsman of the truest kind. Little did Ned and Joe
know how near he came to adding set lines to dynamite when talking
seriously before he mentioned the salt. If he had been told "the scheme"
this story would never have been written, but the boys went off unaware
of what Mr. Thompson's views were on the method they had devised to try
the bass in Laurel Lake. They took their rods and bait, of course, but
kept mum about what was rattling under the seat as Jerry drove Tot up to
the door.
A mile and a half and they turned in at old Farmer Sayre's, hitched and
blanketed the pony, and with their variety of equipment went down to the
shore of the lake, where their boat was made last.
"Go ahead, Ned, you row," said Joe; "we'll get there quicker, and I'm
most crazy to see how she works; aren't you?"
"You bet," replied Ned. "Shove off. Let fall," he added, giving himself
part of the orders he had picked up but a week before, while on a visit
to a friend on the Sound. "Give way; how's that for nautical, Joe?"
"Never mind nautical," said Joe; "git there is what we want. _One_,
two--now, now!" He grunted out each word to help Ned, who was pulling
with all his might, and the light little boat jumped ahead at each
stroke.
Around the point, which formed the bay in which the boat was kept, on
the shore, but partly hidden by the trees, was an old, rather
dilapidated ice-house; it was called that by courtesy, for it was no
house at all; it had no roof--it never had one--but it was used once to
store ice in, and the fishing-ground along the shore in front of it had
always been designated by the boys as "off the ice-house." Ned and Joe
claimed to themselves that they alone knew of the existence of a certain
ledge which ran for some distance parallel to the shore, but much
farther out than the average fisherman would think of dropping anchor.
As they approached the place, in order to get the right spot to leave
the first float, which had a choice fat frog wriggling at the end of the
line, Ned slowed down and began to row quietly. He got a certain stump
on a point of land in line with the roof of a barn way back on the
hill-side, and was watching for the cross-line, a clump of bright
willows with a scraggly dead tree some distance behind them.
"Whoa, slowly," said Joe, who was also watching. "There! hold her, and
I'll let him go. There, my fine friend," he added, addressing the frog;
"good-by to you and good luck to us. Now, a stroke or two: there, let
her slide! And to you, Mr. Hoppergrass, good-by, and good-luck." He
gently dropped the line over the side, and, so with the others, all had
a farewell given them as they were dropped over at intervals. Then the
boys rowed on towards Baldwin's Cliff, keeping their eyes on the small
floats as they left them bobbing under and over the tiny waves.
About four o'clock Ned and Joe had had enough swimming and diving, and
fetching white stones from the bottom; they had been in, as was usually
the case, too long, yet both wanted to stay in longer. Nothing had
happened, as far as they could see, to their floats, and they felt
keenly disappointed. They had hardly noticed that the clouds were
gathering over the hills, and that the wind had risen so that little
white caps had sprung up, and were dancing in towards shore. But a low
mutter of thunder startled them, and they saw now no way but to adopt a
means for shelter which they had followed before to keep dry.
"Hurry up, Ned," said Joe; "make for the boat; that storm's a dandy, and
coming like thunder, too. It's pouring at the end of the lake already."
The boys put for the boat as hard as they could, and a moment later had
her beached and rolled over, and their clothes snugly tucked away under
perfect shelter.
"Here she is!" they both cried at the same moment, as the rain started
to come down in large noisy drops, and the wind caught the spray from
the water and whirled it along in sudden gusts.
"Let her rain," said Joe; "but doesn't that sting your back, it does
mine; and that wind's cold, too. I'm going to swim out a way, the
water's warmer than here."
So Joe plunged in and swam out from the shore.
Ned watched him as he paddled around in the deep water; he did not
exactly like the idea. The whole scene, with the dark lowering clouds,
broken now and then by the jagged streaks of lightning, each one
followed by a sharp and startling smash and roar, made him shiver, and
the large drops and an occasional hailstone made him skip around on the
beach. The situation was exciting, though, and Joe, now quite a way out,
felt the tingles creep through him. Finally, as Ned was still watching
Joe, he saw him start forward with the overhand Indian stroke, making
straight for the middle of the lake. He put his hands to his mouth and
shouted:
"Say, Joe! come back here! Don't be a fool; come back!"
Joe paid no attention; he did not hear the call, which was carried back
into the woods by the gusts of wind; he kept on straight ahead, swimming
as though in a race.
Ned turned and looked at the boat and then at Joe. "I know what's the
matter," he said, aloud; "he's seen one of the floats way out there, and
he's after it; but he can't stand it, I know he can't; he'll be all
tired out when he gets there, and then when he has to tread water and
play that fish--" Here he stopped, and gave a long low whistle. "By
jingo! he must be a monster! why, he's towed that float nearly a hundred
yards dead against this sea. No, sir! Joe can't do it, and here goes for
wet clothes to get home in."
Ned had hardly finished speaking, and inwardly calling Joe some hard
names for his foolishness, when he heard a cry from the water:
"Ned, oh, Ned! he's a whale! Hurry with the boat; I'm tuckered! Hurry!"
The last call to hurry was rather faint, and sounded almost as bad to
Ned as if it had been "help" that Joe had cried; it made his heart leap
in his throat.
"Let go the line," Ned cried back, "and keep your head, and I'll be
there in a moment."
Again the words were lost in the wind, and Joe continued his struggle.
In his excitement he felt that letting go that line would be like
cutting it, and he hung on, now thrashing and splashing as the fish
started to twine the line around his legs, and the sharp points of his
fins pricked him. It was a case of the fish playing Joe, a pretty even
struggle, but Joe was game and bound to have him. He did not appreciate
that his strokes and kicks to keep his head up over the choppy surface
of the lake were leaving him weaker and weaker.
As Joe turned his head a moment towards shore he saw Ned pulling towards
him with all his strength; a moment later a wave struck him full in the
face and caught him with his mouth open; he gulped and choked, and again
started thrashing and struggling to gain his breath, but all he could do
was to give a feeble cry of "help," then he sank out of sight, holding
fast to the line.
Ned heard the faint cry, and turned as he rowed against the storm, which
was now luckily falling as quickly as it had come up. The only thing he
saw was the small piece of board tip up on its side and disappear.
"Thank goodness he had hold of that line!" murmured Ned. "Now brace
yourself," he added, aloud, "and keep cool, keep cool, keep cool."
It seemed to Ned that he said those words a thousand times; he was right
on the spot, and was standing and waiting. The strain was something
awful. He knew a good deal about swimming and about its dangers, and
knew that a person had to come up twice, and that the third time down
was down for good. He thought that Joe had not called before, yet he
could not tell; but there was only one thing to do--wait, and, as he had
said, "keep cool."
Ages and ages seemed to pass as Ned, shivering and pale, strained his
eyes to see the block of wood appear again. Suddenly he caught a glimpse
of the bit of wood slowly rising close by the side of the boat, and
below it, as it came up zigzagging to the surface, he saw the white body
following. It was a lucky thing that a stout trolling-line had been used
in the scheme, for Ned reached far over the gunwale and firmly seized
the line, then gently and steadily pulled the heavy weight to the
surface. There were no signs of life in Joe's limp body; his cramped
hand held the line twisted about his fingers, his eyes were closed, and
his mouth half open.
Ned grasped the wrist which appeared first, and drew Joe along towards
the bow of the boat, so that there would be no chance of capsizing. He
lay out flat over the bow and held Joe under the arms, keeping his head
well out of water, and waited. There was nothing to be done now but
_wait_; no one was in sight, and shouting would have done no good, so he
held on in his cramped position and watched the boat get a little
headway in drifting towards shore, driven by the light wind. The sun had
come out again, and blue patches of sky were appearing through the
fast-flying clouds.
As the boat reached the shallow water, Ned leaped out up to his waist,
still clinging to Joe's wrist; a moment more and he had him safe on
shore, and, strange to say, there, too, was the cause of the trouble,
the huge bass, still fast to the hook, which was far out of sight down
his throat. The fight had been too much for him, and as Ned half carried
Joe up the beach to a mossy bank, he also hauled the monster bass, that
showed not a quiver of the gills or a movement of fin or tail. Ned
placed Joe softly down, with his feet up on the bank and his head, face
downward, over a soft rotten log, and then began the work which meant
life or death. He had kept cool up to this time in a wonderful way, but
now he began to get excited. He rolled Joe over and over, and kneaded
him with his hands. Occasionally he stopped to listen to Joe's heart and
feel for the chance of a single breath. It was a strange sight but a
most impressive one--a young boy working for the life of his friend with
all the fervor and love that a close friendship could call forth.
Finally Ned's efforts began to have effect; there was a slight movement,
a slow turning of the limp body, and Ned felt that Joe was safe, and he
uttered a sigh that meant everything.
Gradually Joe's eyes opened, and finally, after more rubbing, he slowly
sat up, and for the first time let go the line which he had held
stronger than a vise up to this time.
"Ned," he said, feebly, "where am I? Where have I been? I can't remember
anything. I am awful cold," he continued, and a shiver ran over him. "I
must have swallowed half the lake. But I'll be all right in a moment.
There! now I'm more comfortable," he added, as Ned propped him up
against an old stump. "Is that the fish? Oh! Now I remember it all. He
is a whale; I told you so; and I got him too!"
The excitement of seeing the fish changed his thoughts from himself, and
the blood began to flow through his veins. The wind had died out, and
the sun was warm and cheering. The spirits of the boys rose, and they
began to forget a little of their narrow escape.
"Joe," said Ned, "is my hair gray? It ought to be; you scared me half to
death."
"I'm sorry, Ned," replied Joe, "but I didn't do it on purpose; but I'm
feeling rather queer. Let's get home."
They put on their clothes, wet as they were, and Joe staggered to the
boat and fell into the stern seat and lifted the bass into his lap,
where he could look at him and feel him.
As Ned, tired out and pale, took the oars and rowed slowly over the now
glassy water towards the bay, Joe listlessly took a small pair of scales
from his pocket and weighed the fish, and when he found that he weighed
over six pounds, just a little, he gave a long sigh.
"That's the biggest bass on record for this lake, don't you think so?"
Ned did not reply; he was too tired to even speak.
The other floats had been washed ashore or had disappeared somewhere;
the boys did not look for them, or even think of them.
Tot seemed to know that he was pulling two very tired boys, and went
along gently, and turned in of his own accord at the gate of the
Thompsons' place.
Joe tottered as he got out of the buckboard, and held the bass up by the
gills, to the astonishment of his father and mother, who were at the
door to meet them. They had seen the storm come up, and had anxiously
awaited the boys' return. As he stepped forward, the set line and block
fell on the steps.
The long story was being told in a slow and labored way by Joe after Ned
had gone, when it was interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who saw that his son
was growing pale and faint.
"That'll do for the present," he said. "Now come with me, old man," and
putting his arm around Joe's waist, he gently helped him into the house
and up to his own room, where he was undressed and carefully tucked into
bed.
"So you caught him on a set line, did you?" said Mr. Thompson, as he sat
by the bed-side, holding Joe's hand. "Now listen to a word of advice.
Don't ever use set lines again. Fish with your rod and reel if you want
to be called a true sportsman."
BOYS AND GIRLS AS RULERS OF MEN.
ALFONSO XIII., KING OF SPAIN.
BY MRS. SERRANO.
There have been a great many Kings, since Kings first began to rule; but
perhaps the little boy who to-day wears the Spanish crown is the only
one among them all who was born a King; his father, Alfonso XII., having
died more than five months before his birth, the throne remaining vacant
during that time.
For the young people of America Alfonso XIII. possesses an interest
apart from and superior to that which attaches to his exalted position
as the ruler of a great nation, in being a descendant of the
noble-minded and great-hearted Queen, the illustrious Isabella, who, by
her encouragement and assistance, enabled Columbus to undertake the
voyage across unknown seas which resulted in the discovery of a new
world.
He is descended also from Henry of Navarre--the famous Henry of Navarre
whose white plume so often led his soldiers on to victory--through
Philip, Duke of Anjou, Henry's great-grandson, who succeeded to the
Spanish crown, under the title of Philip V., on the death of his uncle
Charles II. of Spain. Philip was the first of the Bourbon family who
reigned in Spain, as Henry of Navarre was the first of that family who
reigned in France.
[Illustration: THE KING OF SPAIN.]
To the Spanish people, who sincerely mourned the death of Alfonso XII.,
who had endeared himself to them by his frank and amiable disposition
and by his many good qualities, the birth of the young King, which took
place in the royal palace in Madrid on the 17th of May, 1886, was a
joyful event. It was announced to all Spain by the firing of twenty-one
cannon in every city throughout the kingdom. On the same day the infant
was proclaimed King, his mother, Queen Maria Cristina, who had acted as
Regent from the time of the late King's death, continued to fill the
same office during the young King's minority.
A few weeks afterward, Queen Maria Cristina went with the royal infant,
in accordance with the Spanish custom, to the church of Atocha. She
drove to the church in a magnificent state carriage drawn by six horses
covered with plumes and glittering with gold, and followed by many other
splendid carriages. The Queen was dressed in deep mourning, and from
time to time she held up the little Alfonso, who wore neither cap nor
other head-covering, to the view of the people, who cheered and crowded
forward to obtain a sight of the infant King, while the band played the
Royal March.
The little Alfonso grew and thrived, more or less like other babies,
until he was two years old, when he was taken in state to several of the
provinces to show him to his people. Then he first experienced the
uneasiness to which the head that wears a crown is said by Shakespeare
to be subject, for the incessant cheering of the people and the
ear-piercing strains of the martial music, wherever he was taken,
disturbed him so greatly at last that he would cry out in his baby
accents, "Stop, stop, no more!" Very soon, however, he began to grow
accustomed to the honors paid him, and when he was taken out walking by
the Queen, whose greatest pleasure it was, after he had learned to walk,
to go out walking unattended with her children, Alfonso holding her by
the hand while his two sisters walked in front, he would wave his hand
to every one who passed. Sometimes he would forget to return a bow or a
wave of a handkerchief, and then the Queen would say to him, "Bow,
Alfonso."
At this time the little King had to take care of him and to attend upon
him a Spanish nurse and an English nurse and an Austrian and a Spanish
lady, besides his own special cook. The Spanish nurse of the royal
children is always brought from one particular part of Spain, the valley
of Paz, in the province of Santander, where one of the court physicians
goes to select the healthiest and most robust among the various
candidates for the position. As the young King is of a delicate
constitution, thought to have been inherited from his father, the
greatest care has been lavished upon him ever since his birth, the Queen
herself exercising a watchful supervision over every detail of his daily
life.
About four years ago Alfonso had a very serious illness, which everybody
feared would terminate fatally, and which was probably due to a cause
that has made many another little boy ill. Being in the apartments of
his aunt, the Infanta Isabel, the elder sister of the Princess Eulalia,
whose visit to us at the time of the opening of the exposition at
Chicago made so pleasant an impression upon everybody, the Infanta gave
the little boy a box of bonbons of a particularly delicious kind, which,
seeing that he was observed by no one, he went on eating until he had
finished the box. During his illness he would often inquire after a
little lame girl to whom he used to give money in his drives to the
country, wonder what she was doing, and ask that bonbons should be sent
to her. All Spain followed the course of his illness with profound
anxiety, and there was no one who did not sympathize with the widowed
mother in her affliction, and rejoice with her when the dangerous
symptoms passed away and the sick boy began to recover.
In October, 1892, Alfonso had another serious illness, the result of a
cold, contracted probably at the celebration of the fourth centenary of
the discovery of America at Huelva, where he presided at the
inauguration of the monument erected to Columbus on the hill of La
Rabida. This sickness also caused for a time the greatest uneasiness.
The young King begins the day by saluting the national flag from his
windows in the palace that look out upon the Plaza de Armas, where the
relieving of the guard takes place every morning at ten o'clock, a
ceremony which he loves to witness. He is passionately fond of
everything military. He takes a great interest in the soldiers, in what
they eat, and in other details of their life, and he often expresses
pity for the cold which the sentinels on guard at the palace must feel.
In the park at Miramar, when the troops are returning to their barracks
after drill, he may often be seen delightedly watching the soldiers
forming in line, and he returns their salute with a military salute. He
is very fond of horses, and the bigger they are the better he likes
them, as he himself says. He delights in military music and military
evolutions, and a review of the troops is one of his great pleasures. On
his seventh birthday he held a grand review of the troops, riding then
for the first time in public. On that occasion 40,000 troops were
reviewed.
Since that time his education has been directed less exclusively by
women than before. His chief companions are his tutor, and the General
who is the Captain of the King's guard, with whom he loves to talk about
military matters. He still has his little playmates, however, and toys
in abundance. He is fond of riding and driving, and he has a little
carriage of his own, with two small Moorish donkeys to draw it, which
looks very odd among all the large carriages in the royal stables in
Madrid.
When the weather is fine he spends almost the whole of the day at the
royal villa, called the Quinta del Pardo, situated a little outside
Madrid. He is driven there in a carriage generally drawn by four mules,
and is accompanied by his royal escort wearing their splendid uniforms
and long white plumes. He knows personally all the soldiers who form his
escort, and the moment he sees the Captain, as soon as the carriage
leaves the palace gate, he speaks to him, and continues chatting with
him all the way to the villa, the Captain riding beside the carriage
door. He is accompanied by his tutor, his governess, and generally one
other person.
In the villa he is instructed in the studies suitable to his age,
particular attention being paid, however, to military science. The
venerable priest, who is his religious instructor, teaches him also the
Basque language, which is altogether different from the Spanish. In the
afternoon his two sisters, Isabel Teresa Cristina Alfonsa Jacinta, the
Princess of Asturias, who is now about fourteen years of age, and Maria
Teresa Isabel Eugenia Patrocinio Diega, the Infanta of Spain, who is
about twelve, often go out to take afternoon tea with him. In the
gardens of the villa he runs about and plays, after lessons are over,
just like other boys of his age, playing as familiarly with the children
of the gardener as if they were the sons of princes. Whatever money he
happens to have with him he gives to the children of the guard and to
such poor people as he may chance to meet on the way, for he is
extremely charitable and generous, both by nature and education, the
Queen, his mother, instilling into his mind the best and noblest
sentiments.
In appearance Alfonso is interesting and attractive. His complexion is
very fair, his hair light and curly, his expression rather serious. His
usual dress is a sailor jacket and knickerbockers, sometimes sent from
Vienna by his grandmother, the Archduchess Isabel, sometimes ordered
from London by the Infanta Isabel, his aunt.
He is a very intelligent child, is very vivacious, and his manners,
notwithstanding the high honors that have been paid to him since his
birth as the chief of a great nation, are entirely free from arrogance
and self-conceit. When the Queen Regent is holding audience in her
apartments in the palace, which are directly below his, he will often go
down and salute those who are waiting in the antechamber, giving them
his hand, even though he may never have seen them before, this frankness
of manner being a trait of the Spanish people, who are of all people the
most democratic.
[Illustration: ALFONSO XIII., WITH HIS MOTHER AND SISTERS.]
He is very affectionate in his disposition, although he has a very firm
will; and he tenderly loves his mother, whom he also greatly respects,
and his sisters, who are his favorite playmates.
He seems, as he grows older, however, to be perfectly conscious of his
exalted position. He knows that he is the King, and in the official
receptions and ceremonies at which he has to be present he rarely
becomes impatient however long and solemn they may be. One of these rare
occasions was during a royal reception in the throne-room. He was
sitting at the right hand of the Queen, and all the high functionaries
and courtiers were defiling past him, when he began to play with the
white wand of office of the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, a great officer of
the palace. Suddenly leaving his seat and the wand of the Duke he ran
down the steps of the throne, and mounted astride one of the bronze
lions that stand on either side of it. The act was so entirely childlike
and spontaneous, and was performed with so much grace, that it gave
every one present a sensation of real pleasure. Even the Queen herself,
while she regretted that the young King should have failed in the
etiquette of the occasion, could not help smiling.
On another occasion of a similar kind he amused himself greatly watching
the Chinese diplomats, looking with wonder and delight at their silk
dresses, which he would touch from time to time with his little hands.
What most attracted his attention, however, was the Chinese minister's
pigtail. He waited a long time in vain for a chance to look at it from
behind, for the Chinese are a very polite people, and the minister would
never think of turning his back upon the King. At last it occurred to
Alfonso to run and hide himself in a corner of the vast apartment, and
wait for his opportunity, which he did. After a while the President of
the Cabinet, seeing him in the corner, went over to him, and said, "What
is your Majesty doing here?" "Let me alone," answered the boy; "I am
waiting for the Chinese minister to turn round, so that I may steal up
behind him, and look at his pigtail."
The boy King, like most other boys, is very fond of boats, as may be
gathered from the following anecdote. About three years ago the Queen
gave a musical at San Sebastian, a sea-port where the royal family spend
some months every summer for the sea-bathing, at which the Commandant of
the Port was present. The little Alfonso was very fond of the
Commandant, and had asked him for a boat, which the Commandant had
promised to give the boy. He had not yet done so, however, and seeing
him at the concert, the young King ran from one end of the room to the
other, when the concert was at its best, and, stopping in front of him,
said, "Commandant, when are you going to bring me the boat?"
In San Sebastian the royal family have a magnificent palace called the
palace of Ayete, where, however, they live very simply. Alfonso plays
all day on the beach with his sisters and other children, running about
or making holes in the sand with his little shovel, in view of
everybody. He takes long drives also among the mountains and through the
valleys. Sometimes there is a children's party in the gardens of the
palace, when he mingles freely with his young guests. Indeed, it is not
always necessary that he should know who his playmates are. Not long
since he was getting out of the carriage with his mother at the door of
the palace in Madrid, when two little boys who were passing stopped to
look at the boy King. "Mamma, may I ask those two boys to come upstairs
to play with me?" Alfonso asked the Queen. "If you like," was the
answer. He accordingly went over to the two boys, and asked them
upstairs to play with him, and all three ran together up the palace
stairs to the King's apartments.
The young King's birthday is always observed as a festival in the
palace, and on his Saint's day, also, which is the 23d of January, there
is always a grand reception. On this day it is the custom to confer
decorations on such public functionaries as have merited them.
As a descendant of Queen Isabella there is something appropriate in
Alfonso having sent an exhibit--a small brass cannon--to the great Fair
in Chicago, at which he was the youngest exhibitor.
It is fortunate for the young King and for the country over which he is
to rule that the important work of forming his character and educating
his heart has fallen to a woman so admirably qualified for the task as
the Queen Regent.
Born on the 21st of July, 1858, Maria Cristina is now in the early prime
of life. Her appearance is distinguished and majestic; her manners are
simple and amiable. She has a sound understanding and a cultivated mind,
well stored with varied information. She is of a serious disposition,
and is religious without bigotry, and good without affectation. During
the lifetime of King Alfonso, her husband, she took no part whatever in
politics, so that when she was called upon to assume the important
responsibilities of the regency she was able to place herself above
political parties, and to be the Queen of the nation. She has had the
good fortune, in the midst of her personal grief--for the death of her
husband, whom she loved devotedly, was a terrible blow to her--to win
the good-will of the greater part of the Spanish people, and the respect
of all by the wisdom and discretion with which, through her ministers
and according to the constitution, she has governed the country. She is
exceedingly charitable, and delights especially in relieving the wants
of children; she gives large sums to children's aid societies. She
educates at her own expense the children of public functionaries who
have been left in poverty; she is constantly taking upon herself the
care of orphaned children, and no mother ever asks her help in vain.
* * * * *
"TAIL-PIECE." This title Hogarth, the celebrated English painter, gave
to his last work. It is said that the idea for it was first started
when, in the company of his friends, they sat around the table at his
home. His guests had consumed all of the eatables and _et caetera_, and
nothing remained but the empty plates and glasses. Hogarth, glancing
over the table, sadly remarked, "My next undertaking shall be the _end
of all things_." "If that is the case," replied one of his friends,
"your business will be finished, for there will be an end of the
painter." "There will be," answered Hogarth, sighing heavily.
The next day he started the picture, and he pushed ahead rapidly,
seemingly in fear of being unable to complete it. Grouped in an
ingenious manner, he painted the following list to represent the end of
all things: a broken bottle; the but-end of an old musket; an old broom
worn to the stump; a bow unstrung; a crown tumbled to pieces; towers in
ruins; a cracked bell; the sign-post of an inn, called the "World's
End," falling down; the moon in her wane; a gibbet falling, the body
gone, and the chains which held it dropping down; the map of the globe
burning; Phoebus and his horses lying dead in the clouds; a vessel
wrecked; Time with his hour-glass and scythe broken; a tobacco-pipe with
the last whiff of smoke going out; a play-book opened, with the _exeunt
omnes_ stamped in the corner; a statute of bankruptcy taken out against
nature; and an empty purse.
Hogarth reviewed this work with a sad and troubled countenance. Alas!
something lacks. Nothing is wanted but this, and taking up his palette,
he broke it and the brushes, and then with his pencil sketched the
remains. "Finis, 'tis done!" he cried. It is said that he never took up
the palette again, and a month later died.
PRISCILLA.
Miles Standish was a fellow
Who understood quite well, oh,
In fighting with the redskins how to plan, plan, plan.
But I think him very silly
When he wished to woo Priscilla
To send another man, man, man.
For she said unto this other,
Whom she loved more than a brother,
"Why don't you speak, John Alden, for yourself, self, self?"
So of course John Alden tarried,
And the fair Priscilla married,
And they laid poor Captain Standish on the shelf, shelf, shelf.
CORPORAL FRED.
A Story of the Riots.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.
CHAPTER II.
When morning came, old Wallace's face had grown a year older. Up to
midnight he had hoped that better counsels might prevail, and that the
meetings called by the leaders of kindred associations, such as the
Trainmen's Union, would result in refusal to sustain the striking
switchmen; but when midnight came, and no Jim, things looked ominous. A
sturdy, honest, hard-working fellow was Jim, devoted to his mother and
sisters, and proud of the little home built and paid for by their united
efforts. Content, happy, and hopeful, too, he seemed to be for several
years; but of late he had spent much time attending the meetings at
Harmonie Hall and listening to the addresses of certain semi-citizens,
whose names and accent alike declared their foreign descent, and whose
mission was the preaching of a gospel of discord. Their grievance was
not that their hearers were hungry or in rags, down-trodden or
oppressed, but that the higher officials of the road owned handsome
homes and equipages, and lived in a style and luxury beyond the means of
the honest toilers in the lower ranks. Jim used to come home with a
smile of content as he looked upon the happy healthful faces of his
mother and sisters, but for months past his talk had been of the way the
Williams people lived, how they rode in their parlor car and went to the
sea-shore every summer and to the theatre or opera every night, drove to
the Park in carriages, and hobnobbed with the swells in town. "Why, I
knew Joe Williams when he was yard-master and no bigger a man on the
road than I am to-day," said Jim, "and now look at him." His mother
laughingly bade him take comfort, then, from the contemplation of
Williams's success. If he could rise to such affluence, why shouldn't
Jim? Besides, Mr. Williams had married a wealthy woman. "Yes, the
daughter of another bloated bondholder," said Jim. A year or two before
they regarded it, one and all of them, as no bad thing that there were
men eager to buy the bonds and meet the expense of extending the road;
but since the advent of Messrs. Steinman and Frenzel, the orators of the
Socialist propaganda, Jim had begun to develop a feeling of antipathy
towards all persons vaguely grouped in the "capitalistic class."
He had long since joined the Brotherhood of Trainmen, having confidence
in its benevolent and protective features. There was no actual coercion,
yet all seemed to find it to their best interest to belong to the union,
even though they merely paid the small dues and rarely attended its
meetings. These latter were usually conducted by a class of men
prevalent in all circles of society, fellows of some gift for
speech-making or debate. The quiet, thoughtful, and conservative rarely
spoke, and more frequently differed than agreed with the speakers, but
all through the year the meetings had become more turbulent and excited,
and little by little men who had been content and willing wage-workers
became infected with the theories so glibly expounded by the speakers.
They were the bone and sinew of the great corporation; why should not
they be rolling in wealth they won rather than seeing it lavished on the
favored few, their employers? The only way for workingmen to get their
fair percentage of the profits, said these leaders, was to strike and
stick together, for the men of one union to "back" those of another, and
then success was sure. Called from his home to a meeting of the
trainmen, Jim Wallace was one of the five hundred of his brethren to
decide whether or no they too should strike in support of their fellows,
the switchmen, demanding not only the restoration of the discharged
freight-handlers, but now also that of Stoltz. Old Wallace had firmly
told him No; they had no case. But by midnight the trainmen had said
Yes.
An hour after midnight, anxious and unable to sleep, the father had
stolen quietly up into the boys' room. Jim's bed was unoccupied; but
over on the other side lay Corporal Fred, his duties early completed,
sleeping placidly and well. With two exceptions, all the companies of
his regiment were made up of men who lived in the heart of the city. The
two junior companies, "L" and "M," had been raised in the western
suburb, and as many as a dozen young fellows living almost as far west
as the great freight-yards were members of these. According to the
system adopted in some of the Eastern States, each company was divided
into squads, so that in the event of sudden need for their services the
summons could be quickly made. Every man's residence and place of work
or business were duly recorded. Each Lieutenant had two sergeants to aid
him, each sergeant, two corporals; and immediately on receipt of
notification, it was the business of each corporal to bustle around and
convey the order to the seven men comprising his squad. By ten o'clock
on the previous evening Fred Wallace had seen and notified every one of
his party, and then, returning home, had gone straightway to bed. "There
won't be much sleep after we're called out," said he, "so now is my
time."
It would have been well for all his comrades had they followed his
example, but one or two of the weak-headed among them could not resist
the temptation of going to the freight-yards to see how matters were
progressing, and there, boy like, telling their acquaintances among the
silent, gloomy knots of striking railway men, that they too, "the
Guards," were ordered out. It was not strictly true, but young men and
many old ones rejoice in making a statement as sensational as possible.
It would not surprise or excite a striker to say "we've received orders
to be in readiness." It did excite them not a little when Billy Foster
told them in so many words, "Say, we've got our orders, and you
fellows'll have to look out."
"There need be no resort to violence," said the leaders. "We can win at
a walk. The managers have simply got to come down as soon as they see
we're in earnest." And at ten o'clock at night the striking switchmen,
many of them ill at ease, had been waiting to see the prophesied "come
down" which was to be the immediate result of the tie-up. What the
leaders failed to mention to their followers as worthy of consideration
was that superintendents, yard-masters, conductors, engineers, brakemen,
and firemen, one and all had risen from the bottom, and could throw
switches just as well as those employed for no other purpose. It was
inconvenient, of course. It meant slow work at the start, but so far
from being paralyzed, as the leaders predicted, the officials went to
work with a vim. Silk-hatted managers, kid-gloved superintendents, and
"dude-collated" clerks were down in the train-shed swinging lanterns and
handling switches, and so it had resulted that all the night express
trains of the five companies using the Great Western tracks, one after
another, slowly, cautiously, but surely had threaded the maze of green
and red lights, and safely steamed over the four miles of shining steel
rails between the Union depot in the heart of the city and these
outlying freight-yards, and, only an hour or so behind time, had haunted
their long rows of brilliantly lighted plate-glass windows in the sullen
faces of the striking operatives, and then gone whistling merrily away
to their several destinations over the dim, starlit prairies. The
managers were only spurred, not paralyzed.
"We'll win yet," said Stoltz, in a furious harangue to a thousand
hearers, one-tenth of them, only railway employes, the others being
recruited from the tramps, the ne'er-do-wells, the unemployed and the
criminal classes, ever lurking about a great city. "The managers cannot
play switchmen more than one night, and no men they hire dare attempt to
work in your places--if you're the men I take you to be. Now I'm going
to the trainmen's meeting to demand their aid." And go he did, with the
result already indicated.
Half an hour after midnight, despite the protests of the old and
experienced men, the resolution to strike went through with a yell, and
when the dawn came, faint and pallid in the eastern sky, and the myriad
switch-lights in the dark, silent yards began to grow blear and dim,
there stood the long rows of freight cars doubly fettered now, for not
only were there no switchmen to make up the trains, there were no crews
to man them and take them to their destination. Jim Wallace had struck
with the rest.
It was two o'clock when at last the father heard the heavy footfalls of
his first-born on the wooden walk without. There he seemed to pause for
some few words in low tone with a companion who had walked home with him
from the yards. Old Wallace, going to the door to meet his son, heard
these words as the other turned away. "And you tell Fred what I say. I'm
a friend of yours, and always have been, but the boys won't stand any
nonsense. It'll be the worst for him if he don't quit that militia
business at once, and if he don't, he won't be the only one to suffer."
[Illustration: "WHO THREATENS MY SON AND MY PEOPLE?" DEMANDED OLD
WALLACE.]
"Who is that?" demanded old Wallace, stepping promptly out from his
front door. "Who threatens my son or my people?"
The stranger had stepped away into the shade of an ailantus-tree before
he answered. Jim Wallace stood in moody silence, confused by his
father's sudden appearance, and ashamed that such menace as this against
him and his should have been spoken without instant rebuke. "What I said
was meant in all friendship to you and yours, Mr. Wallace. You don't
know me, but I know you," said the stranger; with marked foreign accent,
but in civil tone. "I want to avert trouble from your roof if I can, and
therefore told Jim to get Fred out of that tin-soldier connection. No
son of yours ought to be used in the intimidation of honest workingmen
who only seek their rights, and if he is wise he'll quit it now and at
once."
"No son of mine shall be intimidated from doing a sworn duty by any such
threats as yours," said Wallace, with rising wrath; "and if that's the
game you play I'm ashamed to think that son of mine has had anything to
do with you. Who are you, anyway? What do you mean by coming round
'intimidating honest workingmen,' as you say, at this hour of the night?
You're no trainman. Man and boy I've known the hands on this road nearly
forty years, and I never thought to see the day when rank outsiders
could come in and turn them against one another as you have. Who are
you, I say?"
"Never mind who I am, Mr. Wallace. I speak what I know, and my voice is
that of ten thousand working--or more than working--_thinking_ men. If
you're wise you'll see to it that this is the last time your boy carries
orders to his fellows to turn out against us, for that's what he has
done. If you _don't_, somebody may have to do it for you."
"That isn't all!" shouted the old Scotchman, as the other turned away,
"and you hear this here and now. My voice is that of ten million
law-abiding people, high and low, rich and poor, and it says my boys
shall stand by their duty, the one to his employers, the other to his
regiment, you and your threats to the contrary notwithstanding. You
haven't struck, have you, Jim?" he asked, turning in deep anxiety to his
silent, crestfallen son.
And for all answer Jim simply shrugged his broad shoulders and made a
deprecatory gesture with his brown, hairy hand, then turned slowly into
the little hallway, and went heavily to his room. At breakfast-time he
was gone.
Fred came bounding in at half past six, alert and eager, yet with grave
concern on his keen young face. "I've been the length of the yards," he
said, "and I'm hungry as a wolf, mother. They say they're going to block
the incoming trains, and prevent others going out. Big crowds are
gathering already, and I shouldn't be surprised if we were ordered on
duty this very day. Where's Jim?"
"He got up and dressed after you went out, Fred," was the reply. "He
said he wanted no breakfast. Father has gone early to the shops. He
thought he might meet you."