Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 51. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, October 19, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IN THE CORN FIELD.]
RABBITS TO FIND.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"I say, Tad Murray, what's made you so late with your cows this
morning?"
"Late? Well, I guess you'd be late if you'd had such a time as I did. It
was all old Ben's fault."
"Ben's? Why, there he is now, chasing the brindled heifer. If she'd only
turn on him, she could pitch him over the fence like a forkful of hay."
"He's a better cow-dog than that ragged little terrier of yours, Carr
Hotchkiss; but he's an awful fellow to let into a corn field, 'specially
'bout this time of year."
"Into a corn field!"
"When there's a lot of rabbits in the shocks."
"Are there rabbits in your corn?"
"It's just alive with 'em. And Ben he gets after 'em, and the corn's all
cut and shocked, and he'll tear a shock of corn to pieces in no time;
and father says it's too bad, for he hasn't any time to kill rabbits."
"Tell you what, Tad, Whip's the best dog in the world for rabbits."
"Is he?"
"He wouldn't hurt a shock of corn if he scratched clean through it. I'll
fetch him along soon's you get your cows in; and we'll get Dan Burrel
and Eph McCormick and Frank Perry, and we'll have the biggest rabbit
hunt you ever heard of."
"Don't I wish I had a gun!"
"Father's got one, but he won't let me put a finger on it."
"So's my father got one. It's a splendid good gun, too, but one of the
triggers is gone, and there's a hole you could stick your finger into in
the right barrel, where it got bursted once."
"We don't want any guns. You hurry your cows in. There! the brindled
heifer's given Ben an awful dig."
"He won't care."
Old Ben did care, however, for he left the brindled heifer suddenly, and
came back toward the boys, with his wise-looking head cocked on one
side, as much as to say, "Didn't I hear you two saying something about
rabbits?"
It was less than half an hour before they were telling him a good deal
about that kind of game. They gathered the rest of their hunting party
on their way back to Squire Murray's, only they did not waste any time
going to the house. It was a shorter cut through the wheat stubble and
the wood lot to the big corn field in the hollow.
Corn, corn, corn. Squire Murray said he had never before raised so good
a crop in all his life. And then he had added that the rabbits and
squirrels and woodchucks were likely to be his best market, for they
were husking it for him, and not charging him a cent. Only they carried
off all they husked without paying for it, and he was compelled to
charge that part of his crop to "rabbit account."
The old squire loved a bit of fun as well as anybody, and it was a pity
he could not have been in his own corn field that morning.
Tad Murray had to catch hold of old Ben the moment they were over the
fence, for he half buried himself in the nearest shock of corn the first
thing.
"Oh dear! if there was only one of 'em in sight, so he'd have something
to run after!"
"Whip! Whip!" shouted Carr Hotchkiss. "Rabbits, Whip--rabbits!"
Whip had been dancing around the shock as if the ground under him were
red-hot, and he couldn't keep his feet on any one spot for two seconds;
but now he made a sudden dive into the gap from which Tad had pulled out
old Ben.
"Find 'em, Whip--find 'em!"
"There's a rabbit in there somewhere," said Dan Burrel, in a loud,
earnest whisper.
"Look out you don't scare him," whispered back Eph McCormick; and Frank
Perry picked up a long stiff corn stalk, and began to poke it in at
every crack he could find.
"Don't, Frank; you'll scare the rabbit."
"Scare him, Eph? Why, that's just what we're up to. If we don't scare
him, he won't come out."
There was a loud whine from Whip at that moment, and a sound of very
vigorous pawing and scratching away in out of sight.
"Do rabbits ever bite?" said Frank, excitedly.
"Rabbits? bite a dog?" said Carr, scornfully. "I'd back Whip all alone
against all the rabbits Squire Murray's got."
Another whine from Whip, and more pawing and rustling in that mysterious
place he had scratched into. Every boy of them wished he were in there
with a double-barrelled gun or something.
"Tad," said Frank Perry, "maybe it isn't a rabbit. Maybe it's something
big."
"Woodchucks?"
"Are there any 'coons around here nowadays?"
"Haven't seen any; but the rabbits are awful big ones, some of 'em."
Yelp, yelp, yelp, from the dog inside, and his voice had a smothered and
anxious sound.
"He's got him!" exclaimed Tad. But he had better have kept his hold upon
Ben for a moment longer. It had been pretty hard work the last minute or
so, for Ben understood every sound Whip had been making. All it had
meant really was: "Ben! boys! there's a rabbit here, and he keeps just
about a foot ahead of me. He's three sizes smaller than I am, and he can
get through the shock faster. One of you be on the look-out for him on
that further side."
The instant Tad loosened his arms from around Ben's neck, the sagacious
old fellow sprang forward--not at the hole where Whip went in, but
straight across, where there was no hole at all, till he came to make
one.
There was a big one there before any boy of them all knew what Ben was
up to. How the corn stalks did fly as he pawed his way in and tore them
aside with his great strong teeth! If he was not much of a hand at
setting up a shock, he was a mouth and four paws at pulling one down.
"Ben! Ben!" shouted Tad. "Come here! Rabbits, Ben--rabbits! Come here,
sir."
As if Ben needed anybody to say "rabbits" to him, after he had listened
to all that anxious whimpering from Whip!
"Shake the shock a little," said Dan Burrel. "He's in there somewhere."
He suited the action to the word, but that was all that was needed, and
down it came, flat on the ground, with a big dog and a small one and
five excited boys tearing around among the ruins.
There was a rabbit there too when the shock fell over, but he came out
of the confusion with a great leap, and would have made his escape
entirely if it had not been for the long legs of old Ben.
There was no time given the rabbit to hunt for another hiding-place, for
before the boys and Whip had quite made up their minds what had become
of their game, Ben was shaking him by the back of the neck half way down
the field.
"I say, boys," said Tad, "we must set this shock up again. There comes
Josephus, and if we leave such a mess as this is behind us, he won't let
us go after another rabbit."
Josephus was Tad's elder brother, and he had been sent down there by his
mother to get a pumpkin for some pies. There were plenty of them, that
had been planted among the corn, and it was easy enough to pick out a
good one and go back to the house; but Joe saw what the boys were about,
and he stood for a moment looking at them.
"Set it up carefully," whispered Eph McCormick; "Joe's watching us."
"We've got one rabbit, anyhow."
"I say, what's become of Whip?"
"Never mind, boys. Hurry this thing together again."
So they did, and they were so intent on repairing the mischief they had
done that they did not see what Josephus and the two dogs were doing
meantime.
"I've got him!"
They were all standing back and looking at their work to see if it was
just as good as it had been before it tumbled, when they heard Joe
shouting that to them from the other side of the field.
"I've got him! I wouldn't give much for a lot of boys that can't catch
rabbits without tearing the corn to pieces. Send in the little dog every
time, and wait till the rabbit comes out. The big dog's bound to catch
him if you give him a fair chance."
"That's what we'll do," said Tad. "Joe's picking up his pumpkin. He's
all right."
No doubt he was, but he would much rather have staid with them in the
corn field than have carried that great yellow ball half a mile to the
house.
There was plenty of fun after that, for both dogs and boys had learned
that there was a right way to work at that kind of hunting. Before noon
they had thirteen fine large rabbits hanging on the fence, and nobody
could have told by the look of any shock in the field that either a dog
or a boy had been through it.
"Boys," said Squire Murray, when he met them coming through the
barn-yarn gate, "which of you caught the most rabbits?"
"Which of us caught the most?"
"Yes, that's what I'd like to know. Which of you is the one I want to
hire to catch my rabbits for me?"
The boys looked at one another for a moment, and then Tad slowly
remarked, "Well, father, I guess it's Ben. He got the first bite at
every one of 'em."
[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]
WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?
BY JOHN HABBERTON,
AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."
CHAPTER VI.
THE BEANTASSEL BENEFIT.
Of the many boys who were curious about Paul Grayson's antecedents, no
one devoted more attention to the subject than Benny Mallow. Benny was
short, and Paul was tall; Benny was fat, and Paul was thin; Benny's hair
was light, while Paul's was black as jet; Benny had light blue eyes,
while those of Paul were of a rich brown; Benny always had something to
say about himself, while Paul never seemed to think his affairs of the
slightest interest to any one but himself: so, taking all things into
account, it is not wonderful that Benny Mallow spent whole half-hours in
contemplating his friend with admiration and wonder.
Still more, as Benny had been accepted by every one as Paul's particular
friend, he actually was besieged with all sorts of questions, and to
answer these without letting himself down in the estimation of the
school was no easy matter, when he did not know any more about Paul than
any one else did. One question, however, he settled to the entire
satisfaction of every one but Napoleon Nott-- Grayson was not an exiled
prince. Benny was sure of this, because he had asked Paul if he had ever
been on the other side of the ocean, and Paul had answered that he had
not. Notty endeavored to make light of this evidence by showing how easy
it would have been to spirit the mysterious person away from his royal
home and to America while he was a baby, and therefore too young to know
anything about it, but Will Palmer told Notty that it was about time to
stop making a fool of himself, and the other boys present said they
thought so too, at which Notty became so angry that he vowed, in the
presence of at least a dozen boys, that when the truth came out, and all
the boys wanted to borrow his copy of _The Exiled Prince: a Tale of
Woe_, he would not lend it to them, even if it were to save them from
death; he would not even let them look at the cover, with its picture of
the prince and the name of the publisher.
Meanwhile Mr. Morton had continued his visits to the prisoners and to
the poor of the town, and out of school hours he had so interested the
boys in some of the suffering families of worthless men or widowed
women, that it was agreed by the whole school that the teasing of any of
the boys of these families about the holes in their trousers, or
provoking fights with or between them, should entirely stop; indeed, as
this suggestion came from Bert Sharp, who was fonder of fighting than
any other boy in the town, the school could not well do otherwise.
The boys went even farther: when one day old Peter Beantassel, whose
family was always on the verge of starvation, spent on drink the
accidental earnings of a week, and then fell into an abandoned well and
was drowned, it was decided by the school to give an exhibition for the
benefit of Mrs. Beantassel and her six children. Mr. Morton was
delighted, and promised to secure a church or hall without expense to
the boys, and to collect enough money from the public to pay for
printing the tickets. The boys at once began work in tremendous earnest;
they were for a fortnight so busy at determining upon a programme, and
studying, rehearsing, selling tickets, and exacting promises from people
who would not purchase in advance, that there was but little playing
before school and during recess, blackberry hedges were neglected, and
the trout in the single brook near the town had not the slightest excuse
for apprehension.
Paul Grayson entered into the spirit of the occasion as thoroughly as
any one else; he volunteered to recite Longfellow's "Psalm of Life," and
when the farce of _Box and Cox_ was about to be given up because no boy
was willing to dress up in women's clothes, and be laughed at by all the
larger girls, for playing the part of Mrs. Bouncer, Paul volunteered for
that unpopular character, and saved the play. But this was not all.
There were to be some tableaux, and as Mr. Morton had been asked to
suggest some scenes, particularly one or two with Indians in them, and
was as fond of pointing a moral as teachers usually are, one of his
tableaux, to be called "Civilization," was a scene in the interior of an
Indian's wigwam. The squaw, who had just been killed, was lying dead on
the floor; her husband, with his hands tied, stood bleeding between two
soldiers, while between father and mother stood the half-grown son,
wondering what it all was about. As all of the boys wanted to see this
tragic picture, all of them declined to take part in it; Joe Appleby had
been heard to remark with a sneer that only very small and green boys
cared to look at Indians, so he was asked to take the part of the
wretched son himself; but he said that when any one saw him making a
fool of himself by browning his face and dressing up in rags, he hoped
some one would tell him about it: so Grayson, as the only other tall boy
who had dark hair that was not cut short, was cast for this part also,
and offered no objection. As for the bleeding chieftain, Napoleon Nott
fought hard to pose in that character, and was quieted only by being
allowed to play the dead squaw, which all the boys told him he ought
easily to see was the more romantic part, besides being one in which he
could by no chance make any mistake.
The place selected for the entertainment was the lecture-room of the
Presbyterian church, and the boys had therefore to give up their darling
project of devoting half an hour of the evening to amateur negro
minstrelsy, for one of the deacons said that while he sometimes doubted
that even an organ was a proper musical instrument for use in sacred
buildings, he certainly was not going to tolerate banjos and bones. This
decision was a great disappointment to Benny Mallow, who had been
selected by the managers to perform upon the tambourine, but in the
revision of the programme Benny was assigned to duty in a tableau as a
little fat goblin, and this so tickled his fancy that he did not suffer
long by the disappointment.
At last the eventful night arrived. Some of the boys did not leave the
lecture-room at all after the last rehearsal, not even to get their
suppers, for fear they should be late, and those who reached the room
barely in time to take their parts had all they could do to squeeze
through the crowd that blocked the doors and filled the aisles. The
spectacle of so crowded a house raised the boys to a high pitch of
excitement, which was increased by various peeps from the curtains that
served as dressing-rooms at the Beantassel children, who by some
thoughtful soul had been provided with free seats in the extreme front
bench; there they were, all but the baby; they had been provided with
clothing which, though old, was far more sightly than the rags they
usually wore, and although they did not seem as much at ease as some
others among the spectators, their eyes stood so very open, then and
throughout the evening, that even Joe Appleby, who had reluctantly
consented to pose, in his best clothes, with gloves, cane, and high hat,
as Young America in a tableau of "The Nations," agreed with himself that
the exhibition was rather a meritorious idea after all, and that even if
the boys did as badly as he knew they would, he was glad it was sure to
pay.
But the boys did not do badly; on the contrary, the general performance
would have been quite creditable to adults. The opening was somewhat
dismal; it was announced to consist of a duet for two flutes by Will
Palmer and Ned Johnston. The boys had practiced industriously at several
airs in order to discover which would be best, and at last they supposed
they had fully agreed; but when seated Ned began the "Miserere" from
_Trovatore_, while Will started "The Old Folks at Home," and each was
sure the other was wrong, and would correct himself, which the other in
both cases failed to do, and finally both boys retired abruptly, amid
considerable laughter, and fought the matter out in the dressing-room.
Paul Grayson soon restored order, however, by his rendering of the
"Psalm of Life." He had a fine voice, and he spoke the lines as if he
meant them; so gloriously did his voice ring that even the boys in the
dressing-room kept silence and listened, though they had heard the same
verses a hundred times before.
Most of the performances that followed went very smoothly, although
Benny Mallow, who played the Hatter's part in _Box and Cox_, caused some
confusion by laughing frequently and unexpectedly, because Paul's
disguise as Mrs. Bouncer affected him powerfully in spite of the efforts
made by Sam Wardwell, as the Printer, to restrain him. The tableaux
pleased the audience greatly; even that of "Prometheus," with Ned
Johnston as the sufferer, and Mrs. Battle's big red rooster as the
vulture, brought down the house.
[Illustration: PAUL AS A CHIEF'S SON.]
But the great tableau of the evening was the teacher's "Civilization."
When Paul Grayson had understood fully what the scene was to be, he
refused so earnestly to have anything to do with it that the boys were
startled. They did not excuse him from taking the part of the young
Indian, however; they pleaded so steadily that at last Paul consented,
but in worse temper than any one had ever seen him before. No one could
complain of the manner in which he acted on the stage, however. When the
curtain was drawn he was seen standing beside his dead mother, and
shaking a fist at the soldiers; in color, dress, pose, and spirit he
seemed to be a real Indian, if the audience was a competent judge; then,
when the applause justified a recall, as it soon did, the drawn curtain
disclosed Paul clinging to the wounded brave as if nothing should ever
tear him away.
Napoleon Nott saw all this, although, as the Indian boy's mother, he was
supposed to be dead beyond recall. Suddenly he felt himself to be
inspired, and when the curtain was down he flew into the dressing-room
and exclaimed, "I've got it!"
"Be careful not to hurt it," said Canning Forbes, sarcastically.
"I've got it!" declared Notty, without noticing Canning's cruel speech.
"Grayson is an Indian, a chief's son. You don't suppose he could have
made believe so well as all that, do you? That's it. I knew he was a
great person of some sort. Sh--h! he's coming."
Somehow the boys who had been able to peep out at the tableau did not
laugh at Notty this time. Paul, in his Indian dress, had greatly
impressed them all before he left the dressing-room, and certainly his
acting had been unlike anything the boys had seen other boys do. The
subject was talked over in whispers, so that Paul should not hear,
during the remainder of the evening, with the result that that very
night at least six boys told other boys or their own parents, in the
strictest confidence, of course, that there was more truth than
make-believe about Paul Grayson as an Indian. And the parents told the
same story to other parents, the boys told it to other boys, and within
twenty-four hours Paul Grayson was a far more interesting mystery than
before.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: "HAPPY AS THE DAY IS LONG."--FROM AN ETCHING BY W. S.
COLEMAN.]
THE PARASOL ANTS AND THE FORAGING ANTS.
BY CHARLES MORRIS.
Was there ever such a prattler as the warm-hearted little brook that ran
by the foot of the garden of Woodbine Cottage? To be sure, it had good
reason to be jolly, for the sunlight buried itself in its bubbles till
they sparkled like diamonds; and a hedge of roses overhung it, and
dropped crimson leaves that floated away like fairy boats on its bright
surface; and broad-winged butterflies floated, like tiny ships of the
air, above the happy stream. And away it ran, prattling and chattering,
and picking its way through moss-covered stones that lifted above its
surface, and tumbling hastily down in little cascades, as though it were
in a desperate hurry to get on in the world, and altogether misbehaving
itself just as any madcap little stream might when out on a frolic.
Its bank beyond the garden was bordered with the white and gold of
daisies and buttercups, and the red and green of blossoming clover, in
which Harry Mason was almost buried, only his bright cheeks and curly
hair showing out of this verdant nest. As for Uncle Ben, he was gravely
seated on the bank of the brook, holding his little friend Willie on his
knee. The little chap was quite as grave as his big uncle.
"You neber tole us one word yet 'bout them soldiers an' cows an' tings,
'mong the ants, Uncle Ben," he earnestly remarked, "an' you knows you
said you was goin' to tell us all an' all an' all about 'em. An' I don't
think it's fair."
"Why, I certainly must have done so," replied Uncle Ben, with affected
surprise. "You have surely forgotten. I shall have to leave this affair
for Harry to settle."
"Then Willie is right," returned Harry, from his grassy nest. "You told
us everything else about them, but you never said one thing about the
cows or the soldiers."
"Everything else about them!" exclaimed Uncle Ben, with a sly smile.
"Why, I know I did not say a word about the parasol ants, or the
foraging ants, or the--"
"The parasol ants!" cried Willie, quite forgetting the cows and the
soldiers in his surprise. "You doesn't mean, Uncle Ben, that they
carries parasols--jes like mamma, now?"
Harry, too, had lifted himself up on his elbow, the light of curiosity
gleaming in his eyes.
"They are the most comical things in the world," replied their uncle.
"Just imagine now a great line of ants, marching along like a school of
young ladies out on a holiday, each of them holding a piece of green
leaf over its head like a parasol. It is not strange that people fancied
that this was done to keep the sun off, and called them parasol ants."
"What do they do it for, then?" asked Harry, eagerly.
"Maybe them's the soldiers," suggested Willie; "maybe it's ant guns
they's carryin'."
"We have not got to the soldiers yet," said his uncle, smiling. "These
leaves are really used in building their nests. But the whole thing is
very curious. The ants climb up the bushes, and run out on the leaves.
There they cut, with their sharp jaws, a little round piece from the
leaf. Then they pick this up, getting a tight hold on it, you may be
sure, and away they scamper for the nest. But these ants are not the
nest-builders; they are only like the laborers who carry bricks to the
bricklayers. They drop their leaves beside the nest, and run back for
more, leaving the real builders to finish the work."
"Regular little hod-carriers," suggested Harry. "But they don't build a
nest of little bits of leaf, I hope?"
"Not exactly. The leaves are mingled through the earth to sustain the
great domes which they erect. The houses which these tropical ants build
are wonderfully different from the little ant-hills we see about here.
They are not very high; it is true. The dome rises about two feet above
the ground. But then it is more than forty feet across. One of them
would reach nearly across our garden, like a great white swelling upon
the face of the earth. They certainly need something to hold together
the wet clay of their great domes."
"But our ants here live 'way down, 'way under-ground," remarked Willie.
"So do these," replied Uncle Ben. "The dome is only the roof of their
house. They are famous diggers--I assure you of that. Talk about our
miners, with their tunnels running deep into the mountains: why, their
work is nothing in comparison with that of these little creatures. They
make wonderful under-ground tunnels, which run out from the nest in all
directions, and to incredible distances. No one sees these tunnels,
however, unless they may happen to come to the surface in a very
disastrous manner, as they sometimes do."
"How do you mean?" asked Harry, curiously. He had now crept out of his
lair, and was seated quietly beside his uncle, with his feet hanging
just above the stream.
"Why, in one case, in South America, they tunnelled through the bank of
a reservoir. The first thing the people knew, the water was rushing out
in a torrent. It was never discovered what was the trouble until the
reservoir was quite empty, when they found that the parasol ants had
caused the mischief."
"Well, I do declare!" cried Willie, laughing so heartily that he nearly
tumbled off Uncle Ben's knee. "Wasn't that jes ever so cunning?"
"Why, you don't think they did it just a-purpose, for nothing but
mischief, I hope?" asked Harry, with some indignation.
"I s'poses so," replied Willie, laughing to that extent that he dropped
his hat into the stream. And then there was a lively scramble until it
was rescued again from the merry waters, which were running away with it
as fast as they could.
"You're such a comical little fellow," said Harry, as he shook the water
from the dripping hat, and pressed it tightly down on Willie's head.
"Anybody that can't laugh without shaking his hat overboard!"
"But that was so funny 'bout the ants lettin' the water all run away!
don' know how I's to help laughin'," retorted Willie.
"There is another story told," continued Uncle Ben, "about a nest of
parasol ants that dug a tunnel into a gold mine. The under-ground
streams got turned into this tunnel, and the waters poured in until they
flooded the mine. It cost thousands of dollars to pump the water out,
and get the mine ready for working again. And the owners had first to
send for a professional ant-killer, and destroy the ant nest, before it
was safe to go on."
"A professional ant-killer?" repeated Harry, opening his eyes wide in
surprise.
"Yes: there are persons who make a regular business of destroying these
troublesome ants."
"Guess that can't be much trouble," said Willie, disdainfully. "Jes got
to put your foot on 'em, an' smash 'em."
"I hardly think your foot would cover forty square feet of ground,"
remarked his uncle, lifting up the diminutive foot, and very gravely
examining it. "And then there are the tunnels, running eighty or a
hundred feet away in all directions. I am afraid this foot would not be
quite large enough."
"I don't care," cried Willie, jerking his foot away. "I was thinkin'
'bout ants like what we have here."
"But how do they kill them, then?" asked Harry, looking up inquiringly
into his uncle's face.
"They build a sort of oven over the doorway of the nest," was the reply.
"In this they make a fire of charcoal and pungent herbs, and some
negroes are stationed with bellows, driving the smoke and fumes from the
fire down into the nest. When smoke is seen rising from the ground
anywhere, they know that a tunnel opens in that spot, and they stop it
up with clay. But it is no light task to kill out a nest of ants. The
negroes are kept constantly at work with their bellows for four days and
nights, driving down the smothering fumes. At the end of that time the
oven is taken away and the nest opened, every tunnel being laid bare. If
any ants are found to be alive, they are instantly killed, and all the
openings are stopped up with clay, which is stamped down hard, until the
whole nest is filled with it."
"Who would ever have thought that a nest of ants would be so hard to
kill?" remarked Harry, reflectively.
"All that trouble jes to kill some ole ants," said Willie, getting down
and walking away disdainfully. "Guess big men with their big boots could
smash 'em easier 'an that if they wanted to."
"Are there other ants that make such tunnels?" asked Harry.
"Oh yes; some of the ants are wonderful diggers. There is a Texan
species which on one occasion was found to have run a tunnel under a
creek, fifteen or twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide, for the purpose
of getting at the vegetables and fruits in a gentleman's garden on the
other side of the creek."
"I think _they_ should have been smoked out anyhow," said Harry.
"Guess I'd pulled eberyting 'fore the ants got over," suggested Willie.
"And what were those foraging ants you spoke of, Uncle Ben?"
"Jes neber mine them," exclaimed Willie. "You knows you was goin' to
tell all 'bout the cows, an' you ain't eber goin' to tell one word. I
b'lieves you's jes funnin' with us, Uncle Ben. I jes b'lieves that,
now."
"Oh! you want to hear about the cows?" said his uncle, with a look of
grave surprise. "Why, of course. The ant cows, you know, are everywhere.
There is no trouble to find them."
A stray branch of a grape-vine had grown over the hedge, and stretched
itself across the brook. Uncle Ben bent it down and examined it for a
minute.
"Why, here they are now!" he exclaimed, pointing to some very small
insects on one of the leaves, about which several ants were busying
themselves. "These are the ant cows. And here are their keepers looking
after them."
"Them little tings cows!" said Willie, with a look of utter disdain.
"You didn't expect to find them as big as our cows, I hope?" asked
Harry.
"Their real name is aphis, or plant-louse," said Uncle Ben. "They suck
the juices of the leaves. These juices become in their bodies a sort of
honey, which they yield from certain pores. The ants are very fond of
this honey-dew, and lap it up eagerly. And if you watch close you may
see them patting or stroking the aphides to make them yield the honey
faster. That is what has been called milking their cows."
"Well, that is very curious, I know," exclaimed Harry. "I am going to
watch them after this."
"Each ant seems to claim certain cows as his own property," continued
Uncle Ben. "And he will bristle up angrily if any other ant strays into
his pasture fields. But that is not the whole story. They not only milk
these cows, but they tenderly raise their calves. Some species of the
aphis live on the roots of plants. Around these the ants make their
nests, so as to have their cows in stables of their own. And they take
the greatest care of the eggs and the young of the aphides, raising them
as tenderly as they raise their own young. No human farmer could be more
careful of his own stock of cows and calves."
"You 'mos' might as well say they's folks right out," ejaculated
Willie, indignantly. "Anyhow, it's ole honey, an' it ain't milk at all."
"I am sure it is not the fault of the ants if their cows give honey
instead of milk," replied his uncle, with an odd smile. "And I have
certainly seen folks who were not as wise as the ants."
"But never mind the cows, Uncle Ben," persisted Harry. "I want to hear
about the foraging ants. Where do they belong, and what queer things do
they do?"
"They are a South American ant," was the reply. "They may be seen at
certain seasons marching along the ground in a long column, much like an
army. They have officers, too. These are large-headed ants that march
outside the column, and keep it in order. It is an immense army they
command, I can assure you--greater than that with which Xerxes in old
times invaded Greece; for there may be millions of ants in the line.
There is another species which does not march in column, but in a close
mass, often covering from six to ten square yards of ground."
"But what are they after?" asked Harry.
"That's jes what I wants to know," observed Willie, whose curiosity had
returned.
"They are after food," replied their uncle. "It is amusing to see the
insects scampering off from their line of march. They seem to know the
danger that threatens them, for scarcely a living thing escapes the
sharp jaws of these fierce foragers. They send out side columns to
search the ground and the bushes and low trees. When any insect is
found, it is instantly surrounded and covered by these marauders, and
torn to pieces, and carried off in fragments. But it is not in the trees
and on the ground that they find their chief prey."
"Where, then?" asked Harry, his great blue eyes fixed with speaking
interest on his uncle's countenance.
"In the houses. The foraging ants are a perfect blessing to the people
of the villages, not a pest, as ants are in our houses. These warm
regions, you know, have multitudes of insects that we never see. The
houses are infested not only with rats and mice, roaches and fleas, but
with snakes and scorpions, with huge spiders and with many other
unpleasant things; so the village folks are glad enough to see the
approach of the foraging ants. They throw open every door in their
houses, unlock their drawers and trunks, and pull the clothes out on the
floor. They then vacate the houses, and leave them to the ants, who soon
stream in. Those who have seen them say that it is a wonderful
spectacle. Nothing living escapes them. They search every hole, nook,
and cranny. Here, dozens may be seen surrounding a great spider or
scorpion; there, they chase sprawling long-legged creatures across the
window-panes; yonder, hundreds of them may be observed dragging out a
rat or a mouse which they have killed: even snakes can not escape from
the sharp and poisonous bite of these bold foragers. It takes from three
to four hours for them to clear out a house. They will not leave it
until they are sure that not a living thing remains. Then they stream
out again, carrying their prey with them; and the inhabitants gladly
return, satisfied that they will have a month or two of comfort after
this ants' house-cleaning."
"I do b'lieve you's half funnin' again, Uncle Ben," declared Willie,
with an aspect of severe doubt. "How's little tings like ants goin' to
pull out snakes an' rats? I'd jes like to know that!"
"But I forgot to tell you that these ants are much larger than any we
have here. Some of the tropical ants are an inch long, and as large as a
large wasp; so you may imagine that a whole army of them is not to be
trifled with."
"Is it them that's the soldiers, Uncle Ben?" asked Willie.
"The soldiers? Oh, you want to hear about the soldiers--But, I declare,
if there isn't the dinner-bell! Who would have thought that we had spent
so much time over the ants?"
THE PLUMES OF CRECY.[1]
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
I was reading of kings and nobles,
Tourney and knightly gage,
Till the summer twilight faded
From Froissart's ancient page.
Then in the darkened parlor
I saw a fairer sight--
The brave old King whose valor makes
The shame of Crecy light.
He stood on the little hill-side,
Taller than all his peers,
Quite blind, but with eyes uplifted,
Hoary with many years.
Still wearing his golden armor,
Crowned with his royal crown,
Leaning upon the sword with which
He struck the Soldan down.
And high in his gleaming helmet
Three ostrich plumes, snow white--
From the Paynim's brow he tore them
In some Jabluna fight.
All scarred with Carpathian arrows,
His heart with Honor flames:
"Advance!" he cries, "and fight for France,
Bohemia, and St. James!"
But two of his knights staid by him,
And little did they say;
The blind old King talked with his heart,
And that was in the fray.
Alas! alas! He heard too soon
The sounds of shameful flight;
"Thank God," he sighed, "Bohemia's blind!"--
He would not see this sight.
"Now, friends, one more good deed I claim,
Last service for your lord:
I ask a soldier's grave, good knights;
I'll dig it with my sword.
My horse's reins tie fast to yours--
A friend on either hand--
Then ride straight on to where you see
The English archers stand."
They kissed their King most tenderly,
Then three as one they went
Down to the field of certain death
With proud and glad content.
They cut a path to where Prince Charles,
The King's son, stood at bay:
'Twas spirits, and not flesh and blood,
For honor fought that day.
The three white plumes above the gloom
Gleamed like a snowy wing;
Victors and vanquished paused to watch
The blind Bohemian King.
Pierced oft by arrows, stained with blood,
The Soldan's plumes still wave,
Until Bohemia's sword had cut
Honor's unsullied grave.
Next day, when English heralds sought
Over the fatal field
Trampled lilies and flags of France,
They found upon his shield
The blind old King of Bohemia,
Son and friends by his side;
But torn and stained the snowy plumes
That long had been his pride.
Then said the Black Prince over him,
"O knight, the bravest, best,
Thy plumes are dyed in hero's blood--
Henceforth they are my crest!"
And still they wave o'er England's crown,
And teach the young and brave,
When all is lost but honor, then
Valor digs Honor's grave.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Froissart's Chronicle_, vol. i., p. 164.
[Illustration: JANUARY.]
[Illustration: FEBRUARY.]
[Illustration: MARCH.]
[Illustration: APRIL.]
[Illustration: MAY.]
[Illustration: JUNE.]
[Illustration: JULY.]
[Illustration: AUGUST.]
[Illustration: SEPTEMBER.]
[Illustration: OCTOBER.]
[Illustration: NOVEMBER.]
[Illustration: DECEMBER.]
THE MONTHS.--BY KATE GREENAWAY.
SUMAC HUNTING.
BY J. ESTEN COOKE.
Anybody visiting the valley of Virginia in the autumn will be sure to
notice, after sunset, all along the slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
little glimmering lights like stars. These are the fires in front of the
small tents of the sumac hunters, who, after gathering sumac all day
long, are laughing and talking with their wives and children as they eat
their suppers before lying down to sleep.
Sumac is a very pretty plant or shrub which grows a few feet high only,
and has beautiful blood-red leaves springing from a delicate shoot, or
bough. The stalk is smooth, and the leaves are almond-shaped, only more
pointed. On the top of the plant and its larger boughs grow bunches of
red berries in the shape of grape bunches; and the leaves and berries
are of such a deep, rich crimson in the late autumn that they sometimes
make the slopes of the hills appear as if they were on fire. If any
little girl would like to dress the vases on the parlor mantelpiece
prettily, she could not do better than collect a handful of these
delicate tendrils with their scarlet leaves, and use them as a
background to the lovely little autumn flowers--late primroses,
stars-of-Bethlehem, wild honeysuckles, and fringed ferns--which grow in
the woods and fields at this time of the year.
But the honest country people who take so much pains about collecting
sumac are not thinking about dressing vases with it. They gather it to
sell, and are paid from one cent to a cent and a half a pound for it at
the sumac mills. This may not seem much, but then the ocean is made up
of drops, and with poor people a little money goes a long way. As little
children can pull sumac just as well as grown people, a whole family may
gather in a day several dollars' worth.
It is used for dyeing, and is said to be better for that purpose than
anything else to color fair leather and certain other fabrics. Great
quantities of it are employed in printing calicoes in rich patterns, and
the dresses worn by ladies and girls often owe their bright colors to
the leaves of the sumac. The way in which it is collected and prepared
for use is very simple. As soon as the leaves turn red, which is toward
the end of summer, the sumac hunters begin their work. They scatter
through the fields, or along the sides of the mountain, and break off
the twigs on which the leaves are growing; for these twigs do not make
the leaves less valuable. Then, when they have collected an armful, they
put it in a pile or into bags, and as night comes on the whole is taken
to one spot, from which it is hauled home in wagons. Here it is laid on
the floor of the barn or any out-house, in the shade, so that it may dry
very gradually, and keep the juices which afford the coloring matter.
When this process of drying is gone through with, and the leaves are in
a proper state, it is loaded on carts or wagons, in bags, and taken to
the sumac mills, where it is weighed, and paid for by the owner of the
mills at the rate, as I have said, of from one cent to a cent and a half
a pound. The largest mills in Virginia, where the finest sumac grows--or
at least a very fine article--are at Richmond; but at Winchester, in the
lower part of the Shenandoah Valley, toward the Potomac, there is a big
mill, where great quantities are purchased, and prepared for the use of
the dyers. The leaves and small twigs are pounded and reduced to a fine
dust, and then it is ready to be sent away. When it reaches the
manufactories where it is to be used as a dye for leather, calico, etc.,
it is mixed with what are called _mordants_, certain substances that
make it _bite in_, as the word means, and take fast hold of the material
to be dyed; and then there is the pretty calico with its bright colors,
which can not be washed out.
It is only of late years that much attention has been paid to it in
Virginia. People thought more about raising corn and wheat than of
gathering sumac; but in twenty years they have learned a great deal, and
now begin to understand that "every little helps," and that if they can
go with their wives and children and pull sumac, and then sell it, they
can take their money and buy sugar and coffee, and perhaps some of the
very calico for their little girls' dresses which the red leaves of the
sumac make so pretty.
The children like the "camping out" on the mountain in the pleasant
summer and fall nights very much. It is a sort of frolic, and it is a
very good thing to mix up pleasure with work: it makes the work much
easier. The tents are very simple little affairs--only a breadth of
canvas stretched across a ridge-pole, like the "comb" of a house, held
up by forked sticks set in the ground. In this are spread what in
Virginia are called "pine tags," that is, the tassels, or needles, of
the pine-trees, which are dry and brown, and by spreading a blanket or
old comforter on these you have an excellent soft bed. In front of the
tent a fire is built to cook by, and by means of forked sticks a pot can
be hung above the fire for making soup, boiling meat, etc. By this fire,
as I have told you, the sumac hunters gather in the evening, after work,
and laugh and talk and sing, and eat their suppers; or perhaps some one
of them can play the fiddle, and he strikes up a dancing tune, and the
girls and boys dance on the grass, and laugh and enjoy themselves much
more than if they were in fine drawing-rooms. After a while the long
day's work makes them sleepy, and they lie down on the fresh pine tags
in the tent, and go to sleep--to be up at daylight, and once more at
work hunting and gathering their sumac.
OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.
BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.
No. VIII.
THE BATTLE OF THE RANGERS.
When war broke out between France and England in 1755, the French and
Indians came down from Canada and attacked the settlers of New England
and New York, as they had done in previous wars, burning their
dwellings, killing men and women, or carrying them to Canada as
prisoners.
The French had a fort at Crown Point, on Lake Champlain, and another at
Ticonderoga; while the English had Fort William Henry, at the southern
end of Lake George, and Fort Edward, on the Hudson.
The English officers who had been sent over by the King to command the
"Provincials," as the people of England called all who lived in America,
thought that soldiers must march in the wilderness with just as much
precision as along a hard beaten road, that they must move in platoons
and columns, keeping step to the drum-beat. The French officers, on the
other hand, adopted the plan of the Indians, marching in single file,
each man carrying his provisions. They made quick movements, falling
suddenly upon a settlement, with their Indian allies, making all the
havoc possible, and before the settlers could gather to resist them,
would be far on their way to Crown Point or Canada.
Robert Rogers, of New Hampshire, who was fighting the French, prevailed
upon Lord Loudon, the English commander-in-chief, to allow him to form a
battalion of troops, who should have the privilege of scouting the woods
around Lake George and Lake Champlain, to discover the movements of the
French and Indians, to fall upon them just as they were stealing upon
the English, strike a blow, and be gone before the French would know
what had happened. He would play their own game upon them.
Lord Loudon having given his consent, Major Rogers went to New
Hampshire and enlisted his men. They were all young, strong, athletic.
They had tramped over the hills and mountains of that province, hunting
bears, and had set their traps along the streams for beavers. They could
pick their way through the forest on a cloudy day when there was no sun
to guide them, and could tell in the darkest and cloudiest night which
way was north by feeling the bark on the trees--for the bark is always
more mossy on the northern than on the side exposed to the sun.
It was to be a service of hardship and privation. They would have to
make long marches; to sleep on the ground; to endure great fatigue;
brave the cold of winter, wrapping themselves in their blankets at
night, and lying down with the snow for their bed.
Although the hardships would be so great, Robert Rogers had no
difficulty in obtaining all the men he wanted. The settlers had suffered
so much from the enemy that they were eager to take their revenge. There
was a fascination in the service. How stirring the thought of stealing
through the woods, making roundabout marches, shooting a deer or bear,
eating the nice steaks, lying down to sleep beneath the trees; up again
in the morning, coming upon the French and Indians unawares, pouring in
a volley, killing the savages or taking them prisoners, and returning in
triumph!
Major Rogers chose as lieutenant the man who had knocked the Indians
about, right and left, when called upon to run the gauntlet--John Stark,
who could follow a trail as well as any Indian, who was always cool and
collected, and as brave as a lion. The men were called Rangers. They
wore green frocks, and besides their rifles each man had a long knife
which he could use in a close fight. They wore boots and leather
leggings, and each man carried his rations--bread and cold corned
beef--in a bag.
The ice on Lake George was thick and strong in March, 1757, when the
Rangers, seventy-four in number, with iron spurs on their feet, several
days' rations in their bags, their blankets rolled upon their shoulders,
marching in single file, with trailed arms, Major Rogers at the head,
and John Stark in the rear, started from Fort William Henry.
They made their way over the gleaming ice for two days, but on the third
day they left the lake, put on their snow-shoes, entered the woods,
marched past Ticonderoga, and came out upon the western shore of Lake
Champlain, discovered a party of French, with horses and sleds, on their
way from Ticonderoga to Crown Point. Stark, with a part of the Rangers,
made a dash and captured seven prisoners. He did not see another party
of French around a point of land in season to capture them. They escaped
to Ticonderoga, and gave the alarm.
Major Rogers knew that a large party of French and Indians would be sent
out from Ticonderoga to intercept him, and at once started to return.
It was a rainy day. The snow was damp and heavy. "We will go to our last
night's camp, and dry our guns," said Major Rogers.
They reached the camping-place, where the fires were still burning,
dried their guns, put in new priming, and started once more, Rogers in
front, Stark bringing up the rear.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Rogers descended a hill, crossed a
brook, and was picking his way up another hill, when he found himself
face to face with more than two hundred French and Indians, the nearest
not twenty feet distant.
A volley. Lieutenant Kennedy and John Gardiner fall dead; a bullet
glances from Rogers's skull, for a moment taking away his senses; the
blood flows down his face, blinding him. Several other Rangers are
wounded.
"Form here."
Lieutenant Stark issues the order, and the Rangers under his command
take position on a little hill. The Rangers down in the valley fire a
volley at the French, holding their ground till all the wounded can make
their way back to Stark's position.
Rogers wipes the blood from his face, and issues his orders.
"You are to command the centre," he says to Stark.
He sends Sergeants Walker and Phillips with eight men to the rear, to
give notice of any attempt of the enemy to crawl round and attack from
that direction.