Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 16. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, February 17, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: "DON'T YOU WISH YOU COULD GET IT?"]
GENERAL PRESCOTT AND THE YANKEE BOY.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
General Prescott, commanding the British forces on Rhode Island in 1777,
was a petty tyrant, imperious, irascible, and cruel. He would command
citizens of Newport who met him on the streets to take off their hats in
deference to him, and if not obeyed, he would knock them off with his
cane. If he saw a group of citizens talking together, he would shake his
cane at them, and shout, "Disperse, you rebels!" For slight offenses
citizens were imprisoned and otherwise ill-treated. This unworthy
conduct made the people despise and hate him. His tyranny became
unbearable.
Prescott's summer quarters were at Mr. Overing's house, on the borders
of Narragansett Bay, a few miles from Newport. On a warm but showery
night in July, 1777, Lieutenant-Colonel Barton, with a few resolute men,
went down the bay from Providence, in a whale-boat, landed near
Prescott's quarters at about midnight, secured the sentinels, entered
the house, and ascended to the door of his bedroom in the second story.
It was locked. A stout colored man who accompanied Barton, making a
battering-ram of his head, burst open the door. The General, in
affright, sprang from his bed, but was instantly seized, and without
being allowed to dress himself, was conveyed to the boat, and taken
quickly across the bay to Warwick. Thence he was sent, under guard, to
Washington's head-quarters in New Jersey.
In the spring of 1778 Prescott was exchanged for General Charles Lee,
and returned to Rhode Island. Soon afterward the British Admiral invited
the General to dine with him and his officers on board his ship, then
lying in front of Newport. Martial law yet prevailed on the Island, and
men and boys were frequently sent by the authorities on shore to be
confined in the ship as a punishment for slight offenses. There were
several on board at that time.
After dinner the free use of wine made the company hilarious, and toasts
and songs were frequently called for. A lieutenant remarked to the
Admiral, "There is a Yankee lad confined below who can shame any of us
in singing."
"Bring him up," said the Admiral.
"Yes, bring him up," said Prescott.
The boy was brought into the cabin. He was pale and slender, and about
thirteen years of age. Abashed by the presence of great officers, with
their glittering uniforms, he timidly approached, when the Admiral,
seeing his embarrassment, spoke kindly to him, and asked him to sing a
song.
"I can't sing any but Yankee songs," said the trembling boy.
"Come, my little fellow, don't be afraid," said the Admiral. "Sing one
of your Yankee songs--any one you can recollect."
The boy still hesitated, when the brutal Prescott, who was a stranger to
the lad, roared out,
"Give us a song, you little rebel, or I'll give you a dozen lashes."
This cruel salutation was innocently met most severely by the child,
when, encouraged by kind words from the Admiral, he sang, with a sweet
voice and modest manner, the following ballad, composed by a sailor of
Newport:
"Twas on a dark and stormy night--
The wind and waves did roar--
Bold Barton then, with twenty men,
Went down upon the shore.
"And in a whale-boat they set off
To Rhode Island fair,
To catch a redcoat General
Who then resided there.
"Through British fleets and guard-boats strong
They held their dangerous way,
Till they arrived unto their port,
And then did not delay.
"A tawny son of Afric's race
Them through the ravine led,
And entering then the Overing house,
They found him in his bed.
"But to get in they had no means
Except poor Cuffee's head,
Who beat the door down, then rushed in,
And seized him in his bed.
"Stop! let me put my clothing on!"
The General then did pray;
'Your clothing, massa, I will take;
For dress we can not stay.'
"Then through rye stubble him they led,
With shoes and clothing none,
And placed him in their boat quite snug,
And from the shore were gone.
"Soon the alarm was sounded loud:
'The Yankees they have come,
And stolen Prescott from his bed,
And him have carried hum.'
"The drums were beat, sky-rockets flew,
The soldiers shouldered arms,
And marched around the grounds they knew,
Filled with most dire alarms.
"But through the fleet with muffled oars
They held their devious way,
And landed him on 'Gansett shores,
Where Britons held no sway.
"When unto land the captors came,
Where rescue there was none,
'A bold push this,' the General cried;
'Of prisoners I am one.'"
The boy was frequently interrupted by roars of laughter at Prescott's
expense, which strengthened the child's nerves and voice; and when he
had concluded his song, "I thought," wrote a gentleman who was present,
"the deck would go through with the stamping." General Prescott joined
heartily in the merriment produced by the song, and thrusting his hand
into his pocket, he pulled out a coin, and handed it to the boy, saying,
"Here, you young dog, is a guinea for you."
The boy was set at liberty the next morning, and sent ashore.
CLIMBING A MOUNTAIN THREE MILES HIGH.
The ice-bound peak of the Alps known as the Matterhorn, situated between
Switzerland and Italy, forty miles northeast of Mont Blanc, and twelve
miles west of Monte Rosa, towers skyward nearly 15,000 feet, presenting
an appearance imposing beyond description. The peak rises abruptly, by a
series of cliffs which may properly be termed precipices, a clear 5000
feet above the glaciers which surround its base. There seemed to the
superstitious natives in the surrounding valleys to be a line drawn
around it, up to which one might go, but no farther. Within that
invisible line good and evil spirits were supposed to exist. They spoke
of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits dwelt; and if you
laughed, they gravely shook their heads, told you to look yourself to
see the castles and the walls, and warned you against a rash approach,
lest the infuriate demons from their impregnable heights should hurl
down vengeance for your audacity.
Previous to 1865 several attempts had been made by daring tourists to
reach its summit, but no one got beyond 13,000 feet, the remaining 2000
feet being generally regarded as inaccessible. But in the year just
mentioned a little party of hardy English climbers accomplished the
ascent. The achievement was made, however, at the cost of four human
lives.
The story, as told by one of the leaders of the party, Mr. Edward
Whymper, who had already made seven unsuccessful attempts, is an
exciting one.
The ascent was made in July, in company with Lord Francis Douglas, Mr.
Hudson, Mr. Hadow, and three guides. On the first day they did not
ascend to a great height, and on the second day they resumed their
journey with daylight, as they were anxious to outstrip a party of
Italians who had set out before them by a different route. Difficulty
after difficulty was surmounted. The higher they rose, the more intense
became the excitement. What if they should be beaten at the last moment?
The slope eased off; at length they could be detached from the rope
which bound the party together; and Croz and Mr. Whymper, dashing away,
ran a neck-and-neck race, which ended in a dead-heat. At 1.40 P.M. the
world was at their feet, and the Matterhorn was conquered. Hurrah! They
had beaten the party of Italians, whom they saw on the southwest ridge,
1250 feet below, and who did not prosecute the ascent farther. For an
hour the successful climbers revelled in the scene which lay at their
feet. There were black and gloomy forests, bright and cheerful meadows;
bounding water-falls and tranquil lakes; fertile lands and savage
wastes; sunny plains and frigid _plateaux_. There were the most rugged
forms and the most graceful outlines; low perpendicular cliffs and
gentle undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, sombre
and solemn, or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles,
pyramids, domes, cones, and spires. There was every combination that the
world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire.
Alas! their naturally triumphant feeling of pleasure was but
short-lived. They had commenced their descent, again tied together with
ropes. Croz, a most accomplished guide and a brave fellow, went first;
Hadow, second; Hudson, as an experienced mountaineer, and reckoned as
good as a guide, third; Lord F. Douglas, fourth; followed by Mr. Whymper
between the two remaining guides, named Jaugwalder, father and son. They
were commencing the difficult part of the descent, and Croz was cutting
steps in the ice for the feet of Mr. Hadow, who was immediately behind
him. A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa Hotel,
saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of the
Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for
telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he
saw: Michel Croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give Mr. Hadow
greater security, was taking hold of his legs, and putting his feet one
by one into their proper positions. "At this moment," says Mr. Whymper,
"Mr. Hadow slipped, fell against him, and knocked him over. I heard one
startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying
downward; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord
F. Douglas immediately after him. All this was the work of a moment.
Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation, old Peter and I planted
ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit; the rope was taut between
us, and the jerk came on us both as one man. We held; but the rope broke
midway between Jaugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we
saw our unfortunate companions sliding downward on their backs, and
spreading out their hands, endeavoring to save themselves. They passed
from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from
precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher below--a distance
of nearly 4000 feet in height. From the moment the rope broke, it was
impossible to help them. So perished our comrades."
The bodies of three of the men who thus miserably perished were
afterward recovered; but that of Lord Francis Douglas was never again
seen. It was a melancholy ending, and may well excite a feeling of
surprise that so many brave and useful men can thus be found year by
year hazarding their lives for what is in many cases no higher purpose
than that of pleasure or sport.
THE GOLD DIGGINGS OF IRELAND.
Although Ireland is not generally regarded as one of the gold-producing
countries of the world, gold has been found there in paying quantities,
especially in the county of Wicklow.
Tradition commonly attributes the original discovery of the Wicklow gold
mines to a poor school-master, who, while fishing in one of the small
streams which descend from the Croghan mountains, picked up a piece of
shining metal, and having ascertained that it was gold, gradually
enriched himself by the success of his researches in that and the
neighboring streams, cautiously disposing of the produce of his labor to
a goldsmith in Dublin. He is said to have preserved the secret for
upward of twenty years, but marrying a young wife, he imprudently
confided his discovery to her, and she, believing her husband to be mad,
immediately revealed the circumstance to her relations, through whose
means it was made public. This was toward the close of the year 1795,
and the effect it produced was remarkable. Thousands of people of every
age and sex hurried to the spot, and from the laborer who could wield a
spade or pickaxe to the child who scraped the rock with a rusty nail,
all eagerly engaged in the search after gold. The Irish are a people
possessed of a rich and quick fancy, and the very name of a gold mine
carried with it ideas of inexhaustible wealth.
During the interval which elapsed between the public announcement of the
gold discovery and the taking possession of the mine by the
government--a period of about two months--it is supposed that upward of
two thousand five hundred ounces of gold were collected by the peasants,
principally from the mud and sand of Ballinvally stream, and disposed of
for about ten thousand pounds, a sum far exceeding the produce of the
mine during the government operations, which amounted to little more
than three thousand five hundred pounds.
The gold was found in pieces of all forms and sizes, from the smallest
perceptible particle to the extraordinary mass of twenty-two ounces,
which sold for eighty guineas. This large piece was of an irregular
form; it measured four inches in its greatest length, and three in
breadth, and in thickness it varied from half an inch to an inch; a gilt
cast of it may be seen in the museum of Trinity College, Dublin. So pure
was the gold generally found, that it was the custom of the Dublin
goldsmiths to put gold coin in the opposite scale to it, and give weight
for weight.
The government works were carried on until 1798, when all the machinery
was destroyed in the insurrection. The mining was renewed in 1801, but
not being found sufficiently productive to pay the expenses, the search
was abandoned. There prevails yet, however, a lingering belief among the
peasants that there is still gold in Kinsella, and only the "lucky man"
is wanting.
THE STORY OF THE SUMMER BOARDER, MOSES, AND THE TWO VISITORS.
BY THE FAMILY STORY-TELLER.
I warn you, said Family Story-Teller, looking round upon the family
circle the next evening, that this is a story of mistakes. It will be a
hard story to follow, and unless you pay close attention, you will
forget which is Evelyn and which is the other girl, and why it was that
Mrs. Stimpcett thought her boy Moses had broken his leg. I mean, of
course, Mrs. Stimpcett of the village of Gilead.
Mrs. Stimpcett's summer boarder, Mr. St. Clair, was forgetful. He liked
well to gaze at a brook, a pond, the clouds, the blue sky, the flowery
fields, and often he forgot to stop doing so, and kept on gazing when it
was meal time, or bed-time, or some other time.
Mrs. Stimpcett took also another summer boarder, a rich lady of the name
of Odell. Mrs. Odell was tall, and slim, and pale, and in her cap, just
above her forehead, was set in a row three pink muslin roses. Mrs. Odell
was silly enough to be proud of being rich, and stingy enough to like to
save her own money at other people's expense.
[Illustration: EVELYN.]
Mrs. Odell had a six-year-old niece named Evelyn, a pale, delicate
little girl, who lived in the city, and this Evelyn was coming to Gilead
to visit her aunt Odell. She was coming in the cars to Mill Village in
care of the conductor, and her aunt Odell was to send a carriage to the
station to fetch her to Gilead. If the carriage was not there when the
cars arrived, she was to stay with the station-man till it should
arrive. I trust my story is plain thus far.
It happened that Mr. Stimpcett was going to Mill Village that same day,
to get some corn ground, and Mrs. Odell, though it would take him very
far out of his way, asked him to go round by the station and get Evelyn.
This would save hiring a carriage.
Now Mr. St. Clair thought it would be a pleasant thing to go to mill,
and asked if he might go in the place of Mr. Stimpcett. Mr. Stimpcett
said, "Oh yes, if you will be sure to bring back the meal." So Mr. St.
Clair went to mill; and Moses Stimpcett, a boy about nine years old,
went with him, for the sake of the ride, and to see his aunt Debby, who
lived not far from the mill.
They set off soon after the hour of noon. Moses wore his Zouave cap, and
his second-best summer clothes, and Mr. St. Clair wore a black alpaca
coat, a blue neck-tie tied in a bow, a broad-brimmed straw hat, a white
vest, and white trousers. Moses drove the horse, and they reached the
mill without accident. While the miller was taking in the corn, Moses
bought a roll of lozenges at a store near by, and as he came out with
them a man passed that way, leading a small but valuable dog. Said this
man to Moses, "I wish you would hold my dog while I step into the mill;"
and Moses took the string.
Mr. St. Clair hitched his horse a little way from the mill, and then
said to Moses, "When the man takes his dog, you can go to your aunt
Debby's. I will call for you there, after I have been to the station and
got the little girl." Mr. St. Clair then walked up the bank of the
stream to see the waters flow.
[Illustration: MOSES LETS THE DOG FALL.]
Moses led the dog along to the mill, and leaned against the building
awhile; then sat down on a barrel. Soon the barrel began to move. The
reason of this was that it stood on an elevator. Moses had not noticed
that the barrel stood on an elevator. First he wondered what the matter
was, and second, he thought he would jump; but by that time the barrel
was quite a way off the ground, and, besides, he was troubled by holding
the string of the dog, and the lozenges. The barrel rose higher and
higher, and when the little dog found himself swinging in the air, he
kicked and yelped, and jerked the string so that Moses was obliged to
let it go, and also to drop the lozenges, for he had to grasp the barrel
with both hands. The dog fell, and broke one of his legs. [Please
remember that it was the _dog_, and not Moses.] Moses and the barrel
were taken in at the third story. A traveller passing through the place
heard of this elevator accident, and told of it that afternoon at a
house in Gilead. But this person understood that it was the _boy_ who
broke his leg--"a Stimpcett boy," he said, in telling the news. Mrs.
Stimpcett heard of it soon after milking-time; but this will be spoken
of farther on in the story.
Mr. St. Clair walked far up the bank of the stream, and when he came
back, the miller told him that his bag of meal had been put into his
cart. He went out, and seeing a cart with a bag of meal lying at the
bottom, he stepped in, and drove around to the station.
Now this cart which Mr. St. Clair took belonged to a man who came from
Cherry Valley. Here, you see, was a mistake. But Mr. St. Clair not only
took the wrong cart, he took the wrong little girl, as will now be told.
He drove in haste to the station, knowing he had staid too long walking
up the bank of the stream. On the platform of the station sat a
roly-poly, chubby-cheeked little girl, with a carpet-bag and a heavy
bundle. He asked her, "Are you waiting for some one to come for you?"
"Yes, sir," she answered. "All right," said Mr. St. Clair; and he helped
her into the cart. I hope you understand that this very fleshy child was
not Evelyn Odell. She was Maggie Brien. Maggie Brien lived with her
grandmother, not far from the station. Her mother did the cooking in a
family two miles away, and she had promised to send that day for Maggie
to come and make her a visit, and Maggie was sitting on the platform
waiting for the man to take her.
Mr. St. Clair took her, and drove from the station, thinking to go to
Aunt Debby's and get Moses, and set off for Gilead; but while he was
gazing up at the sky, the horse--which you will remember was not Mr.
Stimpcett's horse--turned into a road which led to his own master's
house at Cherry Valley. Mr. St. Clair had now the wrong horse and cart,
the wrong meal, the wrong girl, and the wrong road. Presently the horse
trotted up to the door of a farm-house, and stopped. Three heads of
three young maidens popped out of three chamber windows, and a
bare-armed woman, wiping her hands on her apron, rushed to the door.
"Where is my husband?" she cried. "Is he hurt? Is he killed? Tell me the
truth at once!"
"I assure you, madam," answered Mr. St. Clair, mildly, "that I have not
seen your husband."
"Why, then, have you come with his horse and cart?" she asked.
"This horse and cart, madam," said Mr. St. Clair, still mildly, "belongs
to Mr. Stimpcett, of Gilead."
"Do you think I don't know our horse and cart?" cried the woman, in an
angry tone. "Besides, here's my husband's name on the bag--I. Ellison."
"I must have taken the wrong horse and cart," said Mr. St. Clair. "I
will go back at once and find Mr. Ellison."
"The quicker the better," said the woman, as he turned the horse.
Just after Mr. St. Clair had passed from the Cherry Valley road into the
mill road, a man came out of a wood path and sprang at the horse,
crying, "Stop thief!"
"Where is the thief?" asked Mr. St. Clair, looking all around.
"You are the thief!" cried the man. "You have stolen my horse and cart."
Maggie Brien began to cry.
"Are you Mr. I. Ellison?" asked Mr. St. Clair.
"Yes, I am," said the man, angrily.
Mr. St. Clair explained his mistake, and gave up the horse and cart to
Mr. I. Ellison. He then took Maggie's carpet-bag and heavy bundle, and
walked all the way to Aunt Debby's.
By the time they reached Aunt Debby's it was nearly dark, and as for
Moses, he was already travelling home in his father's cart. It happened
in this way. Aunt Debby heard that Mr. St. Clair had been seen driving
off, and knew he must have taken the wrong horse and cart, for Mr.
Stimpcett's was still standing near the mill. Therefore, as Moses had
already waited until after supper, she let him take his father's horse
and cart and drive home behind a man with an ox team who was going by a
roundabout way to Gilead.
Now as soon as Moses had driven off, Aunt Debby locked her doors and
went to an evening meeting, so that when Mr. St. Clair came there on
foot, with Maggy Brien and her bag and bundle, to find Moses, he found
no one. He questioned some boys standing by a fence, and they told him
that Moses had gone home in his father's cart, behind an ox team. Maggy
Brien began to cry again. "Don't cry, dear," said Mr. St. Clair. "I'll
hire a buggy."
He hired from the stable a buggy, a fast horse, and a driver, and away
they started for Gilead, and reached Mr. Stimpcett's house at about half
past eight o'clock in the evening. Moses had not arrived.
Mr. St. Clair found Mrs. Stimpcett, with her bonnet and shawl on,
walking the floor, sobbing and sighing and wringing her hands. Grandma,
also crying, was wrapping a bottle of the Sudden Remedy in a piece of
newspaper.
"Oh, how _is_ Moses?" cried Mrs. Stimpcett. "_Will_ it have to be taken
off?"
"Is not Moses here?" asked Mr. St. Clair, in a mild voice.
"Here!" cried Mrs. Stimpcett. "How can he be here, when he has broken
his leg? I am going to him as soon as Mr. Stimpcett can borrow a horse."
Mr. St. Clair thought that Moses must have fallen from the cart on his
way home; but before he had time to speak, Mrs. Odell came in.
"Where is my niece?" she cried. "Where is Evelyn?"
[Illustration: "'HERE SHE IS,' SAID MR. ST. CLAIR."]
"Here she is," said Mr. St. Clair, presenting Maggie Brien.
"What do you mean?" shrieked Mrs. Odell. "That my niece? No! no! no! Oh,
Evelyn! Evelyn! Evelyn! Dear child, where are you?"
Maggie Brien began to cry bitterly.
"Alas! what a wretch I am, to have made this mistake!" cried Mr. St.
Clair. "But I'll find your Evelyn. I'll go for a horse. I'll take this
child back. Don't cry, little girl. I won't rest till I find your
Evelyn;" and he rushed from the house, almost knocking down several
children in the passageway--the Stimpcett children; for Obadiah, Debby,
and little Cordelia had been awakened by the noise, and had come down in
their night-gowns.
But the lost Evelyn was near, and coming nearer every moment. You will
remember that Maggie's mother, Mrs. Brien, was to send for Maggie to
come and visit her. The man whom she sent went back and told her that he
could not find Maggie, and that her grandmother was afraid she had been
stolen from the station. Mrs. Brien hired a horse and wagon, and drove
to the station, and inquired of the station-master. A stable-boy who
stood near told her he saw a little girl who looked like Maggie riding
off in a buggy with a man, and that the man hired the buggy to go to
Gilead.
"The wretch!" cried Mrs. Brien; "to be stealing away my child! I will
keep on to Gilead. I will follow him up."
"I wish you would let this little girl ride with you to Gilead," said
the station-master. "She has been waiting a long time for some one to
call and take her to Mr. Stimpcett's, and Mr. Stimpcett will help you
find your Maggie." He then brought out a slender, flaxen-haired little
girl, and placed her in Mrs. Brien's wagon. This child was Evelyn Odell,
and Mrs. Brien took her to Gilead.
It happened that they reached Mr. Stimpcett's just as Moses was driving
into the yard with his father's horse and cart, and they three, Mrs.
Brien, Moses, and Evelyn, went into the house together.
Scarcely had they entered before Mr. Stimpcett, and then Mr. St. Clair,
arrived in haste, each with a horse and wagon. Mr. Stimpcett rushed in
to get his wife, and Mr. St. Clair to get Maggie. There they found Mrs.
Stimpcett with her arms around Moses, Mrs. Odell with hers around
Evelyn, and Mrs. Brien with hers around Maggie; and there were huggings
and kissings and laughings and cryings, and it was, "Oh, you dear!" and,
"Oh, you darling!" and "Oh, my child!" and, oh other things! Grandma
held the Sudden Remedy bottle, looking at Moses's legs as if not quite
sure yet that they did not need some of it rubbed on, while Obadiah, and
Deborah, and little Cordelia stood staring and sniffling and smiling,
now and then wiping their eyes with their night-gown sleeves.
"Will nobody hug me?" cried Mr. Stimpcett. Upon this little Cordelia
climbed into his arms, and they two hugged each other.
Mr. St. Clair told his part of the story, Moses his part, and Mrs. Brien
her part.
"After all," said Mr. Stimpcett, "Mr. St. Clair did not bring back the
meal!"
THE FAIRY PAINTERS.
The Fairy Queen had built herself a palace of gold and crystal. The
rooms were hung with tapestry of rose leaves, and the floors were
carpeted with moss. The great hall was the grandest part of all. The
ceiling was made of mother-of-pearl, and the walls of ivory, and the
lights which hung from the roof sparkled with diamonds. These ivory
walls were to be covered with paintings; so the Queen called the fairy
artists, and bade them all paint a picture for her by a certain day. "He
whose picture is best," she said, "shall paint my hall, to his
everlasting renown, and I will raise him, besides, to the highest fairy
honors." The youngest of the fairy painters was Tintabel. He could draw
a face so exquisite, that it was happiness only to gaze at it, or so sad
that no one could see it without tears. No fairy longed as he did for
the glory and renown of painting the Queen's palace.
He wandered out into the wood to dream his idea into loveliness before
he wrought it with his hand. "Never shall be picture like my picture,"
he said aloud; "I will steal the colors of heaven, and trace spirit
forms." But Orgolino, that wicked fairy, heard him. Now Orgolino painted
very grandly. He could draw wild and strong and terrible beings, which
thrilled the gazer with wonder and awe. Of all his rivals he feared
Tintabel only. So, when he saw him alone in the wood, he rejoiced
wickedly, and said, "Now I will rid myself of a foe;" and he flew down
upon the poor Tintabel, and being a more powerful fairy, he caught him,
and pinned his wings together with magic thorns, and fastened him down
with them among the fungus and toad-stools of the damp wood. Then he
flew away exulting, and painted day and night. It was a magnificent
picture, with stately figures, powerful and triumphant, and Orgolino's
heart swelled with pride at his work, and he said to himself, "I might
have left that poor wretch alone. The weakling could do nothing like
this."
Meanwhile Tintabel cried bitterly, because his hope was lost, his praise
would never be heard among the fairies, and the beauty he had hoped to
create he should never see. The elf that lived in the toad-stool looked
up as the tears fell upon him, and gathered them up from his fungous
coat, where they sparkled like dew.
"What sweet water!" he said.
"Alas!" sighed Tintabel--"alas for my vanished hopes! Oh! how lovely
should my picture have been, and now I am bound down here to
uselessness;" and he could not feel the pain of his bruised and bound
wings because of the pain at his heart. The elf in the toad-stool looked
up and said,
"Fairy, paint me a picture, here on the smooth surface of the
toad-stool, for I have never seen one."
Tintabel stopped his wailing to think how wretched was the elf who had
never seen a picture.
"Ah! elf," he said, "I have neither pencil nor colors. How can I paint?"
But the elf pointed to one of the thorns which fastened Tintabel's
wings. The end was long, so that the fairy could reach it.
"There is a pencil," said the elf; and the artist's longing came upon
the fairy, and he seized the thorn. Poor hurt wings! how they quivered
and pained as the point of their fastenings pressed hither and thither
over the surface of the toad-stool, and crushed and dragged and rent
them in its course! But the thorn had a magic in it, and Tintabel found
it possessed more than fairy power. The sharper his pain, the more
perfect the stroke he could make. As the delicate film of the wing was
torn, the rainbow tints dropped off, and gave him lovelier colors than
the hues of heaven; and the elf held up his tears as water for the
painting. He painted his remembrance of fairy-land and his weariness of
earth.
When the appointed day came, the Fairy Queen called her painters
together. The great hall was filled with them, but of all the pictures
none was so great as Orgolino's. He had painted "The Triumph of
Strength." Then said the Queen, "Where is Tintabel?" and no one knew.
"He has not cared to obey your Majesty's command," said Orgolino.
But the Queen looked at him steadily, and said, "Tintabel must be
found."
Then all the fairies went in search of him. Soon one returned and said,
"Tintabel is bound in the wood among the fungus and toad-stools, and
before him is a picture more beautiful than any fairy ever saw."
"Come," said the Queen; and her subjects followed her to the wood.
There, on the white toad-stool's top, was a tiny picture, lovelier and
grander at once than any fancy could dream, and it showed "The Triumph
of Pain."
Then Orgolino was turned out into the wood among the cold and creeping
things, and Tintabel was taken to great honor.
A WIDE-AWAKE RUSSIAN SENTRY.
BY DAVID KER.
Eighty or ninety years ago, when the Russians had a good many wars upon
their hands, their best general was Marshal Alexander Suvoroff, whose
name is still famous in Russia. Any old soldier you meet there will tell
you plenty of stories about him, and strange enough stories too, for he
was a very curious kind of man. In the coldest weather, when even the
hardiest soldiers were wrapping themselves up, he would go about in his
shirt sleeves just as if it were summer; and very often he would be up
before any one else in the camp was astir, and startle the first officer
whom he saw coming out of his tent by crowing like a rooster as loud as
he could, just as if to say, "You ought to have been out before." Then,
too, Count and General though he was, dining with the Empress herself
almost every week, and going about the palace as he pleased, he dressed
as plainly as any peasant, and slept on straw like a common soldier.
Once or twice the palace servants, seeing this untidy little fellow
coming up to the grand entrance, took him for a tramp, and wanted to
drive him away; but they soon found out that _that_ would not do.
Another of his queer ways was to try and puzzle any one he met by asking
him all sorts of strange questions, such as how many stars there were in
the sky, how many drops of water in the sea, and so forth. He _did_
puzzle a good many people in this way, but once or twice he got an
answer quite as smart as his questions, and that was just what he liked.
One day a soldier came to him with a dispatch, and Suvoroff, seeing that
he was quite a young, simple-looking fellow, thought it would be good
fun to try his hand upon _him_.
"How many fish are there in the sea?" he asked.
"Just exactly as many as haven't been caught yet," answered the lad at
once.
The General was rather taken aback, but he went on, nevertheless:
"If you were in a besieged town, without food, how would you supply
yourself?"
"From the enemy."
"How far is it from here to the moon?"
"Two of your Excellency's forced marches."
Suvoroff smiled and looked pleased, for he was very proud of being able
to move his men so quickly, and had won many a victory by it.
"Which of your officers do you like best?" was the next question.
"Captain Masloff."
Now this Captain Masloff happened to be a very handsome young fellow,
while Suvoroff himself was frightfully ugly, so he thought he would
catch the soldier in a trap by asking him, "What's the difference
between your captain and myself?"
"Why," said the soldier, looking slyly at him, "my captain can't make me
a corporal, but your Excellency has only to say the word."
The General burst into a loud laugh, and clapping him on the shoulder,
said, "Well, then, I _do_ say the word: you're a corporal from this day
forth, and a right good one you'll make. If I can find another man as
smart as you, I'll make him a sergeant."
Two or three months after this adventure, Suvoroff and his army were
down on the Lower Danube, keeping watch over the Turks, in the middle of
the hardest winter that had been known in that country for many a year.
But of course, being Russians, they didn't mind _that_ much, and
Suvoroff went about in the snow and the frost as if he didn't know what
cold was.
Well, one bitter night in the beginning of January, the old General was
making the round of the camp, as usual, to see that his sentinels were
all keeping good watch at the outposts, when suddenly he came upon a
sentry who seemed to have got the coldest place of all, for he was right
down upon the bank of the river, with the cold wind blowing through him
as if it would cut him in two.
"Good-evening, brother," said the General, speaking as if _he_ were only
a common soldier too.
"Good-evening," answered the sentinel, pretending not to know him,
although he had recognized the General's voice in a moment.
"Plenty of stars out to-night," went on Suvoroff, looking up at the
frosty sky. "Can you tell me how many of them there are altogether?"
"Just wait a bit, and I'll count," said the soldier, quite coolly. And
forthwith he began: "One, two, three, four, five, six," and so on, as if
he were never going to leave off.
At first Suvoroff was rather amused at his smartness; but he soon found
the game getting much too cold to be pleasant, for he was in his usual
light dress, while the sentry at least had on a good thick frieze coat.
Keener and keener blew the bitter night wind, till the poor old General
felt as if he should never be warm again. For a while he bore up
manfully, hoping the soldier would get tired and leave off; but when the
man got up to a thousand, and was still counting away as if he meant to
keep it up all night, Suvoroff could stand it no longer.
"What's your name, my fine fellow?" asked he, as well as his chattering
teeth would let him.
"Vasili [Basil] Pushkin,"[1] answered the soldier, "private in the
Seventh Foot."
"Very good," said the Marshal; "I won't forget you. Good-night."
The next morning Pushkin was sent for to the General's quarters; and
Suvoroff, turning to his staff officers, said:
"Gentlemen, here's a man whom I tried to fool last night, but I met my
match, and something more. I said I'd make any man a sergeant who was
smart enough for that, and I must keep my word."
And he did so that very day.
FOOTNOTES:
1 All purely Russian names end either in "off" or "in," the
"ski's" being all Polish, and the "ko's" all Cossack.
THE SONG OF THE WREN.
BY MRS. MARGARET EYTINGE.
[Illustration: BIRDIE AND HER LITTLE FRIENDS.]
In a certain wild but beautiful country place, far from this great
city, stood a little white cottage all by itself, there being no other
house for ten or twelve miles, over which, in summer-time, the wild
rose vines clambered until they reached the very chimney, where,
clinging to the red bricks, they flung out in merry triumph slender
flower-laden branches like pennons on the breeze. Under the cottage
eaves some swallows built their nests every spring, and to the garden
came, as soon as the yellow and white honeysuckles and blue larkspurs
and many-colored four-o'clocks bloomed, myriads of humming-birds,
looking like rubies, and diamonds, and opals, and emeralds, and topazes,
and sapphires, that had taken to themselves wings, and flown from all
parts of the world to visit the living gems in this lovely spot. In the
autumn, when the leaves, dressed in their gayest dress, were bidding
farewell to the sunshine and the wind and each other, hundreds of
robin-redbreasts--"God's birds"--hopped like little flames about the
ground, and in a hollow tree near the cottage door a pretty red-brown
wren and his mate had found shelter for a long time, and reared several
broods. As for the saucy, chattering, busy, fearless sparrows, they had
feather-lined nests wherever a sparrow's nest could be placed, and that
is almost everywhere--on the pump, behind the wood-pile, in the barn,
among the trees--and these nests they never forsook all the year round.
What wonder that the cottage was called Bird House, and the dear wee
girl whose home it was answered to the name of Birdie? No brothers or
sisters had the innocent, blue-eyed child, and, save the birds, no
little friends. But they loved her dearly, and were always near her; so
she never grew lonely, but was happy and contented from morning until
night. At early dawn, when a soft light in the eastern sky told that the
sun was coming, they tapped on her window-panes to waken her; and when
she appeared at the cottage door, they flew to meet her, lighting on her
fair head, her shoulders, her outstretched hands, with loud, sweet,
twittering welcomes. Even strange birds just passing that way would join
the merry throng, and joyfully and gratefully partake of the crumbs the
dear one scattered for her friends. And often at night, when Birdie
awoke from a pleasant dream, and found her room filled with the silver
of the moon, she would hear the sparrows and swallows say--still
dreaming they--"Birdie, sweet Birdie!"
She had learned their language when she was but a babe, and knew when
they were glad or sad; when they praised or scolded; when they gave
warning that the spirits of the storm were abroad; when they said to
their young, "Courage, little ones; it is time to try your wings"; when
they softly chirped, "To sleep, to sleep"; and when they sang songs of
love or farewell.
And so it happened that she understood every word of the song that the
wren sang to her that winter afternoon. The snow had been falling, and
the sunshine was just coming back, when she went out in the garden, in
her Little Red Riding-hood cloak, to share her bread with the sparrows
and snow-birds. Around her they flew, uttering cries of joy, when
suddenly the wren, forgetting his shyness, appeared among them; and this
is the song he sang:
"In the time of violets,
When the Spring came dancing
O'er the meadow, through the wood,
Sunbeams round her glancing--
'Birdie's sweet, sweet, sweet,
Sweet,' sang the swallow,
'And where'er her footsteps roam,
I will follow, follow.'
"When the roses bloomed and blushed,
And the fragrant Summer
Kisses warm and sparkling smiles
Gave to each new-comer--
'Birdie's sweet, sweet, sweet,'
Sang the blackbird clearly;
'Sweet as daisy-buds, and I
Love her dearly, dearly.'
"When the autumn leaves began
Gold and crimson turning,
Robin-Redbreast sang--his breast
Bright as sunset burning--
'Birdie's sweet, sweet, sweet,
Sweet as dewy clover,
And her praises shall be sung
All the wide world over.'
"Wrens and sparrows--all the birds,
Dear, that fly above thee,
For thy gentle words and ways,
For thy beauty, love thee.
Birdie sweet, sweet, sweet--
Happy be forever!
While the birds can guard thee, sweet,
Harm shall reach thee never."
"Thank you, dear wren--thank you, dear birds," said Birdie, with tears
in her beautiful blue eyes, when the song was ended; and she went away
to her own little room and said a prayer of thankfulness.
And from that time the child's heart was lighter than ever, and she sang
all day long like a tuneful mocking-bird, blending all the sweet strains
of her friends in one delightful song, until winter passed away, and the
snow melted, and the snow-drop peeped out of the ground, and said,
timidly, "I am here: spare me, O Wind!" and while the spring covered the
earth with daisies and dandelions and May buds and brave honest grass,
and flung delicate blossoms all over the orchards. Then came the summer
once more, and started millions of lovely "green things a-growing," and
filled the trees with thousands of joyous young birds.
And one glowing July day, early in the morning, Birdie wandered off to
the woods, as she had often done before, to look for wild flowers, and
gather some green food for her feathered pets. "I'll be back again in a
little while, mamma," she said, as she left the cottage. But the hours
went by, and noon came, and she had not returned.
"Where is my little maid?" called her father, cheerily, as he came in to
dinner from the field where he had been working; but no little maid
replied.
"She has gone for bird weeds and flowers," said her mother. "She will be
here in a few moments."
But the dinner was eaten, and the father went back to his work, and
still no Birdie came.
The clock struck one--struck two--struck three, and then, her heart
growing heavier and heavier at every step, the frightened mother started
out to look for her darling. North, south, east, west, half a mile each
way from the cottage, she ran, stopping every few minutes to call,
"Birdie! Birdie!" but only the echoes answered her call. At last to the
field where her husband was working she flew. "Leave the plough," she
cried, wringing her hands, "and look for the child."
North, east, south, west, a mile each way from his home, went the
father, shouting, "Birdie! Birdie, little maid!" and the echoes
repeated, "Birdie! Birdie, little maid!" but no other sound he heard
except the rustling of the leaves and the whir of insect wings. The sun
was beginning to sink in the west when, tired and heart-sick, he came
back again. "Perhaps she is there now," he thought, a ray of hope
lighting up his face as he neared the garden gate; but a glance at his
wife's tearful eyes as she came to meet him told him he had hoped in
vain. "I'll saddle the horse and ride to the village," he said, "and
every father there will join me in the search for my child. And we'll
find her, never fear."
"God grant that you may--and alive!" sobbed the poor mother. "My
darling! oh, my darling!"
At that moment a flock of birds came in sight--so large a flock that,
wheeling around the head of the sorrowing mother, it almost shut out
from her the light of day.
Round and round her the birds circled, uttering strange, eager sounds;
then flew away a short distance, to return with louder calls than ever.
"They miss her," said the father, who was just about to mount his horse.
"They have come to be fed."
"They have come to lead us to her," cried his wife, her whole face
growing glad and bright. "Look at them! They are asking us to follow."
And the birds turned as she made a few steps forward, and flew slowly
before her. To a narrow path up the nearest hill they led--so narrow
that the horse had to be left behind, and the father, who in his
impatience had ridden on in front, was obliged to dismount and follow on
foot. Over the hill and across a bridge that spanned a wide stream they
went, then up some steep rocks, and down, down into a tiny green valley,
from which another flock of birds arose with welcoming cries; and there,
in a little cave, imprisoned by a huge stone that had fallen from the
rock above across its mouth, the trees and shrubs around her black with
watching birds, sat Birdie, her little hands patiently folded in her
lap, a smile on her pale lips, and faith shining from her heaven-blue
eyes. And for once--her heart being full to overflowing with love for
her wee daughter, and gratitude to the good God and them--the mother too
understood the language of the birds as they sang,
"Birdie, sweet, sweet, sweet,
Happy be forever!
While the birds can guard thee, sweet,
Harm shall reach thee never."
WILD BOARS.
The wild boar is one of the most dangerous of beasts. Although it
belongs to the same great family as the lazy, good-natured pig that lies
in utter contentment in the farmer's pen, it is an altogether different
creature, and few animals are so difficult to hunt.
In appearance it has the same general characteristics as domestic swine,
with the difference that it is larger, covered with coarser bristles,
has fiery, glowing eyes, and is armed with two terrible tusks, sometimes
ten inches long, with which it can inflict dangerous wounds.
Formerly wild boars roamed in great numbers through the forests of Great
Britain, but for many years they have been extinct in that country. They
are still found in some parts of France and Spain, and are very numerous
in Germany and the wild jungles of India. They are also found in Poland,
Southern Russia, and Africa. Du Chaillu, the African traveller, mentions
encountering a hideous red-haired wild hog in the wondrous equatorial
forests of the "dark continent." Notwithstanding its size it was
tremendously savage, and very agile, jumping and running like a cat.
Wild hogs are gregarious, and are found in herds. They are fond of
living near water, in which they like to roll and wallow; indeed, a bath
appears almost indispensable to them, as they will sometimes travel
miles to obtain it. Their food consists of roots, nuts, and all kinds of
fruits and grains. In Egypt and India they do much injury to the vast
tracts of sugar-cane, the thick growth affording them excellent
hiding-places and shelter against attack.
It is said that wild hogs will not attack a man unless hunted or
enraged; but as they are not only daring, but also very cautious and
watchful, they suspect the least approach to be offensive, and proceed
to defend themselves.
The sow guards her little ones with great care, and becomes wild with
fury if they are touched. She will run with great speed if she hears
them call, and few hunters have succeeded in capturing young specimens
without first killing the parent. A man once riding through a forest in
Germany came upon two little wild pigs which had strayed into the
pathway. Delighted with his prize, he rolled the piggies in his
horse-blanket, sprang to his saddle, and hastened on his road. But the
smothered squealing of her babies reached the ears of the mother, and
the man soon heard a loud grunting. On turning round he saw a furious
sow, with gleaming eyes, coming after him at full speed. Being unarmed,
he was compelled to fling the little pigs on the ground, and ride for
his life.
The wolf, the lynx, and even the sly fox are terrible enemies of wild
hogs, for with patience and cunning watchfulness they often succeed in
making off with very young pigs, which form a most savory repast.
Wild-boar hunting has been held for ages as a royal sport, and in former
times no banquet was considered perfect unless the table was graced by a
boar's head. Kings and emperors rode to the hunt in those days with
numerous followers and huntsmen, all armed with the cross-bow and
boar-spear, in search of this royal game. At present wild-boar hunting
is carried on to some extent in Germany; but in India it is a favorite
sport, as the boar of that country is the largest and fiercest of any in
the world, not fearing even the tiger, its savage companion of the
jungles. Stories are told of dead boars and tigers being found together,
each bearing the marks of a terrible and evenly balanced fight.
[Illustration: A WILD BOAR AT BAY.]