[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 840. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration: "YOU ARE A SOLDIER AND A GENTLEMAN," SAID WASHINGTON.]
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE NO. 836.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER VI.
IN THE FIELD.
The war was on. No longer was America composed of rebellious colonies.
It was a country in arms.
The British troops had been withdrawn from the city of New York to
Boston, upon the evacuation of which they had retired to Halifax.
General Lee, of the Continental Army, had entered New York, and the
streets were filled with motley groups of rustic soldiery. There was no
uniform proscribed, and much discord prevailed amongst the rank and
file. Here would be a company from Connecticut in threadbare homespun,
and here a crack company from New York with red coats, much like the
Lobster Backs themselves. Pennsylvania regiments and a few from New
Jersey were clad in hunting-shirts and fringed leather gaiters. The
officers knew little of military tactics, and drill-masters were in
great demand.
On a certain day in the spring of '76 there was held a review of the
patriot troops in the open common to the north of the city. At the order
to present arms the muskets had snapped into position with a sound that
brought a smile of pleasure to the face of the young Colonel who
commanded a new regiment that held the right of line. Many of the
officers and most of the privates were very young, scarcely more than
boys.
Soon the group of officers approached. Their uniforms were almost as
various as those of the newly enlisted troops. Some wore blue coats with
yellow facings, buttoned tightly across the chest; others had gold
embroidery, with torrents of lace pouring over their waistcoats and
dangling from their wristbands. They scrutinized carefully the rather
ragged line, and as the reviewing party came down the front they were
now headed by a tall commanding figure, whose martial step and bearing
proclaimed him to be a leader of men. He appeared to glance particularly
at the faces in the ranks, but his eye took in every detail. He passed
along slowly. Two whispered words came down before him, and passed from
lip to lip--"General Washington!"
The Commander-in-Chief had stopped at New York on his way to obey the
summons of Congress to come to Philadelphia.
The commanding presence asked questions of the men in the front rank as
he proceeded.
"Your name, sir?"
"Jones."
"And your enlistment?"
"For three months, General."
"Three months?" the stern lips had repeated, and then the tall figure
stopped again.
"Your name, sir?"
"Frothingham, your Excellency."
"A good patriot name," was the response, "Have you relatives in Boston?"
"No, General," answered George, the blood tingling to his fingers' tips.
"My relatives are all in England, except an aunt and sister."
"Ah!" was the answer. The gray eyes had gleamed brightly. "Your
enlistment, sir?"
"For the war, General."
"Your hand, my lad," said the Commander-in-Chief.
The butt of George's musket rang on the ground. George thought he had
never grasped so large and firm a hand before.
"You are a soldier and a gentleman," said Washington, with a kindly
smile. "We have need of such." He passed on.
At that moment a great surge of feeling came over the young soldier; his
knees trembled with excitement. He would go to death for a man like
this. Ah! if his brother William were only here beside him. Thinking of
this brought back the old scenes at Stanham Mills. It seemed most
strange that he should be standing with his musket at his side, armed
and arrayed to fight the forces of the King. As these thoughts ran
through his mind he was ordered to fall out and take a position as
sentry at the edge of the green, where the crowd pressed close upon the
group of officers. As he did so a familiar voice sounded behind him.
Without turning he recognized that it was Carter's father
speaking--Colonel Hewes--then a member of Washington's staff.
"We must be aggressive," said Colonel Hewes. "Take Canada, by Jove!
Build a fleet and threaten the shores of England; not wait here as if we
wished to parley."
"Your ideas are advanced, Colonel," replied another voice.
"Yes, that's what they said three years ago when I predicted this
war--ay, and cast cannon and saved money for it," said Colonel Hewes,
bitterly.
The two speakers passed out of hearing, and soon the order was given for
the regiments to pass in review.
On they came; first his own, marching well and steadily. The chills of
delight ran up and down George's spine; regiment after regiment, the
country's bravest and best. Many hearts surged with pride that day. At
last there came a company from New Jersey, and in front of it marched
Carter Hewes, a Lieutenant's epaulet on his left shoulder.
It was some months now since the boys had seen one another, and in the
mean time Carter had been at Bunker Hill, and had been promoted for
bravery to be a Lieutenant at eighteen.
After the parade had been dismissed George sought the headquarters of
the New Jersey regiment, eager to see his friend and hear the news. As
he turned about a corner the pounding of hoofs was heard, and a
cavalryman rushed by, his sword clanking against his horse's flanks. As
he passed a group of officers seated on a porch, he drew up slightly.
"The British fleet has entered the Narrows," he called, and dashed
along.
The booming of the guns was heard coming from the southward. Governor
Tryon's floating fortress was hailing the new-comers.
Now the drums were rolling and despatches were being sent about the
city. George gave up all idea of finding Carter that night, and hastened
back to his command.
But the ships advanced no further than the lower bay, and there they
came to anchor. The days went by and nothing of importance happened.
Carter and George did not meet. The latter had been promoted to be a
sergeant, however, and had been transferred to a New Jersey regiment.
The weather was insufferably hot. No one who dwelt in the city of New
York could ever recall such heat as poured down upon the city during
these days of anxious waiting. Hardly a breeze had stirred for a week,
and the heated air shimmered and quivered in the glaring streets, and
the dust raised by horses' hoofs or by a marching company hung in the
air like smoke, until it settled without drifting to one side or the
other.
More volunteers were being secured to swell the American forces every
day, but they were mostly farmers who had enlisted for short terms of
service, and to whom soldiering was a new trade.
Sergeant Frothingham was sick of the continuous drill, and was glad
enough to be placed one day in charge of the sentries at the Kenedy
House, Washington's headquarters, on the lower end of Broadway. This
duty led to a decided break in the monotonous routine.
As he had posted the guards for the first time, a bugle sounded, and an
aide-de-camp ran up the stone steps from the street. George, standing by
the door, saluted, and the aide hurried inside the house.
The news he bore was of importance, for soon some of the best-equipped
regiments marched out into Battery Green; they formed two lines that
extended from the boat-landing to the doorsteps of the headquarters.
Before long Washington himself, accompanied by his staff, came out of
the hallway; they stood so close that George could hear every word that
passed.
"Present arms!" came the order down the two long lines that stretched to
the sea-wall.
Up the alley thus formed came a group of officers, and in their midst
walked one in a red coat.
"The emissary from Lord Howe down the bay," said some one in a low
voice.
The officer in red came up the steps and uncovered. "I am Colonel
Patterson, of Lord Howe's staff, and bear communication to you, sir, I
believe," he said, addressing Washington.
The General took the big envelope, and looked at it carefully.
"This is addressed to George Washington, Esq., etcætera, etcætera," he
said. "I cannot receive a letter from the King's commissioner, sir,
addressed to me as a private person when it relates to my public
station." All this was spoken in a firm, even tone, without a trace of
anger.
"Allow me to explain its contents," said the British officer, impressed.
"It is merely an intimation that pardon will be granted if arms are laid
down, I understand, sir," went on Washington. "But we have done no
wrong; we wish no pardon; we are only defending our indisputable
rights."
"It is a wide field for argument," replied Colonel Patterson.
Washington bowed, and answered by requesting the honor of the English
Colonel's presence at luncheon.
When the latter was taking his leave, George, who was standing close to
the doorway, once more overheard the end of the conversation.
"Has your Excellency no commands to my Lord and General Howe?"
"None, sir, but my compliments to both of them."
This scene thrilled the young sentry through and through. Oh, if he only
could do something to serve the General personally! What would he not
give for a grasp of that firm hand again!
He was standing with his back to the door when he felt something like a
pull at his cross-belts. As he straightened up an officer came by him,
acknowledged his salute carelessly, and hastened away. It was Lieutenant
Carter Hewes.
George felt hurt. "He might have recognized me by a look at least," he
said, beneath his breath.
Just then he felt something rustle behind him, and he saw that a piece
of paper was thrust into his bayonet sling. He drew it out. There was no
time to read it then, but his spirits rose, for it was addressed to him
in Carter's handwriting.
In a few minutes the relief came up, and as soon as he could get a
moment to himself George opened the note.
"DEAR GEORGE," it ran, "I have been away on Long Island. Have lots
to tell you. I have received a leave of absence to-morrow, and will
see that you can get away also. Apply to your captain for leave.
Then meet me at Striker's wharf, and we will go for a sail. I know
where we can get a small boat. To-morrow at nine o'clock.
"Yours always,
CARTER."
Promptly on time George was there, for Captain Clarkson had given him
permission at once. He had been waiting but a few minutes when he saw
Carter hurrying down the wharf. He began to talk as soon as he got
within earshot.
"Dreadful sorry," he said, breathlessly. "But I have been ordered back
at once to my command. I have to go. But if I can get away again I will
let you know it."
"It doesn't look as if we were going to have any fighting here," said
George. "What is the hurry?"
"Oh yes, we will!" returned Carter. "But General Howe does not believe
in forcing matters. Good-by. You'll be an officer soon, I'll warrant,
and then we will not have to take so much trouble to spend a day
together. I wish--"
He broke off suddenly, turned, and walked away. George was about to
follow, when he saw two officers, one in a general's uniform,
approaching. He drew himself up at attention as they passed by.
"There's a big difference between a stripe on your arm and an epaulet on
your shoulder," he said, half aloud. "I'm beginning to find that out."
Three or four weeks more of weary drilling without any excitement
followed. Sometimes it was work on the fortifications that kept the men
employed, but always the ceaseless drill, drill; and August arrived
without a movement hardly in the British forces down the bay.
One morning word came from Carter. It was brought to George by an
orderly from headquarters.
"You are hereby ordered to report to Lieutenant Hewes at Stryker's wharf
at nine to-morrow morning for special duty."
Strange to say, it was signed by Colonel Mason Hewes.
This time Carter was waiting.
"I had father make out that order," he said. "How did it answer?"
"Like a charm," returned George, shoving off the boat. "But I think
Captain Clarkson understood, Mr. Lieutenant."
"Why shouldn't he?" said Carter. "In truth, I told him. Now rank is cast
aside, and we are nothing but two lads out for a time. Get up that sail,
you rebel!"
"Do you remember the time William and I called you that?" said George,
laughing.
"Yes; and I remember when you both gave me a good thrashing, too,"
returned Carter. "Let's run down the bay to Brooklyn. I've brought along
a spy-glass, and a good one. From the heights we can get a look at the
British fleet."
It was a still, hot day, with a blue haze over the water to the
southward. The boys in the little boat drifted rather than sailed about
the Battery point.
"Now, to begin with," said George, as he seated himself in the
stern-sheets beside Carter, who was steering, "how does it feel to be in
battle? Tell me something of Bunker Hill."
"I was rather frightened at first, I take it," said Carter. "But I tell
you it was grand to see the way they landed. Just across the river were
the batteries on Copps Hill. The guns were firing at us, and the
cannon-balls howled over our heads or threw up the sand all about us. I
was in the earth-works, and off to one side stretched a line of rail
fence; before it had been piled new-cut hay, making a breastwork like a
great windrow. Behind it crouched our men in double line. When the
'redcoats' from the boats landed we could see the officers running up
and down the lines, flourishing swords and shouting and pushing the men
into place here and there. I tell you, George, they are brave men, no
matter if we do call them 'tyrants.' They came up the hill with their
drums beating, and were so close that we could hear their tramping, and
ahead of them all was Howe. We fired into them. They went down like
nine-pins, and some lay so close to us that we could hear the groaning.
But talk of excitement! It was frightful. You seem to act without
knowing what you do. Many of our greenhorns forgot to fire, and put in
one load on top of the other. Did you know that men shout and scream in
battle as if they were wild Indians? It's a strange sound, I can tell
you. Probably you will hear it before long."
George had fairly shaken with excitement. It did not seem possible on
this peaceful day that these scenes would be repeated, or that he could
ever be in the midst of them.
"Let us go into this cove straight ahead; then we can tie up this leaky
old tub and climb the hill," he said.
The two young soldiers jumped ashore as the keel grated, hauled up the
boat, and went into the woods; when they reached the top of the incline
they sat down and gazed around them.
The placid water below scarcely rippled, except where the tide seethed
about the point of Governors Island; to the east of them stretched a
beautiful country, but the heat had shrivelled the leaves of the trees,
and the stretches of meadow-land were burnt bare and brown. Through the
blue haze the towering masts and spars of the British vessels showed
plainly rising against the hills.
"The Lord has been kind in sending us no wind," said Carter, "otherwise
that fleet might be all about us here." He waved the large spy-glass,
which he carried under his arm, in the direction of the lower bay. Then
he adjusted it to his eye. "Those British must be hungry," he said, "for
they've eaten every horse on Staten Island, I've heard tell. Have a
look," he added, extending the glass. "I beg your pardon for taking the
first squint."
George took it and levelled it across the water. The powerful lenses
brought the ships as near as if they had been anchored close to shore.
There lay one of the greatest fleets of vessels that had ever met
together in the history of warfare, larger in numbers of men and
armament than the Great Armada which Philip II. had sent against
England--ships of the line, frigates, armed sloops, brigs, corvettes,
and innumerable transports--thirty-seven men-of-war altogether, and four
hundred other vessels loaded with troops; it was almost impossible to
count them. Without the glass their hulls looked like a flock of
gigantic wild fowl that had suddenly swooped down and covered the waters
to the southward. Fully thirty-five thousand men were waiting there a
chance to be landed to take the field against the nondescript army of
the new-born country.
"The King has sent all the ships in England, I should judge," remarked
George.
"And filled some of them with German soldiers at so much per head," said
Carter.
As the two talked on a slight breeze sprang up. Two large vessels which
were lying furthest up the bay blossomed out into clouds of canvas.
Slowly they came up to their cables and tripped them neatly: flags flew,
signals were made throughout the fleet.
[Illustration: "THEY'RE GOING TO MOVE!" EXCLAIMED CARTER, TAKING THE
GLASS.]
"By the Lord Harry, they're going to move!" exclaimed Carter, taking the
glass from George's hands. "Those two boats are the _Rose_ and
_Phoenix_ that sailed up the river in June, and only came down night
before last."
"That's so," said George. "They let go their guns as they came down the
river, and bowled over a few chimneys, I remember."
"We cannot prevent them going up the Hudson if it comes on to blow, and
if they once reach the point of yonder island God help the city,"
responded Carter.
The lads had started on a run down the slope; the forces in New York
must be informed of what was going on at all hazard.
If they had paused before they left the crest of the hill, however, they
would have seen that the slight breeze had died away as quickly as it
had arisen, that the great ships had dropped back with the tide, and
that they had once more let go their anchors, and taken in their sails.
The danger had passed by. But a heavy gray mist was creeping up from the
south.
With some difficulty the boys shoved off the boat. The tide was on the
ebb, and she had been left high and dry on the sand.
"There's not enough wind to sail. We will have to pull across," said
Carter, getting out the oars. "Where did this fog come from, anyhow?"
A thick white wall was shutting in about them as their little boat
danced out in the tide rips; the New York shore became more and more
indistinct.
"Are we heading right?" inquired George, after they had rowed in silence
for some time.
"I can't see a thing," answered Carter, who was handling the bow oar.
"Hark, though! I hear the water against the rocks; we must be off the
Battery. Now, a strong pull--together."
George laid all his strength in a tremendous heave; there was a sharp
snap, and he went over backwards into the bottom: his oar had broken at
the rowlock. At once all headway was lost, and they drifted helplessly.
"I still hear the water on the shore," said Carter. "Come, overboard!
Let's swim for it!"
He took off his coat and shoes. George did the same; he was an expert
swimmer now, and had long ago made up for his Aunt Clarissa's
nervousness.
"Don't dive," he said; "lower yourself carefully and get the right
direction."
The boys slid into the swift current. They had taken but two or three
strokes when Carter turned.
"Oh dear," he exclaimed, "my coat's there, and in the pocket is a
letter. That boat's going right out to the British. They must not get
it."
"Swim on," said George. "I'll go back for it. Shout when you reach the
shore."
The shape of the boat could just be seen; he swung about and put after
it, arm over arm.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
GOOD TIMES AT THE HORSE SHOW.
BY WALTER CLARK NICHOLS.
It was really the young people who enjoyed most keenly the eleventh
annual Horse Show in New York two weeks ago. Even the horses could have
told you that; for the best-bred and wisest among all the well-bred and
wise ones that were there on exhibition knew that it was in the daytime,
when the boys and girls were out in force, that they, the horses,
received the undivided attention.
It was all very brilliant in the evening, when the glittering lights
around the vast dome of the great Garden gleamed upon the red, yellow,
and white bunting, and shone down on a wonderful scene of
splendor--beautiful women in gorgeous gowns, handsome men in evening
dress, in the seats--thousands and thousands of them--and a thick crowd
of people constantly moving around the promenade surrounding the large
tan-bark arena. But it was so brilliant and so crowded that few people
could or would see the horses. They came to see and be seen, and many a
prize-winning horse must have felt very discontented at not receiving
the attention which he felt due to him.
But it was very different in the mornings and afternoons, when the
attendance was much smaller, when the young folks were out, in full
force, and when the interest of each was centred gleefully or excitedly
on the events in the ring. Here you would see some keen young sportsman
of thirteen recounting earnestly to his girl friends, younger than
himself, why such a horse won, what his "points" were, and what his
"father said." Probably in ten years he will be "jumping fences" with
his hunter in the evening events at the show, and talking to those same
girls, then women-grown. Over there a nurse would have in tow two
youngsters whose father has a big stock-farm. Hardly an event came along
on the programme but one of "papa's horses" was entered, and as they
breathlessly watched these horses shown "through their paces," their
comments more than audible, the children's excitement reached fever-heat
when the blue ribbon, the sign of the first prize, was given to one of
their father's entries. You would see there at the Garden in the
afternoon boys and girls just out from school chattering freely their
comments, and nurses with little tots who scarce could gurgle out a
pleased "Horsy!" Once in a while, at the eastern end of the building,
you might observe, shyly peeping in at the moving horses and the gayly
dressed children, more poorly clad young people, friends of some of the
grooms, who had smuggled them in at the back door for a "look at the
show." Though the hackney, the hunter, the tandem, and other
competitions were, of course, watched closely by the young people, the
keenest and most gleeful interest was shown in the ponies, and
particularly in the little Shetland horses, of which there were more
exhibited this year than ever before.
Even the big hunters and coach horses felt a trifle jealous in their
stalls down-stairs, for the children came from the main floor, and
passed the big fellows by to feast their eyes on the dear little ponies
and cunning Shetland horses. Some of the ponies were stalled at the east
and north sides of the basement, among their larger brothers, and how
provoked the latter would look, how angrily they would twitch about,
when a bevy of youngsters devoted their pleased attention to a little
brown pony in a neighboring stall, patting him and caressing him! You
could almost hear the great beast say: "What, that insignificant little
chap? All your attention for him, only one-quarter my size and one-tenth
my strength?"
But it was towards the western wing of the basement that the daytime
patter of the young people's footsteps was loudest. For here all the
Shetlands and many of the ponies were daintily and comfortably housed,
here were all the groom-servants they could wish to attend to their
wants, and so many callers waiting to be introduced that you might have
thought each a young débutante at her coming-out tea. There were gray
and black, brown and white ponies, their silky skin and cropped manes
contrasting strangely with the shaggy hair and long tumbled tresses of
their Shetland neighbors. They were haughtier, too, and bore their
petting, of which there was much, more proudly.
The Shetlands were the democrats of the establishment. No fine feathers
and coxcomb airs for them! No clipping of the tails to put them in
fashion! But there they were, as rough and as long-haired, as fearsome
and as kind, as were their ancestors fifty years ago in the bleak
Shetland Islands to the northeast of Scotland. Very eager for attention
were they all, and every now and then, after a particularly large number
of pattings and caressings had been showered on them, they would half
turn their heads and whinny out thankful recognitions. Happiest of all
were several Shetland mothers with their wee colts beside them, and as
the exclamations of delight over the tiny little horse came to each
mother's ear, she would turn, and as much as say to her young audience,
"Ah! was there ever such a child as mine?"
Shetland ponies, you must know, never really existed in the United
States till about thirty years ago, when two small herds were brought
over from their native isles to Beliot, Wisconsin, and Allegheny City,
Pennsylvania. Since that time they have so increased that there are
to-day over two thousand ponies regularly registered in an association
which is composed of all the leading owners of Shetland stock farms in
the United States. The largest of these is the ranch owned by Mr. J.
Murray Hoag, at Maquoketa, Iowa. Here between three and four hundred
ponies have their grazing-ground and stalls, and from here they are
shipped, when sold, to the various cities, East and West. They are
bought almost exclusively for children in the larger cities, and the
average price paid for a pony is about $200, somewhat more than an
ordinary horse brings. The average height of a Shetland pony is forty
inches. Some of them when born are very tiny, and one little Shetland
baby, the smallest ever known, weighed but sixteen pounds, when a day
old. And a few days afterwards one of the girls on the farm carried him
around as she would a puppy. To the little Shetland baby the girl of
fifteen probably appeared as one of the giant women did to Gulliver when
he was on his travels.
The temporary home of the Shetland horses and the other ponies, down in
the basement of the Madison Square Garden, was filled with excitement
before each of the events in which some were to take part. The
unfastening of chains, the rushing around of grooms, and the mild beat
of small hoofs out of the door told the rest that some of their large
household were on their way to the ring upstairs to compete for the
prize. And there were very few that did not take part in more than one
of the many competitions for ordinary ponies and for Shetlands. There
were prizes for ponies of various sizes, led by grooms and driven to
carts; for colts, and for older ponies; and for pairs of ponies driven
to Park traps.
But best of all, from the children's as well as the grown people's
stand-point, was the competition for the best Shetland herd of five or
six, including mothers and any little colts they might have. What a
bustle there was down-stairs as the different ponies, composing the
three herds trying for the competition, were let out of their stalls and
led or driven up the inclined board walk to the arena entrance! But
_what_ a time it was for three baby Shetlands, scarcely three or four
months old, who accompanied their mothers upstairs! Patter, patter,
patter went the hoofs up the boards. Frightened and shy, the little
fellows kept close to their mothers, and almost hid themselves as they
came to the entrance of the ring.
Then, as their fathers and mothers trooped in as sedately as Shetland
horses ever can walk, their heads proudly arched, and their manes waving
gracefully, on trial for the prize which was to go to the best family of
the three, a funny thing happened. The tiny Shetland colts, who had been
cooped up with their mothers in a narrow stall all the week, began to
open their eyes with excitement. They saw a huge tan-bark ring in a
great building, plenty of air and space for a romp.
Scat! As if shot from a bow each little woolly horse scampered away,
past its father and mother, who, as they were judged, vainly endeavored
to stop their scapegoat children by a reproving neigh. Faster and faster
flashed the hoofs around the arena. It was a series of races in which
each began when he wished and stopped when he chose. Now they would roll
over in the delicious tan-bark and spoil their fuzzy coats, with a dim
consciousness, perhaps, that maternal scoldings would follow their
actions. Not a whit did they care as they capered gleefully to forget a
week's confinement. The spirit of their hill-climbing, wild, fearless
Scotch ancestors was in them.
The audience, which had clapped mildly before this, began to applaud
enthusiastically and to cheer at the gambols of the Shetland infants.
Two of them, somewhat scared, went to their respective families. But the
third, a mass of black furry deviltry, only played and scampered the
harder, and dually capped the climax by a leap on the platform where the
judges themselves were. Shout after shout greeted this feat, and then he
too became scared and ran straight to his mother. She, however, did not
rebuke him, but only said, as he nestled timidly beside her, "Never mind
this time, my son, for our family has won the prize!"
The little colt, hardly half the size of a St. Bernard dog, seemed to
understand, for as he scampered proudly along by his mother when the
family went down stairs again, his manner seemed to say: "All right,
mother. But you just wait till I am grown up. What a horse I'll be
then!" And the children, as they left the great amphitheatre where such
fun had been in store for them for the days past, as they thought of the
driving and the hunting and the jumping and the other great things they
would do in later years, appeared to voice the same sentiment, "Just
wait till we are grown up!"
[Illustration: THE JUDGING RING OF THE HORSE SHOW.]
INEXPENSIVE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
BY JANE GRANT.
If our purses were only as large as our hearts, how good it would be;
but most often the biggest heart owns the smallest purse. There is no
meanness in inexpensive Christmas presents, and no one will bethink of
the money value of your dainty gift. Bits of silk or velvet, when not
found in the family scrap-bag, are obtainable at any milliner's for
about fifty cents per pound.
A pretty pin-cushion is soon made of a small Japanese "cat basket,"
which may be gilded, in the mouth of which is put a velvet cushion.
A key-bag is absolutely necessary to the housekeeper or traveller. It is
made of chamois-skin, lined with a bit of brown silk, with a double
drawing-string closing the mouth. From an old kid glove cut the letters
"KEY," and sew them diagonally across the front of the bag.
Sachets are always acceptable, and a dainty one is made by covering a
bag of lavender flowers with a slip of white linen, on which are
embroidered the words "Sweet Lavender," and a few scattered flowers.
Grandma will gratefully accept a black silk bag in which to carry her
Prayer-book, spectacles, and handkerchief to church.
A scrap of pretty silk or embroidered linen bound with narrow ribbon
transforms an ordinary pin-book into a dainty ornament for the
dressing-table.
Out of a pretty embroidered handkerchief, such as is sold in any shop, a
combined sachet and handkerchief case is made by folding the four
corners to the centre, embroidering scattered flowers and the word
"Mouchoir" on the corners.
A stick-pin cushion is made of an egg or heart shaped cushion covered
with a bit of silk, edged with a frill of lace, and suspended by strings
of baby-ribbon.
To make a catch-all, sew three Japanese baskets in a triangle, line each
with a bit of silk and cover, and join with a bow.
A spectacle-case is easily made of a twelve-inch piece of one and a half
inch black ribbon doubled to form a bag, to which are added strings of
baby-ribbon.
An old-fashioned braid pin-ball is made by cutting six pieces of colored
dress braid each four inches long. Sewn together with fringed edges, the
seams are covered with cat-stitch, and a ball of hair makes the cushion.
A sheet of yellow tissue-paper, some fine wire, two black beads for
eyes, and a bit of pasteboard cut in the shape of a huge butterfly, may
be soon transformed into a pretty lamp shade.
Cover two five-inch circles of card-board with silk or embroidered
linen, fasten on each side by a few stitches, add ribbon strings and
bow, and, behold! a whisk-broom-holder.
For a Prayer-book mark a yard of inch-wide ribbon, either cardinal,
purple, or lavender, and cut into three pieces with fringed ends. Pass
through a small brass ring, fasten with a few stitches, and on each
ribbon write with gold paint the words "Gospel," "Collects," "Epistle,"
etc.
From the girl who knows how to knit, a pair of white wool bed-socks or
silk wristers will be a welcome present.
Particularly appropriate to Yule-tide is a poker or tongs holder, well
padded, covered with dark velvet, on which are embroidered the words "Ye
Fireside Companion."
A holder to keep the pages of music open on the rack is made of ribbon
in bag form ten inches by one inch. Fill with small shot, fringe the
ends, and tie with baby-ribbon.
Two yards of blue jeans make a splendid play-rug for baby. Line with an
old blanket, and sew on the jeans figures of birds, beasts, and letters
cut from bright cloth.
Handkerchiefs are always dainty gifts, especially for sending by mail to
distant friends. A sheer handkerchief already hemstitched may be
ornamented with a band of drawn-work, a strip of insertion with lace
edging, or the monogram, favorite flower, or name flower of the future
owner.
No matter how small the gift, it is the loving thought and friendly wish
which are appreciated by the receiver.
A CASE OF PURE PLUCK.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
Outside of Life-Saving Station No. 5 it was blowing a whole gale of
wind. The sky was a flying tangle of ragged gray clouds that were
driving at dizzy speed down into the southwest before the mad force of
the northeaster. The beach was a desert of flying sand that struck the
face of the staggering patrolman like a thousand red-hot needles. The
ocean itself was a wilderness of writhing waters. The seas were running
high, and the gale was tearing off their foaming crests and sending them
swirling down to leeward in sheets of smokelike spoondrift. But the
offing was clear of sails, and the life-saving crew sat in the cheery
living-room of the station and smoked their pipes at ease.
"It's a-blowin' putty fresh," said old Dan Ferns. "It sort o' 'minds me
o' the night the _Dora A. Baker_ came ashore. That was twenty-five year
ago, an' her ribs is stickin' out down there now. They get covered up in
these here big gales, but the pond runs out an' scoops the channel right
through 'em sometimes. I remember the wrack o' the _Dora A. Baker_ jess
as if 'twas yistiddy. She was loaded with corn an'--"
"Say, Dan," said Sammy Wardell, the youngest member of the crew, "I
remember hearin' Wall Green say ten year ago that you'd been a-tellin'
that yarn fur twelve year."
"Anyhow," said Dan, "her skipper had real pluck, he did, an' when the
corn--"
"Oh, stow it, Dan! Stow it!" came a general chorus. Then Henry Slocum,
the only member of the crew who had been a deep-water sailor, and who
was noted for his reserve, suddenly spoke.
"I don't know what you fellows call pluck exactly," he said, with fine
unconsciousness of the fact that he was talking to some of the bravest
men alive; "but I'll bet I saw a case once that none of you can trump."
"Let's have it, old shell-back," exclaimed the Captain.
The other men knew that Slocum's experience at sea had been extensive
and varied, so they settled themselves in their chairs to hear a yarn.
"This is a true story," began Slocum, "that I'm going to tell you--"
"O' course," interjected Dan Ferns; "all sea-yarns is true."
"And it all happened," continued Slocum, ignoring the interruption, "a
good thirty years ago. It ain't so very much of a story, either, but
it's a case of real pluck, and so it's worth telling about. I suppose
some of you fellows may know that New Bedford, Massachusetts, used to be
a whaling-port. Well, thirty years ago the business wasn't as near dead
as it is now, and once in a while a man that had a notion for throwing
an iron might get a chance to ship for high latitudes. I don't remember
exactly how it was that I came to be knocking about up there without
anything to do--"
"Waal, Hen, we won't ask no questions," said Dan Ferns.
"But, anyhow," continued Henry, who never paid any attention to Dan,
"there I was. I had about made up my mind to work my way to New York on
a coaster when I happened to see a bill which said that men were wanted
for the celebrated whaler _Duke of Wellington_. Somehow or other the
name caught my fancy, and I read the bill through. It told all about the
fine grub and clothes that they were to furnish, but I'll allow that I
wasn't fooled by that rubbish. I knew pretty well what to expect in the
forecastle of any ship outside of Uncle Sam's navy--salt-horse, weevily
biscuit, and tea made out of sawdust. But I got a notion that I'd like
to go to the arctic and see some whale-chasing. So I went down and took
a look at this _Duke of Wellington_. She was a wall-sided old hooker,
with a stern that looked like an ace of hearts painted black, and a
main-yard half as long as her keel. But her bow was clever, and made her
look as if the great spread of canvas promised by her yards would carry
her up to whaleland in good time. While I was hanging around the wharf
looking at her, and expressing by my face the sort of an opinion I had
of the way her crew went about their work, a mean-looking fellow came up
to me and asked me if I didn't want to ship. He turned out to be the
shipping-agent, and he said he knew I was a sailor, and they needed one
or two more old hands to set that green crew going. So I up and shipped,
and in less than six months I wished I hadn't, because I didn't expect
ever to see green grass again.
"It was a bright and glorious morning about the end of May when we
passed Clark's Point bound out. The wind was brisk westerly, and the old
man clapped the cloth on her. I found she had the heels I suspected, for
we were less than an hour in doing the nine knots to Quick's Hole. Then
we squared away up the Vineyard Sound, and when night fell we had
doubled Menomoy Point and were at sea. I'm not going to tell you about
life aboard that whaler, except to say that most of the hands were
green, and that made it pretty steep work for the others. In a month the
green hands could go aloft and reef and furl, and they knew where to
find the halyards, sheets, and tacks. When it came to a job of splicing
or sewing, why, the sailormen had to do it. We had fairly good weather
up to the entrance to Davis Strait, where we fell in with a gale. After
that our old man got crazy to push to the north, and so away we went. At
Upernavik we took aboard four Esquimau guides. One of them was a boy
called Toko; and this miserable sawed-off little savage is the fellow
that afterward showed us all how to be plucky. He could talk a good deal
of English, but he seemed to be a very quiet boy, and seldom said
anything till he was spoken to. He actually seemed to be stupid; but we
found out in good time that all he needed was to be waked up.
"I must get on with this yarn or it'll be as long as Dan Ferns's story
of the _Dora A. Baker_. We worked our way well up into Baffin Bay--or
maybe it was Smith Sound. I've always had a notion that we were a good
deal further north than the old man was willing to admit. Anyhow, it
came about that all of a sudden we discovered that it was getting pretty
close to the edge of the arctic winter, and that we were in danger of
being shut in by the ice. So now the old man began to push her for the
south with all the cloth she'd carry. But the second day it came on to
blow right dead ahead. Before night it was a howling gale, and to add to
the terror of our situation we could hear the terrific grinding and
crashing of the ice away off in the darkness all around us. The
Esquimaux huddled together in sheltered spots, but refused to leave the
deck. The night passed at last, and when morning dawned it showed us a
raging, crazy sea, with ice all around the horizon.
"Well, boys, gradually that ice came nearer and nearer. It was something
dreadful to watch it. We knew that we were driving to leeward pretty
fast, and that accounted for the approach of the ice on that side; but
think how fast that ice up to windward must have been moving to gain on
us the way it did. We were helpless, and when at last we drove against
the ice, we could do very little indeed. We struck with a great crash,
and our fore-royal and mizzen-topgallant-masts went by the board. We
made up our minds that we were bound for Davy Jones's locker, when along
came another big sea and forced the ship bodily right up on the ice. The
ice to windward gradually closed in, and the next day there we were,
shut in hard and tight in a field of broken and jagged ice, and with
bergs all around us.
"Well, there was nothing for it but to prepare to stay where we were
until spring. Then began the terrible business of living through the
winter. And it was then that Toko woke up. As our spirits began to go
down, his began to rise. The other Esquimaux were contented to sit and
wait, but he had pluck. 'Give Toko gun,' he said, 'he get fresh meat.'
We gave him a gun, and away he went over the ice and through the
blinding snow with the unerring instinct of a savage. The very first day
he came back as far as the summit of a hummock half a mile away, and
waved his arms. Some of us went to him, and he led us to a polar bear
which he had killed single-handed. We dragged the carcass home, and
feasted on the juicy steaks. The next day he found a crevice in the ice
and killed a seal that had come up. But as the long days moved by on
leaden feet we became listless and discouraged. Bill Hedding fell sick
and, after lingering three weeks, passed away. We were a dispirited lot
after that. But not Toko. He said: 'Not give up. Spring come again. Ice
open. Get away in boats. Toko show the way.' But we shook our heads, and
did not believe him. He danced strange dances and sang strange songs for
us, while the other Esquimaux looked on with grave disapproval. He staid
up night after night keeping watch to see that polar bears did not get
aboard and attack our scanty provisions. He cooked and hunted for us. He
told us the legends of his people, and gave us regular lectures on the
habits of arctic animals. More men fell sick, and that tireless boy with
the figure of an India-rubber doll and the face of a Chinese idol found
time to nurse them, to pat them on the back, and to bid them keep their
courage up through all the ghastly gloom of that arctic night.
"'Byme-by lights'--he meant the aurora--'go out in sky,' he would say;
'bears go 'way an' birds fly. Den soon daylight come 'long, an' byme-by
he sun come up. Den crack! de ice break, an' we get away. Dat be
spring.'
"Boys, I once read about a prisoner who was shut up in a tower in France
for twenty years, and I began to feel like that fellow. I guess we all
did, for when the light did begin to dawn again, and there were signs of
spring, we were all so utterly hopeless that we didn't have spirit
enough to get up and set to work. We knew that the ship was a wreck
underneath, and we hadn't courage for the struggle in boats to the
southward. But Toko never rested till he had got some of us on our feet
and set us moving. Action breeds activity, I've been told; and it's a
fact that the more we worked the more we wanted to work. Finally one day
we heard a series of reports like the firing of great guns.
"'De ice! De ice! Him break!' cried Toko, dancing about. 'See! Dere
water! Water!'
"'All hands to the boats!' shouted the Captain."
[Illustration: WITH THE STRENGTH OF GIANTS WE FORCED OUR BOATS OVER THE
ROUGH ICE.]
"Men, I've seen fellows work desperately; but we were like crazed
people. With the strength of giants we forced our boats over the rough
ice till they reached open water. Then we set up a great cry of joy, and
all of us embraced Toko. Next we set sail for the south. In three weeks
we reached an Esquimau settlement, where men were found to guide us on
our way. And then Toko fell in a swoon.
"'He not eat enough,' said an old native, gravely, after examining him.
"We found it to be true. The brave boy had half starved himself while
providing for the needs of the rest of us. Fellows, we didn't leave that
settlement till Toko was well enough to go with us. We took him back to
his home, and I don't believe there was a man of us that didn't shed
tears, when we parted from him, after securing passage on a
homeward-bound whaler."
"By gosh!" exclaimed Dan Ferns, "he was a plucky little cuss, but--"
"Tumble out, lads!" came the hoarse voice of the patrol, as he put his
head into the room. "Here's a schooner drivin' on with her foremast
gone."
And the yarn-spinners became life-savers once more.
[Illustration]
A NEW LIFE.
(_In Three Instalments._)
BY FLORENCE HALLOWELL HOYT.
CHAPTER IV.
When Aunt Patty and Ida went into the house together, Cynthia was not to
be seen. She was upstairs in her own room, with the door locked, and
when Aunt Patty knocked she answered in a smothered voice that she would
be out in a few minutes.
"I don't know what under the canopy can be the matter with Cynthia,"
said Aunt Patty, when she came down stairs again, after removing her old
black straw bonnet and silk cape. "I never knew the child to shut
herself up that way before."
Ida said nothing; she was sewing by a window, and did not look up. There
was a look of constraint and annoyance on her face.
Cynthia's eyes were swollen and red when she entered the kitchen a few
minutes later. It was quite apparent that she had been weeping, and of
course Aunt Patty was deeply concerned. She peered at Cynthia over her
steel-bowed spectacles, and insisted on knowing what was the matter.
"It is only that I am a little disappointed about something," said
Cynthia, when she saw that her aunt would not be put off. "But it was
foolish of me to cry. I'm ashamed of being such a baby."
"And what disappointed you?" asked her aunt.
Before Cynthia had time to reply, Ida rose abruptly and left the
kitchen. She went into the stuffy parlor, and sat down by a window
overlooking the road. The blinds were closed, but she could see through
the half-open slats. There was no one in sight, however, and nothing
more interesting to gaze upon than Squire Cord's old spavined horse,
which was cropping the grass by the road-side. He raised his hind legs,
whenever he moved, in a stiff fashion that would have made Ida smile at
any other time; but now she felt too much depressed for even the shadow
of a smile to curve her lips. Her conscience was troubling her. She knew
she had done wrong, had been unsisterly and deceitful, but she had not
the moral courage to confess her fault. Because she knew that Cynthia
had no suitable dress for such an occasion she had not wanted her to
attend the lawn party. She didn't want Angela Leverton to meet either
Cynthia or Aunt Patty.
"I didn't say Mrs. Lennox hadn't invited her," thought Ida, trying to
stifle the reproaches of her conscience. "I simply let her think so. And
I really think I was justified to some extent; for it would spoil all my
pleasure to have her at the lawn party in that old pink organdie. It's a
shame Aunt Patty hasn't provided her with decent clothes. She might have
strained a point to get her one nice summer dress at least."
If Ida had only known how often a point had been strained at the old
farm-house to provide her with nice clothing during the six years she
had spent at Aunt Stina's, and how cheerfully Cynthia had turned, dyed,
and made over her old garments that her absent sister might have new!
Ida remembered suddenly that she had not heard the "something grand"
which Aunt Patty had been so eager to tell. She concluded that she had
better return to the kitchen.
She found Aunt Patty making biscuit. Cynthia was setting the table for
supper. She smiled brightly as Ida came in.
"We've been waiting for you, Ida," she said. "Aunt Patty wants you to
hear the great news. What do you think it is?"
"Oh, I could never guess."
"Well, Aunt Patty has sold the yellow heifer. Mr. Coswell will give
twenty-eight dollars for her."
"Is that the something grand?" Ida's lip curled a little. "Well, I
suppose I ought to be interested. I will be if Aunt Patty will buy
herself some new clothes with the money."
Aunt Patty and Cynthia exchanged a look.
"Well, I d'know," said Aunt Patty, with some hesitation. "Seems like it
would be downright sinful for me to spend all that money trickin' myself
out. It's needed on other things a sight more. I'm old, an' it don't
matter much how I'm dressed. Folks are so used to seein' me in my old
clothes that they don't notice me no more. It's diff'rent with you
girls. You're young, 'n' it's natural for you to want to look pretty 'n'
fash'nable."
"I think we all ought to take pride in looking nice, whether we are old
or young," said Ida, looking a little irritated. "Aunt Stina thinks a
great deal of personal appearance."
"Well, I don't wonder at it. Your Aunt Stina's a fine-looking woman, 'n'
she's been wrapped up in pink cotton all her life." Aunt Patty smiled as
she spoke. "But it's diff'rent with me. I'm used to hard work, 'n' I
never had the money to buy fine feathers. Look at my hands." She held
out two knotted brown hands, rough and stained with toil. "I guess they
ain't much like your Aunt Stina's, but I'm thankful for 'em, all the
same."
"Most of the work your hands have done has been for others," said
Cynthia, warmly.
"Suppose we go back to the question of spending that money," said Ida.
"Aunt Patty, won't you buy at least _one_ new dress for yourself?"
"I won't make no promises," answered Aunt Patty. "I c'n tell better
about it later on."
Ida felt vexed, and she allowed herself to make several unkind little
speeches which caused a flush to rise to Aunt Patty's kindly old face,
and once tears gathered thickly in her faded dark eyes.
But she concealed her emotion by making a trip to the pantry for some
pineapple jam, of which Ida was particularly fond, and she said nothing
unkind in return.
"It's hard on her to have to stay in this dull place all summer, after
the gay times she's had in the city," the old lady said to Cynthia,
during Ida's temporary absence from the kitchen. "We mustn't mind it if
she says sharp little things once in a while. Ida's got a good heart;
it's only crusted over."
"If I thought it would be of any use I'd ask Aunt Stina to take her
abroad," said Cynthia, for Mrs. Chase's departure had been unavoidably
delayed by some business complications, and she was still in the city,
boarding at a fashionable hotel, having closed her house.
"It wouldn't be no use, dearie," said Aunt Patty, with a sigh.
Ida's entrance at that moment prevented Cynthia from making any reply,
and they all sat down to supper. They no longer ate their meals in the
kitchen, Ida having arranged the former sitting-room as a dining-room.
The change made a great deal more work for Aunt Patty and Cynthia, but
they had not complained. Half a dozen times during each meal Cynthia was
obliged to go into the kitchen on some errand, but no shadow of
impatience or annoyance ever crossed her face. That Ida found the change
desirable and pleasant was quite enough to cause Cynthia to feel glad
that it had been made. Often when Ida would have risen to attend to some
errand to the pantry her sister would forestall her.
"I know better than you do where things are," she would say, as she
hurried from the room.
That evening, after Ida had gone upstairs to her own chamber, pleading a
headache, Cynthia and Aunt Patty employed themselves with the
composition of a letter. When finished it was addressed to Mrs. Chase.
"I will get up early and take it to the post-office, so it will go out
in the six-o'clock mail," said Cynthia, as she sealed the envelope. "Oh,
Aunt Patty, isn't it nice to have this splendid secret?"