CHAPTER XVII.

[Illustration: MARTHA WASHINGTON.

FROM AN UNFINISHED PORTRAIT BY GILBERT STUART. ENGRAVED FOR ST. NICHOLAS

BY W. B. CLOSSON.

(See page 912.)]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. XIII. OCTOBER, 1886. NO. 12.

[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]

AUTUMN TO SPRING.

BY EDITH M. THOMAS.

I wish the stately golden-rod

Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet,

That asters might to cowslips nod,

And eyebright run in haste to greet

The violet from the April sod—

So once the Fall and Spring might meet.

I wish my Little Self and I

Might sometime cross each other’s way.

My Little Self is wondrous shy;

I can not meet her any day,

Howe’er I search, howe’er I pry

About these meadows autumn-gay.

The runaway, the teasing elf!

She flits where woodland blossoms drift;

She has a world of pretty pelf

She gathered from the ripples swift;

Such joys she has, my Little Self

Will not be lured by any gift.

She’s light as bird upon the wing,

Her cheeks and eyes are all aglow.

To me what gladness she could bring!

To her I should be strange, I know.

My Little Self holds fast the Spring,

And Autumn will not let me go!

Yet still I wish the golden-rod

Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet,

That asters might to cowslips nod,

And eyebright run in haste to greet

The violet from the April sod.—

But Fall and Spring can never meet!

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

CHAPTER XIV.

It is astonishing how short a time it takes for very wonderful things

to happen. It had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change all

the fortunes of the little boy dangling his red legs from the high stool

in Mr. Hobbs’s store, and to transform him from a small boy, living the

simplest life in a quiet street, into an English nobleman, the heir to

an earldom and magnificent wealth. It had taken only a few minutes,

apparently, to change him from an English nobleman into a penniless

little impostor, with no right to any of the splendors he had been

enjoying. And, surprising as it may appear, it did not take nearly so

long a time as one might have expected, to alter the face of everything

again and to give back to him all that he had been in danger of losing.

It took the less time because, after all, the woman who had called

herself Lady Fauntleroy was not nearly so clever as she was wicked; and

when she had been closely pressed by Mr. Havisham’s questions about her

marriage and her boy, she had made one or two blunders which had caused

suspicion to be awakened; and then she had lost her presence of mind and

her temper, and in her excitement and anger had betrayed herself still

further. All the mistakes she made were about her child. There seemed

no doubt that she had been married to Bevis, Lord Fauntleroy, and had

quarreled with him and had been paid to keep away from him; but Mr.

Havisham found out that her story of the boy’s being born in a certain

part of London was false; and just when they all were in the midst of the

commotion caused by this discovery, there came the letter from the young

lawyer in New York, and Mr. Hobbs’s letters also.

What an evening it was when those letters arrived, and when Mr. Havisham

and the Earl sat and talked their plans over in the library!

“After my first three meetings with her,” said Mr. Havisham, “I began to

suspect her strongly. It appeared to me that the child was older than she

said he was, and she made a slip in speaking of the date of his birth and

then tried to patch the matter up. The story these letters bring fits in

with several of my suspicions. Our best plan will be to cable at once for

these two Tiptons,—say nothing about them to her,—and suddenly confront

her with them when she is not expecting it. She is only a very clumsy

plotter, after all. My opinion is that she will be frightened out of her

wits, and will betray herself on the spot.”

And that was what actually happened. She was told nothing, and Mr.

Havisham kept her from suspecting anything by continuing to have

interviews with her, in which he assured her he was investigating her

statements; and she really began to feel so secure that her spirits rose

immensely and she began to be as insolent as might have been expected.

But one fine morning, as she sat in her sitting-room at the inn called

“The Dorincourt Arms,” making some very fine plans for herself, Mr.

Havisham was announced; and when he entered, he was followed by no less

than three persons—one was a sharp-faced boy and one was a big young man

and the third was the Earl of Dorincourt.

She sprang to her feet and actually uttered a cry of terror. It broke

from her before she had time to check it. She had thought of these

newcomers as being thousands of miles away, when she had ever thought

of them at all, which she had scarcely done for years. She had never

expected to see them again. It must be confessed that Dick grinned a

little when he saw her.

“Hello, Minna!” he said.

The big young man—who was Ben—stood still a minute and looked at her.

“Do you know her?” Mr. Havisham asked, glancing from one to the other.

“Yes,” said Ben. “I know her and she knows me.” And he turned his back on

her and went and stood looking out of the window, as if the sight of her

was hateful to him, as indeed it was. Then the woman, seeing herself so

baffled and exposed, lost all control over herself and flew into such a

rage as Ben and Dick had often seen her in before. Dick grinned a trifle

more as he watched her and heard the names she called them all and the

violent threats she made, but Ben did not turn to look at her.

“I can swear to her in any court,” he said to Mr. Havisham, “and I can

bring a dozen others who will. Her father is a respectable sort of man,

though he’s low down in the world. Her mother was just like herself.

She’s dead, but he’s alive, and he’s honest enough to be ashamed of her.

He’ll tell you who she is, and whether she married me or not.”

Then he clenched his hand suddenly and turned on her.

“Where’s the child?” he demanded. “He’s going with me! He is done with

you, and so am I!”

And just as he finished saying the words, the door leading into the

bedroom opened a little, and the boy, probably attracted by the sound of

the loud voices, looked in. He was not a handsome boy, but he had rather

a nice face, and he was quite like Ben, his father, as any one could see,

and there was the three-cornered scar on his chin.

Ben walked up to him and took his hand, and his own was trembling.

“Yes,” he said, “I could swear to him too. Tom,” he said to the little

fellow, “I’m your father; I’ve come to take you away. Where’s your hat?”

The boy pointed to where it lay on a chair. It evidently rather pleased

him to hear that he was going away. He had been so accustomed to queer

experiences that it did not surprise him to be told by a stranger that

he was his father. He objected so much to the woman who had come a few

months before to the place where he had lived since his babyhood, and who

had suddenly announced that she was his mother, that he was quite ready

for a change. Ben took up the hat and marched to the door.

“If you want me again,” he said to Mr. Havisham, “you know where to find

me.”

He walked out of the room, holding the child’s hand and not looking at

the woman once. She was fairly raving with fury, and the Earl was calmly

gazing at her through his eyeglasses, which he had quietly placed upon

his aristocratic, eagle nose.

“Come, come, my young woman,” said Mr. Havisham. “This won’t do at all.

If you don’t want to be locked up, you really must behave yourself.”

And there was something so very business-like in his tones that, probably

feeling that the safest thing she could do would be to get out of the

way, she gave him one savage look and dashed past him into the next room

and slammed the door.

“We shall have no more trouble with her,” said Mr. Havisham.

And he was right; for that very night she left the Dorincourt Arms and

took the train to London, and was seen no more.

* * * * *

When the Earl left the room after the interview, he went at once to his

carriage.

“To Court Lodge,” he said to Thomas.

“To Court Lodge,” said Thomas to the coachman as he mounted the box; “an’

you may depend on it, things is taking a uniggspected turn.”

When the carriage stopped at Court Lodge, Cedric was in the drawing-room

with his mother.

The Earl came in without being announced. He looked an inch or so taller,

and a great many years younger. His deep eyes flashed.

“Where,” he said, “is Lord Fauntleroy?”

Mrs. Errol came forward, a flush rising to her cheek.

“Is it Lord Fauntleroy?” she asked. “Is it, indeed!”

The Earl put out his hand and grasped hers.

“Yes,” he answered, “it is.”

Then he put his other hand on Cedric’s shoulder.

“Fauntleroy,” he said in his unceremonious, authoritative way, “ask your

mother when she will come to us at the Castle.”

Fauntleroy flung his arms around his mother’s neck.

“To live with us!” he cried. “To live with us always!”

The Earl looked at Mrs. Errol, and Mrs. Errol looked at the Earl. His

lordship was entirely in earnest. He had made up his mind to waste no

time in arranging this matter. He had begun to think it would suit him to

make friends with his heir’s mother.

“Are you quite sure you want me?” said Mrs. Errol, with her soft, pretty

smile.

“Quite sure,” he said bluntly. “We have always wanted you, but we were

not exactly aware of it. We hope you will come.”

CHAPTER XV.

Ben took his boy and went back to his cattle ranch in California, and he

returned under very comfortable circumstances. Just before his going,

Mr. Havisham had an interview with him in which the lawyer told him that

the Earl of Dorincourt wished to do something for the boy who might have

turned out to be Lord Fauntleroy, and so he had decided that it would be

a good plan to invest in a cattle ranch of his own, and put Ben in charge

of it on terms which would make it pay him very well, and which would lay

a foundation for his son’s future. And so when Ben went away, he went as

the prospective master of a ranch which would be almost as good as his

own, and might easily become his own in time, as indeed it did in the

course of a few years; and Tom, the boy, grew up on it into a fine young

man and was devotedly fond of his father; and they were so successful and

happy that Ben used to say that Tom made up to him for all the troubles

he had ever had.

But Dick and Mr. Hobbs—who had actually come over with the others to see

that things were properly looked after—did not return for some time. It

had been decided at the outset that the Earl would provide for Dick, and

would see that he received a solid education; and Mr. Hobbs had decided

that as he himself had left a reliable substitute in charge of his store,

he could afford to wait to see the festivities, which were to celebrate

Lord Fauntleroy’s eighth birthday. All the tenantry were invited, and

there were to be feasting and dancing and games in the park, and bonfires

and fireworks in the evening.

[Illustration: “‘ARE YOU QUITE SURE YOU WANT ME?’ SAID MRS. ERROL.”]

“Just like the Fourth of July!” said Lord Fauntleroy. “It seems a pity my

birthday wasn’t on the Fourth, doesn’t it? For then we could keep them

both together.”

It must be confessed that at first the Earl and Mr. Hobbs were not as

intimate as it might have been hoped they would become, in the interests

of the British aristocracy. The fact was that the Earl had known very

few grocery-men, and Mr. Hobbs had not had many very close acquaintances

who were earls; and so in their rare interviews conversation did

not flourish. It must also be owned that Mr. Hobbs had been rather

overwhelmed by the splendors Fauntleroy felt it his duty to show him.

The entrance gate and the stone lions and the avenue impressed Mr.

Hobbs somewhat at the beginning, and when he saw the Castle, and the

flower-gardens, and the hot-houses, and the terraces, and the peacocks,

and the dungeon, and the armor, and the great staircase, and the stables,

and the liveried servants, he really was quite bewildered. But it was

the picture gallery which seemed to be the finishing stroke.

“Somethin’ in the manner of a museum?” he said to Fauntleroy, when he was

led into the great, beautiful room.

“N—no—!” said Fauntleroy, rather doubtfully. “I don’t _think_ it’s a

museum. My grandfather says these are my ancestors.”

“Your aunt’s sisters!” ejaculated Mr. Hobbs. “_All_ of ’em? Your

great-uncle, he _must_ have had a family! Did he raise ’em all?”

And he sank into a seat and looked around him with quite an agitated

countenance, until with the greatest difficulty Lord Fauntleroy managed

to explain that the walls were not lined entirely with the portraits of

the progeny of his great-uncle.

He found it necessary, in fact, to call in the assistance of Mrs. Mellon,

who knew all about the pictures, and could tell who painted them and

when, and who added romantic stories of the lords and ladies who were the

originals. When Mr. Hobbs once understood, and had heard some of these

stories, he was very much fascinated and liked the picture gallery almost

better than anything else; and he would often walk over from the village

where he staid at the Dorincourt Arms, and would spend half an hour or so

wandering about the gallery, staring at the painted ladies and gentlemen

who also stared at him, and shaking his head nearly all the time.

“And they was all earls!” he would say, “er pretty nigh it! An’ _he’s_

goin’ to be one of ’em, an’ own it all!”

Privately he was not nearly so much disgusted with earls and their mode

of life as he had expected to be, and it is to be doubted whether his

strictly republican principles were not shaken a little by a closer

acquaintance with castles and ancestors and all the rest of it. At any

rate, one day he uttered a very remarkable and unexpected sentiment:

“I wouldn’t have minded bein’ one of ’em myself!” he said—which was

really a great concession.

What a grand day it was when little Lord Fauntleroy’s birthday arrived,

and how his young lordship enjoyed it! How beautiful the park looked,

filled with the thronging people dressed in their gayest and best, and

with the flags flying from the tents and the top of the Castle! Nobody

had staid away who could possibly come, because everybody was really glad

that little Lord Fauntleroy was to be little Lord Fauntleroy still, and

some day was to be the master of everything. Every one wanted to have

a look at him, and at his pretty, kind mother, who had made so many

friends. And positively every one liked the Earl rather better, and felt

more amiably toward him because the little boy loved and trusted him so,

and because, also, he had now made friends with and behaved respectfully

to his heir’s mother. It was said that he was even beginning to be fond

of her, too, and that between his young lordship and his young lordship’s

mother, the Earl might be changed in time into quite a well-behaved old

nobleman, and everybody might be happier and better off.

[Illustration: “‘MY GRANDFATHER SAYS THESE ARE MY ANCESTORS,’ SAID

FAUNTLEROY.”]

What scores and scores of people there were under the trees, and in the

tents, and on the lawns! Farmers and farmers’ wives in their Sunday suits

and bonnets and shawls; girls and their sweethearts; children frolicking

and chasing about; and old dames in red cloaks gossiping together. At the

Castle, there were ladies and gentlemen who had come to see the fun, and

to congratulate the Earl, and to meet Mrs. Errol. Lady Lorredaile and

Sir Harry were there, and Sir Thomas Asshe and his daughters, and Mr.

Havisham, of course, and then beautiful Miss Vivian Herbert, with the

loveliest white gown and lace parasol, and a circle of gentlemen to take

care of her—though she evidently liked Fauntleroy better than all of them

put together. And when he saw her and ran to her and put his arm around

her neck, she put her arms around him, too, and kissed him as warmly as

if he had been her own favorite little brother, and she said:

“Dear little Lord Fauntleroy! dear little boy! I am so glad! I am so

glad!”

And afterward she walked about the grounds with him, and let him show her

everything. And when he took her to where Mr. Hobbs and Dick were, and

said to her, “This is my old, old friend Mr. Hobbs, Miss Herbert, and

this is my other old friend Dick. I told them how pretty you were, and

I told them they should see you if you came to my birthday,”—she shook

hands with them both, and stood and talked to them in her prettiest way,

asking them about America and their voyage and their life since they

had been in England; while Fauntleroy stood by, looking up at her with

adoring eyes, and his cheeks quite flushed with delight because he saw

that Mr. Hobbs and Dick liked her so much.

“Well,” said Dick solemnly, afterward, “she’s the daisiest gal I ever

saw! She’s—well, she’s just a daisy, that’s what she is, ’n no mistake!”

Everybody looked after her as she passed, and every one looked after

little Lord Fauntleroy. And the sun shone and the flags fluttered and the

games were played and the dances danced, and as the gayeties went on and

the joyous afternoon passed, his little lordship was simply radiantly

happy.

The whole world seemed beautiful to him.

There was some one else who was happy, too,—an old man, who, though he

had been rich and noble all his life, had not often been very honestly

happy. Perhaps, indeed, I shall tell you that I think it was because he

was rather better than he had been that he was rather happier. He had

not, indeed, suddenly become as good as Fauntleroy thought him; but, at

least, he had begun to love something, and he had several times found a

sort of pleasure in doing the kind things which the innocent, kind little

heart of a child had suggested,—and that was a beginning. And every day

he had been more pleased with his son’s wife. It was true, as the people

said, that he was beginning to like her too. He liked to hear her sweet

voice and to see her sweet face; and as he sat in his armchair, he used

to watch her and listen as she talked to her boy; and he heard loving,

gentle words which were new to him, and he began to see why the little

fellow who had lived in a New York side street and known grocery-men and

made friends with boot-blacks, was still so well-bred and manly a little

fellow that he made no one ashamed of him, even when fortune changed him

into the heir to an English earldom, living in an English castle.

It was really a very simple thing, after all,—it was only that he had

lived near a kind and gentle heart, and had been taught to think kind

thoughts always and to care for others. It is a very little thing,

perhaps, but it is the best thing of all. He knew nothing of earls and

castles; he was quite ignorant of all grand and splendid things; but he

was always lovable because he was simple and loving. To be so is like

being born a king.

As the old Earl of Dorincourt looked at him that day, moving about the

park among the people, talking to those he knew and making his ready

little bow when any one greeted him, entertaining his friends Dick and

Mr. Hobbs, or standing near his mother or Miss Herbert listening to their

conversation, the old nobleman was very well satisfied with him. And he

had never been better satisfied than he was when they went down to the

biggest tent, where the more important tenants of the Dorincourt estate

were sitting down to the grand collation of the day.

They were drinking toasts; and, after they had drunk the health of the

Earl, with much more enthusiasm than his name had ever been greeted

with before, they proposed the health of “Little Lord Fauntleroy.” And

if there had ever been any doubt at all as to whether his lordship was

popular or not, it would have been settled that instant. Such a clamor

of voices, and such a rattle of glasses and applause! They had begun to

like him so much, those warm-hearted people, that they forgot to feel any

restraint before the ladies and gentlemen from the castle, who had come

to see them. They made quite a decent uproar, and one or two motherly

women looked tenderly at the little fellow where he stood, with his

mother on one side and the Earl on the other, and grew quite moist about

the eyes, and said to one another:

“God bless him, the pretty little dear!”

Little Lord Fauntleroy was delighted. He stood and smiled, and made bows,

and flushed rosy red with pleasure up to the roots of his bright hair.

“Is it because they like me, Dearest?” he said to his mother. “Is it,

Dearest? I’m so glad!”

And then the Earl put his hand on the child’s shoulder and said to him:

“Fauntleroy, say to them that you thank them for their kindness.”

Fauntleroy gave a glance up at him and then at his mother.

[Illustration: LORD FAUNTLEROY MAKES A SPEECH TO THE TENANTS.]

“Must I!” he asked just a trifle shyly, and she smiled, and so did Miss

Herbert, and they both nodded. And so he made a little step forward, and

everybody looked at him—such a beautiful, innocent little fellow he was,

too, with his brave trustful face!—and he spoke as loudly as he could,

his childish voice ringing out quite clear and strong.

“I’m ever so much obliged to you!” he said, “and—I hope you’ll enjoy my

birthday—because I’ve enjoyed it so much—and—I’m very glad I’m going to

be an earl—I didn’t think at first I should like it, but now I do—and I

love this place so, and I think it is beautiful—and—and—and when I am an

earl, I am going to try to be as good as my grandfather.”

And amid the shouts and clamor of applause, he stepped back with a little

sigh of relief, and put his hand into the Earl’s and stood close to him,

smiling and leaning against his side.

* * * * *

And that would be the very end of my story; but I must add one curious

piece of information, which is that Mr. Hobbs became so fascinated

with high life and was so reluctant to leave his young friend that he

actually sold his corner store in New York, and settled in the English

village of Erlesboro, where he opened a shop which was patronized by

the Castle and consequently was a great success. And though he and the

Earl never became very intimate, if you will believe me, that man Hobbs

became in time more aristocratic than his lordship himself, and he read

the Court news every morning, and followed all the doings of the House

of Lords! And about ten years after, when Dick, who had finished his

education and was going to visit his brother in California, asked the

good grocer if he did not wish to return to America, he shook his head

seriously.

“Not to live there,” he said. “Not to live there; I want to be near

_him_, an’ sort o’ look after him. It’s a good enough country for them

that’s young an’ stirrin’—but there’s faults in it. There’s not an

auntsister among ’em—nor a earl!”

THE END.

OCTOBER.

BY SUSAN HARTLEY.

October comes across the hill

Like some light ghost, she is so still,

Though her sweet cheeks are rosy;

And through the floating thistle-down

Her trailing, brier-tangled gown

Gleams like a crimson posy.

The crickets in the stubble chime;

Lanterns flash out at milking time;

The daisy’s lost her ruffles;

The wasps the honeyed pippins try;

A film is over the blue sky,

A spell the river muffles.

The golden-rod fades in the sun;

The spider’s gauzy veil is spun

Athwart the drooping sedges;

The nuts drop softly from their burrs;

No bird-song the dim silence stirs,—

A blight is on the hedges.

But filled with fair content is she,

As if no frost could ever be,

To dim her brown eyes’ luster;

And much she knows of fairy folk

That dance beneath the spreading oak

With tinkling mirth and bluster.

She listens when the dusky eves

Step softly on the fallen leaves,

As if for message cheering;

And it must be that she can hear,

Beyond November grim and drear,

The feet of Christmas nearing.

[Illustration]

SOME CURIOUS MARINERS.

BY C. F. HOLDER.

One bright spring morning, two boys were walking out into the open

country, near the little village of Cowes, on the Isle of Wight. Each

lad carried under his arm a miniature cutter. It was the day of the

great race between the Sea Mew and the Prince Albert, the reputations of

which, as winning cruisers, had been earned in many a hard-fought battle

on the pond then in sight. A number of boys were already at the shore,

and their boats, beating up and down the lake, gave it a very animated

appearance. As Ralph and Dick approached, bringing the champion cutters,

all the competitors moved to the head of the lake, and soon the signal

for the race was given. The Sea Mew and the Prince Albert got off first;

then came the smaller boats; while following up the race, some in a

skiff and some along shore, the boys shouted and cheered the imaginary

skippers of the various crafts, who, it must be confessed, sailed them

in a rather curious way. As the Prince Albert rounded the stake on the

homestretch, a queer personage came aboard. The boys were allowed to put

their crafts about, and Ralph had waded out and was just about to stop

his boat, when it came in collision with a floating mass of leaves that

threw it up into the wind. From the wrecked leaves nimbly darted the only

survivor, a large spider, so alarmed at the catastrophe that it reached

the crosstrees of the Prince Albert before it even looked about it.

“The Prince has been boarded by a shipwrecked crew!” shouted Ralph,

giving the mast a rap that sent the spider to the topmast-head.

“Let him stay,” said Dick, picking up the leaves that now floated by.

“You ran him down, and now you must take him ashore, or we’ll treat you

as they did the man in America who was tarred and feathered and carried

in a cart.”

So the spider was taken back by the cutter to the starting-point, and it

must have brought good luck to the cutter, for the Prince Albert came

in ahead and won the “cup,” as the boys called the old-fashioned blue

soup-tureen, ornamented with figures of Neptune and dolphins. And within

this receptacle the shipwrecked spider was carefully placed after the

race was over.

“Here’s his craft!” said Dick. “Let’s put it in some water and see if

he’ll take to it again.”

So the “cup” was filled and the layer of leaves thrown in, when the

spider, without a moment’s hesitation, leaped into the water from the

side of the tureen—or “cup”—and soon clambered upon the leaves, much to

the amusement of the young yachtsmen, who had gathered around to see what

it would do.

In this manner, Dick and Ralph carried the spider home to Dick’s

father, who told the boys, much to their astonishment, that it was a

ship-building spider.

“Examine the leaves more closely,” he said. “Don’t you find that the

bunch has not been accidentally caught together, but that the leaves have

been drawn carefully one over another, and fastened together by silken

cords, forming a perfect boat?”

[Illustration: THE SPIDER AND HIS CRAFT.]

The boys soon saw that this was indeed the fact, and, much interested,

they started out next day, determined to become better acquainted with

these nimble little boatmen. They were amply repaid for their trouble;

for they had not gone far when Dick cried:

“Here is one, Ralph!” In a little bay, Dick had discovered a small bunch

of leaves whirling around and around, and lying closely upon it a large

and handsome spider that might easily have been the First Lord of the

Admiralty of the Spider-Queen’s navy. Around its brown body was a band,

or sash, of rich orange color barred in a curious manner; while a double

row of white spots upon the under side, Ralph said, represented its

rank. Its legs were a light red—and altogether its outward coloring made

up a very fanciful and appropriate uniform.

But I grieve to say that the spider was really a pirate of the boldest

and most cruel type. Finding that the circular motion was caused by the

peculiar way in which the turned-up tip of a leaf caught the breeze,

Ralph gave the craft a start, and away it went before the wind, the

red-legged skipper lying low for plunder.

Near the head of the pond several members of the _Dolomedes fimbriatus_

family (for this is their scientific name) were found, and the boys came

upon one fellow in the very act of starting out on a voyage.

By lying upon the bank and keeping very still, the lads finally gained

possession of many secrets of this cunning ship-builder. At first the

spider seemed to be looking for something in the grass near the water’s

edge; finally he seized upon a dead leaf, which he dragged down a slight

decline, where the boys now saw several other leaves collected. By deft

movements of his long legs, the leaf was lifted and tucked in between the

others—the builder lashing them together by silken cords which he spun,

and fastened them by a simple pressure of his body against the leaf.

This leaf being satisfactorily placed, another was brought, and the same

process repeated, the creature running rapidly about, passing silken

cords over the entire mass, and now and then raising himself up and down,

as if testing the strength of his craft. The vessel gradually grew in

size until it was an inch and a half thick and four inches across, when

it seemed to satisfy its owner.

[Illustration: THE SPIDER BUILDING HIS BOAT.]

The spider now ran down to the water several times, returning every time

thoroughly to inspect the vessel; finally, taking the craft in his strong

mandibles, or jaws, he drew it several inches toward the water. Then,

resting for a moment, he took it a second time by the side and drew it

fairly to the water’s edge. Once there, he took a last hold, the leafy

ship glided clear of the shore, and the gay launcher, leaping aboard with

surprising skill, sailed out into the stream.

But the launch was not even yet a success. A spear of grass growing from

the water became entangled in the silken cables, and stopped the fairy

craft. The spider rushed at the obstruction, seized it in his mandibles,

and, to the astonishment of the watchers, walked down it into the water.

Soon he re-appeared and again scrambled aboard. But as he now seemed to

be greatly agitated and disturbed, the boys here interfered, and cast off

the raft for him, whereupon the skipper settled down as if completely

satisfied. If they touched him with a blade of grass, he darted into the

water and clung to the under side, coming out when the danger was over.

Soon an unfortunate fly alighted near the raft, when the pirate, instead

of rowing his boat alongside, actually dashed into the water to secure

his victim, swimming back to the raft to devour it at his leisure. The

last the boys saw of the spider, he had jumped again at something that

rippled the water; but he never returned. Possibly a self-satisfied young

frog that soon hopped upon the bank could have explained the absence of

the skipper of the now deserted craft.

Thoroughly interested, the boys repeatedly watched the spiders, and

studied their manners and their labors. They found also another spider,

which, although it did not make a raft, had no fear of the water, and

frequently went fishing; while Dick’s father told them of still another

that lived under water by carrying down bubbles of air with it. Its

home, too, might be called a queer diving-bell, as may be seen from the

illustration.

[Illustration: THE SPIDER THAT LIVES UNDER WATER.]

There are certain ants that show quite as much intelligence as the

spider, and the “driver ants” not only build boats, but launch them,

too; only, these boats are formed of their own bodies. They are called

“drivers,” because of their ferocity. Nothing can stand before the

attacks of these little creatures. Large pythons have been killed by

them in a single night, while chickens, lizards, and other animals

in Western Africa flee from them in terror. To protect themselves from

the heat they erect arches under which numerous armies of them pass in

safety. Sometimes the arch is made of grass and earth gummed together by

some secretion, and again it is formed by the bodies of the larger ants,

which hold themselves together by their strong nippers, while the workers

pass under them.

[Illustration: THE DRIVER ANTS FORMED INTO A FLOATING BALL.]

At certain times of the year, freshets overflow the country inhabited by

the “drivers,” and it is then that these ants go to sea. The rain comes

suddenly, and the walls of their houses are broken in by the flood, but

instead of coming to the surface in scattered hundreds and being swept

off to destruction, out of the ruins rises a black ball that rides

safely on the water and drifts away. At the first warning of danger,

the little creatures rush together, and form a solid ball of ants, the

weaker in the center; often this ball is larger than a common base-ball,

and in this way they float about until they lodge against some tree,

upon the branches of which they are soon safe and sound. And from this

resting-place they escape by their curious bridges, a description of

which was given in “Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” in ST. NICHOLAS for July, 1881.

[Illustration: THE GREBE AND HER FLOATING NEST.]

One would scarcely look for ship-builders among birds, so many of which

are boats in themselves, going either upon or under the water; but in

the curious family of grebes, one branch of which produces the beautiful

feathers so coveted by ladies, there is one kind that forms a nest which

is a veritable ark. Instinctively these birds seek the low boggy marshes

to build their nests. But there they are in continual danger from the

high tides that often cover the marshes, or from the drift-wood which

washes in, or from many other accidents. So the ingenious grebe, looking

like a clerk with feathery pens behind her ear, constructs a nest

that will rise and fall with the tides, and can be moved from place to

place. The boat is first built of rushes and grass; this is then packed

with moss, and lined and relined until it is perfectly water-tight;

and in this the eggs are laid. The home either is anchored to tufts of

grass, or drifts, perhaps, here and there, though always guided by the

mother-skipper, as she stands by the helm in all kinds of weather. We

have seen that the spider is completely at the mercy of the wind, but

the grebe propels her boat along. If the young are half grown, they

readily take to the water; but if they are just hatched, the mother, at

the approach of danger, steps upon one side of the boat, and uses one of

her webbed feet as an oar to paddle away from the enemy into one of the

innumerable inlets or lanes in the marsh, where she is almost sure to

escape.

[Illustration: THE SAILOR-FISH OF THE INDIAN OCEAN.]

In the warm waters of the Indian Ocean a strange mariner is found that

has given rise to many curious tales among the natives of the coast

thereabout. They tell of a wonderful sail often seen in the calm seasons

preceding the terrible hurricanes that course over those waters. Not a

breath then disturbs the water, the sea rises and falls like a vast sheet

of glass; suddenly the sail appears, glistening with rich purple and

golden hues, and seemingly driven along by a mighty wind. On it comes,

quivering and sparkling, as if bedecked with gems, but only to disappear

as if by magic. Many travelers had heard with unbelief this strange tale;

but one day the phantom craft actually appeared to the crew of an Indian

steamer, and as it passed by under the stern of the vessel, the queer

“sail” was seen to belong to a gigantic sword-fish, now known as the

sailor-fish. The sail was really an enormously developed dorsal fin that

was over ten feet high, and was richly colored with blue and iridescent

tints; and as the fish swam along on or near the surface of the water,

this great fin naturally waved to and fro, so that, from a distance, it

could easily be mistaken for a curious sail.

Some of these fishes attain a length of over twenty feet, and have large,

crescent-shaped tails and long, sword-like snouts, capable of doing great

damage.

In the Mediterranean Sea, a sword-fish is found that also has a high fin,

but it does not equal the great sword-fish of the Indian Ocean.

NAN’S REVOLT.

BY ROSE LATTIMORE ALLING.

CHAPTER VI.

December came and went, and although the girls had agreed to postpone

their accustomed giving of gifts to one another until spring, when

they hoped to present trophies of the winter’s warfare, the season was

otherwise filled with the usual gayety.

Our heroines had not in the least relaxed their interest in the world in

general, because of their interest in their own worlds in particular, and

had not “cut loose,” as Nan at first had threatened. But, as their lives

began to have more of purpose in them, their tastes changed somewhat,

so that gradually the most “frothy” of their society friends drifted

away unregretted, while new people, whom they had “found out,” as Evelyn

phrased it, one by one slipped into the vacant places.

So it was that with less frequent but more spirited contact with society,

the winter months flew away, and when the first rays of June sunshine

streamed through the glass roof into “Cathy’s kingdom,” the most joyous

sight they fell upon was the happy face of the proud mistress, as she

went about among the radiant blooms and verdure, cutting her choicest

buds for Evelyn’s luncheon, to be given that day in honor of Nan’s return

and the reunion of the “jolly four.”

When the girls met in the Ferrises’ dining-room, and surveyed Evelyn’s

beautiful table arrangements, they were more than usually jolly, and as

that sweet young housekeeper had taken much pride in her festive board,

she was deeply gratified by their exclamations of approval.

They pirouetted around and around it, admiring everything, beginning with

the artistic lunch-cloth, embroidered by the same fingers which had laid

a handful of Cathy’s flowers across each napkin; and they would have

proceeded to scrutinize each separate detail, had not Bert seized upon

a card bearing her name, attached to a cunning basket, which, in its

turn, was tied with a gorgeous bow to one of the chairs. This discovery

stimulated research on the part of the others, and immediately each guest

was “pouncing,” as Bert said, on her own particular basket.

Nan was the first to investigate the contents. “Bonbons!” she shouted.

“What richness! After luncheon, let’s toast these marsh-mallows on the

ends of hat-pins over a lamp!—But who is the giver?”

Diving among the sweets for a clew, Cathy succeeded in finding a card

which bore the inscription: “From the cook. Warranted pure.”

“_You_ didn’t make ’em, Evelyn?” exclaimed Bert, popping a

chocolate-cream into her mouth.

“Yes, I did,” laughed Evelyn, “and it’s as _easy_!—But see here!” and she

held aloft a tawny yellow vase, with a flight of butterflies, in all rich

hues, encircling the top.

“Waiting for the flowers with which I hope soon to be able to fill them,”

Cathy said, as the girls looked radiantly at her work, and Bert hugged

one of Pompeiian red, with dull blue butterflies, while Nan suggested

the “divine” effect that scarlet nasturtiums would make with the yellow

butterflies and the peacock-blue background of hers.

In the meanwhile, Bert, making further search under the fringe of the

table-cloth, brought to view a fascinating cabinet. “With a place for

a plaque, a place for a jug, and a place for my jar!” she shouted;

while Cathy added, as she lovingly surveyed hers, “Yes, and a place for

_secrets_ behind the cunning little door!”

“Don’t, girls!” protested Nan, as they heaped thanks upon her. “You

needn’t worry; they are not mahogany, nothing but pine, and a cheap

carpenter made them, and I stained and polished them myself, so they cost

hardly anything.”

“Oh, now, Nan, if you _have_ been to New York and do up your hair in a

new way, you can’t get me to believe that!” said Bert decidedly; while

Evelyn asked sarcastically, “And did you also design them, Nannie?”

“Of course! What am I studying for, if I can’t design a simple shelf?”

cried her sister.

The girls opened their eyes wide, but Nan averted another avalanche of

praise by producing the last article on her chair. She gave a deep sigh

of satisfaction as she comprehended that Bert had bestowed upon her a set

of photographs of the most famous pictures in the world; while Cathy sat

down and gloated over her “Goethe Gallery,” and Evelyn smiled into the

faces of her favorite authors.

“I beg pardon, Bert,” said Nan, “for the vulgarity of admiring the

setting as much as the gem,—but, girls, will you just observe the

magnificence of these Japanese leather portfolios?”

The girls observed with joy, and Evelyn said:

“Considering how smart we have already shown ourselves to be, I venture

to inquire, dear Bert, if you took the photographs yourself, or only

tanned the leather?”

“Neither,” laughed Bert; “I only _earned_ them with my inky fingers, so

they are the first real presents I ever gave! And now let us sit down and

admire one another.”

“You would be more sensible to admire my _bouillon_,” suggested Evelyn,

as she ordered in the cups containing the first course.

So the merriment went on, through all the changes of Evelyn’s dainty

banquet, while the girls compared notes on their various experiences.

[Illustration: “BERT SEIZED UPON A BASKET TIED TO ONE OF THE CHAIRS.”]

“Let us add up, subtract, and get our totals, both financially and

spiritually,” said Bert. “Who’ll begin?—Ah, what delicious chicken

croquettes these are, Evelyn!—Come, Nan! You are responsible for the

whole social and moral revolution, you know; so lead off with your

account.”

“Nonsense,” replied that young woman; “if I hadn’t begun it, one of you

would have fired our noble hearts,—for we should have died of inanition

if we had lolled in the lap of luxury another week. So as you, Bert,

scrambled down to the ground first, you should begin the reports. How is

your exchequer?”

“Low, very low; but my spirits are not, and what matters it therefore,

so long as I’m happy?” answered the confidential clerk. “No, money isn’t

everything, for I have a gain far better. I feel genuine; I respect Miss

Me; and, best of all, I have found my father. So, Nannie dear, I thank

you sincerely, for I never was so happy in my life. So much for my grand

total, with a large deficit of _ennui_.”

There was a general clicking of spoons in the after-dinner coffee-cups

by way of applause, as Bert finished; and she at once demanded that Nan

should next be heard.

The young artist responded promptly:

“Well, we all are happy, I hope,—because, thank goodness, it is no longer

the chief object of our lives to be so;—that is one of the valuable

lessons I have learned as I sat, day after day, at table between fat Miss

Lee and thin Miss Jennings. I have been dreadfully discouraged at times,

but I used to have worse ‘blues’ when I was only trying to amuse myself.

I have had a happy winter; and even if I never sell a design (I hope to

sell at least one next year), I never shall regret the experiment I have

made; for the feeling of self-reliance is better than a bag of gold to

your friend Nan!”

“But how about the fun you were bent on having?” mildly inquired Cathy.

“Oh, I’ve had a delightful time! Girls with a purpose are twice as

interesting as those without; and as most of us were impecunious, we had

numberless gay little three-cent larks. Ha, I can tell you there was no

lack of fun!” and Nan laughed at certain merry remembrances. “But now,

Cathy,” she resumed, “I pine to know all about that famous greenhouse.”

“Green-_houses_,” replied the young florist, with dignity. “All flowers

can’t grow in the same temperature, my dear.”

“Oh,—I want to know!” drawled Nan. “But are you dreadfully in debt? And

do things really sprout?”

“Sprout!” exclaimed Evelyn. “You would think so, Nan, if you had seen the

big basket of yellow pansies she sent to old Mrs. Burk on the anniversary

of her wedding-day! But Cathy will never roll in wealth; she gives all

her flowers away. She ought to hang out a sign with the words ‘Flower

Mission’ on it.” And Evelyn gave her friend a loving glance.

“Never mind,” retorted Cathy, blushing a little. “Our crusade was not so

much to earn money as for the right to be happy, each in her own way;

and since I have repaid what Fred loaned me, I can give away my very

own things if I wish to, especially as they are usually in the good

company of jellies and other lovely delicacies from Evelyn’s larder,” she

added. “But don’t be disturbed, my dears, about my generosity; I shall

charge you opulent creatures a good round dollar for every bud you get

of me.—And now, Evelyn, it’s your turn; but your luncheon has been more

eloquent than words——”

“No, no!” broke in Nan, with sudden mournfulness; “Evelyn has been an

egregious failure, so far as her family is concerned; she has struck for

higher wages——”

But a look from her sister warned Nan not to go further, while Cathy

burst out:

“Oh, Evelyn, let _me_ tell!”

“No,” she said, with an odd expression of mingled pride and timidity on

her face. “I will tell it myself; why shouldn’t I? Besides, all but Bert

know of it already, and I’m sure she suspects.”

“Are you _really_?” wildly demanded Bert, inconsequently except to the

feminine mind.

“Yes, really!” answered Evelyn with shining eyes and flushed cheeks,

while Nan groaned:

“Oh, Bert, woe is me! To think that I aided and abetted in this miserable

business by encouraging Cathy to become independent, and so allowed her

brother Fred to engage my sister for a wife!”

“You gave me a sister!” cried Cathy, as she tipped over her chair in an

excited rush at Evelyn, whom she clasped in her arms, crying a little

for joy, although her brother had partly prepared her for the glad

news,—while Bert exclaimed heartily:

“You have my blessing, Evelyn dear!—And are there any more secrets to be

divulged? Nan, you are in the designing business. Is there any decorative

youth in view?”

“Not for me!” laughed Nan. “But, Bert, where has all your money gone? I

expected you to ask me to accompany you and some delightful chaperon to

Europe this summer, at your expense.”

“Oh, I frittered my funds away!” she cried. “Come, come; let us toast the

marsh-mallows. Light the droplight, Evelyn. Where are the hat-pins?”

“Now, Bert,” said Evelyn, seriously, “I have found out your secret,

and I’m going to tell——” But Bert had escaped and was flying upstairs,

while Evelyn continued: “She has given a library to the working-girls’

association, and all that the world knows is that it came from ‘a girl

who is thankful to have found out how much better work is than idleness.’

That’s what Bert has done with her money!”

THE END.

IN THE GARDEN.

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.

We were working in the garden,

My little boy and I,

Both digging weeds,

And planting seeds

To blossom by and by.

“Here is some pop-corn, dear,” I said,

“I’ll give you for your own;

To plant and hoe,

And watch it grow,

And have it when it’s grown.”

He took the kernels eagerly,

His little hoe he dropped,

Then, out he burst:—

“Let’s pop it first,

So it will come up popped!”

[Illustration: THE CREW OF THE CAPTAIN’S GIG.]

BY REV. CHARLES R. TALBOT.

The Fair Rosamond, sloop yacht, N. Y. Y. C., lay at anchor off the east

shore of Cape Cod Bay, her polished brasswork and white hull glittering

like gold and silver in the morning sunlight. No one was visible on

board, forward or aft, until presently a youthful form showed itself

above the cabin hatch, halting there a moment to survey the scene, and

then stepping forth in full view upon the deck. This was Jasper. The

noticeable things about Jasper were his homely, freckled face, his slim,

ungainly figure, and his intensely solemn air. One would have thought, to

look at him, that he was the most sober person in the world, whereas, in

point of fact, he was never known to be serious two minutes at a time,

and was forever making fun. He stood there for several moments, his hands

in the pockets of his yachting jacket, yawning lazily and looking forward

along the deck.

“Well,” he at length observed, “this is a hilarious state of things, I

must say! I wonder when those men are coming?” Suddenly he assumed an

attitude of declamation, and, raising his head and throwing out his right

hand by way of gesture, he exclaimed:

“‘The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled——’”

These lines, not altogether inappropriate so far as they went, were

interrupted here by some one coming up softly from behind and seizing the

speaker by the collar. He quickly freed himself, however, and turning

about, with hand still extended, finished his verse in good order:

“‘When some one seized him by the neck.

He turned; ’twas Captain Fred.’”

Captain Fred laughed.

“So here you are,” said he, “come up like a whale to spout.”

“A very good joke, my dear brother,” replied Jasper. “I’ll tell you a

better, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Captain Fred.

“Your merry men have not appeared yet.”

“What!” exclaimed the captain, scowling and looking forward.

Owing to a serious disagreement between the yacht’s foremast hands,

Captain Fred had summarily discharged them all, and sent his

sailing-master to Provincetown to pick up a new crew. It was now the

third day that he had been absent on this errand; and Captain Fred had

counted upon his arrival, with the four sailor men, by an early train

that morning. “This is dreadfully annoying!” he declared.

“‘In vain the captain shouted——’”

Jasper began quoting again.

Jasper had a talent for quotations, as the reader will presently

perceive. But again he was cut off by an arrival on deck, this time

that of three young ladies and a small boy. These were Captain Fred’s

pretty young wife, his niece Ethel, her intimate friend Kitty, and little

Fred,—the last sometimes known as Frederick the Little, as distinguished

from his uncle, Captain Frederick the Great. The girls looked wonderfully

fresh and pretty, considering they had just made their toilet in a seven

by nine state-room. Kitty was Ethel’s school friend, and had only been

with them a few days. She was a bright, vivacious young person, however,

and had already made herself quite at home on board. It was she who spoke

up now.

“What is the matter, Captain Fred?” cried she. “Are the tea-kettle

halliards foul again, this morning?” This was in allusion to a joke of

Jasper’s, the first morning she had been on board.

“The matter is,” said Captain Fred, looking as pleasant as he could,

“that our crew has not yet arrived; and we may have to lie here a day or

two longer.”

At breakfast, Captain Fred announced that he was going ashore. Something

must be done at once about a crew. He should run down to Provincetown

himself, and should not return until the afternoon at the earliest.

Meanwhile, they must get along as best they could. The yacht was in a

perfectly safe position; the steward (the only man left on board) was an

entirely competent and trustworthy person; and the sailing-master himself

would be back, without fail, before night. “And since I am without a

crew,” Captain Fred concluded, “I think that you young people will have

to man my gig for me.”

[Illustration: ON BOARD THE YACHT, “FAIR ROSAMOND.”]

This proposal was agreed to, willingly enough; and a few minutes later,

the gig being brought alongside, Jasper called “Giglers away!” and

they all got in, Ethel and Kitty at the oars (they were accustomed to

rowing together), Freddy in the bow, and Captain Fred and Jasper in the

stern-sheets. Mrs. Fred preferred to remain on board and read. They

pulled directly inshore. The village and railroad station were some

distance below, but much nearer by land than by water. “Good-bye, all!”

said Captain Fred as he jumped ashore. “Take good care of yourselves.

And, Jasper, do try to behave yourself for one day.” Then he waved his

“gripsack” and was gone.

They rowed along, not caring to land,—for the shore everywhere had the

genuine Cape aspect, barren and unattractive,—but finding it pleasure

enough to float upon the bosom of the sparkling blue water, now drifting

idly, now pulling themselves here and there as the fancy seized them.

They chatted and laughed and shouted, growing even boisterous by and

by, Freddy and the two girls getting into a regular romp at last in the

forward part of the boat. Jasper (who was not strong) sat looking down

upon this with an air of elderly indulgence. It was one of Jasper’s

delights to give himself patriarchal airs. Although just Ethel’s age,

sixteen, he was, like Captain Fred, uncle to both her and Freddy,—a

relationship which had, by courtesy, been extended to Kitty during her

stay with them, though that young lady had professed herself quite

indifferent to the honor,—and he loved to talk of his “avuncular

responsibilities.”

“Ah, children,” he now declared, “it does your poor old uncle good to see

you enjoying yourselves in this way.

“‘I love to look on a scene like this,

Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet gray.’”

“Jasper,” asked Kitty, flushed with exercise and suddenly resting on her

oar, “can you sing?”

“Sing!” Jasper looked at her as though he thought her crazy. “My

dear niece, what can you be thinking of? I could no more sing than I

could—raise a pair of side-whiskers.” He gave his cheek a melancholy tap.

“Oh, yes, you can!” said Kitty. “You can sing _something_,—can’t you?

Some old song or other.”

“Some old song?” Jasper shook his head. “No,” said he,

“‘I can not sing the old songs’;

It is not that I deem them low,

’Tis that I can’t remember

How they go.”

“Pshaw!” cried Kitty, who evidently had some object in view. “I am sure

you can sing something,—and you must. Don’t you know ‘Hail Columbia,’ or

‘Home, Sweet Home,’ or ‘Bonnie Doon’?”

“I know ‘Old Grimes,’” said Jasper.

“‘Old Grimes’? Well let me hear it.”

So Jasper began to sing, to a tolerably correct air but in a voice which

was far from musical, the song “Old Grimes is Dead.” He grew somewhat in

love with his own performance as he proceeded, and gave the “old gray

coat” such a thorough “buttoning down before” in the chorus, that Kitty

grew impatient.

“Why, to be sure!” she interrupted. “That air is the same as ‘Auld Lang

Syne,’ and will do perfectly.” Then she turned to Freddy: “Now, Freddy,

what can you sing?”

“Oh, I say,” protested Jasper, “you’re not going to make Freddy exhibit

himself, too?

“‘Strike, if you will, this old gray head,’

But spare a little boy like Fred.”

Kitty inexorably repeated her question; and Freddy, showing no

disposition to plead his tender years as an excuse, declared that he

could sing “’Way down upon the Suwanee River,” and he freely opened his

mouth and delivered himself of a verse of the song indicated, in proof of

his assertion.

“That will do capitally,” pronounced Miss Kitty. “And, Ethel, you can

take ‘Ben Bolt,’ say, and I will take ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ The simpler and

more familiar the tunes the better. And now I’ll tell you what I wish

you to do. It’s ever so much fun! We tried it one day, up at Lenox, and

we got into a perfect gale over it. It’s just this: Whatever any one of

us has to say, no matter what it is and without any exception, we must

_sing_ it instead of saying it, every one using the tune assigned him or

her. Do you understand?

“It’s the eá-siest thing in the wuh-órld, when wuh-ónce you have

triéd-it.”

She calmly illustrated her meaning to the tune of “Home, Sweet Home.”

“Of course,” she added, “it’s perfectly ridiculous. But that’s the fun of

it, you know.”

They all fell in with the scheme at once, though Jasper proposed to

improve it a little.

“Wouldn’t it be well,” he suggested, “to prescribe some penalty or

forfeit in case anybody forgets, and talks instead of singing? Suppose,

for instance, we agree, each of us, to pay ten cents every time we break

the rule, all money so obtained to be devoted to some charitable object.”

“I consent to that,” said Ethel, quite approving.

“And I, too!” cried Kitty. “It will make us all the more particular.”

“Well, then, _I don’t_!” shouted Freddy, rising up, very red in the face.

“It’s all very well for you people who have allowances. But I’m not as

rich as the Pennsylvania Railroad Company myself.”

“Well, youngster,” said Jasper, “we’ll only charge you five cents when

you break over.”

To this Freddy assented.

“And, of course,” Jasper continued, “we’ll have to make the agreement

for a certain length of time—two hours, say. Will that do? Very

well,”—looking at his watch,—“it is distinctly understood then that from

this moment—it is now half-past eleven—for two whole hours we shall

_sing_ everything we have to say, every one to the tune agreed on, and

that we shall pay the sum of ten cents for every violation of this

rule,—with the exception of Freddy, who is to pay five cents.—Each, upon

honor, agrees to this solemn compact.”

He looked about, and all gravely nodded assent.

“All right,” said Jasper. Then, to the familiar strains of “Auld

Acquaintance,” without the slightest hesitation he sang these lines,

giving his words the proper rhyme and rhythm almost unconsciously:

“My gallant boys (or rather, girls),

Take now your oars and row;

For, if you don’t, ’tis very clear

This boat will never go.”

Four young people, full of frolic, found it easy to laugh at this, as

well as at a number of similar outbursts on the part of the others,

equally ridiculous if somewhat less elaborate. And the fun went on for

some minutes. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that Miss Kitty’s plan,

promising as it had seemed, did not turn out quite so well as she had

expected. Admirably adapted, as no doubt it was, to a picnic party, where

all sorts of people would be constantly moved to say all sorts of things,

it was found not to work at all well among four persons of about the same

age, in an open boat, where there was no especial necessity for saying

anything. Somehow or other, after a little, the singing began to grow

less funny, and presently everybody appeared to have discovered that

it was easier to keep still than to express one’s self, and so a grim

silence fell upon the boat. Freddy played with the water alongside; the

girls bent to their oars; and Jasper attended to his steering. And, bound

as they were by their absurd agreement, it is to be feared that the crew

of the gig would have had a dreary time of it for the next two hours, but

for an idea that suddenly suggested itself to Jasper’s fertile mind.

All at once the coxswain gave the helm a turn; and then the boat’s keel

was heard grating softly upon the sand. The others looked around in

surprise. The boat was close inshore, and the next moment it brought up

with a gentle bump against the bank. A short distance away a railroad

crossing could be seen, and, just beyond it, a red house. Jasper rose to

his feet, and sang:

“Now, what say you, my gallant crew,

To going with me ashore?

Methinks ’twould be a goodly thing

To tread the land once more.”

“I’m ready, for one,” cried Freddy, jumping ashore at once, painter in

hand.

“Ahem!” uttered Jasper loudly.

And Master Frederick, looking up, found a finger warningly pointed in his

direction, and realized that he had broken the rule. Jasper solemnly took

out his note-book and made an entry. Next he leaped ashore himself and

stood waiting to help the girls, who, after a moment’s hesitation, also

stepped ashore. Then, the boat being made fast to a convenient post, they

all started leisurely up the bank.

They soon came to a road which led them directly across the railroad and

toward the red house. This house was a small, one-story cottage, very

humble, but with the thrifty Cape Cod look, having a bright garden in

front and a neat walk, bordered with curious shells, running down to the

gate. Jasper, catching sight of a well near the side door, was about to

make an excuse for turning in, when Kitty forestalled him.

“Oh,” sang she, her spirits already revived by the change from sea to

shore, “Be it ever so humble, I must have some water.”

They went in, therefore, and Jasper was about to let down the bucket,

which worked by some modern arrangement, when a woman came running out

with a glass.

“Here, here!” she cried shrilly. “We don’t ’low strangers to meddle with

that well! _I_’ll draw it for you, if you please.” And she put Jasper one

side, carefully letting down the bucket, and then breathlessly drawing

it up. “You gave me quite a turn, I declare!” she observed as she handed

Ethel the glass. “I thought you were that sewin’-machine man when I first

heard ye. He said he sh’d come to-day.”

She eyed them curiously. She was a spare, energetic-looking woman, with

a pinched face and small bright eyes. She seemed rather puzzled when no

one spoke, though the two girls and Freddy bowed their thanks profusely

as they finished drinking. Her bewilderment may well have grown to wonder

as she beheld Jasper, with one hand still extended after handing back the

glass and the other laid dramatically upon his heart, open his mouth and

begin to sing, to the air of “Auld Lang Syne,” familiar in Cape Cod homes

as everywhere else in the world,

“‘Thanks,’ said the judge, ‘a sweeter draught

A fairer hand ne’er _quaffed_——’”

The combined exigencies of the tune and the effort to adapt the quotation

to it, left the singer, attitude and all, hanging, so to speak, at the

end of a high note; and the effect was supremely ludicrous. Jasper’s

comrades could not restrain their laughter.

The woman regarded him for an instant with a look of amazement; but

people on the Cape have a way of keeping their feelings to themselves,

and she quickly recovered her self-possession.

“Humph!” said she, glancing keenly from Jasper to the rest. “Where do you

folks come from, anyway?”

“We came,” Jasper answered, still true to “Auld Acquaintance,”

“We came, in yonder noble ship,

From lands beyond the sea;

And we’ve landed on this barren shore

To—to—see what we could see.”

He broke a little on the last line and finished rather lamely.

“Humph!” the woman dryly repeated. “You’ve come to a dangerous place,

then. P’r’aps you may not be aware that ’twas only right down here a bit

that Cap’n Cook was killed.”

Here Kitty, delighted to see her scheme displaying at last some of

the qualities she had claimed for it, took it upon herself to answer,

clasping her hands in horror at the announcement made:

“Alas, my good woman, how dreadful! And, pray,

What’s the name of this barbarous land, did you say?”

Her rhythm was not quite as smooth as Jasper’s; but she was true to her

air, and the rhyme at the end fairly surprised herself.

“Well,” the woman answered seriously, “we gen’rally call it the Cape.

Though they do say,” she added, “that they’re tryin’ hard to make an

island of it, up to Sandwich.” This was a reference, no doubt, to the

famous Cape Cod Canal. Then, still looking her visitors over and trying

to make them out, “Do they all sing their words,” she inquired, “in the

country you come from?”

Kitty was about to reply again; but at this instant a diversion occurred.

Master Freddy, moved to exploration on his own account, had strayed away

to the kitchen door, and, peeping within it, his eye had fallen upon a

huge dish, full of freshly made crullers, resting upon the table. Utterly

ravished by the sight, he had given vent to a prolonged “Oh!” and then,

mindful of forfeits, but quite compelled to utter himself, he, too, began

to sing, and the well worn notes of the “Suwanee River” rose rapturously

to the breeze:

“Oh, how I wi—i—i—i—_ish_-I

Ha—ad a cruller!”

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed the woman, looking around. “That reminds me.

There’re my crullers all this time. I must run. Come in, won’t ye? Come

in an’ try ’em.”

Ethel being the only one inclined to hold back, and she being of a

yielding nature, they all followed the woman indoors, and were ushered

presently into a little sitting-room next the kitchen. It was a poorly

furnished, but neat and pleasant apartment, with snow-white curtains,

worn haircloth furniture, and a parlor organ, and with a sewing machine

in one corner. Freddy came in after the rest, a huge ring of a cruller

firmly grasped in one hand, and another of more elongated proportions

thrust deeply down his throat. The woman followed immediately with the

dish, and her cordially repeated invitation to “try ’em” was gladly

accepted. Jasper possessed himself of a magnificent specimen, and loudly

sang the praises of itself and donor, pleasing himself immensely by an

ingenious combination of “try ’em” and “fry ’em.” Ethel glanced at him

reproachfully, feeling a pang of shame that he should persist in his

joking in the face of this kindly hospitality. But Jasper was not to

be stopped at such a time. Nor did Kitty seem disposed to be prudent.

She was, as she herself might have expressed it, gradually working

up to “concert pitch”; and she and Jasper, evidently, were having a

much better time with their singing than they had while they were in

the boat. Kitty also sought to celebrate in song the virtues of the

crullers, even venturing upon a little parody wherein “sweet crullers”

was substituted for “sweet home,” and “crumble” for “humble,” which,

absolutely nonsensical as it may have been, caused Jasper to go off in

fits of laughter and clap his hand upon his knee and cry “capital!” in

utter violation of his vow. And then Freddy sang, too, and even Ethel

sang; and they all got to laughing harder and harder, with that absurd,

unreasonable laughter that laughs at almost anything, and that the more

it laughs, the more it will laugh, until by and by it grows to be quite

uncontrollable. All of which, the writer is aware, was exceedingly silly

and ridiculous on the part of these young people whom he has introduced

to the reader; but he begs the latter to remember that they were only

boys and girls after all, and that they were really a little beside

themselves that morning, and that, at any rate, no single one of them

meant a particle of real harm by it. The only person who preserved her

countenance was their hostess. That problem of a woman went in and out

among them, never so much as smiling at anything that was said or done,

watching them closely with her small, sharp eyes, always seeming to be

“making them out,” but letting no sign of any conclusion to which she

might have come find its way into her face.

At length Ethel, thinking to quiet things, glanced toward the organ and

asked respectfully (though to music, of course) if she might “try the

instrument.”

“Oh!” replied the woman, following Edith’s glance, and with an odd,

scared look coming into her face as she did so, “I _couldn’t_ let ye

touch that, Miss; indeed, I couldn’t. Why, ’taint mine, yet; an’ I don’t

know now as ’t ever will be.” Then she interrupted herself with an air of

deep chagrin. “Why, you mean the melodyun, don’t ye? I thought all the

while you meant the sewin’-machine. How stupid! Seem’s if I can’t think

o’ anythin’ lately but that sewing-machine. It’s nigh worritted my life

out. You see, I bought it last winter of an agent, an’ agreed to pay

ten dollars a month for it till ’twas paid for. But, somehow or ruther,

Silas hasn’t earned anythin’ to speak of, sence he came back from Georges

Banks, an’ things ha’ gone hard; an’ now the time is up, an’ there’s

twenty-seven dollars still due. I’ve scraped up twenty, here and there,

but I’m lackin’ seven, yet. The man’s comin’ to-day to take the machine,

an’ I’ve got to lose all I’ve paid him. That was the bargain. But,”—she

hesitated and her thin lip quivered,—“I vow it’s too bad! An’ I don’t

believe the law would allow it.”

At this instant, as it happened, a step and a heavy rap were heard at the

outer door. The woman started.

“There he is now!” she exclaimed. “I know his knock’s well ’s I do the

minister’s or the doctor’s. ’Xcuse me a minute.” And, with lips shut

tight, she left the room. Then the occupants of the sitting-room heard a

man’s voice roughly explaining that he could not take the machine to-day,

but that he should be along again to-morrow and should certainly take it

then if the money was not ready. The woman seemed to have very little to

say in reply; and presently, having dismissed her unwelcome caller, she

came back into the sitting-room.

“About that melodyun, Miss,” she resumed at once with an absent air;

“you’d be welcome to play on it, but Salome’s gone over to Hyannis for a

visit, an’ she accidentally took the key off with her in her rettycule.

Salome’s my daughter,” she added, with a touch of motherly pride. “She’s

took lessons. If she was here, _she’d_ play for ye!”

What a mischievous spirit it was that prompted Kitty to break forth, in

accents as tenderly regretful as any ever attained in the singing of

“Sweet Home” itself!—

“Salome! Salome!

Would—that you—were home!”

She wondered herself, the next moment, what had possessed her, realizing

that in thus turning the absent daughter’s name to ridicule, she was

doing a distinctly rude and unkind thing. She started up, sincerely

meaning to apologize. But the woman had turned away, seeming not to have

noticed it; and Kitty sank back in her chair again.

The woman had noticed, however, and there was a faint flush on her cheek

and a resentful glitter in her eye as she stood at the table, pretending

to look for something in her work-basket, and for several moments

speaking not a word. Suddenly, with an air of decision, she turned and

walked straight out to the kitchen, going to a back door that was there

and opening it. Then they heard her calling somebody in her shrill,

far-reaching voice:

“Silas! Si—las! _Si_las!”

Silas—whom all understood to be the woman’s husband—must have been close

at hand, for almost immediately a man’s voice sounded without, and then

the two were heard talking together in low tones inside the kitchen. The

next moment they appeared at the sitting-room door.

The woman, when they entered the room, was preparing to throw a shawl

about her shoulders. But nobody, at that moment, thought very much

about her. Her visitors were too much struck by the appearance of the

remarkable individual who attended her. He was a man of immense physical

proportions, more than six feet high, and correspondingly broad. His

short, stubby hair was of a dull red color, as were also the thick,

wiry whiskers that covered his face. His skin, where it could be seen,

was deeply burned. One of his eyes was closed and sightless. He was

dressed in a big green baize jacket, oil trousers, and “fish boots.”

In his hand he carried a short, heavy clam hoe. Altogether he was a

formidable-looking person. The two girls uttered a little cry of dismay

when they saw him; Jasper himself looked troubled, and Freddy fixed upon

him a look of fascinated horror. Freddy was thoroughly familiar with the

story of Polyphemus (Jasper had told it to him many times), and his one

thought now was that that awful monster stood before him.

“Silas,” said the woman sharply, turning toward him as she pinned her

shawl, “here’s some people. I don’t know who they air, nor where they

come from; but I do know that they’re stark, starin’ crazy, every one of

’em. They can’t do anythin’ but sing an’ laugh. I’m afraid of ’em; an’

I’m goin’ to run down to Squire Baker’s an’ have him send up a constable,

an’ have ’em taken care of. They ought to be put in the mad-house. I want

you to stay here an’ keep guard over ’em till I come back.”

And with that, before Jasper and the rest had at all grasped the meaning

of her words or comprehended her intention, she was gone.

The giant, who was left behind, reached over to draw to him a large

rocking-chair that stood near by and sat down before the door, not saying

a word. Freddy felt quite certain now that he was Polyphemus—Polyphemus,

with his terrible single eye, sitting at the door of his cave and keeping

guard over Ulysses and his band. As for the rest, they knew not what to

do or say. What did it all mean? What strange people these they had come

among,—the woman who took them for lunatics, and that grim creature at

the door? Could the woman really have believed them crazy? She had said

so. And her manner from the first, as they now recalled it, suspicious

and uneasy, seemed to say so too. And, indeed, it was hardly to be

wondered at, considering their absurd actions. What then would come of

it? Would the constable, when he came, think they were crazy too?—and the

magistrate? Cape Cod people, they had always heard, were queer people.

The situation seemed really serious. They looked at each other soberly,

not speaking yet, but all thinking some such thoughts as these.

But Jasper, as the man of the party, felt that it behooved him to do

something at once. He got up from his chair and advanced, with as

determined a bearing as he could assume, in the direction of their

keeper. Ethel turned pale.

“Oh, Jasper!” she murmured. “What are you going to do? Please don’t go

near him.”

“No,” Kitty whispered, equally alarmed; “pray don’t. Let us wait quietly

till the constable comes. It will be all right then.” No one of them

thought any longer of maintaining their agreement as to singing, which,

indeed, had been quite driven out of their minds.

“Pooh!” answered Jasper with lofty valor, “I’m only going to request our

monumental friend here to move one side a little so that we can pass

out. It’s time we were going.” Then, as the person alluded to paid no

attention, he addressed him directly. “If you please, my friend, we’d

like to pass out.”

[Illustration: “‘I WANT YOU TO KEEP GUARD OVER ’EM TILL I COME BACK,’

SAID THE WOMAN.”]

The other shook his head,—calmly and quietly enough. It was not anything

the man did, nor indeed anything he said, when he came to speak, that

was so terrible, after all; it was simply his forbidding face and his

gigantic figure.

“I’m very sorry,” said he in a voice so deep and sepulchral one might

well have fancied it was supplied to him somehow from the cellar below,

“very sorry indeed. But the fact is ye can’t be allowed to go,—not till

Malviny comes back.”

“Look here, now,” observed Jasper, straightening up and trying to look

terrible himself.

“Wall, I’m lookin’ here.” The man calmly regarded him with his single eye.

“Do you know who we are?” Jasper continued.

The giant shook his head again. “Hevn’t the slightest idee. Couldn’t no

more say who ye air ’n I could say who’ll be keepin’ Highland Light in

the year nineteen hundred ’n eighty-six. Malviny says ye’re a passel o’

crazytics, an’ that’s all I want to know about ye. I never go behind what

Malviny says. She’ll be back with the cunstable presently, an’ they’ll

settle your case. Meanwhile, here you’ll hev to stay till they come.”

He leaned back in his chair and began rocking to and fro, resting his

clam hoe across his knees.

“But see here,” persisted Jasper; “that is all nonsense, you know, about

our being crazy. We——”

“Hi! hi!” interrupted the giant, stopping his chair. “What’s that ye say?

Be keerful, young man. _Be_ keerful!” He lifted his ponderous fore-finger

and slowly waved it back and forth with an air of solemn warning. “Don’t

you ventur’ fur to dare fur to assertify that anything Malviny says is

nonsense! She allus knows what she’s talkin’ about. If she says you’re

crazy, crazy you _be_,—an’ ye can’t help yourselves.”

“But I say——” poor Jasper once again began.

“Now, be keerful, young man. _Be_ keerful!” The awful finger again cleft

the air.

“Oh!” cried Jasper, stamping his foot in impotent rage. “This is

intolerable! You’ve not a particle of right to keep us here. Move one

side, I say, and let us pass.”

He advanced a step and threateningly confronted his enemy.

But the latter remained perfectly unmoved, save that again he gravely

shook his head.

“Not till Malviny comes,” was his imperturbable answer. “Not till Malviny

comes.”

And Jasper, brave as any lad, but well aware in his heart that he would

no more think of actually attacking that gigantic adversary than of

throwing himself upon an advancing locomotive, yielded to the renewed

entreaties of Ethel and Kitty, and sullenly returned to his seat.

Then for many minutes—just how many, no one knew—there was perfect

silence in the house,—or silence the perfection of which was only marred

by the ticking of the little Waterbury clock on the kitchen mantel. The

prisoners sat there in a dazed, despairing sort of mood, their eyes most

of the time bent upon the floor, content to wait without further motion

the issue of events.

All at once, from the watcher’s direction, there came a sound, loud,

clear, sonorous, unmistakable—the sound of a human snore. They all looked

up surprised, and a single glance at the mammoth form in the doorway

assured them of the fact which the sound had intimated. Their keeper

slept.

Jasper, with a swift gesture of caution to his comrades, sat and watched

the sleeper for a moment, to be sure that it was so; then he rose to his

feet. The time for action had undoubtedly arrived. He glanced about the

room, marking its ways of egress. The windows were open, but not far

enough, and it would not do to risk the noise of opening them farther.

There were four doors in the room, besides that leading to the kitchen,

all closed. Jasper passed three of these by as admitting without doubt

to bedrooms or cupboards, and turned to the fourth. This opened, as he

had expected, into a little front hall; and there, right at hand, was

the outer door. Jasper’s heart sank as he saw that the key was gone; but

he tried the door, and lo! to his surprise, it was not locked at all.

Here then was freedom at last, in their very grasp! “Come! Come!” he

whispered, beckoning eagerly to his companions. And then, like a captain

who must be last to quit the wreck, he stood holding open the door for

the others to pass through.

Freddy came first, painfully tiptoeing his way, and scarcely able even

now to remove his glance from the fearful being across the room. Then

Kitty glided out and Ethel followed, and the three stood safely outside.

Jasper lingered a moment, latch in hand, glancing back at the grim

sentinel in the rocking-chair. The man still sat there, his head thrown

back and his dreadful eye fast closed, wrapped apparently in profoundest

slumber. Jasper felt all his old assurance coming back. He kissed his

hand to the sleeper.

“Good-bye, my dear guardian, good-bye!” he cried, half aloud.

“‘My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea;

But before I go, once more I must say farewell to thee.’”

But what meant that movement on the part of the sleeper? Jasper stared.

The huge frame was certainly shaking in its chair. Could it be that

the man was laughing in his sleep? The lad did not stop to ponder the

question, but closed the door behind him and hurried after the rest.

At the crossing, they came suddenly upon Mrs. Malviny. Jasper made her a

bow.

“May I ask,” he inquired, “if you saw Squire Baker?”

“Yes,” answered she gloomily; “I saw him. He says it’s no use. Unless I

pay the money, the man can take the machine. I can’t—But sho! There I am

again. You mean did I see him about the constable? Well, no; I didn’t.”

She looked at them now with a humorous twinkle in her eye. “The fact is,

that was one o’ my jokes. You seemed to be havin’ a good deal o’ fun at

my expense, up to the house, an’ so I thought I’d have a little at yours.

I hope ye didn’t have any trouble with Silas. He’s the best-natered man

in the world,—wouldn’t harm a toad-fish. If he would, I’d set him after

that sewin’-machine man! There’s Silas at the front gate now! What’s he

laughin’ at, I wonder? Well, good-day! If anybody in your country asks

after us Cape folks, you tell ’em we aint all fools down here. We don’t

live on fish for nothin’.”

“Well!” uttered Jasper, gazing after her a moment with an air of profound

admiration, and then looking down at himself in equally deep disgust.

“If we haven’t been most beautifully and artistically circumvented

_this_ time, I should like to know the reason why! I feel as cheap as an

eighty-cent dollar.”

“We certainly have had a good fright!” declared Kitty.

“It seems to me,” observed Ethel seriously, “that this ought to be a

lesson to us not to turn everything and everybody to ridicule quite so

freely in the future.”

“Yes,” cried Freddy. “And how about all that money you three will have to

pay for talking all this while, instead of singing?”

“Sure enough!” said Kitty.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” suggested Ethel. “We will let ourselves

off, once for all, for seven dollars; and we’ll make up that sum and send

it to Mrs. Malviny to complete the twenty-seven dollars she owes her

sewing-machine man.”

“Done!” shouted Jasper with enthusiasm.

And done it was, that very night.

THE WEASEL AND THE ADDER.

[Illustration]

Of all the sharp-toothed and vindictive little animals that prey upon

their comrades and sometimes do service for man, none is sharper or more

vindictive than the weasel—a bright-eyed little beast, with a coat of

golden-brown fur and a clean white shirt-front. It somewhat resembles the

rat, and also the squirrel; but it is, really, the deadly enemy of both.

And of all the hateful reptiles that crawl and coil and sting, there are

few more venomous and hateful than is the little olive-brown snake known

as the adder—a rattlesnake without rattles, and the untiring foe to mice

and birds and moles, thus also occasionally proving of service to man.

Both the weasel, which belongs to the family known as the _mustelidæ_, or

mouse-eaters, and the adder, which belongs to the _viperidæ_, or viper

family, are, as you see, agreed upon one thing—a liking for mice for

dinner. And they are just as heartily united upon another subject—their

hatred of each other.

So when, as in the above picture, weasel and adder meet in the way, there

is certain to be a duel to the death.

The weasel is a spry and fiery-tempered little animal; the adder is

treacherous and equally hot-headed. And although, as the rule, the weasel

is worsted in such encounters, sometimes the coils of the adder squirm

and droop and stiffen as, with one quick snap, the sharp teeth of the

weasel seize and break the mottled neck of the snake.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

[_An Historical Biography._]

BY HORACE E. SCUDDER.

CHAPTER XXIV.

PRESIDENT WASHINGTON.

It was on April 16, 1789, that Washington left Mount Vernon for New York,

where Congress first met, and where he was to be inaugurated President.

The country all along the route was eager to see him, and at every place

through which he passed there were processions and triumphal arches and

ringing of bells. Some of the signs of welcome were queer, and some

were beautiful and touching. When he crossed the Schuylkill, there was

a series of arches under which he was to ride; and when he came to the

first one, a laurel wreath was let down upon his head. The people who

arranged that exhibition must have been very anxious as to how it would

turn out. At Trenton, where everybody remembered the famous battle he

had fought, the women had put up a great triumphal arch resting upon

thirteen columns, with a great dome crowned by a sunflower; then, as he

rode through, he came upon a company of women and girls who came toward

him, strewing flowers and singing. When he reached New York, guns were

fired; and a vast crowd of people, headed by the Governor, was waiting to

receive him.

Congress had begun its sessions at Federal Hall, which stood where the

present Treasury building stands in Wall street. The day set for the

inauguration was April 30. Precisely at noon, the procession moved from

the house where Washington was lodged, through what is now Pearl street

and Broad street, to the Hall. Washington entered the Senate Chamber,

where John Adams, who was Vice-President and therefore presiding over the

Senate, received him in the presence of the Senate and House, and then

escorted him to a balcony at the front of the Hall. A crimson-covered

table stood on it, holding a large Bible. Below, Broad street and Wall

street were packed with people, as were also the windows and the roofs of

the houses near by. They set up a great shout as Washington appeared. He

came to the front, laid his hand on his heart, and bowed to the people.

The multitude could see the commanding figure of the great general as

he stood bare-headed on the balcony. He was dressed in a suit of brown

cloth, of American manufacture, with knee-breeches and white silk

stockings and silver shoe-buckles. His hair was dressed and powdered,

as was the custom then. They saw near him John Adams and Robert R.

Livingston, the Chancellor of the State of New York, and distinguished

men—generals and others; but their eyes were bent on Washington. They

saw Chancellor Livingston stand as if speaking to him, and the Secretary

of the Senate holding the open Bible on which Washington’s hand lay.

Those nearest could hear the Chancellor pronounce the oath of office and

Washington’s reply, “I swear—so help me, God!” and could see him bow and

kiss the Bible.

Then the Chancellor stepped forward, waved his hand, and said aloud:

“Long live George Washington, President of the United States.” At

the same time, a flag, as a signal, was run up on the cupola of the

Hall. Instantly cannon were fired, bells rung, and the people shouted.

Washington saluted them, and then turned back into the Senate chamber,

where he read his inaugural address, in a low voice, for he was evidently

deeply affected,—great occasions always solemnized him,—and after the

address, he went on foot, with many others, to St. Paul’s Church, where

prayers were read by Dr. Provoost, Bishop of the Episcopal Church, and

one of the chaplains of Congress. At night, there were fireworks and

bonfires.

Thus, with the good-will of the people and the confidence of all the

sections,—however suspicious they might be of one another,—Washington

began his career as President. For eight years, he remained in office.

His character was now so fixed that there is little new to be learned

about it from that time forward; but there were many events that made

more clear how wise, how just, how honorable and how faithful to his

trust he was. He had been very loath to take upon himself the duties of

President, but when once he had been placed in the chair, he let nothing

stand in the way of the most thorough discharge of his duties.

[Illustration: INAUGURATION OF WASHINGTON AS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED

STATES.]

Now came into play all those habits which he had been forming from

boyhood. As President of the whole people, it was his business to have

an oversight of all the interests of the young nation, and, as the first

President, he had the opportunity of setting an example to those who were

to come after him. It is one of the most excellent gifts to the American

people that they should have had for their first President a man so well

rounded and so magnanimous as George Washington. There were as yet no

political parties, though there were the seeds of parties in the opposite

ways in which public men regarded the new Constitution. Washington called

to his cabinet men who disliked one another and who were really as much

opposed to one another as if they belonged to antagonistic parties; but

they never could draw Washington away from a strict impartiality. He

made Thomas Jefferson Secretary of State, because he was most thoroughly

acquainted with foreign affairs; and he made Alexander Hamilton Secretary

of the Treasury, because he had shown himself the most competent man to

plan a way out of the greatest peril which beset the young nation. But

Jefferson and Hamilton cordially disliked each other, and were decidedly

of opposite ways of thinking.

[Illustration: ST. PAUL’S CHURCH, NEW YORK.]

Washington, however, did not rest contented with choosing the best men

to carry on the Government. In those days, when the country had only a

small population, a small area, and a small business, it was possible for

one man to know very much more fully the details of government than it is

now. His lifelong habits of methodical industry enabled Washington to get

through an amount of work which seems extraordinary. For example, he read

from beginning to end all the letters which had passed between Congress

and foreign governments since the treaty of peace in 1783, making

abstracts and briefs of them, so as to know thoroughly the whole history

of the relations of the country to foreign governments. He required

from every head of department whom he found in office, a report of the

state of public business. He treated these reports as he had the foreign

correspondence, and in this way he mastered all the internal affairs of

the nation. The result was that he had his own judgment about any matter

of importance which came up, and was not obliged to follow the lead of

the cabinet officers.

There were, of course, only a few public offices to be filled then, and

it was quite possible for Washington to know personally most of the men

who should be appointed to fill them. He thought this one of the most

important parts of his work as President; because he knew well that it

is not rules and regulations, but men, that carry on any government or

any business, and that, if he could put honest and capable men, who

were unselfishly devoted to the country, into all the offices, he would

secure a wise administration of the laws. From the first, he began to

be besieged by applicants for office, and he made immediately the very

sensible rule that he would not give any pledge or encouragement to any

applicant. He heard what they and their friends had to say, and then made

up his mind deliberately. He had, however, certain principles in his mind

which governed him in making appointments, and they were so high and

honorable, and show so well the character of the man, that I copy here

what he said with regard to the matter:

“Scarcely a day passes in which applications of one kind or

another do not arrive; insomuch that, had I not early adopted

some general principles, I should before this time have been

wholly occupied in this business. As it is, I have found the

number of answers, which I have been necessitated to give in

my own hand, an almost insupportable burden to me. The points

in which all these answers have agreed in substance are, that,

should it be my lot to go again into public office, I would

go without being under any possible engagements of any nature

whatsoever; that, so far as I knew my own heart, I would not

be in the remotest degree influenced in making nominations

by motives arising from the ties of family or blood; and

that, on the other hand, three things, in my opinion, ought

principally to be regarded, namely: the fitness of characters

to fill offices, the comparative claims from the former merits

and sufferings in service of the different candidates, and the

distribution of appointments in as equal a proportion as might

be to persons belonging to the different States in the Union.

Without precautions of this kind, I clearly foresaw the endless

jealousies and possibly the fatal consequences to which a

government, depending altogether on the good-will of the people

for its establishment, would certainly be exposed in its early

stages. Besides, I thought, whatever the effect might be in

pleasing or displeasing any individuals at the present moment,

a due concern for my own reputation, not less decisively than a

sacred regard to the interests of the community, required that

I should hold myself absolutely at liberty to act, while in

office, with a sole reference to justice and the public good.”

To protect himself from being at everybody’s call, and so unable to be

of the greatest service, he established certain rules. Every Tuesday,

between the hours of three and four, he received whoever might come.

Every Friday afternoon Mrs. Washington received with him. At all other

times, he could be seen only by special appointment. He never accepted

invitations to dinner, and that has been the rule of Presidents ever

since; but he constantly invited to his own table foreign ministers,

members of the Government, and other guests. He received no visits on

Sunday. He went to church with his family in the morning, and spent the

afternoon by himself. The evening he spent with his family, and sometimes

had with him an intimate friend.

He still kept up his old habit of rising at four and going to bed at

nine. Mrs. Washington had a grave little formula with which she used to

dismiss visitors in the evening:

“The General always retires at nine o’clock, and I usually precede him.”

His recreation he took chiefly in driving and riding. He never lost

his liking for a good horse, and he knew what a good horse was. He had

a servant who had been General Braddock’s servant, and had been with

Washington ever since the battle of the Monongahela. Bishop, as he

was named, was a terrible disciplinarian, and devoted to his master’s

interests. At sunrise every day, he would go to the stables, where the

boys had been at work since dawn grooming the General’s horses. Woe

to them if they had been careless! Bishop marched in with a muslin

handkerchief in his hand and passed it over the coats of the horses; if a

single stain appeared on the muslin, the boy who groomed the horse had to

take a thrashing. It was no light matter to groom a horse in those days,

for, just as the heads of gentlemen were plastered and bewigged, so the

horses were made to undergo what would seem to us now a rather absurd

practice. The night before a horse was to be ridden, he was covered from

head to foot with a paste made of whiting and other ingredients; then he

was well wrapped in cloth and laid to sleep on clean straw. By the next

morning the paste had hardened, and it was then vigorously rubbed in, and

the horse curried and brushed. The result was a glossy and satiny coat.

The hoofs were blackened and polished, the mouth washed, the teeth picked

and cleaned, and the horse was then ready to be saddled and brought out.

Mrs. Washington was a domestic, home-loving body, but a lady of great

dignity and sweetness of disposition, who moved serenely by the side of

her husband, receiving his guests in the same spirit. She never talked

about politics, but was evenly courteous to every one. She was like her

husband, too, in her exactness and her attention to little details of

economy. While she was in the midst of her duties as President’s wife,

she wrote to one of her family: “I live a very dull life here, and know

nothing that passes in the town. I never go to any public place, indeed,

I think I am more like a state prisoner than anything else. There are

certain bounds set for me which I must not depart from; and, as I can not

do as I like, I am obstinate and stay at home a great deal.” But her real

heart was at Mount Vernon and in her household affairs. “I send to dear

Maria,” she writes, “a piece of _chene_ to make her a frock, and a piece

of muslin, which I hope is long enough for an apron for you. In exchange

for it, I beg you will give me a worked muslin apron you have, like my

gown that I made just before I left home, of worked muslin, as I wish to

make a petticoat to my gown, of the two aprons.”

Washington himself never lost sight of Mount Vernon. Just as in his

absence, during the war, he required weekly reports from the manager of

his plantation, so now he kept up the same practice. Occasionally, when

Congress was not in session, he could go home, but his visits were short

and rare. It may seem strange to some that a soldier and a statesman like

Washington should be also an ardent farmer; but that he was. I suppose

the one occupation that Washington loved was farming; in his earlier

life there is no doubt that he cared most for a soldier’s fortune, but

after he was fairly in possession of Mount Vernon, the care of that place

became his passion, and for the rest of his life he was first and last

a farmer. For my part, I like to think of Washington in this way, for

the one indispensable art is the art of agriculture; all other arts are

built upon it, and the man who has a piece of land, and can raise from it

enough to feed and clothe and shelter himself and his family, is the most

independent of men, and has a real place on the earth which he can call

his own.

During his presidency, Washington made two tours through the

country,—one into the Eastern and one into the Southern States. He was

received with special honor in New England, for he was less familiarly

known to the people there, and they made a great holiday in every town

through which the President passed. By these tours, he made himself

acquainted with the needs of the country and with the persons who were

the leaders of the people.

But there were parts which he could not visit, yet in which he felt

the deepest interest and concern. We have seen how, from time to time,

he visited the country beyond the Alleghanies, and how much importance

he attached to the settlement of the West. The greatest difficulty in

the early days was through the relations which the people had with the

Indians. Washington knew the Indians well; he knew how to get along with

them, and he knew also what dangerous enemies they were. At the end of

his first term as President, it became necessary to send a military

expedition to the frontiers, and General St. Clair was placed at the

head of it. When he came to bid Washington good-bye, his old chief gave

him a solemn warning: “You have your instructions from the Secretary

of War. I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word: Beware

of a surprise! You know how the Indians fight. I repeat it—beware of a

surprise!”

But St. Clair was surprised and terribly defeated. It was a bitter

disappointment to Washington, who received the news of the disaster one

December day when he was at dinner. His private secretary, Mr. Lear,

was called out of the room by a servant, who said there was a messenger

without who insisted on seeing the President. Mr. Lear went to him and

found that he was an officer from St. Clair’s army with dispatches which

he refused to give to any one but President Washington. Mr. Lear went

back to the dining-room and whispered this to Washington, who excused

himself to the company and went out to hear the officer’s news. He came

back shortly after and resumed his place at the table, but without

explaining the reason of his absence. He was, however, absorbed, as he

often was, and muttered to himself; and one of his neighbors caught the

words, “I knew it would be so!”

It was the evening when Mrs. Washington held her reception, and the

gentlemen, when leaving the dining-room, went directly into the

drawing-room. Washington went with them. He was calm and showed no signs

of disturbance. He spoke as usual to every one, and at last the guests

had gone. Mrs. Washington also left, and the General was left alone

with his secretary. He was silent at first, walking to and fro in the

room. Then he took a seat by the fire, and motioned Mr. Lear to sit by

him. He could no longer contain himself; he must have some relief, and

suddenly he burst out: “It’s all over! St. Clair’s defeated! routed! The

officers nearly all killed; the men by wholesale; the rout complete—too

shocking to think of, and a surprise into the bargain!” He jerked out the

sentences as if he were in pain. He got up and walked up and down again

like a caged lion, stood still, and once more burst out in passionate

speech: “Yes, _here_, on this very spot I took leave of him; I wished

him success and honor. ‘You have your instructions from the Secretary of

War,’ said I, ‘I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word:

BEWARE OF A SURPRISE! You know how the Indians fight; I repeat it—BEWARE

OF A SURPRISE!’ He went off with that, my last warning, thrown into

his ears. And yet!—To suffer that army to be cut to pieces, butchered,

tomahawked, by a surprise—the very thing I guarded him against!”—and the

strong man threw up his hands while he shook with terrible emotion: “He’s

worse than a murderer! How can he answer for it to his country! The blood

of the slain is upon him—the curse of widows and orphans—the curse of

Heaven!”

[Illustration: GEORGE WASHINGTON. (FROM THE PORTRAIT BY GILBERT STUART.)]

Mr. Lear was dumb. He had never seen or heard Washington like this. It

was a pent-up volcano bursting forth. Washington himself recovered his

control. He sat down again. He was silent. He felt, as a strong man does

who has for a moment broken the bounds of restraint, a noble shame, not

at his indignation, but at having for a moment thus given way. “This must

not go beyond this room,” he said presently, in a quiet, almost whispered

tone. Then he added, after a pause: “General St. Clair shall have

justice. I looked hastily through the dispatches; saw the whole disaster,

but not all the particulars. I will receive him without displeasure; I

will hear him without prejudice; he shall have full justice.”

Washington kept his word. Perhaps all the more for this outbreak, he

determined that St. Clair should be treated with scrupulous justice.

But the incident illustrates the character of Washington. Deep down in

his nature was a passionate regard for law, for obedience, for strict

accountability. It was this which made him in minor matters so punctual,

so orderly, so precise in his accounts; in larger matters, it made him

unselfishly and wholly consecrated to the country which trusted him,

just in all his dealings, and the soul of honor. This consuming passion

for law made him govern himself, keep in restraint the fierce wrath

which leaped up within him, and measure his acts and words with an iron

will. The two notable scenes when his anger blazed out and burned up

his self-control as if it were a casing of straw, were caused by Lee’s

faithlessness at Monmouth and St. Clair’s carelessness. On each of these

occasions, it was not an offense against himself which woke his terrible

wrath, it was an offense against the country, against God; for in the

moment of his anger he saw each of these two men false to the trust

reposed in him.

Yet the difficulties with the Indians were as nothing to the perils

which beset the country in its intercourse with Europe. At that time,

the United States was almost a part of Europe. All its business was with

France and England. It had declared and achieved political independence,

but was nevertheless connected by a thousand ties of commerce, law, and

custom with the Old World. The fierce revolution in France was in part

set in flame by the example of America; and when war broke out between

England and France, there was scarcely a man in America who did not take

sides in his mind with one country or the other. There was the greatest

possible danger that the country would be drawn into the quarrels of

Europe.

In the midst of all these commotions, when the very members of his

cabinet were acting and speaking as if they were the servants either of

England or of France, Washington maintained his impartiality, and saw to

it that the United States was kept out of European disputes. What was the

result? He saved the country from fearful disaster; for he was like the

pilot that conducts the ship through rapids and past dangerous reefs. But

he himself suffered incredible contumely and reviling from the hot-headed

partisans who were ready to plunge the country into the dispute. “If ever

a nation,” said one newspaper, “was debauched by a man, the American

nation has been debauched by Washington. If ever a nation was deceived

by a man, the American nation has been deceived by Washington. Let his

conduct, then, be an example to future ages; let it serve to be a warning

that no man may be an idol; let the history of the Federal Government

instruct mankind that the mask of patriotism may be worn to conceal the

foulest designs against the liberties of the people.” That is the way

some people wrote about Washington when he was President.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FAREWELL.

When Washington had completed his two terms of office, he was unalterably

fixed in his resolution to go back to private life. The reasons which

had induced him to accept the presidency against his inclination were no

longer forcible. The government was established. The country was on the

road to prosperity. No one man any longer had it in his power greatly to

help or greatly to hurt the people. Moreover he was weary of public life.

He was tired of standing up and being pelted with mud by all sorts of

obscure people; of having his motives misconstrued; of listening to the

endless bickerings of public men about him. For more than twenty years

he had really been at the head of the nation. Now he meant to go back to

his farm; but before he went, he had it in him to say one word to his

countrymen.

That Washington should write his famous “Farewell Address to the People

of the United States,” indicates how accurately he understood his

position. He was a great man, a splendid figure in history, and he knew

it. But he was too great to be vain of his distinction. He was not too

great to use even his distinction for the benefit of his country. He knew

perfectly well that any speech which he might make when he retired from

office would be listened to as almost no other political paper was ever

listened to by a people, and he determined to gather into his “Farewell

Address” the weightiest judgment which he could pronounce, as summing

up the result of his long study and observation of public affairs. He

wrote, of course, with a special eye to the needs of the people who were

immediately to hear and read the address. They had dangers about them

which have since largely disappeared; for example, we do not especially

need to-day the caution which the men of that day needed when Washington

wrote: “A passionate attachment of one nation for another produces a

variety of evils.”

Nevertheless, the address is so full of sound political wisdom, that I

wish it might be read in every public school in the land on the 22d day

of February. In it, the large-minded Washington speaks, thinking of the

whole country, and pouring into his words the ripe and full judgment

of a man whose one thought in his life had been to serve his country

faithfully.

The observance of Washington’s birthday began in a quiet way during

Washington’s lifetime. As early as 1783, when the war was over, but

before the treaty of peace was signed, some gentlemen met together to

celebrate it, and during his presidency, the day was observed by members

of Congress and others who paid their respects to him, and the observance

of the day became more and more general, especially after Washington’s

death.

The day before he was to leave office, Washington gave a farewell dinner

to the Foreign Ministers and their wives, and eminent public men

including the new President, John Adams. The company was in excellent

spirits, until Washington raised his glass to wish them all good health,

after the fashion of those days. He smiled and said: “Ladies and

gentlemen, this is the last time I shall drink your health as a public

man; I do it with sincerity, wishing you all possible happiness.” Perhaps

he was thinking at the moment of his own happiness in going back to

private life; but it suddenly rushed over the minds of those present what

such a toast meant, and all mirth was gone. The next day he attended the

ceremonies of the inauguration of John Adams. As he moved toward the door

to retire, there was a rush of the people toward him. They cheered and

cheered as he passed into the street. He answered, smiling and waving his

hat, his gray hairs blown by the wind. The people followed him to the

door of his house. He turned, as he entered, and looked on them. Now it

was his turn to feel the pain of parting. After all, he was going away

from those busy haunts where he was sure to see men who honored and loved

him. Tears stood in his eyes; his face was pale and grave; he raised his

hand, but he could not trust himself to speak.

* * * * *

He was once more at Mount Vernon, in the quiet of his home, and again the

days went by in that regular routine which suited him. Here is a letter

which he wrote to James McHenry, the Secretary of War:

“I am indebted to you for several unacknowledged letters; but

never mind that; go on as if you had answers. You are at the

source of information, and can find many things to relate;

while I have nothing to say that could either inform or amuse a

Secretary of War in Philadelphia. I might tell him that I begin

my diurnal course with the sun; that, if my hirelings are not

in their places at that time I send them messages of sorrow for

their indisposition; that, having put these wheels in motion,

I examine the state of things further; that, the more they are

probed, the deeper I find the wounds which my buildings have

sustained by an absence and neglect of eight years; that, by

the time I have accomplished these matters, breakfast (a little

after seven o’clock, about the time, I presume, you are taking

leave of Mrs. McHenry) is ready; that, this being over, I mount

my horse and ride round my farms, which employs me until it is

time to dress for dinner, at which I rarely miss seeing strange

faces, come, as they say, out of respect for me. Pray, would

not the word curiosity answer as well? And how different this

from having a few social friends at a cheerful board! The usual

time of sitting at table, a walk, and tea, bring me within

the dawn of candle light; previous to which, if not prevented

by company, I resolve, that, as soon as the glimmering taper

supplies the place of the great luminary, I will retire to my

writing-table and acknowledge the letters I have received;

but when the lights are brought, I feel tired and disinclined

to engage in this work, conceiving that the next night will

do as well. The next night comes, and with it the same causes

for postponement, and so on. This will account for your letter

remaining so long unacknowledged; and, having given you the

history of a day, it will serve for a year, and I am persuaded

you will not require a second edition of it. But it may strike

you, that in this detail no mention is made of any portion of

time allotted for reading. The remark would be just, for I have

not looked into a book since I came home; nor shall I be able

to do it until I have discharged my workmen, probably not

before the nights grow longer, when possibly I may be looking

in Doomsday Book. At present I shall only add, that I am always

and affectionately yours.”

But the time came when a letter to the Secretary of War was not a piece

of pleasantry. There was imminent danger of war with France; Congress

issued an order to raise an army, and President John Adams immediately

nominated George Washington as Commander-in-Chief. The Senate promptly

confirmed the nomination, and Washington accepted on two conditions: that

the principal officers should be such as he approved, and that he should

not be called into the field till the army required his presence. He did

not think there would be war, but he believed the best way to prevent it

was to show that the people were ready for it.

It was in March, 1797, that Washington left Philadelphia for Mount

Vernon; in July, 1798, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief. He conducted

most of his business by letter, though he spent a month in Philadelphia.

He took up again the burden he had laid down, quietly, readily, since it

was necessary, and without complaint; but he had not very long to bear it.

On December 12, 1799, he had been riding over his farms as usual, but

a rain and sleet storm came up, and he returned to the house chilled

through by the exposure. The next day was still stormy, and he kept

indoors; but he had taken cold and suffered from a sore throat. He

passed the evening with his family, however, read the papers and talked

cheerfully. In the night he had an attack of ague, and on the next

morning, which was Saturday the 14th, he breathed with difficulty, and

messengers were sent for one doctor after another. He suffered acutely,

but did not complain. Toward evening he said to Dr. Craik: “I die hard,

but I am not afraid to die. I believed from my first attack that I should

not survive it. My breath can not last long.” He said little more, only

thanked his attendants for their kindness, and bade them give themselves

no further trouble,—simply to let him die in quietness. Between ten and

eleven o’clock that night he died.

Chief-Justice Marshall, when the news reached Congress, said a few simple

words in the House of Representatives, and asked that a committee be

appointed in conjunction with a committee of the Senate “to consider on

the most suitable manner of paying honor to the memory of the man, _first

in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his fellow-citizens_”;

but no manner has been found more suitable than the study of that life

which is the most priceless gift to America.

THE END.

THE CHILDREN’S EXHIBITION.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

One morning last March there appeared in the New York newspapers an

advertisement of a “Children’s Industrial Exhibition.” At first many

persons could not imagine what it could be. But when the doors were

opened and the reporters went to look at the exhibition, the newspapers

began to tell of the many curious things to be seen in the hall. No such

exhibition had ever been seen in New York, and then people began to

wonder why one had not been held before. Now the true way to understand

a thing is to look at it again and again. It so happened that I went to

this exhibition several times, and that a ST. NICHOLAS artist went too,

and so perhaps we can together give you an idea of the principal things

that were on view at that curious show.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE EXHIBITION.]

The exhibition was held in a large and handsome hall, and was arranged

just like any grand fair intended to exhibit the artistic or mechanical

achievements of men and women. There was only this difference: the

objects to be seen were all made by little women and very youthful

men. There were medals to be given for the best work, and there was

a catalogue, and there were officials to explain everything to the

visitors. Were there sums on slates, compositions, exercises or examples

of penmanship? No. Better than these—very much better—there were real

things made by boys and girls with their own hands, and, best of all,

things made in school.

On entering the hall, however, the first objects to attract attention

were those made by boys at home and out of school. These objects were

arranged on tables by themselves, some of the work being by children in

New York, and some by young folk in Yonkers. There were wood-carvings,

hammered brasswork, drawings and designs, embroidery, and hundreds of

curious things either useful or merely ornamental; models of boats,

houses, shops, forts, and even a _carousel_ with woolly elephants that

career madly around the ring whenever the clockwork is wound up. Some of

the things were well made, but many were very poorly done, which shows

that we must go to school to learn to make boats as well as to learn to

do sums in long division. The work of the girls showed more training than

that of the boys, and the sewing was very good,—some of the artistic

sewing being worthy of high praise.

Speaking of sewing, our old ST. NICHOLAS friends, the kitchen-garden and

the cooking-garden, were wonderfully displayed with full examples and

models, and even a tea-table set in proper order precisely as arranged

by the little housekeepers. The exhibit was well worth looking at, and

there was always a crowd around the table, but for us it was chiefly

interesting because there the noble art of sewing was demonstrated

precisely as if it were a lesson in geography.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE CHILDREN OF YONKERS, NEW YORK.]

The true way to study about islands and capes and all the other divisions

of land and water is to have some sand and water in a box, and then to

build up the sand into miniature islands and capes, just like the real

things out-of-doors. When I went to school, all the boys could say,

“An island is a portion of land entirely surrounded by water,” and yet

not a boy in the class knew that he lived on an island. So it is with

sewing. The girls I knew years ago cried so hard over the long, dreary

seams, that I used to be glad I was not a girl. But nowadays there is

sewing without weeping: a neat box all ready for school,—with thimbles,

needles, pins, thread, scissors; hundreds of pieces of cloth, basted

and ready to be stitched; no dreary seams to tire young fingers, but

easy graded lessons, like a needle-work kindergarten. And as we crossed

the exhibition-hall, we saw another method. There on a long table were

hundreds of garments and parts of garments made by the public-school

girls of Philadelphia. There, in a frame, were all the lessons

arranged in regular order, showing every step—hemming, over-seaming,

back-stitching and running, reversible seam, felling, gathering, darning,

and mending, up to the fine art of button-hole making. The girls are

from eight to fifteen years of age, and that work they did in school,

while attending to their regular school lessons. We passed on to the

tables where the work of school-girls of Boston and New Haven and Hoboken

was shown; and in every instance, we saw regular, graded lessons in

needle-work, from the plainest hemming up to the finest embroidery. New

York girls, too, in the schools of the Children’s Aid Society, in mission

and church schools, showed by their samples that they also were students

of stitchery. I saw one piece of sewing that seemed truly wonderful. It

was in a glass case, and it was the “graduation exercises” of a young

girl, fourteen years of age, on leaving Fräulein Calm’s school in Cassel,

Germany. It consisted of half a yard of muslin ornamented with every kind

of sewing that can be done on a machine; half a yard of dress fabric

worked up by hand into the most beautiful pleatings, in a style that

would bring tears of joy to the manly eyes of a ladies’ tailor; a piece

of wonderful patching; and a square of darning so perfect that it was

impossible to tell which was the new cloth, and which the old garment.

Why, the girl must have been a finished dress-maker! She could earn

good wages to-morrow by simply showing her “graduation exercise.” And

as we turned to a dozen other exhibits in the hall, we saw more sewing,

from the work of the first class in hemming up to that of the little

dress-makers, who could cut, fit, and make their own clothes.

What can boys do? Judging by their grand exhibit, we thought to ourselves

“they can do almost anything!” Some boys who attend one of the uptown

schools on the east side had formed a club for home work and study in

mechanics, and there was a table filled with their work. It was chiefly

models in wood of real things the boys had seen—a crane, a dumb-waiter,

a stone-saw, a pile-driver, and other mechanical implements. It was all

excellent work, but it was home work done out of school hours.

[Illustration: EXHIBIT OF THE HEBREW TECHNICAL INSTITUTE.]

The opposite table showed school work done by the boys of the Hebrew

Technical Institute. Those young master mechanics, it seems, attended

school every day and at the same time learned the use of tools, the

pencil, the saw, the hammer, and the plane. First of all, every boy had

to learn to draw, not merely to make a pretty picture of something,

but to make a regular working-drawing, so that the real thing could be

constructed from it, and so that when the thing is finished, the drawing

will be a true picture of it, whatever it may be. So we found there

regular graded lessons in drawing, and in making joints in wood, and in

construction. As the boy improves, he studies pattern-making and learns

to make a mold from the pattern, and to melt lead and make a casting. We

saw all the carpentry lessons arranged in order, and glanced at every

lesson a boy has to take, from learning to draw to making a step-ladder.

There were stools, tables, small bureaus, and other furniture made,

finished, stained, and varnished by boys in the school. There was even

a window-frame ready to put in the wall of a house, with sash, blinds,

and all, complete and in working order; and the boy who made it was only

fourteen years old.

There are in every school queer girls or odd boys who somehow fail often

and are at the foot of every class. These children may be as bright

as any, but there is nothing in the school to bring them out. In this

exhibition we found the work of some such girls and boys. They see

beautiful things in fields and wood, and they have wise teachers. It is

not every child that can express itself in a composition. These boys and

girls express the ideas that are in them with a pencil. They study real,

living things, plants and flowers, and they learn to place the forms of

these things on paper and add to them something of their own day-dreams,

and soon every one who sees them exclaims: “What beautiful designs!”

These so-called dull children who never can understand the multiplication

table, and who shed useless tears over the tables of weights and

measures, here find the right kind of school for them: and they appeared,

with their work, in this children’s exhibition, as bright, as interested,

as eager to learn as any prize-medal scholar in any grammar school.

Now we must not think that only the quiet, thoughtful girls can do such

work. Every child has some sense of beauty; the trouble is that unless it

is given instruction in such things, it will probably never, except by

accident, find out what it can do. They are wiser about such things in

Chicago.

On the wall of the exhibition-room, under the gallery, was a grand

display of work, and so arranged that we could see just what every child

in the public schools of Chicago studies from year to year. The pictures

were arranged in three rows to illustrate the different kinds of work;

and below the pictures, on a long table, was a collection of little

models, made by the children in the schools. There were balls, cubes, and

pyramids shaped in clay by little hands. Even the youngest children in

primary schools can do this. Why, it is only fun, to shape the soft clay!

Of course, every little seven-year-old fellow is in a hurry every morning

to get to so grand a school, where he learns what a cube is by making

a true, fair cube in soft clay. Having learned to make various shapes

in clay, he then learns to make simple outlines of the same objects by

placing straws together in those shapes on his desk. Next, he can go one

step further, and with a pair of scissors cut cardboard into shapes that

represent those forms. Then he can proceed to use these shapes in various

ways to make designs, or he can cut in paper or in white wood, with a

scroll-saw, pretty figures suggested by the clay-models. He can even make

new lines on the old shapes, and decorate the clay forms he first made.

If your teacher tells you that a cube is a “rectangular parallelopiped,

which has its six sides squares,” you may think it is all right, and say

it after him without tripping, and yet not have the least notion that

the wooden blocks on which you learned your letters were all cubes. This

Chicago youngster would not use those dreadful words to describe a cube.

He would make one and give you a picture of it. Did he not construct one

out of wet clay? He knows a cube anywhere, and he will never forget it.

All his life long he will see cubes of every size, and he will know in an

instant whether they are true cubes with all the six sides truly square.

And if you give him a piece of paper, he will cut it out into a perfect

cross, and then fold it up in a certain way and make a box that is a

cube. Besides all this, his cubes are ornamented, so that he is already

an artist, and enjoys making things beautiful.

The picture here given shows the three ways in which the Chicago

primary scholar works. At the base are the forms he constructs in clay;

then the outlines made of bits of straw; then the figures cut out of

cardboard; and finally the decorated figures made from these forms. In

this way, he studies construction or making things; representation, or

picture-making; and decoration, or the making of beautiful figures that

are like the things he constructed and represented. We walked along that

beautiful exhibit and saw hundreds of things molded in clay or cut out

of soap or carved in wood, and then saw the drawings and ornaments made

from those things. We perceived just how the Chicago boy or girl goes on

from work with straw to simple drawings on a slate, and then to finished

drawings in pencil on paper, until we wondered if every child in Chicago

is to be an artist.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE CHICAGO PUBLIC-SCHOOLS.]

Next to that fine display of children’s work from Chicago came a series

of drawings by the pupils of the schools of Worcester, Mass. Here, too,

we find the boys and girls making drawings of real things that they

have made themselves or that were made by others. The first drawings

are to show how the things are constructed, the others to show how they

look. Then the pupils take flowers or other objects and make from them

original designs that may be used for decoration. In this exhibit, too,

were beautiful pictures in water-colors to show that the young artists

understood the harmony of colors. If the exhibition had shown us nothing

more than the admirable work by those Massachusetts boys and girls, it

would have well repaid us for coming.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF WORCESTER,

MASS.]

Next to the Worcester exhibit stood the New Haven tables. What fine

times those New England children must have! Here we found more drawings,

by Connecticut boys and girls, showing that they also know how things

are made, and how they look on paper. Here, too, were more of those

curious shapes, cut out of paper, to be folded up into cubes and prisms,

cylinders and pyramids. There even were little pots and pans, cut out

of paper, every part made by itself from a drawing, and the little

model made by pasting the parts together. What an easy way that must be

to study squares and circles, parallel lines and the whole family of

angles! New Haven boys will never stumble over that trying old question,

as to the difference between two square feet and two feet square. They

learn all about it in a new kind of game with scissors and paper and a

pot of paste. We might spend hours in looking over the work of those New

Haven boys and girls—the handsome furniture, the neat sewing and pretty

embroidery, the “busy work” of kindergarten tots, and the carpentry work

of the big boys; and the more we studied that school work, the more we

should wish, probably, that all schools were like those schools.

[Illustration: SEWING-KIT FURNISHED TO GIRL PUPILS OF THE PHILADELPHIA

PUBLIC SCHOOLS. SAMPLES OF WORK.]

Leaving the New Haven tables we came to the grand exhibit made by the

school-children of Philadelphia. In that city, there are twenty-five

thousand girls studying plain sewing every week of the school year. The

piled-up tables loaded with sewing showed only a small part of the work.

On other tables we could see excellent designs and work in hammered

brass, fine carvings, and even furniture and stamped leather-work. Then

there was one very interesting table. On the wall above it were working

drawings showing how wooden joints of all kinds are made; and on the

table itself were dovetails, mortises and tenons admirably done in wood.

There too were pieces of cast iron chipped and filed into various

shapes. Very few workmen in shops could do better, and yet all we saw was

the work of public-school boys.

[Illustration: SAMPLES OF JOINING-WORK IN WOOD AND METAL, SENT BY THE

PHILADELPHIA MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL.]

As we turned away from those tables, we saw another marked “St. Louis.”

Here was shown more work by little hands, more drawings, too, and all

proving that those Western youngsters are having happy times in school

with busy fingers. Next, we came upon some excellent drawings by pupils

of a South End Industrial School at Boston. The boys of that school have

a printing-press, and the girls can make bread as well as trim bonnets,

for they exhibited both the hats and the loaves. Jamestown, in New York,

is also teaching its boys and girls to work with their hands, and some of

their work in the exhibition is excellent.

Did you ever think what it is to be blind?—to be unable to tell whether

the paper you hold in your hand is white or blue or some other color.

How could we do anything if we could not see? But in the Children’s

Exhibition, on a table covered with knitting and fancy work of blind

children, was the strangest display of all—kindergarten work made by a

hundred blind girls and boys! No bad work in it either; it all was neat

and perfect. Yet those children have never seen the work their young

hands have made.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT SENT BY THE MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL OF

CHICAGO.]

A boy may lose a foot or a leg and be a cripple all his life. Shall he

give up in despair and do nothing, or beg, which would be even worse? No.

He has his hands and a brave heart. He will have a manly spirit even if

he has a broken body. Well, on a table near the blind children’s work,

was a collection of brooms and brushes,—new, well-made brushes, as good

as you can find, and all made by the young workmen of the Crippled Boys’

Brush Shop in New York.

There, too, were tables loaded with work from four orphan asylums in

New York and Brooklyn, and we saw sewing, bread-making, net-making and

cabinet-work done by young hands that have lost their hold on fathers’

and mothers’ fingers. Other friendly hands are leading them to be useful

and skillful in many good works.

We may have been accustomed to think of Indian boys and girls as little

savages, unable to do anything except to use a bow and arrow or to take

care of the wigwam. But the exhibition included also a display of objects

made by Indian children at school. There was a set of harness, a pair of

shoes, and some sensible coffee-pots made by Indian boys and girls. Like

so many others, they are learning to use their hands.

We may pity those halt and blind, those neglected children from the

wilderness, and those little ones who have known grief; but see how brave

they are! They have wiped away all tears and found it sweet and wise to

learn to work, to forget their griefs in industry. Depend upon it, if

we had learned nothing more by coming to this exhibition than this, we

should have learned a great deal—that work is a cure for many ills, that

work actually means happiness.

[Illustration: WORKING-DRAWINGS AND MODEL OF A SUSPENSION BRIDGE. DRAWN

AND CONSTRUCTED BY THE BOYS OF THE GRAMERCY PARK SCHOOL.]

Near the door of the main hall was a fine model of a suspension bridge

with towers and cables complete. Beneath it were drawings showing how

the bridge was made. This was the work of the boys of the Gramercy Park

School and Tool-house Association. They drew the plans, and constructed

the model bridge from the working drawings. They built up the foundations

and towers, piece by piece, and strung the cables and suspended the

roadway. All, too, while the builders were attending school and without

loss of time from their regular lessons.

[Illustration: EXHIBIT BY THE CRIPPLED BOYS’ BRUSH FACTORY.]

And even now I have not told you of half the things in that beautiful

exhibition. As we sat there, people were flocking in, young and old,

teachers and pupils, eager to see what children can do.

And now, what does it all mean? Let us have a little talk about it.

To that exhibition, more than four thousand children sent the work of

their hands. We do not think of them as Western children, as Eastern

boys, or New York girls, as Hebrews, Catholics, as orphans, or blind, or

anything else. They are children at school, and there is the wonder of it

all. It is plain their schools are not like other schools and are very

different from those I saw when a boy. It is plain that those children

can do many things that children without their advantages can not do. And

besides, they are probably happier than any children who ever went to

school before.

Let us see why this is so. Most children go to primary school and then to

grammar school and perhaps to high school and college, or to some private

school. This exhibition plainly shows us that there is a new kind of

school, that there are new lessons and new teachers coming. Books we must

have. To learn, we must read; but we may read all about boats, and yet we

can never learn to sail a boat till we take the tiller in hand and trim

the sail before the breeze. The book will help wonderfully in telling

us the names of things in the boat and, if we have read about sailing,

we shall more quickly learn to sail; but we certainly never shall learn

till we are in a real boat. We can read in a book how to turn a heel in

knitting, and may commit to memory whole rules about “throwing off two

and purl four,” and all the rest; yet where is the girl who can learn to

knit without having the needles in her hands?

This then is the idea of the new school—to use the hands as well as the

eyes. Boys and girls who go to the ordinary schools, where only books

are used, will graduate knowing a great deal; but a boy who goes to one

of these new schools, where, besides the books, there are pencils and

tools, work-benches as well as writing-books, will know more. The other

boys and girls may forget more than half they read, but he will remember

everything he learned at the drawing-table or at the work-bench, as long

as he lives. He will also remember more of that which he reads because

his work with his hands helps him to understand what he reads.

[Illustration: EXHIBIT OF THE AMATEUR TECHNICAL UNION.]

Again, a boy who goes to one of the new schools, where once a week he

spends two hours in a shop, and works with his hands, say to make a

square block of wood “true,”—exact to the hundredth part of an inch,—will

soon see that bad work is not square, is not true and fair. A piece of

false work will seem ugly and show bad workmanship. He will go out of the

shop proud that he can do true work; and all false things, whether in

wood or only in thought, will seem bad and wrong to that boy. He can not

make a crooked joint in woodwork and be satisfied; neither is he likely

to be content with crooked work in word or deed.

The four thousand children whose work filled that exhibition hall, read

books and study lessons precisely as do you; but they do more. For two,

or perhaps four, hours every week they lay down their books and take up

those splendid tools, the pencil, the needle, the hammer, the saw, and

the file. Are they any less readers than those who only read? No; they

are better readers, because they are workers; because by work they better

understand reading.

I remember long ago a tear-stained book of tables of weights and

measures, and a teacher’s impatience with a stupid child who could not

master the “tables.” And I have seen a school where the tables were

written on a blackboard—thus: “two pints are equal to one quart,” and

on a stand in the school-room was a tin pint measure and a tin quart

measure, and a box of dry sand. Every happy youngster had a chance to

fill that pint with sand and pour the sand in the quart measure. Two

pints filled it. He knew it. Did he not see it, did not every boy try

it? Ah! Now they knew what it all meant. It was as plain as day that two

pints of sand were equal to one quart of sand; and with merry smiles

those six-year-old philosophers learned the tables of measures; and they

will never forget them. This is, in brief, what is meant by industrial

education. To learn by using the hands,—to study from things as well

as from books. This is the new school, these are the new lessons. The

children who can sew, or design, or draw, or carve wood, or do joinering

work, or cast metals, or work in clay and brass, are the best-educated

children, because they use their hands as well as their eyes and their

brains.

You may say that in such schools all the boys will become mechanics,

and all the girls become dress-makers. Some may, many will not; and

yet whatever they do, be it preaching, keeping a store, or singing in

concerts, they will do their work better than those who only read in

books. The new schools are the best schools. Will there not be more of

them every year? I think parents will see that it is an excellent thing

for all boys and girls to learn to use their hands, that not to use the

hands at all is to be helpless in the great school we all attend when

we are men and women. The exhibition held last March may be only the

beginning of a new education wherein the hard lessons of the books, that

no little fellow ever could understand, shall give place to bright and

interesting books about work and about things. There may yet be shops

in every schoolyard, and embroidery frames on every girl’s desk. There

will be books, of course, and there also may be tools. There will be

examinations indeed, but there may also be in every town an exhibition

like the one I have told you of; and the fathers and mothers and all the

good people flocking to the schools may see what the children can do with

their hands. There will be speeches and recitations and music as now, and

there may also be drawings and brasswork, embroidery, and designs in clay

and in wood; and every child may be able to work as well as to study. No

more tears over unmeaning lessons, but everywhere pleasure and interest

because study is joined to work, and to learning is added industry.

THE TELL-TALE BARN.

BY ESTHER B. TIFFANY.

Oh, the funny little barn on a hill-side near our town!

With two wee, squinting windows in a row,

And a great wide-open door-way, like the mask-mouth of a clown,

It seems to be forever saying, “Oh!”

“Oh!” cries the little barn; “Oh!”

If you break a china dish

Or run away to fish,

“Oh!” cries the little barn; “Oh!”

One morning very early, we stole two pumpkin pies,

And thought we’d go and eat them by the lake,

But when we looked behind us, there stared those watchful eyes,

And oh, they stared so hard it made us quake!

And “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

If you stole a pumpkin pie

To eat it on the sly,

“Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

“I tell you now,” said Jenny, “the old thing won’t keep still

Until we put those pies right back, I know.

Let’s slip ’round to the pantry and lay them on the sill,

Or it will wake the folks up shouting, ‘Oh!’”

For, “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

Till we put away those pies

Before its very eyes,

“Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

[Illustration]

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

As I have already told you, men can convey ideas to one another by making

various kinds of marks. They can also speak to one another without

using spoken words, by means of gestures. Animals likewise gesticulate,

though in a much cruder way. You have probably seen deaf-mutes converse,

eying one another sharply while their fingers kept fluttering and their

features working in a lively play of expression. They were speaking

a silent language, which is the motion-language of animals and the

signal-language of savages carried to the highest point. Watch in any

black berry patch the large brown thrush, the cat-bird, or the chewink.

Every motion of the bird as it bustles about, is unconcerned. But let it

catch sight of you, or let its eyes fall on snake or hawk or cat, and you

will see the difference in its motions. Four-footed wild animals exhibit

different emotions, such as anger or alarm, by various movements of the

head and limbs.

Among savage nations, like our Indians and the wild tribes of Asia, whose

nomadic habits cause their languages to become distinct from one another

even when they belong to the same parent stock, and where intercourse

is apt to be dangerous on account of feuds, the language of gestures

has been wonderfully developed. A Zuñi will signal to an Apache, his

enemy, and sustain a very full conversation with him across one of those

tremendous canyons which are the marvel of our Southwest. For instance,

putting the hand to the cheek and inclining the head means “sleep.”

Touching the heart means, “I am sincere.” Thrusting forward the two

fingers from the lips, to imitate the forked tongue of the snake, means,

“you tell lies.”

The lower orders of people in Italy have always been famous for quickness

in making and reading signals, and a Neapolitan is often as expert as an

Indian of the plains in the language of signals; in fact, he is smarter,

for he will even talk by means of it to one of his kind while a stranger

remains unconscious that they are communicating with each other before

his face.

Some writers have argued that our letters must have been developed from

signs once drawn roughly to indicate gestures made by the human limbs.

An ingenious person has proposed an entirely new alphabet, which he

considers much quicker and more sensible than our own. It is based on

gestures natural to mankind and reduced from those which he considers

the most important. But into this and into the endless varieties of

short-hand writings and abbreviated writings proposed by inventors in

what is called stenography, tachygraphy, and other strange-looking words

selected from the Greek dictionary, we can not enter.

By sounds, too, ideas are conveyed between animals and between men. As

used by mankind, we call the sounds speech; owing to the gulf that man in

his pride wishes to set between himself and beasts, we call the sounds

made by animals anything rather than speech. When your dog wags its tail,

it uses a sort of gesture language. But when it barks, does it not speak?

If you ever saw the great actor Salvini play “Othello,” you will remember

that he uses cries, like those of animals, to express rage, grief, or

remorse, which are too great to find the measured relief of words. Birds

sing their happiness and cry their distress. Between the disconsolate

mewing of the cat-bird and its rich song of gladness at sunset, while

the mother is safe on the nest, the difference is astonishing; so is

the difference between the mellow song of the brown thrush and its

squirrel-like bark at the certainty of danger, or its vicious clucking

and hissing when its nest is found and touched. Jays have a discordant

cry, but also a charming bell-like call note, which sounds rarely in

the deep pine forests. Even fish sometimes make voluntary sounds, while

the cries of our frogs and toads and insects, which make the wilderness

joyous, at times are deafening. Animals, as a rule, have some kind of

speech, however rude, however occasional may be its use.

But such marks as animals leave on sand or wood, in grass or bushes, can

hardly be called writing by the widest interpretation, for they lack

intention. To be sure, when the grizzly bear rears its ugly bulk against

a redwood-tree and gashes the loose bark in order to stretch its claws,

it leaves a sign behind which some animals, particularly those of its

own race and those on which it most preys, undoubtedly can read. But

the nearest approach, in an animal, to intentional acts designed to be

seen or enjoyed by others, is the decoration of its curious house by the

bower-bird of New Guinea. A pair of these birds will build an arbor of

twigs and leaves for no apparent purpose except their own amusement, and

then decorate it with bright feathers and stones, as if they experienced

pleasure in looking at it and wished other birds or creatures to see it.

But even this is far from the rudest beginnings of writing.

Man writes from forethought and for the instruction of himself and

others. Speech is a gift; writing an invention. Speech we share with the

animals. Those parts of speech which we call ejaculations can not be

separated from the cries of animals. You may have heard man called the

talking animal. Would it not be better to call him the writing animal?

His invention of writing separates him more than does articulate speech,

from the lower orders of animate beings. No matter now how far back

we go, or how far down we dig through the earth’s crust to the layers

of soil deposited nobody knows how long ago, wherever we find things

fashioned by men, we find pictures that show the groping toward some kind

of writing. Now, it is a portrait of a horse carved in outline on a piece

of bone; at another time, it is a mammoth attacked by a hunter under

cover of a wolf-skin. The difference between the brains of man and the

brains of the highest animals is so great that, however we may suspect

from other things that there was an age when men were little stronger in

wits than the apes, we have as yet no certainty where and when a race of

men lived who could not at least draw a picture in outline. The Bushmen,

an African nation thought to be the lowest of living men in intellect,

are now known to be marvelously expert in drawing. They cover the walls

of their caves with well-drawn portraits of wild beasts.

So you see that the alphabet, which you learn at an age so early that

you forget its difficulties, is perhaps the most curious and marvelous

contrivance that has been produced by the brain of man. It is so old,

that its origin is lost in the perspective of the past. To reconstruct

its history is extremely difficult. The further back we go, the more

confused are the records, and the scantier they become; but those which

we find seem to point originally to a great variety of writings. The

general history seems to be that of simpler from less simple—simpler

pictures from complex pictures, simpler alphabets from alphabets more

complex. Then a few chosen alphabets outlived all the rest; and finally

one form, in great variation to be sure, rules now throughout a great

portion of the whole world.

This, as you have seen, is the alphabet which we share with so many

nations of different speech, color, and ancestry. Still, only half

satisfied with the derivation of this alphabet, we ask, whence did

it come to the Phœnicians? Was it evolved on Egyptian soil? Or did

the Phœnicians perfect it from some old syllabary like those which I

have already described to you. A syllabary of the ancient Hittites of

Palestine has just been discovered and partly made out. Attempts have

been made to trace it to the cuneiform picture-writing at Babylon, which

also I have told you about; and some have thought it may have been

born in India, out of a vanished syllabary, and its origin completely

forgotten because of wars and the destruction of monuments. Or perhaps

some very early or forgotten emigration of people from Asia into Egypt

may have carried with it a crude alphabet, which, after further changes,

was carried by another and a seafaring people, the Phœnicians, to the

nations about the Mediterranean. One of David’s captains was Uriah the

Hittite. More and more is being learned nowadays about the Hittites,

or Khetas, a Semitic nation that conquered and held Egypt for many

centuries, long before David’s time. It is thought by some that Joseph

was sold by his brothers into slavery while the Hittites ruled over the

patient Egyptians, who abhorred them and their gods. There seems to have

been no difficulty on the part of Joseph and his brothers in making

themselves understood by Potiphar and the Pharaoh that sat on the throne.

If the ruling class was Semitic at the time, the court speech of the day

was doubtless a dialect something like Hebrew, and this explains also why

the starving sons of Jacob turned to Egypt for grain. The Hittites are

considered the same people as the Khetas, the same also as the Shepherd

Kings whom the Egyptians called the Hyksos. Perhaps it was during the

reign of the Hyksos, or Hittites, and while the Hebrews were increasing

mightily in numbers, and gradually falling under the displeasure of their

rulers in Egypt, that the Phœnicians, their seafaring relatives, adapted

those twenty-two letters from the great store of signs and symbols

accumulated by long lines of Egyptian priests.

You have seen that the origin of the letters of our alphabet has been

attributed to many different sources. One has been sought in the signal

or gesture language, common to savage man, still used by civilized man

under certain circumstances, and not unknown in its most general features

to the lower animals. You may remember that the forms of letters have

been traced back by some to the shapes of trees, and by others to the

shapes of animals. The best reasoned origin of the Phœnician alphabet

ascribes it to rude pictures of gods, men, animals, plants, and objects.

A young man came to one of the wisest Jewish Rabbis to be a disciple.

“My son,” asked the Rabbi, “what is your occupation?”

“I am a scribe,” he replied.

“Then,” exclaimed the Rabbi; “be thou conscientious, O my son, for thy

work is God-like!”

Many nations have held that their letters were the suddenly inspired

inventions of demi-gods; others have maintained that only a god could

have given so useful and admirable a thing to man. The divine origin of

letters has been asserted in twenty different tongues. You have seen

how many different earthly objects have been suggested as the source of

letters. A Frenchman named Moreau de Dammartin, a Member of the French

Institute, claimed that the letters of the alphabet were derived from the

constellations which lie on the path of the earth around the sun; and

certain old star-readers believed that they could read men’s characters

and destinies by the aid of the constellations from which Dammartin

derived the letters of the alphabets. And to-day there are people who

claim to read men’s characters from their handwriting alone. As the

writing of every nation is distinguished by certain strong national

peculiarities, it is easy for an expert to decide to what nation a

writer belongs. Having settled that, certain large characteristics which

are common to all men, but in different degrees, can be seen in every

handwriting. A certain number of men are calm, even-lived, sensible,

and practical. Men of that class are almost certain to write plain,

round hands in which every letter is distinctly legible; neither very

much slanted forward, nor tilted backward; no letter very much bigger

than its neighbor, nor with heads much above or tails much below the

letters not so distinguished; the letters all having about the same

general uprightness, and the lines true to the edges of the paper,

neither tending upward nor downward. Exact, business-like people will

have an exact handwriting. Fantastic minds revel in quirks and streamers,

particularly for the capital letters, and this quality is not infrequent

in certain business hands, as if the writers found a relief from the

prosaic nature of their work in giving flourishes to certain letters.

Firm, decided, downright men are apt to bear on the pen while writing,

and to make their strokes hard and thick. On the contrary, people who

are not sure of themselves, and are lacking in self-control, press

unevenly, and with anxious-looking, scratchy hands. Ambitious people

are apt to be overworked; they are always in haste and either forget to

cross their t’s, or dot their i’s. They are also apt to run the last few

letters of every word into an illegible scrawl. Besides those who do

this naturally, there are others, silly or young people, who imitate the

illegibleness in the handwriting of some one whom they admire. Flurried,

troubled, and conscience-twinged persons have a crabbed and uneven

handwriting. From all this it will appear that the claim of those who

try to read character from handwritings is not so absurd as some people

imagine.

I have now tried to tell you as plainly as possible the main facts about

our alphabet so far as its history has been puzzled out. Those who are

not afraid of large words, and wish to learn at greater length, should

read the articles on the alphabet in the “Encyclopædia Britannica” and

also in “Appleton’s Cyclopædia,” and especially the two large volumes

called “The Alphabet,” written by Mr. Isaac Taylor. The number of special

books and treatises in French, German, and English, bearing on different

languages and their alphabets is too great to mention here.

We are taught the alphabet so soon after infancy that we naturally

underrate its importance all our lives. Yet, who shall measure its

importance to civilization? Writing has enabled mankind to store up

knowledge. There are calculations and speculations which require so much

straining of the mind, that advance to them and beyond them would have

been impossible without the stepping-stones furnished by writing. For

calculations, numerals and algebraic letters are the stepping-stones;

for speculations, words and frequent sentences. The storing of ideas in

books is often badly done, and people are always ready to groan over the

vast accumulations of volumes and the very small proportion of ideas

worth preserving. Yet, until volumes became general and no longer the

mysterious conjuring books of the few, human knowledge was always more

or less in danger of being swept from the earth by accidents to the few

and scattered libraries. The more widely a book was spread in copies

over the world, the less was the chance of its total disappearance. The

printing-press aided in this kind of insurance of the knowledge of man

against accidents. And neither printing-press nor alphabet need yet be

considered as perfected. Our alphabet is not the best ever invented,

but it is short and handy. As a subject for study, it yields to nothing

that is connected intimately with the civilization of mankind. When we

understand the history of the alphabet in all its course, and in all its

minor points, we shall know the history of mankind ever since men first

began to diverge widely from the beasts of the wood.

THE END.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE.

BY MALCOLM DOUGLAS.]

Oh, never yet were little boys so much alike as they!

Each looked more like the other than himself, folks used to say.

And since no one between them any difference could tell

Some incidents quite undeserved the two at times befell.

Their mother was so puzzled about telling which was which

That it made it very awkward when she had to use her switch;

And it frequently would happen that the guilty one went free,

While his righteous little brother would be placed across her knee.

When either of the little boys was vexed with childish ills

The good old doctor soon would bring his castor oil and squills,

And, in spite of tears and protests, he would very often make

The well one swallow all his horrid doses, by mistake.

Though one at school was always head, the teacher had to put

The other (who would never learn his lessons) at the foot;

So the bright boy for his indolence was ofttimes sternly chid,

And the dull one patted on the head for what his brother did.

And sometimes, too, the cook would make a little pie for one,

And give it to the other just as soon as it was done;

And, to keep the first from crying, she would roll him out one more,

But the second, when he came again, would get it, as before.

Oh, never yet were little boys so much alike as they!

Each looked more like the other than himself, folks used to say.

And since no one between them any difference could tell,

Surprising and unjust rewards the two at times befell!

THE KELP-GATHERERS.

[_A Story of the Maine Coast._]

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

CHAPTER XVII.

PERCIVAL AND THE WATCH.

After assisting to bring Olly safe to shore, Perce Bucklin had time to

reflect upon his still unclaimed treasure-trove and to grow extremely

anxious in regard to it.

He had not felt responsible for its first immersion in the sea. But it

had received a second wetting while in his possession. That set him to

considering seriously the damage salt water might do, if it should get

into the delicate works, and he worried over this to such an extent that

he could no longer keep quietly at work, with the watch still in his damp

pocket.

“Boys,” said he, “I’m going to have some doughnuts.” He had planned in

his own mind that he would take that opportunity to conceal his prize in

some safe, dry place.

“I’m hungry too!” said Moke.

“So ’m I!” said Poke.

And all threw down their forks. Their early breakfast, their labor at the

kelp, and their exciting adventure on the water, had made the morning

seem very long, and prepared them for a substantial luncheon.

That wasn’t just what Perce expected. They were no sooner seated on the

sand, with pail and basket and a bottle of spruce beer between them, than

fresh restlessness seized him.

Whoever the owner of the watch was or was to be, he felt that it ought to

go at once to the jeweler, and be cleaned and oiled. He suddenly jumped

to his feet.

“Boys,” he said, taking a piece of cheese in one hand and a wedge of

apple-pie in the other, “go on with your lunch; I’ll be eating mine while

I run up and see how Olly is getting along.”

“Take some of Ma’s spruce beer, first,” said the twins.

Perce thanked them, but said he would have his share when he came back.

“Don’t wait for me,” he added, “if I should get to talking, and be a

little late.”

He had been gone but a few minutes, and the twins were still busy with

their bread and butter and doughnuts, when they heard footsteps coming

behind them, and looked around, expecting to see him on his return.

But they saw instead a strange man, with a resolute face under a shady

hat-brim. A little behind him lingered two of the boarding-house ladies

they had seen before.

“Where’s the other member of your party?” asked the man, after looking

beyond the twins and all about. “The one you call Perce.”

“Perce Bucklin? He just went up to the boarding-house,” they replied; “he

left us about five minutes ago.”

“I’ve just come from the boarding-house,” said the man. “He wasn’t there

when we left; and we met no such boy on the way.”

“That’s strange!” said Moke.

And he and his brother began to call. The woods echoed their voices, but

no other voice replied.

“I don’t know where he is!” said Poke, astonished.

“He seemed to have something on his mind,” said Moke; “and may be——”

“May be he went to the village!” exclaimed Poke.

They couldn’t conceive why he should have gone to the village, but they

remembered that he had spoken vaguely of having some errand there, which

he must do before he returned home.

“Thank you,” the gentleman replied, and went back to speak with the

ladies. “That fellow has gone off to dispose of the watch,” he said to

them; “and I don’t think these two know anything about it.”

He had at all events thought it better not to mention the subject to the

twins; in order that, if they should see Perce before he did, they might

not put him on his guard.

Perce had, in fact, immediately changed his mind, after leaving his

companions; if, indeed, he had any serious notion of going to inquire for

Olly.

Instead of going to the boarding-house, he crossed a corner of the

woods, in order to strike a road leading to the village, which was about

three-quarters of a mile away.

As soon as he was well out of sight, he began to run, pausing only a

minute or two in the woods, where he took out his prize, pressed the

spring that opened the hunter’s case, and looked at the still beautiful

bright, white face of the watch.

“I don’t believe it is hurt much!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I wonder how

long it has been in the water!”

The pointers indicated ten minutes past two. Thinking the watch must have

stopped soon after it dropped into the sea, he muttered:

“That might have been two o’clock last night, or yesterday, or some day

of last week; who knows? Hullo!”

A new mystery! The second-hand, as he watched it, moved! He held the

timepiece to his ear, and heard a faint tick.

The works were running still, though feebly. Then the watch could have

been in the sea but a few hours; and it was no doubt some water that had

got into it which had retarded without stopping the motion of the wheels.

“Eight hours slow!” said Perce, thinking it must be by that time past ten

o’clock.

Astonished as he was, his purpose to visit the village remained

unchanged. Indeed, it seemed to him all the more important that the

watch, since he was convinced that it was as yet uninjured, should go to

the jeweler’s without delay.

He had not meant, from the first, to withhold it from its rightful owner,

if he could find that person; but only to keep it from the twins, who

might set up what he considered an unjust claim to half its value. He

expected to advertise it, after putting it into the jeweler’s hands; he

had therefore no motive for disguising from the latter the manner in

which it had come into his possession.

He was prepared to tell a straightforward story; only leaving out his

want of confidence in the twins, of which he couldn’t help feeling

ashamed. But unfortunately the jeweler was not in his shop. After a

little search, Perce found him walking with a man on the street; and,

coming to his side, whispered in his ear that he had a little job for him.

As they entered the shop together, Perce did not notice a third man,

flushed with excitement and haste, who had followed him at a distance,

and was now watching with an air of affected carelessness, to see what he

would do.

As the jeweler went behind his counter, Perce stood before it, with his

back to the door, and said breathlessly, in a low tone, as he produced

the watch:

“Here’s something I want you to be rather confidential about until——”

Until it could be advertised in due form, he was going to say; for he

was anxious that no false claimant should get a description of the watch

beforehand. But he had hardly yet recovered his breath, and while he was

hesitating, the jeweler opened the watch.

“Where has this been? In the water?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Perce. “And I want you to do whatever is necessary to put it

into good order; and to say nothing about it until——”

Here he stopped again, and looked quickly around at somebody who just

then entered the shop.

It was Mr. Hatville, who, having stood a moment at the open door,

watching the jeweler and the boy, stepped in quickly but quietly, and

laying one hand, with a firm grasp, on Perce’s arm, extended the other

over the counter.

“Mr. Middleton,” said he, “I don’t think you mean to be a receiver of

stolen goods. But it happens that you have my watch!”

“Yours, Mr. Hatville!” said the astonished jeweler. “I thought I had seen

it before” (for Mr. Hatville had dealt with him at times, and had shown

him his chronometer with much pride), “but never in such a condition!”

“It has run down, I suppose,” said the owner, adding with grim sarcasm,

“I hoped the thief would know enough to wind it! Boy!” he cried,

tightening his grip on Perce’s arm, “you’ve no business to steal watches,

if you can’t keep ’em wound!”