Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 40. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 3, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOING THROUGH THE LOCK.--DRAWN BY A. B. FROST.]
[Begun in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 31, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER X.
The policeman did not return, and the boys slept until an hour after
sunrise. They then rowed down the river to the steamboat landing, where
they left their boat in charge of a boatman, and went to a hotel for
breakfast. The waiters were rather astonished at the tremendous
appetites displayed by the four sunburned boys, and there is no doubt
that the landlord lost money that morning. After breakfast, Harry went
to the express office, where he found a large water-proof India rubber
bag, which the Department had sent in answer to his letter. At the
post-office were letters from home for all the boys, and a postal order
for ten dollars from Uncle John for the use of the expedition. Harry had
no idea that this money would be needed, but it subsequently proved to
be very useful.
Quite a quantity of stores were bought at Albany, for the voyage up the
Hudson had lasted longer than any one had supposed it would, and the
provisions were getting low. No unnecessary time was spent in buying
these stores, for a fair wind was blowing, and all the boys were anxious
to take advantage of it. By ten o'clock they were again afloat, and soon
after noon they reached Troy, and entered the canal.
The canal basin was crowded with canal-boats, and to avoid accidents the
_Whitewing's_ mast was taken down, and the oars were got out. Harry knew
that, in order to pass through the locks, it would be necessary to pay
toll, and to procure an order from the canal authorities directing the
lock-men to permit the _Whitewing_ to pass. The canal boatmen, of whom
he made inquiries, told him where to find the office, which was some
little distance up the canal. When the office was reached, an officer
came and inspected the boat, asked a great many questions about the
cruise up the Hudson, and seemed to be very much interested in the
expedition. He told the boys that the water was low in the Champlain
Canal, and that the lock-men might not be willing to open the locks for
so small a boat; but that they could avoid all dispute by entering the
locks at the same time with some one of the many canal-boats that were
on their way north. He charged the _Whitewing_ the enormous sum of
twenty-five cents for tolls, and gave Harry an important-looking order,
by which the lock-men were directed to allow the skiff _Whitewing_,
Captain Harry Wilson, to pass through all the locks on the canal.
Thanking the pleasant officer, the boys pushed off. After they had
passed the place where the Champlain Canal branches off from the Erie
Canal, they were no longer troubled by a crowd of canal-boats, and were
able to set the sail again. Unluckily, the mast was just a little too
high to pass under the bridges, and at the first bridge which they met
they narrowly escaped a capsize--Jim succeeding in getting the mast down
only just in time to save it from striking the bridge. They had hardly
set sail again when another bridge came in sight, and they could see
just beyond it a third bridge. It would never do to stop at every bridge
and unship the mast, so Harry went on shore, borrowed a saw from a
cooper's shop, and sawed six inches off from the top of the mast, after
which the bridges gave them no more trouble.
The boys were very much interested in passing the first lock. They
slipped into the lock behind a big canal-boat, which left just room
enough between its rudder and the gate for the _Whitewing_. When the
lock-men shut the gate behind the boat, and opened the sluices in the
upper gate, the water rose slowly and steadily. The sides of the lock
were so steep and black that the boys felt very much as if they were at
the bottom of a well; but it was not many minutes before the water had
risen so high that the upper gates were opened, and the big canal-boat
and its little follower were released.
Passing through a lock in a small boat, and in company with a
canal-boat, is not a perfectly safe thing to do, for if the ropes which
fasten the canal-boat should break--which they sometimes do--the water
rushing in through the sluices would force the canal-boat against the
lower gate, and crush the small boat like an egg-shell. It is therefore
best always to pass through a lock alone, or in company with other small
boats. The danger, however, is in reality very slight, and very few
accidents occur in canal locks.
The wind died away before sunset; and the boys having had only a light
lunch, which they ate on the boat, were glad to go ashore for supper.
They bought some corn from a farmer, and roasted it before the fire,
while some nice slices of ham were frying, and the coffee-pot was
boiling, and so prepared a supper which they greatly enjoyed. The moon
came up before they had finished the meal, and they felt strongly
tempted to make another attempt at night-work.
"I'll tell you what we can do," exclaimed Harry. "Instead of rowing,
let's tow the boat. One fellow can tow while another steers, and the
rest can sleep in the boat."
"All right," said Joe. "I'm willing to be a mule. Only I'd like to know
where my harness is coming from."
"We've got rope enough for that," replied Harry. "I'll take the first
turn, and tow for an hour, while Joe steers; then I'll steer for an
hour, while Joe tows. Then the other watch will take charge of the boat
for two hours, and Joe and I will sleep."
"If I'm to sleep on the bottom of that boat," said Joe, "I want some
nice sharp stones to sleep on. I'm tired of sleeping on coffee-pots, and
want a change."
A long tow-line was soon rigged on Harry's shoulders in such a way that
it did not chafe him; a space in the bottom of the boat was cleared of
coffee-pots and other uncomfortable articles, and a pair of blankets was
spread on the bottom board, so as to make a comfortable bed, which Tom
and Jim hastened to occupy. Joe took the yoke-lines in his hand, and
called to Harry to go ahead. When Harry first tugged at the tow-line,
the boat seemed very heavy; but as soon as she was in motion, Harry
found that he could tow her as fast as he could walk, and without any
difficulty.
Had the locks been open and the canal-boats been out of the way, the
experiment of towing the _Whitewing_ at night would have been very
successful. As it happened, the locks were kept closed during the night,
because the water was low; and the canal-boats, not being able to pass
the locks, were moored to the tow-path. These boats gave Harry and Joe a
great deal of trouble. When one of them was met, Harry had to unharness
himself and toss the rope into the boat, and Joe had to get out an oar
and scull around the obstacle. This happened so often that Tom and Jim
got very little sleep; and long before it was time for them to resume
duty, a lock was reached, and Harry had to call all hands to drag the
boat around it.
This was a hard piece of work. First, all the heavy things had to be
taken out of the boat and carried around the lock. Then the boat had to
be dragged out of the canal on to the tow-path, hauled up a steep
ascent, and launched above the upper gate. It took a good half-hour to
pass the first of these closed locks, and when the boat was again ready
to start, it was time to change the watch.
Tom and Jim had managed to get only a few minutes' sleep, but Harry and
Joe could not sleep a single wink. They had not "turned in" for more
than ten minutes when another lock was reached. This involved a second
half-hour of hard work by all hands, and twenty minutes later three more
locks close together blocked the way. It was foolish to persevere in
dragging the boat around locks all night long; so, after getting her out
of the canal on the side opposite to the tow-path, the boys dragged her
behind some bushes, where the canal boatmen could not see her at
daylight. They then spread their rubber blankets on the ground, and
prepared to sleep through the remaining four or five hours of darkness.
"Boys," said Joe, suddenly, "does it hurt a fat woman to jump on her?"
"Don't know," answered Harry. "What do you ask for?"
"Oh, nothing," said Joe. "Only when I was jumping from one canal-boat to
another while I was a mule, I landed awfully heavy on a fat woman who
was sleeping on deck."
"What did she do?" asked Harry.
"She didn't do anything. She just muttered something that I could not
understand, and I got away as quickly as possible."
"Well, if she likes it, that's her business, not yours," suggested
Harry. "Go to sleep, do!"
"I am going to sleep; but I don't think we ought to spend our nights in
getting run down by steamboats and jumping on strange fat women. I'm
sure it isn't right. There, you needn't throw any more shoes at me. I
won't say another word."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SOME TRUE STORIES ABOUT STEEPLES.
BY C. F. M.
A great many years ago a hurricane occurred in Utica, New York. Just as
it began it was noticed that a heavy swing sign in front of a store was
held out in a horizontal position for some time.
Before long the force of the wind increased to such a degree that
several houses on Genesee Street Hill were unroofed, and the spire of
the Second Presbyterian Church was thrown to the ground.
After the storm was over it was discovered that the rod holding the
weather-vane on the top of the tall steeple of the First Presbyterian
Church was bent so that it became nearly horizontal. It was unsightly;
but how to repair the injury was the question. It would be no easy task,
as there was a large ball, or globe, on the rod below the vane. After a
while a sailor offered his services. He ascended the steeple, and
climbed the rod until he came just beneath the globe. Then he threw a
rope out a good many times, until, after a while, the end looped around
over the rod, above the globe, long enough to reach to him. Twisting the
rope together, he let go of the iron rod, and trusting himself to the
rope, swung out free. By climbing it he now managed to get on the top of
the globe. Standing there, he succeeded in straightening the rod that
held the weather-vane.
Now how was he to get down? Again trusting to the rope that was fastened
to the rod above the globe, he swung free at a great height from the
earth; then lowering himself, and swinging back and forth, he managed to
grasp the rod beneath the globe, and soon reaching the spire, descended.
The steeple of Salisbury Cathedral is the highest in England, and next
to that of Strasbourg Cathedral, the highest in Europe. Every year a man
climbs to the top to grease the weather-vane. This is done by ascending
the inside as far as possible, and then going out of a manhole and
climbing the rest of the way by means of the brass staples fastened on
the outer wall.
Once on a festal occasion, when the King was present, a reward was
offered, as usual, to any person who would ascend and attend to the
weather-vane. A sailor agreed to do it, and ascended in the way I have
told you, until he came to the copestone, when, to show what he could
do, he stood on his head. Then performing the task he was sent to do,
that of greasing the vane, he descended, and claimed his reward. But the
King was so exasperated at the sailor for needlessly frightening the
people by standing on his head at such a great height, that he would not
allow him to be paid.
A long time ago, in the town of Northam, England, the steeple of the
church was found to be unsteady. It swayed back and forth whenever the
great bell struck, and continued to sway thus, until, as it leaned over
on one side, it opened large cracks on the opposite.
It was not long before the boys of the town found this out, and the
bright idea entered the head of one of them, and was by him told to the
others, that it would be a capital place to crack nuts. So, boy-like,
they had to try it, and standing at the base of the spire, would fill
the cracks as far as they could reach with good English walnuts, and
then stand back for the steeple to return to an upright position,
cracking the nuts. As the great clock in the tower struck, the jar
caused the spire to lean in the opposite direction. The boys now got
their nuts, and then put in more, that the operation might be repeated,
for they considered it rare sport.
But in the course of time the people of the town who had such matters in
charge decided that the steeple was unsafe, and strengthened it with
bands of iron; but this not proving satisfactory, after a while each
stone was numbered, and the steeple taken down and rebuilt in the old
style. And from that day to this, to the regret of the boys, it has
never been known to crack nuts.
During a great fire in New York, a few years ago, one of the buildings
destroyed was a church having a very tall steeple. The flames ran up
inside this steeple, and, bursting out at the top, melted the zinc and
copper about the lightning rod, so that they fell in showers of green,
gold, and crimson fire, producing a spectacle of most wondrous beauty.
FLOWER QUEENS OF NIGHT.
BY MARGARET EYTINGE.
"Pretty, fragrant four-o'clocks,"
Said the rose one day,
"Pity 'tis your buds unfold
Into blossoms gay
When the west begins to burn
With the sunset light--
Sweetness wondrous rare to waste
On the drowsy night.
"Other blooms have birds to sing,
Bees to hum, their praise,
Butterflies to visit them
Through the summer days.
Bee but seldom hums for you,
Bird but seldom sings,
Butterfly is ne'er your guest,
Pretty, fragrant things."
"Lovely, graceful, crimson rose,"
Said the modest flowers,
"Though the sun we scarcely know,
Happiness is ours.
Moon we have, and sparkling stars
(Each a heavenly gem),
And their light so gentle is,
We can look at them.
"And the flashing fire-flies
Round us gleam and glance,
Like a countless host of fays
In an airy dance.
And the moth king, velvet-winged,
Dainty kiss bestows,
As he whispers, 'You are sweet,
Sweet as any rose.'
"Grieve no more for us, dear friend;
Thrice content we are,
Loved by moth and fire-fly,
Dew-drop, moon, and star.
And while you o'er garden reign
In the bright daylight,
We are hailed by wand'ring winds,
Flower queens of night."
OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.
BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.
No. III.
ISAAC BRADLEY AND JOSEPH WHITTAKER.
Twelve miles from the sea, on the bank of the Merrimac River, is the
busy town of Haverhill. It was a small settlement in 1690. There was a
cluster of houses and a meeting-house. The country beyond, all the way
to Canada, was a wilderness. The Indians came down the river in their
bark canoes, carrying them past the falls where the city of Lowell now
stands, past Amoskeag Falls, where the Manchester factories to-day are
humming. They caught beaver, bear, and foxes, and sold the furs to the
traders.
The Indians were under the influence of the French, and when war broke
out between France and England for the restoration of James II. to the
throne from which he had fled, the settlers of Haverhill, in common with
the people all along the frontier, knew that the Indians, influenced by
the French in Canada, might be upon them at any moment.
[Illustration: EARLY SETTLERS GOING TO MEETING.--DRAWN BY HOWARD PYLE.]
The settlers had their guns ever at hand. If at work in the field, they
placed them where they could seize them quickly. When they went to bed
at night, they put a stout bar of wood across the door, and examined
the flints and the priming. On Sunday, when they went to meeting, each
man carried his gun, and the minister looked down from the pulpit upon
men who had powder-horns and bullet-pouches slung across their
shoulders, and whose muskets were standing in the corners of their pews.
Some of the settlers kept watch outside while the others were in
meeting. They went on scouts through the dark woods, peering among the
trees to see if the Indians were prowling in the vicinity.
The settlers were obliged to work hard. While the men were at work in
the fields, the women were spinning and weaving. Boys and girls had
little time for play. There was always something for them to do. When a
boy was sixteen years old, he was expected to do the work of a man. They
all learned to shoot, and some of them, when they were only twelve,
could bring down a squirrel from the highest tree every time, or shoot a
deer upon the run.
Two boys--Isaac Bradley, who was fifteen years old, and Joseph
Whittaker, who was eleven--were at work one day in Mr. Bradley's field,
when suddenly a party of Indians sprang out from the woods and seized
them. Isaac was small, but he was bright, cool-headed, and
brave-hearted. Joseph, though four years younger, was as large as Isaac,
but he was not so stout-hearted nor self-reliant as his companion.
The Indians were from Canada. They did not stop to kill any of the
settlers, but hastened away, travelling through the dark woods northward
to the beautiful Lake Winnipiseogee, where they remained through the
winter. The lake swarmed with trout and pickerel, which they could catch
through the ice, and the woods were full of bears and deer.
Isaac made himself at home in the wigwam, and picked up the language of
the Indians in a very short time. The squaws made him do their drudgery;
but the warriors liked him, and the Indian dogs wagged their tails when
he looked at them out of his kindly eyes.
Winter passed and April came.
"We go to Canada now," said one of the Indians.
Isaac had no intention of going to Canada. Day after day he thought over
the matter. He knew that the English settlements were far away to the
south, but there was no path to them. He had no compass. How could he
ever reach them? He would be guided by the sun by day, and the stars by
night. He would make the attempt. He might perish, but death was better
than captivity.
"I am going to try it to-morrow night, but I am afraid you won't wake,"
he said to Joseph, who always slept soundly, and snored in his sleep.
"Oh yes, I will," Joseph replied.
The Indians had killed a moose, and Isaac had managed to hide a large
piece of meat in the bushes near the camp. He filled his pockets with
their corn-bread. Night came. All were asleep except Isaac, who was so
excited by the thought of escaping that his eyes would not close. Every
sense was quickened. He arose softly and touched Joseph, who was sound
asleep. He did not stir, and Isaac shook him harder.
"What do you want?" Joseph asked.
In an instant Isaac was stretched out, snoring; but the Indians did not
wake, and after a little while the boys arose softly, and crept out of
the wigwam, Isaac with an Indian's gun and powder and balls. They made
their way to the meat, took it under their arms, and started upon the
run, guided on their way by the stars. On through the wilderness, amid
the tall trees, over fallen trunks, over stones, through thickets and
tangled brushwood, they travelled till morning, and then crept into a
hollow log.
Great the consternation in the camp of the Indians. Their captives gone!
a gun lost! At daybreak the Indians, with their dogs, were on the trail,
and in swift pursuit.
The boys heard the barking of the dogs, which soon came sniffing around
the log. What shall they do now? Isaac is quick-witted.
"Good fellow, Bose! good fellow! here is some breakfast for you;" and he
tosses the moose meat to them. The dogs know his voice, devour the meat,
and are as happy as dogs can be. The boys are their friends. They cease
barking, and trot around, with no further concern.
The Indians come up on the run. The boys hear their voices, as they
hasten by, followed by their dogs.
Through the day they lie hidden in the log, and when night comes, strike
out in a different direction from that taken by the Indians. All night
long they travel, nibbling at their hard corn-bread. Morning comes, and
again they conceal themselves. Once more at night they are on the march.
On the third day Isaac shoots a pigeon, but does not dare to kindle a
fire, and they eat it raw. They find a turtle, smash its shell, and eat
the meat. On, day after day, they travel, eating roots, and buds of the
trees just ready to burst into leaf. The sixth day comes, and they
suddenly find themselves close to an Indian camp. They peep through the
underbrush, and see the warriors sitting around their camp fire smoking
their pipes. They steal softly away, and then run as fast as their legs
can carry them. The morning of the eighth day comes. Joseph's strength
is failing; his courage is gone; he cries bitterly. They are in the
wilderness, they know not where, with nothing to eat, their clothes in
rags, their feet bleeding.
"Cheer up, Joseph; here are some ground-nuts. Here, drink some water,"
says Isaac.
No brave words, no act of kindness, can quicken the courage of the
fainting boy. What shall Isaac do--stay and die with him, or try to find
his own way out? Sad the parting, the younger lying down to die upon a
mossy bank, the older turning away alone, lost in the wilderness.
With faltering steps, Isaac pushes on, and discerns a house. No one is
there, but he knows there must be white men not far away. With quickened
pulse, he turns back to the dying boy, awakens him from sleep, rubs his
eyes, bathes his temples, cheers him with encouraging words.
"Come, Joseph, we are saved. There is a house close by."
Joseph's eyes brighten. He stands upon his feet, walks a few steps, and
falls. Isaac is stronger than ever. He lifts his fainting comrade, takes
him in his arms, staggers on, reaches the empty and desolate house, and
discovers a beaten path leading southward. He goes on, resting now and
then, but ever speaking words of cheer.
At last they see before them a placid river, and beside it a cluster of
houses. They know that in a few moments they will be once more among
friends, and brave Isaac Bradley is almost overcome with the joy of this
knowledge.
[Illustration: ISAAC BRADLEY CARRYING JOSEPH INTO THE SETTLEMENT.]
What a sight is that which the soldier on the look-out at the
garrison-house on the bank of the Saco beholds, just as the sun is going
down--two boys, one carrying the other!
Saved. They are kindly cared for by the soldiers, their wounds are
dressed, nourishing food is given them, once more they are clothed in
the garments of civilized beings, and there are moist eyes in the
garrison as they tell their thrilling story. And what rejoicing when at
last they reach their homes!
TOM CHESTER'S SILVER MINE.
BY A. A. HAYES, JUN.
Tom Chester's father lives in a pleasant town in New England, and Tom
himself grew up like other boys in that part of the country. In winter
he went to the village school, in an old red building with a great stove
in one corner, and on his way home "coasted" down the long hill at the
foot of which he lived. In summer he helped the hay-makers, and rode on
the high-piled cart, and went on picnics to Blue Mountain, and bathed in
the clear brook under the willows. He grew to be stout, hardy, and
red-cheeked, very unlike his father, who pored over his books, and took
no exercise, and grew paler and thinner each year.
One day, as Tom was sitting on the door-step making a whistle out of a
slip of willow, he saw old Dr. W---- drive up in his old-fashioned
"sulky," tie his horse to a post, and go to his father's library,
bidding him good-morning as he passed. He remained some time with Mr.
Chester, and as he came out Tom heard him say,
"Very well, then, we will call that settled. And mind, the sooner you
start, the sooner you may expect to find yourself better and stronger."
Mr. Chester, who had followed the doctor to the door, saw the inquiring
look on Tom's face, and asked him, with a smile, how he would like to go
to Colorado.
"What! to dig for silver?" cried Tom.
"No; to seek for what is more valuable than silver--health," said his
father. "Dr. W---- says that I must go to the Rocky Mountains, and we
shall start in a few days."
* * * * *
It was dark when the train rolled into Denver, and Tom, even if he had
not been tired and sleepy, could have seen nothing of the town as they
drove to the hotel. But in the morning, when he woke up and looked out
of the windows of his room, which was on the western side of the house,
he cried aloud with surprise and delight. All along the horizon rose a
great range of mountains, with two lofty peaks towering over the others,
one at the north and the other at the south. They seemed so near that
Tom thought he could walk to them; but when he had dressed himself and
gone down to the office, he asked the clerk how long it would take, and
the man looked at him, and said, "I wouldn't advise you to try, you
little _tender-foot_."
"My feet are _not_ tender," replied Tom, sharply.
The people in the room all laughed, and a miner in a blue flannel shirt
patted Tom on the back, and said, "That's right, my boy. You remind me
of a kid of my own up at Fairplay. The fellow's only chaffing you. When
any one's been just a little while in the country, they always call him
a 'tender-foot.' You mustn't mind that."
Then he went on to explain to Tom that the foot-hills which looked so
near were at least fifteen or twenty miles away. Then he told him about
the mining towns, or "camps," as they are called, and how the men who
look for mines, called "prospectors," search through the mountains,
seeking signs of silver ore; and that when they find them, they put
stakes in the ground to mark the "claims" which the law allows, or the
right to dig in a space 1500 feet one way and 300 the other. Then he
described how they dig down in hopes of finding what they call "pay
gravel," or ore which contains enough silver to make it worth sending to
the works. He mentioned some men whom he knew who had sold "prospect
holes," as he called them (or shafts partly sunk, and not yet proved to
be good mines), for large sums. Tom was immensely interested in these
narrations, and was eagerly listening when his father came in to find
him.
"Guess you'd better let me have that boy of yourn to make a miner of,
Colonel," said this new friend to Mr. Chester. "He's got plenty of
_sand_."
Mr. Chester knew that people in the West give titles to almost every
one, but it was some time before either he or Tom found out that it was
a great compliment to say that any one had "sand," which means, in the
rough but very expressive language of the mountains, that one possesses
bravery and great strength and force of character.
After seeing all the sights of Denver, Tom and his father took the train
one morning for a little town called Golden, near the foot-hills. Here
they were transferred to a railroad only three feet wide, and found an
open or "observation" car, from which they could see very well. The
train entered what is called a canyon, or gorge, down which poured the
waters of Clear Creek (which, by-the-way, were not clear at all, but
very muddy). It wound up this canyon, the walls of which seemed to come
together away over the heads of the passengers. No boy who is fortunate
enough to make a journey to Colorado should fail to see this remarkable
place. The little engine tugged at the train, and dragged it up the
steep canyon, and by the side of the winding stream, until it came to a
valley surrounded by high hills, where is the town of Idaho Springs.
Here Tom and his father left the train, and walked to a neat-looking
hotel, where they took up their quarters. Mr. Chester already felt the
benefit of the change of climate, and he wanted to spend much time in
excursions to different points. He and Tom went up by the railroad to
Georgetown, and drove to Central City, and at both places they saw a
great many mines. They went down in buckets, lowered by great ropes, six
and seven hundred feet into the shafts, and then sometimes came out by
tunnels cut from the sides of the hills. They saw mills in which gold
ore was crushed by stamps, or great iron bars falling heavily on it, and
works where silver ore was put into hot furnaces--in fact, they saw so
many things that Tom became rather bewildered. All the time, however, he
found himself thinking about what the miner had told him in Denver, and
longing to try his own hand at prospecting. When he told his father, one
day, that he would like to go up on the hill-sides or in some of the
canyons and look for a mine, the latter at first laughed, and then grew
rather serious, and began to talk about the danger of being led away by
this desire to be suddenly rich without labor.
"You hear, my boy," he said, "about the one, two, or three men who
succeed, but not a word about the hundreds, and even thousands, who make
failure after failure, and pass their lives in the misery of 'hope
deferred.'"
Tom listened respectfully to his father, but could not make up his mind
that it would not be a fine thing to find a silver mine. He began to
take walks by himself, and look out for the signs about which various
miners had told him. At times he would think that he had found
something, and he would bring little pieces of rock to show to a friend
whose acquaintance he had made in the little town. This was an old miner
named Sam, a rough but very kind-hearted man, who did not laugh at all,
but told him pleasantly that he had not yet found any mine.
One day, while walking in a canyon near the hotel, and chipping with a
hammer at the broken rock, he saw two poorly dressed men carrying
bundles, as if on a journey, who stopped and asked what he was doing.
They told him that there was no use in searching in that place, but that
they had an excellent prospect hole, already showing "pay gravel," which
they had been compelled to abandon on account of pressing engagements
elsewhere, and which, although it was worth many thousands, they would
sell him for ten dollars. Poor little Tom had just that sum, which his
father had given him on his birthday, and to which he had proposed to
add his savings, for the purpose of buying some fishing-tackle. Perhaps
his slight "craze" about a mine made him less cautious than usual. At
all events, he accepted the men's offer, and promised to meet them that
afternoon near a tree which they pointed out.
He was there on the minute, with his ten dollars in his pocket. The men
took him up the hill, and showed him a rather deep hole, into which a
rough ladder led. Down this they went, and Tom saw some ore of just the
kind that his friend Sam had told him he ought to find. Then the men set
two stakes in the ground, on which they rudely marked "T. C.," took his
money, and walked hastily away. Tom went down to the hotel full of his
purchase. His father had gone to Georgetown, but Sam was there, and to
him Tom eagerly narrated what he thought his good fortune. Sam heard him
without remark, and then put on his hat, and taking pick and shovel,
asked Tom to show him the mine. Arriving there, he shovelled up some of
the ore which Tom had seen, and disclosed quite a different rock below.
On this lay a piece of board, which he handed to Tom, who read thereon,
"u ar sold bad u yung tender-fut this aint no mine."
For a moment he did not understand; then came a shock of disappointment,
and then a sense of indignation, not so much against the men who had
deceived him as at himself for his delusion and stupidity.
Sam looked kindly at him. "Pretty rough on you, Tom, wasn't it?" he
said. "Why, my boy, this is an old claim of mine, which I gave up long
ago as no good. They've just gone and salted it--I mean, put some good
ore in to deceive you. So they walked off with your ten dollars, the
miserable scamps! Tell me what they looked like."
Tom described them.
"Ho! ho!" said Sam. "I saw those same fellows taking the train for
Denver. I'm going down there to-morrow, and the Chief of Police is a
friend of mine. Perhaps we'll run across them some day."
As they walked home, he tried to cheer Tom up by telling him stories of
clever men who had been served in similar ways; but Tom was sober, not
on account of his loss, but because it had come to his mind how foolish
he had been from the first. He felt easier when he had told his father
the whole story.
The latter laughed heartily, and said, "Well, Tom, my boy, considering
how badly you had the mining fever, I do not think that ten dollars was
a large price to pay for a cure."
* * * * *
Some time after Tom had returned to his home he received a letter from
Colorado, which proved to be from his friend Sam, reading partly as
follows:
"... I am glad to tell you that we catched them two claim-jumpers [men
who steal claims]. They'd spent all your stamps, sure enough, and you
won't never see them no more; but it's a comfort that they got two years
at Canyon City [where the penitentiary is]. Better luck next time. Come
out again next summer, and I'll help you find an A1 mine...."
But Tom says that if he ever has any money at all, it will be earned in
some good old-fashioned way; that he is not a "tender-foot," and that he
does not want any more interest in prospect holes.
WOLF-CHILDREN.
BY JAMES GREENWOOD.
Some years ago a soldier stationed at Bondee, in India, while passing
near a small stream, saw three wolf cubs and a boy drinking. He managed
to seize the boy, who seemed about ten years old, but who was so wild
and fierce that he tore the trooper's clothes, and bit him severely in
several places. The soldier at first tied him up in the military gun
shed, and fed him with raw meat; he was afterward allowed to wander
freely about the Bondee bazar. A lad named Tanoo, servant of a Cashmere
merchant then at Bondee, took compassion on the poor boy, and prepared a
bed for him under the mango-tree where he himself lodged; here he kept
him fastened to a tent-pin.
Up to this time he would eat nothing but raw flesh, but Tanoo gradually
taught him to eat balls of rice and pulse. In about six weeks after he
had been tied up, and after much rubbing of his joints with oil, he was
made to stand and walk upright, whereas hitherto he had gone on all
fours.
One night, while the boy was lying under the mango-tree, Tanoo saw two
wolves creep stealthily toward him, and after smelling him, they touched
him, when he got up. Instead, however, of being frightened, the boy put
his hand upon their heads, and they began to play with him, capering
about while he pelted them with grass and straw. Tanoo tried to drive
them off, but could not. At last, however, they left, but the following
night three wolves came, and a few nights after four, which returned
several times.
The wolf-boy, however, could not be entirely reconciled to civilized
life. In being removed from place to place he never lost an opportunity
of endeavoring to escape into the jungle. At last Tanoo was sent away on
a short journey, and when he returned, his savage charge had
disappeared, and was never again heard of.
The story of another wolf-child is even more wonderful than the above.
In March, 1843, a cultivator who lived at Chupra, about twenty miles
from Sultanpoor, went to cut his crop of wheat and pulse, taking with
him his wife, and a son about three years old. As the father was
reaping, a wolf suddenly rushed upon the boy, caught him up, and made
off with him toward the ravines. People ran to the aid of the parents,
but soon lost sight of the wolf and his prey.
About six years afterward, as two sipahees were watching for hogs on the
border of the jungle, they saw three wolf cubs and a boy come out from
the jungle and go down to the stream to drink; all four then ran to a
den in the ravine. The sipahees followed, but the cubs had already
entered, and the boy was half way in, when one of the men caught him by
the leg and drew him back. He was very savage, bit at the men, and
seizing the barrel of one of their guns in his teeth, shook it fiercely.
The sipahees, however, secured him, brought him home, and kept him for
twenty days, during which he would eat nothing but raw flesh, and was
fed accordingly on hares and birds. His captors soon found it difficult
to provide him with sufficient food, and took him to the bazar in the
village of Koeleepoor, to be supported by the charitable till he might
be recognized and claimed by his parents.
He is unable to speak or to articulate any sound with distinctness. In
drinking, he dips his face in the water, but does not lap like a wolf.
He still prefers raw flesh; and when a bullock dies, and the skin is
removed, he attacks and eats the body in company of the village dogs.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 37, July 13.]
THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
CHAPTER IV.
Commodore Preble sailed from the United States for the Mediterranean in
the frigate _Constitution_ late in the spring of 1803. The ships of the
squadron did not sail together. Bainbridge, with the frigate
_Philadelphia_, first entered the Strait of Gibraltar, and found a
Moorish corsair cruising for American prizes. He captured her and took
her to Gibraltar. When Preble arrived he proceeded to Tangiers with the
squadron, when the Emperor of Morocco declared that he had never
authorized any depredations on American commerce. The affair was
amicably settled. Soon afterward the _Philadelphia_ chased a corsair
into the harbor of Tripoli, and in so doing struck upon a sunken rock.
She was fast bound. The Tripolitans captured her, made Bainbridge and
his officers prisoners of war, and consigned the crew to slavery.
With Preble was Stephen Decatur, a gallant young Lieutenant, son of a
veteran naval commander. He was in charge of the brig _Enterprise_, with
which, late in December, he captured a Tripolitan ketch laden with girls
which the ruler of Tripoli was sending as a present to the Sultan. The
maidens were landed at Syracuse, and the ketch (which was renamed
_Intrepid_) was used by Decatur in an attempt to recapture or destroy
the _Philadelphia_. With seventy daring young men he sailed into the
harbor of Tripoli on a bright moon-lit night (February, 1804), the
_Intrepid_ assuming the character of a vessel in distress. Most of her
officers and men were concealed.
The _Intrepid_ went alongside the _Philadelphia_, when Decatur,
followed by his men, who sprang from their hiding-places, boarded the
frigate, slew many of her defenders and drove the rest into the sea, set
her on fire, and escaped with only four men wounded. This daring act
produced great commotion in the harbor. The _Philadelphia_ was soon in
flames; the great guns of the castle and of the corsairs lying near
thundered incessantly; and to this roar of artillery was added that of
the cannons of the frigate as the flames reached them. The heroes of
this exploit were received at Syracuse with demonstrations of great joy,
and Decatur was promoted to Captain. The ruler of Tripoli was abashed by
this display of American energy and valor.
[Illustration: DECATUR AND HIS MEN BOARDING THE GUN-BOAT.]
The harbor of Tripoli was guarded by batteries mounting more than a
hundred heavy guns, by numerous gun-boats and other vessels, by
twenty-five thousand soldiers, and a sheltering reef. Undismayed by
these, Preble entered the harbor in the summer of 1804, with the
_Constitution_ and several gun-boats, and opened fire on the formidable
defenses. In that engagement Decatur again displayed his valor. He
captured one gun-boat, and boarded another, on which he had a fierce
hand-to-hand fight with its powerful commander, but triumphed. The
Americans withdrew, but renewed the struggle a few days afterward, when
a hot shot exploded the magazine of one of the American gun-boats,
killing two officers and eight of the crew. When the smoke cleared away,
Midshipman Spence and eleven others were seen on the sinking vessel
working her great gun. Giving three cheers, and firing it at the enemy,
they were picked from the water a few minutes later, for the vessel had
gone to the bottom.
In a fourth attack on Tripoli by the gallant Preble a sad accident
occurred. It was determined to blow up the cruisers in the harbor by a
floating mine or huge torpedo. The _Intrepid_ was laden with a hundred
barrels of gunpowder, over which were laid shot, shell, and irregular
pieces of iron. In charge of Captain Somers, she was towed into the
harbor on a very dark night (September 4, 1804), when all eyes were
strained to observe the result. Suddenly a fierce and lurid light shot
up from the dark bosom of the waters, like a volcanic fire, and was
instantly followed by an explosion that shook earth and air for miles
around. Flaming fragments rose and fell, and then all was profound
darkness again. Somers and his companions were never heard of. They
probably perished by the premature explosion of the mine.
Soon after this, Preble, who had done excellent service in the
Mediterranean, was relieved by the arrival of Commodore Barron, prepared
to carry on the war with Tripoli vigorously, but it was ended by treaty
early the next year.
The ruler of Tunis was yet insolent, but the appearance of an American
squadron of thirteen vessels before his capital soon so humbled him that
he sued for peace and made a treaty. A small American naval force was
kept in the Mediterranean, and for several years the Barbary powers kept
their hands off American commerce.
At the close of the war of 1812-15, the Dey of Algiers, believing the
British navy had utterly destroyed that of the United States, sent out
his corsairs to depredate on our commerce. Determined not to pay tribute
or longer endure his insolence, the United States accepted the Dey's
challenge to war, and sent Commodore Decatur with a small squadron to
humble him. Decatur sailed in May, 1815, and as soon as he entered the
Mediterranean he found the Algerine pirate fleet cruising in search of
American vessels. In June he captured the flag-ship of the Algerine
Admiral and another corsair, with six hundred men. With these he entered
the harbor of Algiers, and demanded the instant surrender of all
American captives in the hands of the Dey, payment in full for all
American property destroyed by his forces, and the relinquishment of all
claims to tribute from the United States thereafter. The terrified ruler
hastened to comply. Obeying the summons of the Commodore, he appeared on
the deck of the _Guerriere_ (the flag-ship), with his civil officers and
the captives. Having complied with all demands, the Dey left the vessel
in deep humiliation.
Decatur now sailed for Tunis, and demanded and received of its
frightened ruler $46,000, in payment for American vessels which he had
allowed the British to capture in his harbor. Then the Commodore went to
Tripoli, and summoned the Bashaw, or Governor, before him. He demanded
$25,000 of him for similar injuries. The Tripolitan treasury was empty,
and Decatur accepted, in place of cash, eight Danish and two Neapolitan
captives held by the Bashaw.
This cruise of a little American squadron in the Mediterranean Sea in
the summer of 1815, and its results, gave full security to American
commerce in these waters, and greatly exalted the character of the
government of the United States in the opinion of European nations. A
portion of its navy had accomplished, in the way of humbling the rulers
of the Barbary States, and weakening their power for mischief, what the
combined governments of Europe had not dared to attempt. Decatur was the
most conspicuous hero in the war with the Barbary States.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
WHAT THE BUTTERFLY SAYS.
Through all the sunny summer days
I wander here and there,
And hardly ever stop to rest
A moment anywhere.
There are so many things to see,
And time is rather short with me.
I only have a month or two,
And time soon runs away
When one is seeing something new,
Or sporting every day.
And how the little people try
To catch me as I flutter by!
But I know what they want me for--
It's not to use me right;
It's not to give me sunny fields,
With daisies sprinkled white;
But just to pin me on the wall
To show their friends, and that is all.
THE SHIP OF THE DESERT.
BY A. E. T.
Unlike other ships, this one begins by being a very feeble and helpless
little craft indeed. For the first week after its launch on the great
sea of life it requires much careful watching on the part of the owners.
Strange as it may sound, in very truth a baby camel is every whit as
helpless as a human baby. It can not stand alone; without help it can
not so much as take its own food even; while its long neck is at first
so flexible and fragile, that unless some one were constantly at hand to
watch, the poor little creature would run every risk of dislocating it.
Those who have closely observed camel nature tell us it is never known
to play or frolic like lambs or colts, or like most young creatures of
the earth, in fact; but that in its babyhood it is as grave and
melancholy as in its old age, born apparently with a deep sense of its
own ugliness, and a mournful resignation to a long and joyless career.
When it has reached its third year the humpbacked animal is counted old
enough to begin its life of labor. The trainers then take it in hand.
They teach it to kneel and bear burdens, which gradually they make
heavier and heavier, until their charge is supposed to have come to the
full strength of camel maturity. This is not until it is about eight
years old.
If the camel can rise with the load on its back, this is proof positive
that he can carry it throughout the journey, although it sometimes
happens, if the journey be only a very short one, the patient beast is
loaded so heavily that it must be helped on to its feet by means of bars
and levers. In some places camels cry out against this excessive loading
in a most piteous and distressing manner--the cry resembling that of a
very young child in pain, and being a most dismal sound to hear; but in
other parts of the world they will bear their burden, however heavy,
without complaining.
[Illustration: THE CAMEL AND HIS RIDER.]
An ordinary camel's load is from seven to eight hundred pounds. With
this weight on their backs, a train of camels will cross thirty miles of
desert during a day. Those used to carry dispatches, having only the
light weight of the dispatch-bearer, of course are expected to travel
much faster, however, and will easily accomplish two hundred and forty
miles in the same length of time.
Ungainly, awkward, repulsive-looking as these creatures are, with their
great projecting harelips and their hairy humps, they have the
compensation of being most priceless treasures to all those who "dwell
in tents" in the vast sandy plains of Egypt, Arabia, and Tartary.
Their stomachs are so formed by nature that they are capable of being
converted into a set of water tanks, a number of small cells filled with
the purest water being fastened to the sides of each, and when all food
fails, it makes little difference to a camel or dromedary--at least for
a time.
Their humps are composed of a fatty substance. Day by day the hump
diminishes, and the fat is absorbed into the animal's system, furnishing
nourishment until food is forth-coming.
Thus, with these stores of water and fuel on board, the "ship" can go on
for a fortnight, or even a month, absolutely without eating or drinking,
while things that other creatures--unless, perhaps, it be some bird of
the ostrich tribe--would never dream of touching, will furnish forth a
sumptuous meal for a camel. Off a handful of thorns and briers he can
make an excellent breakfast, and I believe he will not disdain anything
apparently so untempting as a bit of dry wood.
Provided that at certain periods of the year a short holiday is allowed
the camel for pasturing, quite at its leisure, to recruit its strength
and fill that store-house on its back with fuel, it will serve its
master, on such meagre fare as I have mentioned, for full fifty years.
Still, all work and no play is as bad for camels as it is for boys.
Even with plenty of fuel on board, the desert-ship owners are wise
enough not to impose too long journeys upon their heavily laden fleets.
A camel's foot is of a peculiar formation. It is wide-spreading, and is
provided with fleshy pads or cushions; and if after a certain march rest
were not given, the skin would wear off these pads, the flesh become
bare, bringing consequences direful indeed. Probably the suffering
creature would kneel down, fold its long legs under its body, and
stretching out its long neck on the ground, calmly announce in camel
language that it would go no further. It is no use whatever to try to
make a camel go against his will.
If it once refuses, you have but two ways open to you: you may quietly
lie down beside it until it is ready to move, or you may abandon it
forever. Other course there is none.