Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 14, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 872. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.[1]
[1] Pronounced Hwar-car-hál-yar. This story is a sequel to "Captured by
the Navajos," contained in the Christmas Extra of Vol. XV. Frank and
Henry Burton were the sons of a Colonel in the army, and had been
appointed honorary corporals in Santa Fe, and attached to headquarters.
On the march to Arizona they distinguished themselves by gallant
conduct, and were promoted to the rank of sergeants.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U. S. A.
I.
"Here, Frank, come and help push this gate. I can't start it alone."
"Wait a moment, Henry. Don't be in such a rush. I think I hear a horse
coming down the Prescott road. I want to see if it's the express from La
Paz."
The younger boy ceased his efforts to close the gates, and advancing a
few steps before the entrance of the fort, looked up the valley to where
the road from Prescott appeared from behind a spur of the foot-hills.
The two boys, aged respectively fourteen and sixteen, were dressed in
the army uniform, and wore gold-lace sergeant's chevrons upon their
sleeves. Their white stripes were piped with red, and their cap cords
and regimental badges were of the officers' pattern and quality.
A beautiful white setter, with liver-colored spots and ears, and mottled
nose and paws, followed the boys and stood between them, nestling her
delicate muzzle against the younger boy's hip, and responding to his
caresses with waves of a plumy tail.
"Do you think we shall hear from father, Frank?"
"We ought to. He said, in his last letter, he was getting settled at the
Presidio, and would soon send for us."
"Takes twelve days to bring a letter from San Francisco. I suppose it
would take us longer to go there. Seems to me he might get ready for us
while we are on the road," said Henry, lugubriously. "I'm getting mighty
tired of opening and shutting these gates."
"You forget father has to visit all the posts where companies of his
regiment are stationed. That will probably take him a month longer."
"And we must go on opening and closing gates and running errands in
Arizona. Santa Fe was a good place for boys. But this is the pokiest
place we've struck yet. But come; let's shut the gates, and watch for
the expressman afterwards. We haven't much time before retreat."
The gates closed a stockaded post near Prescott, Arizona. Pine logs ten
feet long had been set up vertically in the ground, two feet of them
below the surface and eight above, enclosing an area of a thousand
square feet, in which were store-rooms, offices, and quarters for two
companies of soldiers and their officers. At corners diagonally opposite
each other were two large block-house bastions commanding the flanks of
the fort. The logs of the walls were faced on two sides, set close
together, and were slotted every four feet for rifles. At one of the
bastionless corners were double gates, also made of logs, bound by cross
and diagonal bars, dove-tailed and pinned firmly to them. Each hung on
huge triple hinges of iron.
The two boys went back to the gates, and setting their backs against one
of them and digging their heels in the earth, swung it ponderously and
slowly until its outer edge caught on a shelving log set in the middle
of the entrance to support it and its fellow. Then, as the field music
began to play, and the men to assemble in line for retreat roll-call,
they swung the second gate in the same way, and braced the two with
heavy timbers.
As the companies broke ranks, the boys went to the fifth log on the left
of the gates and swung it back on its hinges. This was one of two secret
posterns. On the inside of the wall, when closed, its location was
easily noticeable on account of the hinges, latches, and braces; on the
outside it looked like any other log. It had been sawed off close to the
ground, and being over three feet in diameter, afforded a convenient
night entrance to the fort. Their work being completed, the boys went to
the Adjutant's office to report.
"Very well, sergeants," said the commanding officer; "no further duty
will be required of you to-day."
Frank and Henry ran through the postern, and arrived on the crest of the
bluff overlooking the Prescott road just as a horseman turned up the
height. The news that the La Paz courier had arrived spread quickly
through the quarters, and every man not on duty appeared outside the
walls.
Joining the boy sergeants, I said,
"Boys, if you want to drop the job of opening and closing the gates, it
can hereafter be done by the guard."
"Thank you, sir. We took the job, and we will stick to it," replied
Sergeant Frank.
"I wonder if Samson could pack those gates off as easily as he did the
gates of Gaza?" said Henry, seating himself on a log which had been
rejected in the building, and taking Vic's head in his hip and fondling
her silken ears.
"They are the heaviest gates I ever saw," said Frank.
"Then stop straining at them. Captain Bayard has several times suggested
that you be relieved of the duty."
"We have swung them since they were hung, and we want to do it until we
leave," continued Frank. "We can't remain here much longer. I think
this express will bring an order for us to go to San Francisco."
"Very likely. It will be an agreeable change for you. Life here is not
very enjoyable for boys."
"I should say not," said Henry. "At Santa Fe there was plenty of fun. Of
course we had to study there; but that made play all the more pleasant.
Then we could go hunting now and then, or gathering piñons; but here we
can't look outside of the fort unless a dozen soldiers are along, for
fear the Apaches will get us."
"But you can go to Prescott."
"Prescott!" in a tone of great contempt. "Twenty-one log cabins and
stores, and not a boy in the place--only a dozen Pike County, Missouri,
girls."
"And we can't go there with any comfort since Texas Dick and Jumping
Jack stole Sancho and Chiquita," added Frank.
Further conversation was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the
expressman. A roan bronco galloped up the slope bearing a youthful rider
wearing a light buckskin suit and a soft felt hat with a narrow brim. He
was armed with a breech-loading carbine and two revolvers, and carried,
attached to his saddle, a roll of blankets and a mail-pouch.
Dismounting, he detached the pouch, at the same time answering questions
and giving us items of news later than any contained in his despatches.
After handing his pouch to the quartermaster-sergeant, his eyes fell
upon the boy sergeants.
"I saw Texas Dick and Juan Brincos at Cisternas Negras," he said,
addressing them.
"My! Did you, Mr. Baldwin?" exclaimed Henry, springing to his feet and
approaching the courier. "Did they have our ponies?"
"You know I never saw your ponies; but Dick was mounted on a black, and
Juan on a cream-color."
"Sancho!" said Frank.
"Chiquita!" said Henry.
"Do you know where they were bound?" asked Captain Bayard.
"I did not speak to them, nor did they see me. I dared not hold
communication in a lonely place with such desperate characters. I
learned from a friend of theirs at Date Creek that they were going to
open a monte bank at La Paz."
"Then they are likely to stay there some time."
"Can't something be done, sir, to get the ponies back?" asked Frank.
"Perhaps so. I will consider the matter."
The mail was taken to the office of the Quartermaster, and soon
distributed through the command. Among my letters was one from Colonel
Burton, the father of the boy sergeants. He said he had expected to send
for his sons by this mail, but additional detached service had been
required of him which might delay their departure from Whipple for
another month, if not longer. He informed me that a detail which I had
received to duty as professor of military science and tactics in a boys'
military school had been withheld by the Department Commander until my
services could be spared at Fort Whipple, and that he thought the next
mail or the one following it would bring an order relieving me and
ordering me East. This would enable me to leave for the coast the first
week in November.
Frank and Henry occupied quarters with me. Seated before our open fire I
read their father's letter, and remarked that perhaps I should be able
to accompany them to San Francisco, and if the Colonel consented to
their request to go to the military school with me, we might take the
same steamer for Panama and New York.
"Oh, won't that be too fine for anything!" exclaimed Henry. "Then I'll
not have to leave Vicky here, after all."
Vic, upon hearing her name called, left her rug on the hearth and placed
her nose on Henry's knee, and the boy stroked and patted her in his
usual affectionate manner.
"Then you have been dreading to leave the doggie?" I asked.
"Yes; I dream all sorts of uncomfortable things about her. She is in
trouble or I am, and I cannot rescue her and she cannot help me. Usually
we are parting, and I see her far off, looking sadly back at me."
"Henry is not alone in dreading to part with Vic," said Frank. "We boys
can never forget the scenes at Laguna and the Rio Carizo. She assisted
in the recovery of Chiquita, and she helped rescue Manuel, Sapoya, and
Henry from the Navajos."
"Nice little doggie. Nice little Vicky. Are you really going to San
Francisco and the East with us!" said Henry, assuming at once that he
was to accompany me to the military school. "I believe if I only had
Chiquita back, and Frank had Sancho, I should be perfectly happy."
After a slight pause, during which the boy seemed to have relapsed into
his former depression, Henry asked,
"Do they have cavalry drill at the school you're going to?"
"Yes; the superintendent keeps twenty light horses, and allows some of
the cadets to keep animals. All are used in drill."
"And if we get our ponies back, I suppose we shall have to leave them
here. Do you think, sir, there is any chance of our seeing them again?"
asked Frank.
"Not unless some one can go to La Paz for them. Captain Bayard is going
to see me after supper about a plan of his."
"I wonder what officer he will send?"
"I think, because he spoke to me, I am likely to go."
"Father would never stand the expense of sending them to the States, I
suppose," said Henry, sadly.
"They could be got as far as the Missouri River without cost," I
observed.
"How, please?"
"There is a Quartermaster's train due here in a few weeks--one started
before the order transferring us to the Department of the Pacific was
issued. It would cost nothing to send the ponies by the wagon-master to
Fort Union, and there they could be transferred to another train to Fort
Leavenworth."
"Frank, I've a scheme!" exclaimed the younger boy.
"What is it?"
"If the Lieutenant finds the ponies, let's send them to Manuel Perea and
Sapoya on the Rio Grande. When they go to the military school they can
take our horses and theirs, and we'll join the cavalry."
"That's so," said Frank. "Manuel wrote that if he went to school he
should cross the plains with his uncle Miguel Otero, who is a freighter.
He could take the whole outfit East for nothing. 'Twouldn't cost much
from Kansas City to the school."
"But before you cook a hare you must catch him," said I.
"Yes, and I suppose there is small chance that we shall catch ours,"
said Frank, despondently.
The two boy sergeants had found life in Arizona scarcely monotonous, for
the hostile Apaches made it lively enough, compelling us to build a
defensible post, and look well to the protection of our stock. A few
years later a large force, occupying many posts, found it difficult to
maintain themselves against the Indians, so it cannot seem strange to
the reader that our little garrison of a hundred soldiers should find it
difficult to do much more than act on the defensive. Close confinement
to the reservation chafed the boys. They had been interested in the
building of the stockade, and had accompanied the parties engaged in
felling the trees in the woods, and watched all the details of
construction. When the great gates were hung they asked the privilege of
closing them the first night of our occupancy, and when certain duties
were assigned them in their capacity of sergeants, the opening and
closing of the gates had been placed among them.
A ride to Prescott, two miles distant, was the longest the boys had
taken unaccompanied by officers or soldiers. Two weeks before this story
opens they had been invited to dine with the Governor of the Territory
at the gubernatorial residence, except the Territorial Capitol the most
imposing of the log edifices in the town. Governor Goodwin had made
their call exceedingly pleasant, and they had remained his guests until
tattoo. When the boys took leave of their host and went to the stable
for their saddle-horses, they found them missing, with their saddles and
bridles.
Next day inquiries in town elicited the information that two notorious
scamps, Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, an American and Mexican, were
missing, and it was the opinion of civil and military authorities that
they had stolen the ponies. The boys took Vic to the Governor's, and
showing her the tracks of her equine friends, she followed them several
miles on the Skull Valley trail. It was plainly evident that the thieves
had gone towards the Rio Colorado.
After supper I accompanied the commanding officer to his quarters. He
told me that the express had brought him a communication from the
Department Commander stating that, since Arizona had been transferred to
the Department of the Pacific, our stores would be shipped from San
Francisco to the mouth of the Colorado and up that stream by the boats
of the Colorado Steam Navigation Company to La Paz. He said that he had
decided to send me to La Paz to make arrangements with a freighter for
the transportation of the supplies from the company's landing to Fort
Whipple.
"And while you are in La Paz," said the Captain, "look up those
horse-thieves, and turn them over to the civil authorities; but whether
you catch them or not, be sure to bring back the boys' ponies."
"What do you think about letting the boys go with me?"
"No doubt they would like it. Would it be safe?"
"There have been no Indians seen on the route lately."
"But it may be the 'calm before the storm.'"
"The mail-courier, Baldwin, has seen no signs of them."
"So he told me. The excursion would be a treat to the boys, and might
bring luck to your undertaking. I believe I will let them go with a
strong escort. Tell the Adjutant to detail a corporal and any ten men
you may select, and take an ambulance and driver."
"Shall I go by the Bill Williams Fork route or the one over the
Xuacaxélla Desert?"
"The desert route is much the nearer, and the courier says there is
water in the Hole-in-the-Plain. There was a rainfall there last week.
That will give you water at the end of each day's drive."
I returned to my rooms, and looked over an itinerary of the route, with
a schedule of distances and other information. After making myself
familiar with all its peculiarities, I told Frank and Henry that if they
desired to do so they might accompany me.
They were overjoyed at the prospect. Henry caught Vic by the fore-paws
and began a waltz about the room. Then, sitting down, he held her head
up between his palms and informed her that she was going to bring back
Sancho and Chiquita.
"I think we better not take her, Henry," I said.
"Not take Vic? Why not, sir?"
"The road is long--six days going and six days returning--over a rough
and dry region, and she will be in the way and a constant care to us."
"But perhaps we cannot find our horses without her. She will be sure to
help us in some way; she always does," said Henry, emphatically.
"She certainly will be of much use to us if we have to make a search,"
added Frank. "She need be no care to you; Henry and I will look after
her."
"I am sorry to disappoint you, boys, but I cannot take the dog. She will
be left with Captain Bayard."
This decision made the boys very miserable for some time. They lavished
more than their usual attentions and caresses upon Vic, seeming to look
upon her as a much abused dog, whose privileges and rights had been
tyrannically set aside without reason. They put her to bed in her box,
both patting her repeatedly and whispering their sympathies in her ears.
Then Frank asked,
"Have you ever been to La Paz?"
"I have never been beyond Date Creek in that direction," I replied.
"Is the Xuacaxélla really a desert?"
"Only in the absence of water. Grasses, cacti, and shrubbery not needing
much moisture grow there. One of the geological surveys calls it Cactus
Plain. It is one hundred miles long. There is water in a fissure of a
mountain spur on one side called Cisternas Negras, or Black Tanks; but
for the rest of the distance there was formerly no water except after a
great rainfall in the depressions, a supply that quickly evaporates
under a hot sun and in a dry atmosphere. A man named Tyson has lately
sunk two wells thirty miles this side of La Paz."
"It was at the Black Tanks the expressman saw Texas Dick and Juan
Brincos with our ponies," said Henry. "What a queer name that is--Juan
Brincos, John Jumper, or Jumping Jack, as nearly every one calls him."
"He is well named; he has been jumping government stock for some years."
"I thought Western people always hung horse-thieves."
"Not when they steal from the government. They are apt to look upon army
mules and horses as common property."
"Frank," said Henry, just before the boys fell asleep that night, "I
felt almost sure we should recapture the ponies when I thought Vic was
going; but now I'm afraid we never shall see them again."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: Queer Pets of Sailor Jack.]
BY LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER J. D. JERROLD KELLEY, U.S.N.
(_In Two Instalments._)
II.
A ship rat is not usually a cherished object of affection, but I knew of
one, and here is the outline of his story: Once, in the quarterly
overhauling of a frigate's main hold, a rat but a few days old was the
only inmate found of a predatory colony which had scurried, been
captured, or been carried away when the invaders entered. The ship's
doctor, a tender soul, took nest and all to his room, rigged a crude but
adequate feeding arrangement, and nursed and strengthened the baby rat
into a healthy childhood. Nothing could have been tamer than the little
gray creature, and it thrived lustily. It slept in the doctor's room,
but made rambling adventures through the civilized plains of the ship,
fearsomely avoiding the wilderness and deserts closed to man in the
frames and timbers of her hull. At night it always awoke when the doctor
came on shipboard, waited for a little food and fondling, and then slept
peacefully until reveille sent it scampering to the steward for its
breakfast. It kept the doctor's quarters clear of all winged insects,
and made such a riot among the ants and roaches of the ward-room that
the executive officer and mess caterer numbered it among their most
efficient aids. It is unnecessary to say that no cats were allowed aft,
and that the license and liberties of the officers' quarters were the
cherished pleasure and hunting preserves of the rodent. Its affection
for the doctor was unbounded, and it shared a particular fondness for
the photographs of his children, peering through the glass at their
innocent faces, and making a vantage-ground for its mid-day naps upon
one of the largest of the frames which hung against the after-bulkhead
of the officer's bunk.
One night, after a shore-going in a tropical port, the doctor lighted
his candle at the ward-room lantern, and entering his room, heard a
whirring note of anger over his bed. Looking up, he saw the little rat
in a strange state of fury, its eyes burning like points of fire, its
hair ruffled, and its legs gathered for a jump. Wondering at this
unwonted excitement, the doctor called and whistled to it, and then
turned to his bunk to throw back the bedclothes.
Just as his hand reached the upper covering he caught a strident shriek
of anger and the whir of a flying body, and saw just beneath his
uplifted hand the rat struggling in the bed with an animated ball of
fuzzy black, bristling with clawlike tentacles that writhed
convulsively. The struggle was sudden, sharp, short, and when it was
over, the doctor saw, lying dead on his bed, one of the most savage and
venomous scorpions of that region.
It had come on board probably in the unbarked fire-wood, and it worked
its way aft through the hidden recesses of the timbers to the doctor's
room. Had his hand ever touched the sheet where the scorpion lay hidden
from him in the half-light, but visible to the rat, no power could have
saved him from the poison of the sting which would have followed.
Of course his ratship was the hero of that day and of many days, and I
should like to add that it went on in the pleasant lines of its youth,
adding to its virtues hourly. But one night, when it had become big and
strong, it strayed into the evil company of other rats, and went with
them upon strange and perilous adventures. Gradually it forsook its
civilization and life of simple honesty, and one mid-watch, close after
four bells, it was found dead--a prey to a jealous ship cat, who caught
it stealing warily towards a mess cheese forward.
Next in importance, but not chronologically, was a wonderful pig--not a
euchre-playing, time-telling, disreputable suckling, but as plucky a
four-legged shoat as ever thirsted for a miry spot or ran in windy
weather with a straw in his mouth. What memories cluster around that
intelligent suckling! What regrets filled our souls in after-days for
his early flight!
By some lost correlation of ideas, pigs who go down to the sea are
always dubbed "Dennis," and it is only a little less than mutiny to name
them otherwise.
This Dennis, I regret to say, was smuggled aboard secretly just as we
were leaving Talcahuana, in southern Chile--was stolen from the bosom of
a most interesting family of brothers and sisters by a rogue of a
steward, who afterward repeated the act on shipboard with distinguished
results, except in this case our money, and not the pig, dramatically
disappeared.
Dennis was discovered by his grunted protests against confinement
shortly after we were under way--probably off Quiriquina Island, and too
late to make restitution--and his beauty and developing intelligence so
appealed to us that he was saved from a growling butcher to become an
important member of our ship family. He was entered upon the cook's
roster as Dennis O'Quiriquina, which was softened to O'Quiri, and then,
in compliment to the land where his race is most prized, into Dennis
O'Kerry--as Milesian a title as Brian Boru, of Clontarf, and all the
sons of Heremon could have desired.
It must have been some time in March that he joined us, for I remember
on St. Patrick's day, when the hills back of Valparaiso were echoing
with the strains of "Garry-owen" and "The Connaughtman's Rambles,"
played by the flag-ship band, Dennis trotted aft at full speed, decked
with green ribbons, and carrying a small clay pipe around his neck and
the mealiest potato in the locker slung to his corkscrew of a tail. He
appreciated the dignity of the time and place, for when we went to
quarters he made a polite bow to the Captain, and for the first time in
his life asserted and secured his rights as a quarter-deck. On occasions
of special ceremony he had to be driven from the quarter-deck with
contumely, but he never could be rooted from the spot, for regularly
when the drum beat to quarters he came aft on a run to his station, blow
high or blow low, fair weather or foul, and assumed to a mathematical
nicety the spot selected on the saint's day.
He had his bath at daylight, and was washed and brushed and combed into
a state of snowy whiteness which proclaimed the possibilities of piggy
cleanliness, and then he feasted in dignified ease within the honored
and exclusive precincts of the galley. During the day he lolled about
the decks, generally in the wake of the spare spars, filled with the
pride of placeship, and never awed from the career of his humor. He
attended drills with praiseworthy punctuality, and was in nobody's watch
and everybody's mess, which is the perfect flower of sea luxury. When
night came, in his early days of leanness, he sought his hammock, and,
later, his carefully prepared division tub; but after a time, when
fatness clung to his bones, and no sailor's bed devices would hold him,
he would airily promenade the deck, waking up a sailor here and there,
until he found a shipmate fitted for his high nobility. I have
frequently seen a man awake in the middle of the night, and, calling
Dennis, give him half his blanket or pea-jacket, and then, with a
contented grunt, Dennis would nestle snugly in his new bed, and sailor
and pig sleep the sleep of the just, their mingled snores filling the
still hours of the middle watch with a touching tale of boon
companionship.
But an end came to all this happy time, for Dennis acquired undue fat
and fell into moralizing, sedate, and dignified ways; then he lost his
sense of humor, his fondness for fun, and at last he forgot the
laboriously taught proprieties of ship etiquette and sea life. Could he
have been dreaming of the lost wallowings of his race, the prizes of
unalloyed wealth that lay in sun-bathed mires? The truth is, Dennis
degenerated with his prosperity, and became touchy and captious. We
would have borne with his ailments, for he had sailed thousands of miles
with us, and had such a way of cocking his weather eye knowingly to
wind'ard, such a rolling gait, and such a heroic fondness for 'baccy and
lobscouse, that we would have cherished him to the end.
It was somewhere about the last of June, and we were at anchor off
Papaete, in Tahiti, when the Captain said to me, in his quiet way, "You
will have to send the pig ashore; the executive officer reports him
unfit for duty."
Of course this sealed the fate of Dennis. So I sent for the man who
looked out for him, and said: "Barbe, my lad, it will be the Fourth of
July next week, and Dennis has to be turned ashore or eaten. If you
wish, your mess may have him for dinner on that holiday."
Barbe glared at me in astonishment, almost in horror, as if I had
suggested he was a steamboat sailor, and not a man-of-war's man born and
bred, and then said, mournfully:
[Illustration: "WHY, SIR, I'D AS SOON EAT MY BROTHER AS THAT PIG."]
"Why, sir, I'd as soon eat my brother as that pig--as that Dennis, sir.
He's weathered o' all we have, and I'd as leave stick my knife into a
babby as into that animal. Of course, sir, if it's go ashore, go it is,
sir. But I'd like to make terms with the man that's to have him, so
Dennis will get the treatment and the kindness he larned with us, sir."
It was as I had expected, and so the arrangements for his new home
ashore were made.
_Eheu, fugaces!_ Dennis went ashore the next day in the dingy--bag and
hammock, ribbons, dhudeen, and potato--all the men clustering in the
bridleports and gangways to see him off, and the officers waving a
farewell from aft. As his pigship pulled under the bows I heard from
forward a rousing cheer, which was the last ship greeting he was ever to
know.
A countryman of ours had drifted into that land, and Dennis had been
consigned to his care under a guarantee that his later days would be
spent on a plantation inland and never killed.
[Illustration: DENNIS O'KERRY.]
I drifted ashore next day, and there, lying in the shadow of a
pandanus-tree on the shore line, his nose buried in his fore-trotters,
and his eyes closed in weary waiting and sorrow, was Dennis. He looked
up mournfully as I entered the ship-chandlers, and gave me a grunt of
sullen recognition, as if he felt I were the author of his misery, or at
least an aider and abettor of those who had sent him into exile. His new
owner said he had moped from the beginning, at first wistfully roaming
about, and at last settling into the morbidly melancholy condition in
which I found him.
It happened, fortunately, to be liberty week for the men, and whilst we
were discussing his woes the voices of some of our crew came from the
landing. The transition was marvellous. Dennis sprang to his feet, gazed
inquiringly seaward for a moment, and then as the men's voices grew
nearer and louder, he twisted his tail into the rigidity of a corkscrew
and bounded beachward, where the liberty party was skylarking by the
jetty under the palm-trees.
No need to describe the meeting or the subsequent festivities. Dennis
followed each party that came ashore, trotting after them into the back
country, sleeping in the bush, and I believe enjoying the holiday more
than they did. He was the first to welcome the coming party, the last to
speed the going, filling his part of host with a grace and dignity in
town, and an abandon and a freedom in the country, that awoke in
after-days the tender regrets of his companions.
The frolic of Dennis and his friends lasted a scant week, and when the
last boat-load left the beach he turned mournfully shoreward, unheeding
the re-echoing cheers they gave him, and crawled, swaying port and
starboard in his grief, slowly towards the loneliness of his new home.
He fell into gloomy ways; he lost his fat and dignity; he seemed on the
verge of a decline; he took himself seriously as a persecuted exile in a
far land. Finally it was thought best to send him afield to his new
labors, and his master tried to woo him countryward, but in vain. He had
won his way into this American's heart, for when force was suggested he
declined to tie the pig's legs together, and throw him into a cart as he
would have done with a pig of less degree. He declared that Dennis was a
gentleman by instinct, a little low in his mind, but still a gentleman,
and that he could wait until Dennis might, as if in the gayety of a
holiday, idly stray with him on some early morning to the plantation
inland. But Dennis was obdurate and unhappy; and so the day before the
ship sailed for Apia his old master, the ship's cook, and the
boatswain's mate were sent to him, for it was known he would follow the
trill of the bosun's call. When he heard the familiar voices and saw the
blue shirts of his shipmates, and caught the bird-like whistle of the
mate, he jumped to his feet, gave an ecstatic grunt, and ran among the
trees wildly, with the fire of youth rioting in his trotters.
A two-wheeled cart was brought to the door, the driver took the reins,
the bluejackets seated themselves in the stern-sheets, and with Dennis
trotting gayly at the tail-board, the merry company waved a farewell to
me as they went slowly down the Purumu Road into the heart of the land.
Just beyond the last police station of the town two roads join, one
curving shoreward and the other winding through a wilderness of cocoanut
groves up the gentle inclines of the island. Here the cart stopped for a
moment, while the men, trilling a bright ballad of the sea, dismounted
to weave a chaplet of hibiscus for the decoration of the jocund pig.
Then remounting, the cart pushed forward merrily, rounded the bend where
the shrubbery met the archway of the trees, and Dennis passed hillward
out of my life forever.
ROSE PETALS.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
To save your rose petals and make a rose-bag for your room would be
delightful.
While the rose is still fresh tear off its petals and scatter them
thinly on a large platter. In this way expose them to the light. Every
few hours pick up a handful and let them shower down, so as to expose
both sides of the petals. The next day put them on a different platter,
or you may use the same one provided you are careful to thoroughly dry
it, for the plate will be very moist. The second day sprinkle a little
salt over the petals, as this helps to purify them. Keep this treatment
up until they are all dry, then put them in a thin muslin bag.
Cover the bag with violet, yellow, or pink china silk as best suits the
color of your room. Tie it close at the top, as you would tie any other
bag, and suspend it on a rocking-chair back, gas-fixture, or any
convenient place. It will prove an attractive ornament as well as convey
delicious odor. Use inch-wide satin ribbon the same color as the silk to
tie the bag. Make a generous bow, with ends of irregular length. Cut the
ends pointed or slanting, and this prevents the ribbon fraying.
Another way to use petals after they are dried would be to lay them
between two pieces of pink cheese-cloth, cut the exact size of your
bureau drawer. After the petals are in place knot the cheese-cloth,
about two inches apart, all the way down and across with tiny bows of
baby-width pink ribbon. This will help to keep the petals even;
otherwise they would lay in a heap at one end. Put such a piece under
your linen, and have it perfumed with roses.
It will take a great many roses to make either a fair-sized bag or
drawer pad, but the dried petals may be saved and added to until you
have enough. Keep them in a tightly covered china or glass receptacle.
Never dry the petals on brass or other metals; dry them on marble,
china, or glassware.
In the same way that rose petals are used try sweet-marjoram, lavender,
or other pleasantly scented herbs or grasses. Besides being a delight to
the eye and conveying delicate perfume, they may also serve as a
reminder of a pleasant gift or enjoyable entertainment.
Try also balsam, pine, and hop bags. Make small ones not over ten inches
long; cover with pretty silk, knot on narrow ribbon of a shade either
complementary or to match, and suspend such from a chair back,
door-knob, or curtain fixture.
A delicious bag would be made of pea-green silk or the green of the pine
itself, and enlivened by a net-work of gold silk, the strings for which
should be gold-colored satin or bullion thread.
NURSERY BALLADS.
A PERILOUS SPOT.
It's a dangerous place sometimes for those who don't know my nursery
floor,
And I'd advise those who are timid at all to keep well outside the door;
There are lions at large, and bears and cows, and animals wild like that
Parading around most all the time, and a great big plooshy cat.
My Pa came into that room one day to see who was blowing the horn,
And before he looked where he walked he stepped on top of a unicorn;
And the fast express from old Bureauville--as fast as the wind it goes--
Came whistling over the carpet track, and ran right over his toes.
And when he jumped back to get out of the way a big man-of-war sailed
by,
And clipped the end of his heel, it did, and a cannon-ball hit his eye,
A cannon-ball shot by General Zinc bombarding a Brownie band,
That peeped from the edge of the old soap-dish we keep on the oak
wash-stand.
And once in the dark he tripped on the ark, and fell on the Ferris
wheel,
And bumped his head on a wagon red, and broke off my steam-launch keel;
And when he got up to leave the room, the very first thing he knew
He got in the midst of some lead Arabs, and made a great hullaballoo.
And that's why I say it's a dangerous place for those who've not been
there before,
With lions and boats and bears and carts strewn everywhere over the
floor,
And unless I'm home when you visit me, there isn't a bit of a doubt,
Instead of a-venturing in there alone, you'd better by far keep out.
CARLYLE SMITH.
TWO AGAINST A FLEET.
Early in September, 1814, a British fleet sailed up the Penobscot River
from Belfast to Bangor, robbing and destroying the farms and villages as
they went along, and after they had caused great damage in Bangor, they
turned about and sailed back again to the sea. Only once in this long
and, from a British point of view, successful raid, did the Yankees get
the better of their enemies, and this single instance was due to the
bravery of one old man and his courageous wife.
The fleet was guided up the stream by a Tory pilot, and encountered no
resistance until it reached the highlands of Cape Jellison, when a
volley of musketry was discharged by a little band of Maine patriots,
killing a number of sailors and soldiers who had been occupying
conspicuous positions on the decks. The British replied with broadsides
of grape-shot, riddling every house within striking distance, and
silencing the flint-locks. But the incident had maddened the commander
of the English squadron, and he gave orders to his gunners to take a
shot at everything on shore as they proceeded. As a result many houses
were struck and one cow was killed; the inhabitants, warned of the
approaching fleet, having retired inland out of range.
Thus the Britishers had it all their own way until they came to a point
called the Narrows, about a mile below Bucksport. Tall bluffs rise on
both sides of the river here, and on the crest of one old David Grant
lived in his little house with his wife. Grant was too old to go to the
war, but he was not too old to resist the invaders. As soon as he saw
the masts of the hostile ships coming around the bend, he got out his
muskets and took up a good position in front of his house with a firm
rest to aim on. From his point of vantage he could command the decks of
the ships as they passed, and as soon as they came within gunshot he
began to blaze away with his old shooting-irons, aiming at the officers
who were gathered on the sterns of their vessels.
His wife stood by his side and loaded the guns as fast as she could. At
the third shot fired by the old man, the defenders of the hill-top saw
the man at the wheel of the foremost vessel throw up his hands and fall
backward. Immediately the war-ship swung its nose around to the tide,
and would have run ashore if the order had not been given to drop
anchor. Grant had badly wounded the Tory, and the second vessel in the
line had to take the lead of the fleet with a resident of the locality
who sympathized with the British for pilot. During all this
manoeuvring, old David Grant was pouring buck-shot and bullets upon
the ships, and both he and his wife shook their fists in defiance at the
surprised Englishmen.
Presently a gun loaded with grape was run out on the deck of the
flag-ship and fired at the house on the bluff, but the angle was too
steep, and the charge lodged in the bank below. The British then began
to clear away a boat, and a squad of marines gathered at the gangway to
embark. Something went wrong with the davits, however, for the tackles
did not seem to work easily, and Grant and his wife could see the
officers storming about the deck, while the boat hung several feet above
the river. When the old couple saw that they were about to be attacked
in earnest they withdrew into their little house and closed the door.
The house was built on the further side of a little field that sloped
down to the edge of the bluff, and at the rear of the building and on
both sides were thick clumps of trees. Shortly after Grant and his wife
had retired from view, the British saw a man carrying a gun over his
shoulder step out of the thicket on the north side and walk into the
house through the front door. He had hardly gotten in when two more men
fully armed stepped out of the trees from the other side and went into
the house. After this, at intervals of a minute or less, one or two men
came from the trees and went to Grant's assistance. All carried guns
over their shoulders. The British officers from the ship watched the men
as they came, and had counted fully fifty by the time the boat was ready
to clear away. This caused them to hesitate about making an attack, for
they realized that from the strong position on the bluff fifty armed
patriots could hold a whole ship's crew at bay, and kill them off one by
one as they struggled up the hill. The Commander, therefore, thought
better of this plan, and ordered the marines aboard again, and, hoisting
anchor, sailed off after the rest of the fleet up the river toward
Bangor.
As the ship passed through the Narrows old David Grant and his brave
wife ran along the bluff for almost a mile, shooting as fast as they
could, and when they had no more gunpowder left, they shook their fists
again at the invaders, and turned back toward their little home.
When the farmers gathered from all around to hear about the old couple's
battle with the British, Grant told them how he went out of the house by
the back door and skirted the clump of trees, and came out in front in
sight of the enemy, and walked in at the front door. His wife dressed
herself in some of her husband's clothes, and, taking a gun, performed
the same trick, and sometimes they came separately, and sometimes they
walked together; and sometimes they came from the north side, and
sometimes they walked out from the trees on the south. It was this
simple bit of strategy that saved the old couple and their home from the
destructive attack of the British.
THE TROLLEY SWIMMING TEACHER.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
Swimming on a trolley-line sounds like an impossibility. It is a very
real practical feat, nevertheless, and hundreds of New-Yorkers can tell
you all about it from their own experience. No other way of learning how
to swim is half so pleasant as the trolley-line plan. There is no fear
of bobbing under and losing your breath and swallowing a quart of water.
Once you buckle on your trolley belt, there you are, and there you stay,
right on the surface of the water. It is as safe as sitting in a
rocking-chair, and a thousand times more fun.
Fred L. Balmes, a young swimming-teacher, invented the trolley plan. He
found that the usual scheme of putting a belt around the pupil's chest,
running a line from the back of it to the end of a long pole, and then
towing the pupil along like landing a big fish, was not apt to encourage
learners. They always feared that the teacher would stub his toe, or
look around suddenly, or in some other way forget to hold up the end of
the pole. That, of course, meant a ducking; and a beginner in the gentle
art of swimming would rather suffer ten beatings than one ducking.
Nobody ever learned well by wearing an inflated rubber life-belt. The
belt has too much floating power, and boys who wear one when beginning
always kick too high thereafter, and send their feet splashing above the
surface, which is very bad form. When I was a boy we used to go down to
the Sandy Flats, where there was a long stretch of river only three feet
deep. An expert (a boy who could swim about ten yards) upheld the
pupil's chin on the palm of his hand, and yelled, "Now kick like a
bull-frog!" If the pupil was too embarrassed to do this immediately and
successfully, the expert always popped him under, and when he came up
spluttering and shrieking, sent him down again for luck. The system was
perfect--all but the cruel ducking.
[Illustration: HE MIGHT LIE THERE ALL DAY WITHOUT WETTING HIS MOUTH.]
That sort of thing would not attract pupils to a swimming-school, so
Fred Balmes tried to find the best substitute for the hand of the
teacher under the chin of the taught. At last he hit upon the idea of
running a wire along the pool two or three feet above the surface. Now,
if there were only some way to hang the pupil to this wire so that he
could move forward and backward and never be allowed to sink! A trolley
was just the thing for that. Balmes bought a small metal wheel, with its
rim deeply curved inward, so that it would not jump off the wire and
become clogged. Hanging down from the axle of this wheel was a piece of
brass that ended in a swivel. Balmes already had a broad canvas belt,
with a ring at the upper part of it. He hooked the end of the swivel
into the ring on the belt, and threw himself into the water. The
trolley-line was a success. He splashed both hands and feet above the
surface of the pool, but still he floated like thistle-down. Backward
and forward he swam. The trolley rolled and creaked along the wire, and
always held him up in precisely the right position. He might lie there
all day if he chose without wetting his mouth. Not only can one learn to
swim quickly by the trolley plan, but it is a fine way to learn how to
float. Some of us are too thin ever to learn this branch of the art, but
if any one possesses latent floating power, he may be sure that the
trolley will develop it.
The inventor of this delightful way to learn swimming has not patented
his trolley plan, so any one may use it. The wire can be rigged from
side to side of any swimming-bath. It is best not to have the line more
than fifty feet long, for a greater length than that will cause the wire
to sag at the middle and let the pupil sink. In rigging the wire only
one end should be wrapped fast around a post. The other end should be
hitched to a stout rope and pulley-block. Before using the trolley the
rope should be hauled as taut as possible and made fast securely. Then
there will be a straight tight wire and no sagging.
If enough care is used, there is no reason why a trolley swimming line
cannot be set up along a river-bank or the edge of a swimming-pond. In
doing this, however, boys should not depend upon their own judgment. It
is best by far to engage a competent man to set the posts and rig the
wires. No matter how clever boys may be, they are not cautious enough to
arrange against all the possibilities of danger. And it is necessary
always to remember that in water is the most dangerous place to play.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]
[2] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER V.
"You are asking me more, sir," said Lance, with something like a grim
smile on his countenance, "than I could tell you in a month, or two
months. But I can tell you how the Duke of Marlborough looked in battle,
for I belonged to the foot-soldiers, and we were generally standing
still for a time, until the cavalry had showed us where we were wanted,
and we could see the generals riding over the field. The Duke, you must
know, sir, was not so very young when I served under him, but he was
still the handsomest man in the British army. They say, when he was a
lieutenant, that all the great ladies fell in love with him, and the one
he married, I have read in a book, he was much in love with, but a deal
more afraid of her than ever he was of the Grand Monarque and all his
armies. They say it was a joke in England that the great Duke obeyed his
Duchess and trembled at her word. But I dare say he is not the only man
who ever ruled men and then let his wife rule him. The Duke was a noble
sight at parade, with his splendid chestnut charger, his uniform of red
and gold, his chapeau with plumes, and his great periwig. But, to my
mind, he was a finer sight when the French artillery-men were ploughing
up the ground--the French are monstrous good gunners, Mr. Washington,
and hang on to their batteries like the devil--and the musketry
screaming around, and that old fox Marshal Villars was hammering us in a
dozen places at once. Then the Duke was as calm as a May morning, and
was full of jokes with his officers, and whistling to himself a queer
kind of a tune with no tune to it. But old Villars never caught him
napping, and was caught napping himself once. That was the time we took
Bouchain."
"Oh yes--about Bouchain."
"Well, sir, in the spring of 1711 the great Duke arrived in the Low
Countries, and glad enough were all to see him--for not only, we knew,
we could lick the French and Bavarians if we were under him, but the
army was always paid when the great Duke commanded, and fed and clothed
too. I remember, when he came back that time, he brought us forty
thousand woollen shirts. The kings and queens thought that we, the
common soldiers, did not know what was going on, but we knew the
stay-at-homes were trying to ruin the Duke at court, and that he had
hardly been treated civilly when he got to England, and that three
colonels--Meredith, Macartney, and Heywood--had been cashiered for
drinking 'confusion to the enemies of the Duke of Marlborough.' It was
while he was away that the allied army--as ours and our allies was
called--had got a handsome drubbing at Almanza, in Spain, and I can't
say that any of us cried over it; only we thought we might get drubbed
ourselves if the Duke didn't come back. So you may be sure, Mr.
Washington, that when the news came that the whole army was to
rendezvous at Orchies, and the Duke had landed in Holland on his way to
us, we felt better.