[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 70. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, March 1, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BOY TIMOTHY.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
TIMOTHY.
BY BISHOP T. U. DUDLEY.
In a little town called Lystra, in Asia Minor, a multitude is gathered
in the market-place. Two strangers are the attraction, who have strange
tidings to tell. Their story is of one Jesus, a King, who, they say, was
born in Judea some fifty years before. They tell of marvellous deeds of
mercy which He wrought, and of words as marvellous and as merciful that
He spake. They tell that He died on a cross, but that, King of Death, He
came back from the grave at His own appointed time. They declare that He
did visibly ascend into heaven, and now sitteth there to pardon and to
bless all who will believe on Him. And even while the crowd is listening
to the words of the chief speaker, whose name is Paul, he looks fixedly
upon a poor lame man, a cripple from his birth, who is among his
auditors, and cries with a loud voice, "Stand upright on thy feet."
Instantly the command is obeyed, and the life-time cripple leaps and
walks.
Respectful attention straightway became enthusiasm. The market-place
resounds with the shout, "The gods are come down to us in the likeness
of men," and the priest who serves in Jupiter's Temple hastens with oxen
and garlands to do sacrifice to the miracle-workers, despite their
earnest remonstrance that they are but sinful men, come to tell them of
the one living God.
But quickly there is interruption as effective as sudden from other
strangers of the same distant nation, whose words persuade the fickle
populace, and in a little while Paul is being dragged out of the city to
all appearance dead. They have stoned the man to whom just now they
would do sacrifice!
Among the listeners to the gospel Paul had preached, among the wondering
spectators of the lame man's healing, among the on-lookers at the deed
of violence, stands a boy, generous and warm-hearted, weeping manly
tears over that which is done. His name is Timothy, and of him, as he
sits there that day in his native town, his heart all aglow with the new
hopes whereof he has heard, and his spirit all aflame with admiration
for undaunted courage, and with pity for the innocent sufferer, our
artist has given us the portrait. The Sacred Scriptures, which he has
known from a child, have gained new meaning. He is reading the ancient
writings with the new light which Paul has thrown upon them--the light
from the open grave of Jesus.
He is the child from a mixed marriage, his mother a Jewess, but his
father a Greek, and therefore he is but ill esteemed by the Hebrews who
dwell in his town. The records of his life make no mention of his
father, and from this fact it has been inferred that he died while
Timothy was yet an infant. And we are plainly told that his education
was all given by his mother, Eunice, and his grandmother, Lois, and that
"from a child he knew the Holy Scriptures."
The face which the artist has drawn will represent to us what we should
expect to be the appearance of a boy thus brought up, and the character
which we judge him to have possessed, from the warnings and the advice
given to him by his master and teacher, Paul. His piety, while sincere
and intense, is yet of a feminine cast; his constitution is far from
robust; he shrinks from opposition and responsibility; his tears lie
close to their outlet, and are ready to flow and hide the suffering
object; he will subject his body to denial greater than its strength
will bear, and as the natural counterpart of these characteristics, he
is in danger of being carried away by "youthful lusts." Such is Timothy
when, after seven years have passed away, and the boy is grown to be a
man, Paul, returning to Lystra to confirm and comfort the Christians
there, will have him to be the companion of his journeyings and the
best-loved friend of his heart.
There is not space in this article to recite the events of the career
that followed. Let each of our boy readers search them out for himself,
and learn of what doughty deeds a gentle spirit in a feeble frame is
capable under the impulse of an earnest faith. Let us learn, moreover,
from a life of noble devotion to high purpose so to devote our life,
not, it may be of necessity, to proclaim a Gospel, as Timothy did, but
surely to labor, not alone for self, but for our race.
He died a confessor of that faith he learned from the preacher at Lystra
in his boyhood. "Out of weakness he was made strong." He, the timid,
girlish, tearful boy, waxed valiant in the great fight, and is known to
the Christian world as a saint of God and as the great Bishop of
Ephesus.
THE NEW DOLL.
BY GEORGE COOPER.
You're a beautiful, beautiful dolly,
And dressed like a sweet little queen;
Not to care for you, dear, may seem folly,
When I've but a rag-doll so mean.
I know that its arms are the queerest,
Its head very funny and flat;
Its eyes anything but the clearest;
Yet old friends are best, for all that.
Your hair falls in ringlets so flaxen,
Your eyes are delightfully blue;
Your cheeks they are rosy and waxen,
You're charming, I'll give you your due.
Yet shall I give up Betsy Baker,
Who hasn't a shoe nor a hat,
Because you've a splendid dressmaker?
No! old friends are best, for all that.
You came Christmas morn, in my stocking;
I ought to be proud, I suppose;
And not to be pleased would be shocking:
Do, Betsy dear, turn out your toes.
Oh, you are my every-day dolly!
And this one in silk dress and hat
I'll put on the shelf: call it folly,
Yet old friends are best, for all that.
THE SNOW BEN.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"We can beat that," said Joe Larkin, contemptuously, as he drew back and
began to blow through his red fists. "That isn't any kind of a snow
man."
"Like to know why," said Dan Madderley. "He's all right but his ears. We
can make them of the same size, easy."
"Yes, but he ain't right anyhow. Everything's just stuck on outside.
When I was in the city once, I saw a sculptor chiselling a man out of
marble. 'Twasn't much like this thing."
"Well, of course it wasn't. Stone's better'n snow. Everybody knows that,
I guess."
"No, it isn't. Not exactly. When you knock off a chunk of marble, you
can't stick it on again."
"You might glue it, but I guess it would show the crack."
"Tell you what, boys," exclaimed Joe, with a new idea shining all over
his face, "let's make a big snow marble down on the ice, and then let's
dig it out into a man, just as the sculptors do."
There was an instant hurrah all around, and not one opposing vote; the
half-finished snow man in Deacon Madderley's back yard was left to thaw
down all alone, and in ten minutes more the whole crowd of young
sculptors was down on the pond.
It was a warm day for winter, and the water was pouring over the dam in
a hurry, but the ice was pretty firm up where the boys were, and the
soft snow was in just the condition to pack nicely. At it they went, as
if they had a whole marble quarry to make, and were afraid some of their
marble might get away from them.
"I say, now, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, as the great white pile came
up to his shoulders, "who're we going to sculp out? Anybody in
partikler?"
"Julius Cæsar."
"No, we can't. You never saw him, nor we didn't either."
"Yes, I did. I saw a picture of him once, with a brass helmet on his
head, and a sword in his hand."
"That'd beat us, then," said Dan Madderley. "We'd better try George
Washington."
"He's on horseback," said Joe, "and so is Andrew Jackson. No use for us
to try a horse. Snow legs won't hold up. He'd come down all in a heap."
A dozen other great names followed, each bringing with it a chorus of
doubts as to how he looked, and whether anything like him could be found
in that heap of snow; but the shrill voice of little Billy McCoy settled
the matter. He had followed his big brothers down upon the ice, and now
he eagerly squeaked:
"Boys, why don't you scoop out Ben Franklin? Make him sitting down."
"Hurrah for you, Billy!" exclaimed Joe Larkin. "Guess we all know Ben.
He's just the man."
"Guess he is," chirped Billy. "He's fat, too. You can make him real
big."
On piled the snow, after that, until they had to reach up with their
shovels. When Joe Larkin began to play sculptor, he had to dig his toes
into the snow and climb.
"We'll make his head first," he sagely remarked; "and we'll cut out the
rest of him to fit that."
"Dig away, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, from the other side of the
quarry. "Let's see which of us'll get in first to where old Ben is."
"We'll set him up with his hands in his lap," said Joe; "and we'll part
his hair in the middle."
Pieces of shingle, whittled to a sharp edge, did very well for chisels,
and no mallets were called for. It was easy to work that kind of marble,
and it was just as Joe Larkin had said about mending it. He had to carve
Ben's nose for him over and over again, and the last time he shaved it
smooth with his jackknife.
"We'll make his hair long, Burr, and lots of it. That'll help hold his
head up stiff, and we won't have to cut out so much coat collar. I say,
you've made his arm on that side twice as big as this one."
"I can scrape it down. What'll we do for buttons?"
"Boys," said Joe, "pack a lot of round, hard snow-balls, and cut 'em in
two. They wore the biggest kind of buttons when Ben was alive; big as
dollars."
"How about his hat?"
"He'll look better bare-headed. You can't make a snow brim stay on--not
unless it's three or four inches thick, and that won't do."
Joe was giving special attention just then to the parting of Benjamin
Franklin's hair, but in a moment more he sang out, "Look here, boys, he
never was as fat as all that."
They had been digging away industriously at their part of the great
patriot, but they had carefully put on quite as much snow marble as they
had cut away. They had made Ben look more like Daniel Lambert than
anybody else; but Joe Larkin came down now, and he speedily effected a
wholesome change.
"Looks as if he could lift himself and get up now."
"Well, ye--es," said Burr, doubtfully; "but what about his legs? We
haven't left any room for 'em."
"Yes we have. But you see we began at the top."
"What's he a-sitting on, anyhow?"
"On the ice. Tell you what, boys, we'll have to make him cross-legged."
"He wasn't a tailor," squeaked Billy McCoy. "He was the lightning-rod
man."
Billy had watched all that work with his round mouth half open, and had
seemed to regard the job as in a manner under his supervision. But then
he had that way of looking at almost any work, no matter who might be
doing it, and he had never been known to make any charge for his advice.
It was too late now for any discussion of the matter, however, and all
the boys were proud of the way they crossed Benjamin Franklin's legs for
him.
"We'll hide one of his feet under him," said Burr. "Joe, can you cut out
the other one like a boot?"
"Of course I can."
He did, but if the hidden foot was as large as the one he fitted at the
end of Ben's right leg, he could not have needed a great deal more to
sit on.
Billy McCoy himself remarked of it, doubtfully, "It's just the biggest
foot I ever saw."
The pegs on the sole of that boot and the heel of it were the last
touches required, and the young sculptors stood back, and walked around
their great work, again and again, in almost silent admiration. Ben
fairly looked warm and comfortable in the flood of noon sunshine that
was pouring down upon him.
"He'll thaw out," grumbled Dan Madderley; and just then there came a
great shout from the shore.
The sun had been at work as well as the boys, and the thaw he was making
had had a day or two the start of them.
The shout came from Billy McCoy's biggest brother, Bob, and they saw him
dance up and down with excitement, while he swung his hat and repeated
it: "Boys! boys! come in! The ice is breaking away!"
So much trampling and running to and fro, and so much added weight of
boys and sculpture, had helped the sun above and the rising water below
the ice, and now they all had just about time to hurry ashore. Then the
great crack Bob McCoy had noticed grew rapidly wider, and they could
hear all the frozen surface of the pond crack and split in every
direction.
There was some fun in watching the ice break up, but there was sorrow
among the sculptors, for all that.
"It's an awful pity to lose such a snow man as that is."
"He didn't even have time to thaw out."
"We can make another."
"There never was just such a Ben Franklin as that."
Probably not, and now there he was floating out into the middle of the
pond on a wide cake of ice, and drifting down toward the dam. The water
was rising, for the snow was melting fast, and the cake of ice Ben was
on rocked now and then in a way which made him seem to bow to his
friends on shore.
"Isn't he polite, though!" said Billy McCoy. "Pity he can't swim."
"Swim!" exclaimed Joe Larkin; "I guess so. There he goes, boys. Just a
rod or two more."
Most of them gave vent to their feelings in a volley of snow-balls which
fell about half way short of their mark. Then they all stood still, for
the swift water seemed to seize Ben's cake of ice with a sudden jerk,
and swept it to the edge of the dam. For one short minute the brittle
raft stuck on the edge, and then it broke right in two. With a great
slushy splash the snow Ben went to pieces, and was carried over the
slippery "apron," down among the foaming eddies below.
Every boy that was looking on drew a long breath and held it for a
moment, and then there rose a chorus of shouts.
Joe Larkin led off with, "Good-by, Ben!"
And the rest followed with: "Hi! hi! hurrah! Good-by, Ben!"
Burr Whitcomb remarked, a little soberly, as he turned away: "Well, I
don't care; he was the best snow man I ever saw. He looked a good deal
like Ben Franklin."
ARCHIE KIRK'S LEAP FOR LIFE.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
"Alice, may I? Say I may. I can do it, dear sister"; and as he spoke,
Archie Kirk bent eagerly over his sister's chair.
Three weeks before, he and Alice had been rescued--the only
survivors--from a fine ship that had gone to pieces off the coast of the
island of St. Kilda, which is a little speck of land in the wide waters
of the Atlantic, forming a part of the Hebrides.
They had been tenderly cared for by the good islanders, and the request
which Archie had made of his sister, and which she was very reluctant to
grant, was, that he might go with Hakon Bork--the son of the good woman
who had given them food and shelter--in search of the eggs and down of
puffins, a species of sea-bird upon which these simple people depend
mainly for their subsistence.
[Illustration: THE PUFFIN-HUNTERS.]
"You are so young, and it is such a terrible way to earn your bread,"
replied Alice, who shudderingly remembered watching Hakon but the day
before fasten his rope to a stake, and then lower himself down the awful
precipice, with nothing but his firm grip to save him from falling into
the foaming, raging sea beneath. "You are too young, Archie."
"Why, Alice, I am ten years old, and boys much younger than I go down
all alone. These people are very good to us, but they are also very
poor. I feel mean to accept their charity, and do nothing in return,
when Hakon says I can help him if I will."
"It is so terrible, Archie, and if I should lose you too!" cried Alice,
whose heart was still full of sorrow for her lost parents.
"God is good, my sister," said Hakon, "and I will watch thy brother
carefully."
"You are right, Hakon; go, Archie, I will trust you to God's care."
So Archie bravely pulled his bonnet over his brows, and set out with
Hakon and another man. After climbing to the summit of the great rocks,
Hakon and Archie stepped fearlessly into the basket, and were slowly
lowered over the side of the precipice, on whose edge a piece of wood
was made fast to prevent the jagged rocks from cutting the rope. Down,
down they went, the boiling sea below, the frightful precipices above,
but in all the little shelves and fissures the puffins had made their
nests. By a separate line they indicated to the man above when they were
to be lowered or raised, and thus they labored away cheerily for hours,
collecting many eggs and much down.
Archie showed great skill and coolness, and won great praise from Hakon,
and after this he went with him on all such excursions, and as time went
on was readily trusted down in the basket alone.
So the months slipped away, and Archie had, with Hakon's help, made
himself a rope, such as is used for the perilous work of
puffin-catching. The mode of making these ropes is as follows: A hide of
a sheep and one of a cow are cut into slips, the latter being the
broader; each slip of sheep's hide is then plaited to one of cow's, and
two of these compound slips are then twisted together, so as to form a
rope of about three inches in circumference. The length of these ropes
varies from ninety to two hundred feet, and they are so valuable that a
single one forms a girl's marriage portion in St. Kilda. Archie prized
his very highly, not only because it was in a measure his own making,
but because all his friends had denied themselves in some way or other
to procure it for him.
Archie's life was very simple and very hard, but he enjoyed it, and for
many months he was very useful to Hakon. Then one day the neighbors
brought home a mangled body and laid it down on Dame Bork's
hearth-stone. No need to tell the wailing mother, or the sorrowful
Archie and Alice, poor Hakon's fate. The men went silently out, and the
neighbor women spoke such words of comfort as their own losses, or the
constant danger of their loved ones, prompted. Tenderly the dead was
buried, and then the little household awoke to the duties of the day.
When their humble breakfast was over, Archie took his bonnet and rope,
and said to the old dame, as he had said with Hakon many a morning,
"Give me your blessing, mother."
"Oh, Archie," said Alice, "must you go--all alone must you go?"
"I have a brave heart, Alice, which is good company." And then, glancing
at Hakon's old mother, he whispered: "For Hakon's sake, as well as for
her own kindness, we owe her every duty;" and then kissing Alice, he
went off to the rocks.
As Archie had not Hakon now to help him, he had to leave his basket at
home, and adopt the much less common but much more dangerous practice of
reaching the birds' nests by fastening a simple rope to a strong stake
securely driven into the earth a short distance from the edge of the
precipice, and then gradually lower himself to some projecting cliff
likely to contain the eggs and down of which he was in search.
So this morning, having reached the cloud-capped peaks, he secured his
rope carefully, and then cautiously lowered himself until he reached a
spot where the rocks overhung and sheltered a wide ledge.
He was sure that he would be likely to reap here an ample harvest, and
he dexterously swung himself forward and gained a resting-place. As he
expected, he found a great number of nests, and was soon eagerly filling
the large pockets which are used for this purpose with the eggs and
down, the patient birds scarcely disturbing him by a flutter.
But in his ardor he had forgotten to fasten the rope tightly around his
body; it slipped from his grasp, and after swinging backward and forward
for some time, but without coming within his reach, at length settled
many feet from the spot where he stood. For a moment he stood aghast.
The sudden blow almost deprived him of the power of thinking, but
gradually he recovered his senses, and began anxiously to look around
for some means of escape.
Fearful was the prospect. The rock for hundreds of feet above was smooth
as if chiselled by the mason's hand; many hundred feet below, the raging
waters burst with terrific noise upon the pointed crags, while the depth
to which he had descended, the solitude of the spot, and the roar of the
waves, precluded all possibility of making himself heard.
One desperate chance alone remained: _by a bold leap he might catch the
dangling rope_. It was an awful hazard, for if he failed, instant death
would be the result. Yet if he remained on the rock, death, though
slower, was no less sure. His resolution was taken. He lifted his eyes
to heaven with one short strong prayer for help, then like a winged
creature sprang forward, _and grasped the rope_.
Many a year passed before Archie Kirk told his sister and adopted mother
of his leap for life on that day, when he, a lad twelve years old, had
determined to fill the place of Hakon. He became the most expert
bird-catcher and climber in the Hebrides, but he never again forgot to
secure his rope. Nor in telling the story did he ever take any credit to
himself. "God is good," he used to add, reverently; "the rope was in His
hands, or I had not caught it."
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XII.
TOBY'S GREAT MISFORTUNE.
The town in which the circus remained over Sunday was a small one, and a
brisk walk of ten minutes sufficed to take Toby into a secluded portion
of a very thickly grown wood, where he could lie upon the mossy ground,
and fairly revel in freedom.
As he lay upon his back, his hands under his head, and his eyes directed
to the branches of the trees above, where the birds twittered and sang,
and the squirrels played in fearless sport, the monkey enjoyed himself,
in his way, by playing all the monkey antics he knew of. He scrambled
from tree to tree, swung himself from one branch to the other by the aid
of his tail, and amused both himself and his master, until, tired by his
exertions, he crept down by Toby's side, and lay there in quiet, restful
content.
One of Toby's reasons for wishing to be by himself that afternoon was
that he wanted to think over some plan of escape, for he believed that
he had nearly money enough to enable him to make a bold stroke for
freedom and Uncle Daniel's. Therefore, when the monkey nestled down by
his side, he was all ready to confide in him that which had been
occupying his busy little brain for the past three days.
"Mr. Stubbs," he said to the monkey, in a solemn tone, "we're goin' to
run away in a day or two."
Mr. Stubbs did not seem to be moved in the least at this very startling
piece of intelligence, but winked his bright eyes in unconcern, and
Toby, seeming to think that everything which he said had been understood
by the monkey, continued: "I've got a good deal of money now, an' I
guess there's enough for us to start out on. We'll get away some night,
an' stay in the woods till they get through hunting for us, an' then
we'll go back to Guilford, an' tell Uncle Dan'l if he'll only take us
back, we'll never go to sleep in meetin' any more, an' we'll be just as
good as we know how. Now let's see how much money we've got."
Toby drew from a pocket, which he had been to a great deal of trouble to
make in his shirt, a small bag of silver, and spread it upon the ground
where he could count it at his leisure.
The glittering coin instantly attracted the monkey's attention, and he
tried by every means to thrust his little black paw into the pile; but
Toby would allow nothing of that sort, and pushed him away quite
roughly. Then he grew excited, and danced and scolded around Toby's
treasure, until the boy had hard work to count it.
He did succeed, however, and as he carefully replaced it in the bag, he
said to the monkey: "There's seven dollars an' thirty cents in that bag,
an' every cent of it is mine. That ought to take care of us for a good
while, Mr. Stubbs, an' by the time we get home we shall be rich men."
The monkey showed his pleasure at this intelligence by putting his hand
inside Toby's clothes to find the bag of treasure that he had seen
secreted there, and two or three times, to the great delight of both
himself and the boy, he drew forth the bag, which was immediately taken
away from him.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen in the woods, and, heeding this
warning of the coming night, Toby took the monkey on his arm and started
for home, or for the tent, which was the only place he could call home.
As he walked along he tried to talk to his pet in a serious manner, but
the monkey, remembering where he had seen the bright coins secreted,
tried so hard to get at them, that finally Toby lost all patience, and
gave him quite a hard cuff on the ear, which had the effect of keeping
him quiet for a time.
That night Toby took supper with the skeleton and his wife, and he
enjoyed the meal, even though it was made from what had been left of the
turkey that served as the noonday feast, more than he did the state
dinner, where he was obliged to pay for what he ate by the torture of
making a speech.
There were no guests but Toby present, and Mr. and Mrs. Treat were not
only very kind, but so attentive that he was actually afraid he should
eat so much as to stand in need of some of the catnip tea which Mrs.
Treat had said she gave to her husband when he had been equally foolish.
The skeleton would pile his plate high with turkey bones from one side,
and the fat lady would heap it up, whenever she could find a chance,
with all sorts of food from the other, until Toby pushed back his chair,
his appetite completely satisfied if it never had been before.
Toby had discussed the temper of his employer with his host and hostess,
and, after some considerable conversation, had confided in them his
determination to run away.
"I'd hate awfully to have you go," said Mrs. Treat, reflectively; "but
it's a good deal better for you to get away from that Job Lord if you
can. It wouldn't do to let him know that you had any idea of goin', for
he'd watch you as a cat watches a mouse, an' never let you go so long as
he saw a chance to keep you. I heard him tellin' one of the drivers the
other day that you sold more goods than any other boy he ever had, an'
he was going to keep you with him all summer."
"Be careful in what you do, my boy," said the skeleton, sagely, as he
arranged a large cushion in an arm-chair, and proceeded to make ready
for his after-dinner nap; "be sure that you're all ready before you
start, an' when you do go, get a good ways ahead of him; for if he
should ever catch you, the trouncin' you'd get would be awful."
Toby assured his friends that he would use every endeavor to make his
escape successful when he did start, and Mrs. Treat, with an eye to the
boy's comfort, said, "Let me know the night you're goin', an' I'll fix
you up something to eat, so's you won't be hungry before you come to a
place where you can buy something."
As these kind-hearted people talked with him, and were ready thus to aid
him in every way that lay in their power, Toby thought that he had been
very fortunate in thus having made so many kind friends in a place where
he was having so much trouble.
It was not until he heard the sounds of preparation for departure that
he left the skeleton's tent, and then, with Mr. Stubbs clasped tightly
to his breast, he hurried over to the wagon where old Ben was nearly
ready to start.
"All right, Toby," said the old driver, as the boy came in sight; "I was
afraid you was going to keep me waitin' for the first time. Jump right
up on the box, for there hain't no time to lose, an' I guess you'll have
to carry the monkey in your arms, for I don't want to stop to open the
cage now."
"I'd just as soon carry him, an' a little rather," said Toby, as he
clambered up on the high seat, and arranged a comfortable place in his
lap for his pet to sit.
In another moment the heavy team had started, and nearly the entire
circus was on the move. "Now tell me what you've been doin' since I left
you," said old Ben, after they were well clear of the town, and he could
trust his horses to follow the team ahead. "I s'pose you've been to see
the skeleton an' his mountain of a wife?"
Toby gave a clear account of where he had been and what he had done, and
when he concluded, he told old Ben of his determination to run away, and
asked his advice on the matter.
"My advice," said Ben, after he had waited some time to give due weight
to his words, "is that you clear out from this show just as soon as you
can. This hain't no fit place for a boy of your age to be in, an' the
sooner you get back where you started from, an' get to school, the
better. But Job Lord will do all he can to keep you from goin' if he
thinks you have any idea of leavin' him."
Toby assured Ben, as he had assured the skeleton and his wife, that he
would be very careful in all he did, and lay his plans with the utmost
secrecy; and then he asked whether Ben thought the amount of money which
he had would be sufficient to carry him home.
"Wa'al, that depends," said the driver, slowly; "if you go to spreadin'
yourself all over creation, as boys are very apt to do, your money won't
go very far; but if you look at your money two or three times afore you
spend it, you ought to get back and have a dollar or two left."
The two talked, and old Ben offered advice, until Toby could hardly hold
his eyes open, and almost before the driver concluded his sage remarks,
the boy had stretched himself on the top of the wagon, where he had
learned to sleep without being shaken off, and was soon in dreamland.
The monkey, nestled down snug in Toby's bosom, did not appear to be as
sleepy as was his master, but popped his head in and out from under the
coat, as if watching whether the boy was asleep or not.
[Illustration: MR. STUBBS AND TOBY'S MONEY.]
Toby was awakened by a scratching on his face, as if the monkey was
dancing a hornpipe on that portion of his body, and by a shrill, quick
chattering, which caused him to assume an upright position instantly.
He was frightened, although he knew not at what, and looked around
quickly to discover the cause of the monkey's excitement.
Old Ben was asleep on his box, while the horses jogged along behind the
other teams, and Toby failed to see anything whatever which should have
caused his pet to become so excited.
"Lie down, an' behave yourself," said Toby, as sternly as possible, and
as he spoke he took his pet by the collar to oblige him to obey his
command.
The moment that he did this, he saw the monkey throw something out into
the road, and the next instant he also saw that he held something
tightly clutched in his other paw.
It required some little exertion and active movement on Toby's part to
enable him to get hold of that paw, in order to discover what it was
which Mr. Stubbs had captured; but the instant he did succeed, there
went up from his heart such a cry of sorrow as caused old Ben to start
up in alarm, and the monkey to cower and whimper like a whipped dog.
"What is it, Toby? What's the matter?" asked the old driver, as he
peered out into the darkness ahead, as if he feared some danger
threatened them from that quarter. "I don't see anything. What is it?"
"Mr. Stubbs has thrown all my money away," cried Toby, holding up the
almost empty bag, which a short time previous had been so well filled
with silver.
"Stubbs--thrown--the--money--away?" repeated Ben, with a pause between
each word, as if he could not understand that which he himself was
saying.
"Yes," sobbed Toby, as he shook out the remaining contents of the bag;
"there's only half a dollar, an' all the rest is gone."
"The rest gone?" again repeated Ben. "But how come the monkey to have
the money?"
"He tried to get at it out in the woods, an' I s'pose the moment I got
asleep he felt for it in my pockets. This is all there is left, an' he
threw away some just as I woke up."
Again Toby held the bag up where Ben could see it, and again his grief
broke out anew.
Ben could say nothing; he realized the whole situation: that the monkey
had got at the money bag while Toby was sleeping, that in his play he
had thrown it away piece by piece; and he knew that that small amount of
silver represented liberty in the boy's eyes. He felt that there was
nothing he could say which would assuage Toby's grief, and he remained
silent.
"Don't you s'pose we could go back an' get it?" asked the boy, after the
intensity of his grief had somewhat subsided.
"No, Toby, it's gone," replied Ben, sorrowfully. "You couldn't find it
if it was daylight, an' you don't stand a ghost of a chance now in the
dark. Don't take on so, my boy. I'll see if we can't make it up to you
in some way."
Toby gave no heed to this last remark of Ben's. He hugged the monkey
convulsively to his breast, as if he would seek consolation from the
very one who had wrought the ruin, and rocking himself to and fro, he
said, in a voice full of tears and sorrow:
"Oh, Mr. Stubbs, why did you do it?--why did you do it? That money would
have got us away from this hateful place, an' we'd gone back to Uncle
Dan'l's, where we'd have been so happy, you an' me. An' now it's all
gone--all gone. What made you, Mr. Stubbs, what made you do such a bad,
cruel thing? Oh, what made you?"
"Don't, Toby--don't take on so," said Ben, soothingly; "there wasn't so
very much money there, after all, an' you'll soon get as much more."
"But it won't be for a good while, an' we could have been in the good
old home long before I can get so much again."
"That's true, my boy; but you must kinder brace up, an' not give way so
about it. Perhaps I can fix it so the fellers will make it up to you.
Give Stubbs a good poundin', an perhaps that'll make you feel better."
"That won't bring back my money, an' I don't want to whip him," cried
Toby, hugging his pet the closer because of this suggestion. "I know
what it is to get a whippin', an' I wouldn't whip a dog, much less Mr.
Stubbs, who didn't know any better."
"Then you must try to take it like a man," said Ben, who could think of
no other plan by which the boy might soothe his feelings. "It hain't
half so bad as it might be, an' you must try to keep a stiff upper lip,
even if it does seem hard at first."
This keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of all the trouble he was
having was all very well to talk about, but Toby could not reduce it to
practice, or, at least, not so soon after he knew of his loss, and he
continued to rock the monkey back and forth, to whisper in his ear now
and then, and to cry as if his heart was breaking, for nearly an hour.
Ben tried, in his rough, honest way, to comfort him, but without
success, and it was not until the boy's grief had spent itself that he
would listen to any reasoning.
All this time the monkey had remained perfectly quiet, submitting to
Toby's squeezing without making any effort to get away, and behaving as
if he knew he had done wrong, and was trying to atone for it. He looked
up into the boy's face every now and then with such a penitent
expression, that Toby finally assured him of forgiveness, and begged him
not to feel so badly.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
NIAGARA FALLS IN WINTER.
In the whole world there is probably no more beautiful ice scenery than
that surrounding our own Falls of Niagara during a severe winter such as
the one just passed. A few weeks ago one of our artists visited Niagara
in order to make sketches that might convey to the readers of YOUNG
PEOPLE some idea of this wonderful scenery, and on the next page you may
see the result of his labor.
Many of you have been to Niagara in summer, and know what a mass of
boiling, seething foam the river is just below the Falls. Now it is all
quiet, covered many feet thick with great cakes of ice that have plunged
over the cataract, and become frozen into one vast solid mass which
forms the famous ice bridge of which so much is written. As these great
blocks of ice are of every conceivable shape, and are piled one on top
of another in every imaginable position, this ice bridge is by no means
an easy one to cross.
One of the most remarkable features of this Niagara winter scenery is
the great ice mountain that rises grand and white in front of each fall
for two-thirds of its height. These ice mountains are formed by the
spray from the Falls, which freezes the instant it touches a solid body;
and thus, as long as the cold weather lasts, the ice mountains are
constantly growing higher and thicker.
The boys living in the village of Niagara, or who visit the Falls in
winter, climb these ice mountains by means of foot-holes chopped in the
ice with hatchets, and upon reaching the top, sit down and slide to the
bottom.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
The spray of which the ice mountains is formed, and of which the air
near the Falls is filled, freezes so quickly whenever it touches
anything, that while our artist was making his sketches it covered his
pencil with a thick coating of ice until it looked like this (Fig. 1),
and after he had held his sketch-book closed in his hand for a minute,
it presented this appearance (Fig. 2).
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
He himself was so incased in white ice that he looked like a Santa
Claus. Icicles hung from his beard, his mustache, his eyelashes, and
from every point of his clothing, until he found he could only stand
within reach of the spray for a few minutes at a time, or he would be
weighed down and rooted to the spot by the rapidly accumulating ice.
The ice formed from the spray is not clear and glittering, but is of the
purest white, like the frosting on wedding cake, only much whiter, and
as it covers the branches and twigs of the trees in Prospect Park, and
on the islands near the Falls, the effect is wonderfully beautiful.
Glistening in the bright sunlight, these forests of ice are more like
beautiful dreams of fairy-land than anything ever seen; and under the
light of a full moon the scene is weird and ghostly, but beautiful
beyond description.
On Luna Island, which divides the American Fall, every stone, stump, and
bush has been covered with ice until it forms a grotesque figure in
white. Some of these figures our artist has transferred to his paper,
and named "Ice Goblins." The branches of the trees, beneath which
visitors must walk, are so laden with these "Goblins" that they
frequently break beneath the weight, and great pieces of ice rattle down
about one's ears in the most unpleasant manner.
[Illustration: ICE GOBLINS AND WINTER SCENERY AT NIAGARA.--DRAWN BY
W. H. GIBSON.--[SEE PAGE 279.]]
[Illustration: AN OTTER AND HER YOUNG.]
THE OTTER.
The otter is the aquatic member of the great weasel family, and plays
the same part in lakes and rivers as his mischievous cousin in the
forests. It is found in all parts of the world--on tropical islands
throughout South America, and in the cold sea-coasts of Kamtchatka and
Alaska. Eleven different varieties are mentioned by naturalists.
One of these, the sea-otter, haunts the rocky shores of the coasts and
islands of Behring Sea and the Northern Pacific. Its habits are like
those of the seal, and its soft, glossy black fur is very much prized,
especially in China, where a trimming of otter fur is worn by high
officials as a mark of rank.
The sea-otter is a very fond mother, and will fight vigorously in
defense of its baby. If attacked when on shore, it will seize the baby
in its mouth as a cat would seize a kitten, and scurry into the water as
fast as possible, for once among the dashing waves it is safe, and will
gambol and frolic gleefully with its rescued offspring. The sea-otter
often sleeps on its back on the surface of the sea, and hunters mention
having seen the baby lying on the breast of its sleeping mother, closely
infolded by her fore-paws, while the waves formed a rocking, tossing
cradle.
The sea-otter is the largest member of its family, but the prettiest and
most playful of the tribe is the fish-otter, which is pictured in the
accompanying engraving feeding its little ones with a fresh fish just
caught in the pool by this most skillful of fishers. This otter is from
two to three feet long, with a thick furry tail twelve to sixteen inches
in length. It has very short legs, and stands not more than a foot high.
Its paws are webbed for swimming, as its natural home is the water, but
on land it can travel over the ground with great rapidity. It has small,
prominent eyes, and little round ears, which are almost hidden in its
soft brown fur.
The fish-otter is like a school-boy in its fondness for sliding down
hill. Wherever there are bands of otters, slides are found worn on the
slopes leading down to the shores of ponds and rivers, in the snow in
the winter, and in the soft mud in the summer. Troops of otters have
often been seen amusing themselves in this odd fashion. They slide lying
on the ground, with the fore-feet bent backward, and push themselves
forward with the hind-feet. When the slide is well worn and slippery,
these funny little beasts go down with great velocity, and seem to take
as much pleasure in their frolicsome antics as if they were a crowd of
boys and girls.
The fish-otter lives around fresh-water lakes and rivers in Canada, in
certain localities of South America, and in many wild portions of the
United States and Europe. It is a famous fisherman. It can dive and stay
under water a long time, and it swims so swiftly and so silently that
even the quick-darting fish can rarely escape its sharp little teeth. If
its prey be small, the otter lifts its head above the surface of the
water, and easily bites off the choice morsels, but if the capture be a
salmon or a good-sized trout, the otter swims ashore with it, and makes
a leisurely repast on the grassy bank. Only the delicate parts of the
fish are eaten by this dainty fisherman. When fish are not plenty, it
will often attack ducks and other water-birds, like a weasel, sucking
only the blood. The keeper of a park near Stuttgart at one time missed
many beautiful ducks from a rare collection which had been domiciled on
the banks of a water-course. All efforts to discover the thief were in
vain. Night after night the keeper stood guard, gun in hand, and in
spite of constant cries of alarm from the nests along the shore, no foe
could be discovered. At length the keeper saw a dark object appear
suddenly above the water. He fired, but saw nothing more. Taking a
boat, he rowed over to the spot where the object had disappeared, and
with a boat-hook drew to the surface a soft mass, which proved to be a
large otter, mortally wounded. From that time the ducks were left
undisturbed.
The nest of the fish-otter is a very snug hiding-place. The entrance is
through a hole in the bank about three feet under water. From this hole
an excavated passageway leads up four or five feet, and ends in a little
chamber warmly lined with moss and soft grasses. From this chamber a
small tunnel goes to the top of the ground above, thus securing
ventilation and plenty of fresh air. In this snug chamber the little
otters are born. For the first ten days they are blind, but when their
eyes are once open, they grow rapidly, and in about two months are
lively and strong enough to accompany their mother on her fishing
excursions.
Young otters are sometimes taken from the nest and brought up on bread
and milk. They make the most affectionate pets imaginable. A story is
told of a lady who had a pet otter that was so attached to its mistress
as to follow her everywhere. It would frolic with her in the most
amusing fashion, climbing up on to her shoulder, and rubbing its soft
fur against her cheek. If it was sleepy, it would climb up her dress and
curl up in her lap like a pet cat; and although its mistress's clothing
always bore the marks of its sharp little teeth and claws, it remained
for a long time a favored pet in the household.
Tame otters are often taught to catch fish for their masters, and many
instances are recorded where pet otters have been valued by hunters as
highly as their dogs, and have rendered quite as valuable service in
supplying the table with dainties.
The Chinese make great use of the otter as a fisherman, and train it so
skillfully for this purpose that it will mind the commands of its master
as quickly as a well-trained dog.
The fish-otter was well known to the ancient Greeks and Romans, and was
the subject of many wonderful fables and superstitions in olden times.
A WHOLE WEEK.
BY HONOR MORE.
"Oh, mother! not for a whole week!" Patty's brown eyes were wide with
doubt and surprise.
"Why, child, you just said _never_, and a week's a good deal short of
that," answered busy little Mrs. Keniston, tucking another stick into
the fire, with an odd little gleam, either from the fire-light or some
inward amusement, dancing round the corners of her mouth. She was used
to Patty's _nevers_, and a little tired of them.
Patty went to the window, and drummed on the pane, and stared rather
forlornly into the small yard, where red-haired Job Twitchett was
jumping up and down, jerking the handle of the old blue pump. He stuck
out his tongue at her and winked one eye, but she was too abstracted to
notice this customary beginning of hostilities. It was all very well to
quarrel with Matty Monroe, and vow never to speak to her again (Matty
was real mean to stay away from the spring, just because Kez King had
said she _might_ drop in that afternoon; she had no business to break
her promise, and she had _promised_ Patty, _certain sure_, that she
would come and bring Rosinella and the tea set with her), but to be
forbidden to speak to her for a week was quite another thing. Why, Sir
Leon was to have married Rosinella before the week was out!
There was a great commotion in the yard. Job was setting Pug at Tabby.
"Hi! look at yer old cat!" he shouted, starting a war-dance on the
platform of the clothes-drier, and pointing derisively to poor pussy,
who stood on the wood-shed roof, with her tail the size of a
hearth-brush. But even this attack on her favorite could not dispel
Patty's melancholy. She just glanced out to see that Tabby was really
out of reach, and then went slowly up stairs to her little room in the
attic to find Sir Leon.
Sir Leon was a doll. He was a very splendid doll, with brown eyes and
hair, a black velvet cap with a long white feather, a silken cloak, and
slashed trousers reaching only to the knee, like a knight of olden
times. He even had long gray stockings, and--crowning glory!--a pair of
top-boots made of chamois leather. Cousin Evelyn had dressed him for
Patty's birthday, and Cousin Evelyn came from New York, and could do
anything.
Patty picked him up, and looked fiercely in his amiable waxen
countenance.
"I don't care a snap for your whiskers!" she exclaimed, hotly, giving
him a vicious little shake. "I don't believe but what Cousin Evelyn just
stuck 'em on herself; and it's my opinion you were made for a girl, Sir
Leon de Montmorenci."
And at the thought of that dreadful possibility, and Matty Monroe's
faithlessness, she sat down on the boot-box and cried.
Next morning Mrs. Keniston was rolling out pie-crust in the kitchen,
when Patty entered slowly, with a kind of dubious brightness in her
face, and curled up in a big chair by the table, with her head on her
hand. A pencil and some paper projected from her apron pocket.
"Well, Patty," said Mrs. Keniston, cheerily, "what kind of turn-overs
shall it be?"
"Mamma," responded Patty, soberly, "did you ever have any love-letters?"
Mrs. Keniston paused, with rolling-pin upraised in astonishment.
"No. Yes. Of course. What ever put it into your head to ask such
questions, child? There, take that, and go and get your little pie
board, and roll it out smoothly, and I'll let you bake some dolly's
pies. Don't worry your silly head about love-letters yet awhile, my
dear."
"But did you?" persisted Patty. "Because I want to write one--at least
Sir Leon does--and we don't know how to begin. How did yours begin?"
"I think my first began, 'My dear Miss Holliwell,'" said Mrs. Keniston,
laughing. "Ask papa. He'll know."
"Did it?" inquired Patty, rather doubtfully. "Why, when Mr. Cope wrote
to you to borrow that book, he began, 'My dear Mrs. Keniston,' and his
couldn't be a love-letter, you know, because you're married to papa, and
he's engaged to Miss Dover. I don't think that sounds lovery enough."
However, she took out her pencil, and began to write, spelling over each
word noiselessly to herself as she put it down.
"Who is your letter to, Patty?" asked her mother at last, as she folded
it up with a sigh of relief, and wrote an address on the back.
"Why," said Patty, rather falteringly, "it's from Sir Leon to Rosinella.
That isn't the same as if I wrote to Matty, is it? Because, you know,
Sir Leon's a man, and I'm not, and Matty--well, Matty isn't Rosinella.
Matty never was Queen of Beauty at a tournament the way Rosinella was
when we had one in the orchard the day after Cousin Evelyn told us
_Ivanhoe_. And it isn't Matty's trousseau we're making; it's
Rosinella's. And Rosinella has golden hair, and Matty has auburn. And--I
may send it, mayn't I?"
"Yes, indeed, you may," said Mrs. Keniston, laughing much more than was
necessary, Patty thought. "May I see it?"