[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 67. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, February 8, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ATTACKED IN THE PASS.--DRAWN BY FRENZENY.]
MUFFLED.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"Rube, me boy, what's the name of this?" exclaimed Pat Linihan, as the
last wagon of the mining outfit was hauled into position, and the
grizzled veteran he spoke to was dragging the harness from his favorite
span of mules.
"The name of it? Do you mean this hollow we've pulled up in?"
"Dade an' I do, thin. Ye've put a name of some kind to ivery rock an'
bush we've seen the day."
"Well, then, mebbe it's the Chico Valley. It's a place I'll be glad to
git out of with all the hair on my head."
"It's a swate spot, for all that. Is it near here thim Wallopy red-skins
lives that makes it a bad boordin'-house for white min?"
"Yes, this is just the place. But there isn't many of 'em, and we didn't
send 'em word we was comin'. Mebbe we'll find our way through the pass
before they scent us. They're venomous, they are. Worst kind."
The two mules had been standing as if they were listening to him, but
now, as old Rube cast them loose, the off mule suddenly threw up his
heels and set out at a sharp trot into the grass, while his mate
stretched his long neck forward in a sonorous bray.
"That'll do, Gov'nor," remarked Rube. "We all know you kin do it. You
and the Senator had better jest feed yer level best while yer chance is
good. Mebbe you'll be an Indian's mule yet, before you die."
"Saints preserve thim, thin. It's foine mules they are," said Pat, very
soberly. "Misther Adams, was ye hearin' the charakther he gave the place
we're in?"
"Is there any danger, Rube?--any real danger?"
"Not if we can find our way through the pass, Charlie. It's more like
the neck of a bottle than anything else. Hope they haven't corked it up
with rocks for us."
A tall, slightly built boy was Charlie Adams, and his bright blue eyes
were wide open, with a look in which there was more fun and love of
adventure than fear of anything--even of Hualapais[1] Indians.
He had been staring around the broad level valley while the miners were
going into camp, and it did seem as if he had never looked upon anything
more beautiful. The grass was so luxuriant and green; the scattered
groves had been set down exactly in the right places; the mountains
arose so grandly on every side; surely there could not have been
imagined a prettier picture in a more wonderful frame. He said so to
Rube Sarrow, but all the reply he got from the grim old wagon-master
was,
"Ye-es, and the red-skins mean to keep it. Thar's been more than one
outfit wiped out a-tryin' to squeeze through the Union Pass."
The wagons of the train were drawn up in two rows, about fifty yards
apart, the light "ambulance," from which Rube had unhitched the Governor
and the Senator, was pulled across one of the open spaces at the end,
and a brisk fire had been started at the other. The ground so inclosed
contained room enough to "corral" all the mules and horses of the train
in case of an attack, and the members of that exploring party were
likely to be able to defend such a fort against any ordinary band of red
men.
Not a sign of the presence of Indians in the neighborhood had yet been
discovered, and before the middle of the afternoon the scouts sent out
came in with a couple of fat deer.
"That looks well," growled old Rube. "The valley hasn't been hunted out
lately. Mebbe we'll git through all right."
The animals were watched pretty carefully, nevertheless, and they all
had a good long rest and time to feed.
"They'd betther make the best of it," said Pat Linihan to Charlie Adams.
"It's a long pull and a hard one they've got before thim. Wud thim
red-skins take the skelp of a mule, do ye s'pose?"
"They'd give more for yours, Pat. They'd risk almost anything for hair
as red as you have. Light their pipes, you know."
"That's more'n I kin do wid it mesilf. But thim ambulance mules, now.
Luk at the ears of thim. Did yez iver see the loike on any human bein'
before?"
The Governor and the Senator were mules of the largest and ungainliest
type, and they seemed to remember enough of what Rube had said about
Indians to keep them pretty close to the camp all the evening. None of
the others were permitted to stray to any great distance, and about
midnight they were all silently collected.
The men had taken the whole matter as quietly as had their four-footed
servants, eating and sleeping as if there were no Indians in the world,
or at least in the neighborhood of the Hualapais Mountains and the Union
Pass.
All the men, perhaps; but Charlie Adams was not a man yet, and the young
blood was tingling through his veins at the thought of actual danger and
an attack from Indians. There was no need to wake him up or call him
when the time came to get ready for another march. He was wide awake
from head to foot, and seemed to be everywhere at once, with his
repeating carbine in his hand.
It was a queer piece of work Rube and his teamsters were at for the next
hour or so. They began by wrapping all the old blankets they had, and
some new ones, around the circumference of the wagon wheels, and they
greased the journals of the axles until there was no chance left for a
squeak to come from them.
"They'll travel without a sound," said old Rube. "How're ye gittin' on
with the critters, boys?"
That had been a job which interested Charlie Adams exceedingly. Every
mule and horse was fitted with a pair of buffalo-skin or blanket
moccasins, so that his feet would fall silently upon the hardest ground.
Some of the men said "shoes," some "boots," and Pat Linihan called them
"stockin's, begorra"; but Rube said "moccasins," and Charlie took him at
his word.
Between one and two o'clock, the camp, with its fire piled up to a
brighter blaze than ever, was left behind them, and the long mining
train moved onward toward the dangerous pass. It was wonderful how
little noise they made, and Pat Linihan remarked to old Rube:
"Sure an' it's the first toime I iver druv a muffled mule."
"Muffle yer tongue," growled old Rube. "That's one thing I forgot."
They made good speed, and before long Charlie Adams was aware that the
narrow wagon trail they were following had led them between great walls
of rock.
"We'll do it," whispered old Rube to Charlie. "They're up there on the
cliffs, some of 'em, as a matter of course; but we're going to beat 'em
this time. They have an awful advantage over any fellows down here. All
they need do is to tumble down rocks on us in some places. There's just
one bad spot to go by now," said he, a little later, "but it's almost
daylight. I wish we were well past the neck."
Nearer and nearer drew the walls of rock, but there were no sounds made
for them to echo, until at last, as he and the Senator pulled their
ambulance over an unusually rough place, and paused for breath, the
Governor seized the opportunity to stretch out his ugly neck.
Oh! what a bray was that! It seemed to fill every cranny of the Union
Pass, and stir up the sleeping echoes, and climb up over the crags, and
old Rube instantly shouted:
"Whip up, boys! Forward now for your lives! That thar was jest one other
thing we forgot to muffle."
The whips cracked sharply enough now, and the Governor received at least
his share in payment for his music.
There was no more silence. In less than a minute the heights above them
rang with fierce whoops and yells. The savages had been taken a little
by surprise, but they were there, and they had been waiting for that
train. It had nearly passed them, but they were determined to make an
effort for its capture.
Whoop after whoop, and then the crash and thud of rocky masses tumbling
down the chasm.
It was getting lighter every minute, and Charlie Adams strained his
bright eyes up along the crags in the hope of seeing a mark for his
carbine.
Suddenly the sharp reports of rifles came from the front, and old Rube
exclaimed:
"Indians in the pass! That's bad. We were almost through."
So they were, for the ambulance Pat was driving, and that Rube and
Charlie were guarding, was the very tail of the train.
"Look out, Charlie."
"Bedad, they've done it! What'll I do now?"
A heavy bowlder had come smashing down through the tilted top of the
ambulance, making dire destruction of the closely packed stowage, and
startling Pat half out of his wits.
"Unhitch! Save your mules!"
The Governor and the Senator had something to say about that. They were
worse scared than Pat himself, and they declared it, as mules will, in
about half a bray apiece, but then they sprang wildly away up the pass,
dragging behind them the battered ambulance, Pat and all.
"Go it, Pat! Come on, Charlie! There's a fight ahead, but we're beyond
the neck."
The "fight ahead" was over quickly enough, for less than half a dozen
Indians had clambered swiftly down to hide behind logs and rocks, and
try to check the advance of the train. It was getting light enough for
them to use their rifles, but so could the miners, and that was bad for
that squad of "Wallopies," as Pat called them. Only two of them climbed
up the rocks again, and all the harm they did was to wound three of the
mules, and send a ball through the arm of a driver. Their friends on the
heights were fairly driven to cover again by the storm of rifle-bullets
sent after them, and Charlie Adams's carbine cracked as loudly as if he
had been six feet high and weighed two hundred pounds.
"I wonder if I hit any of them?" he said to Rube, after they reached an
open place and halted the train.
"Dunno 'bout that. Most likely. I kinder hope we barked some on 'em. But
that there was a leetle the tightest squeeze I ever hed in Union Pass.
All because I didn't muffle the bray of that mule."
"Did ye know," added Pat, "the big stone that kim into the ambylance
mashed in the molasses kag? It's a swate mess they've made of it."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Pronounced Walapi.
LILY'S BALL.
Lily gave a party,
And her little playmates all,
Gayly dressed, came in their best
To dance at Lily's ball.
Little Quaker Primrose
Sat and never stirred,
And, except in whispers,
Never spoke a word.
Tulip fine and Dahlia
Shone in silk and satin;
Learned old Convolvulus
Was tiresome with his Latin.
Snowdrop nearly fainted
Because the room was hot,
And went away before the rest
With sweet Forget-me-not.
Pansy danced with Daffodil,
Rose with Violet;
Silly Daisy fell in love
With pretty Mignonette.
But when they danced the country-dance,
One could scarcely tell
Which of these two danced it best--
Cowslip or Heather-bell.
Between the dances, when they all
Were seated in their places,
I thought I'd never seen before
So many pretty faces.
But of all the pretty maidens
I saw at Lily's ball,
Darling Lily was to me
The sweetest of them all.
And when the dance was over,
They went down stairs to sup,
And each had a taste of honey-cake,
With dew in a buttercup.
And all were dressed to go away
Before the set of sun;
And Lily said "Good-by!" and gave
A kiss to every one.
And before the moon or a single star
Was shining overhead,
Lily and all her little friends
Were fast asleep in bed.
THE PIRATE KIDD.
The tumult in New Amsterdam when, in August, 1664, English men-of-war
appeared in the bay was excessive. An embassy was sent to the English
commander, Nichols, at Gravesend Bay; it was composed of the Dutch
clergyman and his brother, a physician. The English refused to hear of
anything but submission, and brave Governor Stuyvesant yielded to the
storm. No blood was shed, no gun fired; the town submitted peacefully to
the invader, and its name was changed from New Amsterdam to New York.
But the Dutch longed for their natural government, and more than once it
was reported that the great Admiral De Ruyter, at the head of the fleet
with which he swept the European seas, was coming to Sandy Hook, and
would retake the city. But he never came. A few years later, in the
second Dutch war, 1673, a fleet of twenty-three ships from Holland
sailed through the Narrows, reduced the fort on Staten Island, and
recaptured New York. But in 1674 peace was made between Holland and
England, and New York was restored to the English.
From that time for many years Sandy Hook witnessed no hostile armament,
and only the white sails of the peaceful trader entered the deep channel
that opens into the Lower Bay.
New York flourished in quiet ease; its Dutch burgomasters were changed
to aldermen; its fair young maidens with their admirers made up boating
parties from the Battery, or rode in gigs up to the famous Kissing Gate.
But all the people of New York were not so respectable; it was, in fact,
the haunt of disreputable persons and marauders from all parts of the
world, and among them might be seen about this time the rough, bronzed
face, the sturdy figure, of the cruel pirate Kidd. Possessed of a
considerable fortune, which he had made in a sea-faring life, Kidd had
retired from his occupation, whatever it had been, and settled
peacefully with his wife and children in New York. He was probably
looked upon as a substantial citizen. He was thought a skillful sailor.
And when in 1695 the English government resolved to send a ship to the
East Indies to put down the pirates who swarmed in the sea between
Arabia and Bombay, the Governor of New York, Lord Bellamont, selected
Kidd to command the expedition.
Kidd went over to London, was given a fine ship, the _Adventure_ galley,
and came back to New York to gather his crew. He was sure of finding
here desperate men willing to aid him in any wicked enterprise. The ship
was soon manned, and in February, 1697, sailed out from Sandy Hook on
its dreadful voyage. Instead of putting down piracy, Kidd became the
most cruel and terrible of pirates. He haunted the Eastern seas,
plundered the rich vessels of Arabia, Armenia, or Portugal, and made
such enormous profits that even his sailors grew wealthy. But his savage
cruelty was terrible even to his own crew. He cut the throats of his
prisoners, or plunged them into the sea. The pirate ship was a scene of
demoniac wickedness. One of his crew, whom he had called a dog, cried
out, in remorse, "Yes, I am a dog; but it is you that have made me so."
Kidd, enraged, struck him dead at a blow.
Possessed of an immense fortune in gold, silver, jewels, the pirate came
back to New York in 1699, hoping, perhaps, to purchase a pardon for all
his crimes with the aid of his powerful friends. Once more the Adventure
galley, or some other vessel of his fleet, sailed by the Hook, stained
with blood and massacre, but laden with a cargo richer than any ship had
ever brought to the quiet city before. Tradition relates that Kidd had
his friends in the coves and bays of Long Island; that he deposited
$200,000 in gold dust and coin on Gardiner's Island; that he buried his
treasure on Martha's Vineyard, and lived in a cave still seen on its
lonely shore. His ship he is supposed to have sunk near Verplanck's
Point, on the Hudson, and here a party of persons may at times be seen
diligently laboring to find the sunken vessel. To Mrs. Gardiner, of
Gardiner's Island, Kidd gave a robe of cloth of gold that was long
preserved in the family. He strove to hide from the agents of the
government, who were in pursuit of him, but was decoyed to Boston,
carried to England, tried for piracy, condemned, and executed. It is
said that the first rope used to hang him broke, and he fell to the
ground; a second was brought, and the horrible monster perished at last,
March 23, 1701. From that time pirates were banished from the American
ports, although they still swarmed in the West Indian seas and all the
unfrequented parts of the ocean.
[Illustration: THE FIRST MOUSE.]
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DINNER PARTY.
At noon Toby was thoroughly tired out, for whenever any one spoke kindly
to him, Mr. Lord seemed to take a malicious pleasure in giving him extra
tasks to do, until Toby began to hope that no one else would pay any
attention to him. On this day he was permitted to go to dinner first,
and after he returned he was left in charge of the booth. Trade being
dull, as it usually was during the dinner hour, he had very little work
to do after he had cleaned the glasses and set things to rights
generally.
Therefore when he saw the very thin form of the skeleton emerge from his
tent and come toward him, he was particularly pleased, for he had begun
to think very kindly of the thin man and his fleshy wife.
"Well, Toby," said the skeleton, as he came up to the booth, carefully
dusted Mr. Lord's private chair, and sat down very cautiously in it, as
if he had expected that it would break down under his weight, "I hear
you've been making quite a hero of yourself by capturing the monkeys
last night."
Toby's freckled face reddened with pleasure as he heard these words, and
he stammered out, with considerable difficulty, "I didn't do anything;
it was Mr. Stubbs that brought 'em back."
"Mr. Stubbs!" and here the skeleton laughed so heartily that Toby was
afraid he would dislocate some of his thinly covered joints. "When you
was tellin' about Mr. Stubbs yesterday, I thought you meant some one
belonging to the company. You ought to have seen my wife Lilly shake
with laughing when I told her who Mr. Stubbs was."
"Yes," said Toby, at a loss to know just what to say, "I should think
she would shake when she laughs."
"She does," replied the skeleton. "If you should see her when something
funny strikes her, you'd think she was one of those big plates of jelly
that they have in the bake-shop windows;" and Mr. Treat looked proudly
at the gaudy picture which represented his wife in all her monstrosity
of flesh. "She's a great woman, Toby, an' she's got a great head."
Toby nodded his head in assent. He would have liked to have said
something nice regarding Mrs. Treat, but he really did not know what to
say, and thus he simply contented himself and the fond husband by
nodding.
"She thinks a good deal of you, Toby," continued the skeleton, as he
moved his chair to a position more favorable for him to elevate his feet
on the edge of the counter, and placed his handkerchief under him as a
cushion; "she's talking of you all the time, and if you wasn't such a
little fellow, I should begin to be jealous of you--I should, upon my
word."
"You're both very good," stammered Toby, so weighted down by a sense of
the honor heaped upon him as to be at a loss for words.
"An' she wants to see more of you. She made me come out here now, when
she knew Mr. Lord would be away, to tell you that we're goin' to have a
little kind of a friendly dinner in our tent to-morrow--she's cooked it
all herself, or she's going to--and we want you to come in an' have some
with us."
Toby's eyes glistened at the thought of the unexpected pleasure, and
then his face grew sad as he replied, "I'd like to come first-rate, Mr.
Treat, but I don't s'pose Mr. Lord would let me stay away from the shop
long enough."
"Why, you won't have any work to do to-morrow, Toby--it's Sunday."
"So it is," said the boy, with a pleased smile, as he thought of the day
of rest which was so near. And then he added, quickly: "An' this is
Saturday afternoon; what fun the boys at home are havin'! You see, there
hain't any school Saturday afternoon, an' all the fellers go out in the
woods."
"And you wish you were there to go with them, don't you?" asked the
skeleton, sympathetically.
"Indeed I do!" exclaimed Toby, quickly; "it's twice as good as any
circus that ever was."
"But you didn't think so before you came with us, did you?"
"I didn't know so much about circuses then as I do now," replied the
boy, sadly.
Mr. Treat saw that he was touching on a sore subject, and one which was
arousing sad thoughts in his little companion's mind, and he hastened to
change it at once.
"Then I can tell Lilly that you'll come, can I?"
"Oh yes, I'll be sure to be there; an' I want you to know just how good
I think you both are to me."
"That's all right, Toby," said Mr. Treat, with a pleased expression on
his face; "an' you may bring Mr. Stubbs with you, if you want to."
"Thank you," said Toby, "I'm sure Mr. Stubbs will be just as glad to
come as I shall. But where will we be to-morrow?"
"Right here. We always stay over Sunday at the place where we show
Saturday. But I must be going, or Lilly will worry her life out of her
for fear I'm somewhere getting cold; she's awful careful of me, that
woman is. You'll be on hand to-morrow at one o'clock, won't you?"
"Indeed I will," said Toby, emphatically, "an' I'll bring Mr. Stubbs
with me too."
With a friendly nod of the head, the skeleton hurried away to re-assure
his wife that he was safe and well, and before he had hardly disappeared
within the tent, Toby had another caller, who was none other than his
friend old Ben, the driver.
"Well, my boy," shouted Ben, in his cheery, hearty tones, "I haven't
seen you since you left the wagon so sudden last night. Did you get
shook up much?"
"Oh no," replied Toby; "you see, I hain't very big, an' then I struck in
the mud, so I got off pretty easy."
"That's a fact, an' you can thank your lucky stars for it, too, for I've
seen grown-up men get pitched off a wagon in that way, an' break their
necks doin' it. But has Job told you where you was going to sleep
to-night? You know we stay over here till to-morrow."
"I didn't think anything about that; but I s'pose I'll sleep in the
wagon, won't I?"
"You can sleep at the hotel, if you want to; but the beds will likely be
dirty, an' if you take my advice, you'll crawl into some of the wagons
in the tent."
Ben then explained to him that after his work was done that night, he
would not be expected to report for duty until the time for starting
Sunday night, and he concluded his remarks by saying:
"Now you know what your rights are, an' don't you let Job impose on you
in any way. I'll be round here after you get through work, an' we'll
bunk in somewhere together."
The arrival of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs put a stop to the conversation,
and was the signal of Toby's time of trial. It seemed to him, and with
good reason, that the chief delight which these men had in life was to
torment him, for neither ever spoke a pleasant word to him; and when one
was not giving him some difficult work to do, or finding fault in some
way, the other would be sure to be at it, and Toby had very little
comfort from the time he began work in the morning until he stopped at
night.
It was not until after the evening performance was over that Toby had a
chance to speak with Mr. Stubbs, and then he was so tired that he simply
took the old monkey from the cage, nestled him under his jacket, and lay
down with him to sleep in the place which old Ben had selected.
When the morning came, Mr. Stubbs aroused his young master at a much
earlier hour than he would have awakened had he been left to himself,
and the two went out for a short walk before breakfast. They went
instinctively toward the woods, and when the shade of the trees was once
reached, how the two revelled in their freedom! Mr. Stubbs climbed into
the trees, swung himself from one to the other by means of his tail,
gathered half-ripe nuts, which he threw at his master, tried to catch
the birds, and had a good time generally.
Toby, stretched at full length on the mossy bank, watched the antics of
his pet, laughing boisterously at times as Mr. Stubbs would do some one
thing more comical than usual, and forgot there was in this world such a
thing as a circus, or such a man as Job Lord. It was to Toby a morning
without a flaw, and he took no heed of the time, until the sound of the
church bells warned him of the lateness of the hour, reminding him at
the same time of where he should be--where he would be if he was at home
with Uncle Daniel.
In the mean time the old monkey had been trying to attract his young
master's attention, and, failing in his efforts, he came down from out
the tree, crept softly up to Toby, and nestled his head under the boy's
arm.
This little act of devotion seemed to cause Toby's grief to burst forth
afresh, and clasping the monkey around the neck, hugging him close to
his bosom, he sobbed:
"Oh, Mr. Stubbs, Mr. Stubbs, how lonesome we are! If we was only at
Uncle Daniel's, we'd be the two happiest people in all this world. We
could play on the hay, or go up to the pasture, or go down to the
village, an' I'd work my fingers off if I could only be there just once
more. It was wicked for me to run away, an' now I'm gettin' paid for
it."
He hugged the monkey closely, swayed his body to and fro, presenting a
perfect picture of grief. The monkey, not knowing what to make of this
changed mood, cowered whimperingly in his arms, looking up into his
face, and licking the boy's hands with his tongue whenever he had the
opportunity.
It was some time before Toby's grief exhausted itself, and then, still
clasping the monkey, he hurried out of the woods to the town and the now
thoroughly hated circus tents.
The clocks were just striking one as Toby entered the inclosure used by
the show as a place of performance, and, remembering his engagement with
the skeleton and his wife, he went directly to their tent. From the
odors which assailed him as he entered, it was quite evident that a
feast of no mean proportions was in course of preparation, and Toby's
very great appetite came to him in full vigor. Even the monkey seemed
affected by the odor, for he danced about on his master's shoulder, and
chattered so that Toby was obliged to choke him a little in order to
make him present a respectable appearance.
When Toby reached the interior of the tent, he was astonished at the
extent of the preparations that were being made, and gazed around him in
surprise. The platform on which the lean man and fat woman were in the
habit of exhibiting themselves now bore a long table, loaded with
eatables; and from the fact that eight or ten chairs were ranged around
it, Toby understood that he was not the only guest at the feast. Some
little attempt had also been made at decoration by festooning that end
of the tent at which the platform was placed with two or three flags and
some streamers, and the tent poles were fringed with tissue-paper of the
brightest colors.
Toby had had only time enough to notice this, when the skeleton advanced
toward him, and with the liveliest appearance of pleasure, said, as he
took him by the hands with a grip that made him wince,
"It gives me great joy, Mr. Tyler, to welcome you at one of our little
home reunions, if one can call a tent, that is moved every day in the
week, home."
Toby hardly knew whom Mr. Treat referred to when he said "Mr. Tyler,"
but by the time his hands were released from the bony grasp, he
understood that it was himself who was spoken to.
The skeleton then formally introduced him to the other guests present,
who were sitting in one end of the tent, and evidently anxiously
awaiting the coming feast.
[Illustration: TOBY IS INTRODUCED TO THE ALBINOS.]
"These," said Mr. Treat, as he waved his hand toward two white-haired,
pink-eyed young ladies, who sat with their arms twined around each
other's waists, and had been eying the monkey with some appearance of
fear, "are the Miss Cushings, known to the world as the Albino Children;
they command a large salary, and form a very attractive feature of our
exhibition."
The young ladies arose at the same time, as if they had been the Siamese
Twins, and could not act independently of each other, and bowed.
Toby made the best bow he was capable of, and the monkey made frantic
efforts to escape, as if he would enjoy twisting his paws in their
perpendicular hair.
"And this," continued Mr. Treat, pointing to a sickly, sour-looking
individual, who was sitting apart from the others, with his arms folded,
and looking as if he was counting the very seconds before the dinner
should begin, "is the wonderful Signor Castro, whose sword-swallowing
feats you have doubtless heard of."
Toby stepped back just one step, as if overwhelmed by awe at beholding
the signor in the guise of a humble individual, and the gentleman who
gained his livelihood by swallowing swords unbent his dignity so far as
to unfold his arms, and present a very dirty-looking hand for Toby to
shake. The boy took hold of the outstretched hand, wondering why the
signor never used soap and water, and Mr. Stubbs, apparently afraid of
the sour-looking man, retreated to Toby's shoulder, where he sat
chattering and scolding about the introduction.
Again the skeleton waved his hand, and this time he introduced
"Mademoiselle Spelletti, the wonderful snake-charmer, whose exploits in
this country, and before the crowned heads of Europe, had caused the
whole world to stand aghast at her daring."
Mademoiselle Spelletti was a very ordinary-looking young lady of about
twenty-five years of age, who looked very much as if her name might
originally have been Murphy, and she too extended a hand for Toby to
grasp, only her hand was clean, and she appeared to be a very much more
pleasant acquaintance than the gentleman who swallowed swords.
This ended the introductions, and Toby was just looking around for a
seat, when Mrs. Treat, the fat lady, and the giver of the feast which
was about to come, and which already smelled so invitingly, entered from
behind a curtain of canvas, where the cooking-stove was supposed to be
located.
She had every appearance of being the cook for the occasion. Her sleeves
were rolled up, her hair tumbled and frowzy, and there were several
unmistakable marks of grease on the front of her calico dress.
She waited for no ceremony, but rushed up to Toby, and taking him in her
arms, gave him such a squeeze that there seemed to be every possibility
that she would break all the bones in his body; and she kept him so long
in this bear-like embrace that Mr. Stubbs reached his little brown paws
over, and got such a hold of her hair that all present, save Signor
Castro, rushed forward to release her from the monkey's grasp.
"You dear little thing," said Mrs. Treat, paying but very little
attention to the hair-pulling she had just undergone, and holding Toby
at arm's-length, where she could look into his face, "you were so late
that I was afraid you wasn't coming, and my dinner wouldn't have tasted
half so good if you hadn't been here to eat some."
Toby hardly knew what to say at this hearty welcome, but he managed to
tell the large and kind-hearted lady that he had no idea of missing the
dinner, and that he was very glad she wanted him to come.
"Want you to come, you dear little thing!" she exclaimed, as she gave
him another hug, but was careful not to get her head where Mr. Stubbs
could get hold of the hair again--"of course I wanted you to come, for
this very dinner has been got up so that you could meet these people
here, and so that they could see you."
Toby was entirely at a loss to know what to say to this overwhelming
compliment, and for that reason he did not say anything, only submitting
patiently to the third hug, which was all Mrs. Treat had time to give
him, as she was obliged to rush behind the canvas screen again, as there
were unmistakable sounds of something boiling over on the stove.
"You'll excuse me," said the skeleton, with an air of dignity, waving
his hand once more toward the assembled company, "but while introducing
you to Mr. Tyler, I had almost forgotten to introduce him to you. This,
ladies and gentlemen," and here he touched Toby on the shoulder, as if
he were some living curiosity whose habits and mode of capture he was
about to explain to a party of spectators, "is Mr. Toby Tyler, of whom
you heard on the night when the monkey cage was smashed, and who now
carries with him the identical monkey which was presented to him by the
manager of this great show as a token of esteem for his skill and
bravery in capturing the entire lot of monkeys without a single blow."
By the time Mr. Treat got through with this long speech, Toby felt very
much as if he was some wonderful creation whom the skeleton was
exhibiting; but he managed to rise to his feet, and duck his little red
head in his best imitation of a bow. Then he sat down and hugged Mr.
Stubbs to cover his confusion.
One of the Albino Children now came forward, and while stroking Mr.
Stubbs's hair, looked so intently at Toby that for the life of him he
couldn't say which she regarded as the curiosity, himself or the monkey;
therefore he hastened to say, modestly,
"I didn't do much toward catchin' the monkeys; Mr. Stubbs here did
almost all of it, an' I only led 'em in."
"There, there, my boy," said the skeleton, in a fatherly tone, "I've
heard the whole story from old Ben, an' I sha'n't let you get out of it
like that. We all know what you did, an' it's no use for you to deny any
part of it."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A SNOW BLOCKADE.
BY JAMES B. MARSHALL.
Some boys, you know, think it is capital to be at boarding-school, and
other boys don't like it. But there is no doubt that all think it is
splendid to come home for a holiday. But what if your home has been
burned down, as was Will and Harry Baker's, and your parents are living
at a hotel until the house can be rebuilt?
The Baker boys wrote home to Rawley: "We expect living in a hotel is
pretty nice, but of course we can't do many of the things we had planned
for this holiday."
"The new house can not be made ready before spring," wrote Mrs. Baker,
"but I do not think you have planned much you will not be able to carry
out. I have one fine piece of news to tell you. Your uncle Ben and aunt
Sue, whom you have not seen since you were very little fellows, and
those six cousins, whom you have never seen, have sold their old home in
Maine. Uncle Ben is going to build a house here, not far from our old
home. Until it is finished, he has rented a house, and you and your
cousins should have fine times together."
The idea of meeting these cousins took away much of Will's and Harry's
disappointment. School broke up early on Thursday morning, and the next
day, Friday, was to be Mrs. Baker's birthday--a great day with the
Bakers.
Several of the boys who had to pass through New York city in going home
went with the Baker boys, when they all arrived there, to help them
select Mrs. Baker's present. Then Will and Harry started for the ferry,
having full time to make their train. But while riding there the street
car was delayed at a cross street where a fire had broken out. Watching
the exciting scene, not more than five minutes seemed to have been lost,
but to the boys' amazement the last boat to make connection with their
train had left when they reached the ferry. And what was worse, it was
the last train before next morning to make connection at the Junction
for Rawley. After a council, it was decided to go and stay overnight at
the hotel used by Mr. Baker when in New York, and to telegraph to Rawley
what had happened.
In the morning, when the boys awoke, they were dismayed to find that a
heavy snow-storm had set in. At the dépôt, long trains covered with snow
were arriving, much delayed, and every one was talking of the storm, and
what probably would happen if the snow continued. It was a great relief
to Will and Harry when at last their express train started, though the
snow fell steadily and fast. An extra engine, pushing a snow-plough, ran
ahead to clear the track, and the boys anxiously watched the storm and
the progress of the train.
"An hour and a quarter late," said Will, noting the time as the train
drew up at the Junction station. The Rawley train, with a snow-plough
ahead of the locomotive, stood on the other side of the platform, and a
few passengers were in the dépôt, who had been waiting for the New York
express. There was a stout farmer talking with the conductor of the
Rawley train; and as Will approached the latter to ask a question, he
overheard him say,
"Yes; it does look a little doubtful if we will get through to Rawley
before the snow is drifted too deep for us."
"How far along do you think you will get? To Sanmere?"
Sanmere was ten miles from Rawley.
"To Rawley, I hope," answered the conductor, moving away. "All aboard!"
Toward Sanmere the track was built in a narrow defile cut through a
hill, and beyond were a number of these cuts. When the train neared
Sanmere, the engine and plough were uncoupled from the cars to clear the
track in this narrow defile, and running swiftly ahead, were soon lost
to sight in the falling snow. In half an hour the engine was backed to
where the train stood. It was decided to leave the cars, and try to
carry the passengers to Sanmere on the engine. The six passengers, the
train-men, and the mail agent with his mail-bags, crowded into the cab,
and the engine was slowly and carefully steamed through the snow-choked
defile, and down to the station.
Will and Harry hurried into the waiting-room to warm themselves, and
looking out at a window they saw a gentleman muffled in a great-coat
directing the other four passengers--probably to a hotel. He then
entered the waiting-room, shaking his coat free of snow.
"Snowed in, eh, Masters Baker?" said he, in a pleasant tone. "But you
are a good deal better off than you think. What you want now is a good
warm dinner, and merry people to eat it with."
Will and Harry looked at the gentleman narrowly as he shook hands with
them, but they could not remember having ever seen him before.
"I know your father and mother well," continued the gentleman. "My name
is Benjamin, and I keep Benjamin's House here in Sanmere. I'm a good
landlord, if I say so myself, and promise you that directly there is a
dinner coming on my table well worth your eating."
"I'd rather get to Rawley to-day than eat a dozen good dinners," thought
Will.
"Have you a sleigh, Mr. Benjamin, and a pair of good horses to hire, to
take us to Rawley?" asked Harry.
"Yes," answered Mr. Benjamin; "but the first thing you want is your
dinner. After dinner, if you wish to go to Rawley, I have just the
sleigh and pair of horses that can take you there. Now come along. Each
of you catch hold of one of my arms; I'm nearly as good as a
snow-plough."
Before the boys had walked far along the snow-covered streets of
Sanmere, it seemed as if they had known Mr. Benjamin for a long time.
"Here we are," said he, stopping before a large house.
There was no "Benjamin's House" sign to be seen, but the snow was
falling fast enough to hide a dozen signs.
"My house is full of people to-day," said Mr. Benjamin, "so come right
up stairs to a warm room, where you can change your clothes and shoes,
and make ready for dinner. Now make yourselves at home, and when dinner
is ready I will come for you."
Merry peals of laughter could be heard down stairs, and there were
evidently plenty of young people in the house.
"If we only had mother and father here," said Will, "it would be nearly
as good as being at home."
"That's so," agreed Harry. "This is the kind of hotel I would like to
live in. I wonder if Pop knows about it?"
Directly a dinner-bell rang, and there was a noise of feet sounding as
if the people were going in to dinner. In a moment in came Mr. Benjamin,
his eyes twinkling with fun, and invited them down to dinner.
"I didn't tell you," said he, as he led the way, "that it is a
celebration dinner for my guests. I shouldn't be surprised if you should
know some of the people."
Before the dining-room door was reached, a side door swung open, and in
a moment the boys found themselves in a pair of warm arms.
"Mother!" "Father!"
They were indeed Mr. and Mrs. Baker. Wide open swung the dining-room
door, and there, waiting, were Aunt Sue, the six new cousins, and a
dozen more people.
"Welcome to Benjamin's House!" called Uncle Ben--Mr. Benjamin, as Harry
had first called him, being Uncle Ben Starr his own merry self. "And,
boys, if you want to go to Rawley through all this snow, my horses and
sleigh shall take you."
What a dinner that was! And what a time there was, too, explaining how
Uncle Ben had invited all the Bakers to his house to spend the holidays,
and to surprise Will and Harry!
[Illustration: CARNIVAL SKETCHES.]
[Illustration: CARNIVAL SKETCHES--(CONTINUED.)]
EMBROIDERY FOR GIRLS.
BY SUSAN HAYES WARD.
NO. IV.
A gentleman who has done more beautiful art work than any other I have
ever known once told me that his principle was first to know the rules
of art, and then to do as he saw fit. The one rule of the embroiderer's
art that I would specially emphasize for you is that whatever is worth
doing at all is worth doing as well as you know how. You do not wish to
fill your homes with worthless work. It is vastly better to do but
little, and to make that as choice and dainty as possible, for the first
charm of embroidery is its nicety.
Having thus put you on your guard, let me tell you how the New England
stitch may be modified and rendered more simple. This modified stitch is
only for those who are so painstaking that they can be trusted never to
slight their work except judiciously, for no lazy needle-woman could
resist the fascination of this easiest of embroidery stitches. She would
never use another. If you can not trust yourself, skip this article.
[Illustration: FIG. 14.]
Take your first stitch as in Fig. 10, then, instead of reversing the
stitch and pushing the needle from you, point the needle toward you as
shown in Fig. 14.
Of course when each stitch is taken naturally with the needle pointing
toward you, the work reels off wonderfully fast, but the stitch loses in
effect, for instead of the pretty double twist, you now have the needle
cross the thread but once, making a single twist not nearly so pretty
when examined closely. (For work that is only to have its little day,
like a tidy or a bureau-cover, I should surely use this modified form of
the stitch. Life is too short to spend time in pushing your needle
backward, when pushing it forward will do as well. For nice work, for
hangings before choice little cabinets, or for a bed-spread that may
last a century, take the stitch the old way; but for work that is not
meant to last a lifetime, use the easiest stitch possible.)
[Illustration: FIG. 15.]
Fig. 15 is meant to be repeated for the ends of a table-scarf or
bureau-cover, with the border in two shades; another line can be added a
half-inch below 2 to give weight to the border.
The lines 1 and 2 are to be worked in stem stitch, the space _a_ filled
with a darker and _b_ with a lighter shade; _c_ is not filled in. The
design (Fig. 16) can be colored to suit your room or the shade of the
stuff on which it is worked, though old gold, soft yellows, pinks, and
blues would be pretty for the flowers, the border being in old golds or
blues.
[Illustration: FIG. 16.]
This design would do well scattered, or, to use the technical word,
_powdered_, over a small curtain, alternating it with small sprays from
the design like _x_ or _y_, or for the corners of a small table-cover.
THE CRANES OF IBYCUS.
Ibycus was travelling one day on the road between Athens and Sparta,
when he was set upon by some brigands, who robbed and murdered him. He
cried for help--none was at hand; but just at the last he raised his
dying eyes toward the sky and saw a flock of cranes flying high in the
air above his head, and with his last breath he called upon _them_ to
avenge him. The assassins laughed at such a prayer; but it was strangely
answered. The men hurried off to Athens to enjoy their booty, and a few
days afterward went to the theatre, which in those days was in the open
air. As the performance was going on, some birds were noticed flying low
above the assembled crowd. "Ha! ha! those are the cranes of Ibycus!" one
of the robbers unthinkingly said to his neighbor. Sorely he repented it
the next moment, for others had caught the words. "Ibycus? Ibycus? What
had become of him?" He was a well-known man, and had been missed. The
men were seized, and believing that the gods had revealed their crime,
they confessed all, and were executed. This story is beautifully told in
one of the poems of Schiller, the great German poet.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 66, February 1.]
PHIL'S FAIRIES.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS,
AUTHOR OF "PRINCESS IDLEWAYS," ETC.
CHAPTER II.
PHIL'S NEW FRIEND.
[Illustration: BLACK JOE, THE FIDDLER.]
Old black Joe had not always been either a boot-black or fiddler. In his
youthful days he had been a house-servant, and had prided himself on his
many accomplishments--his dexterity at dinners, his grace at evening
parties, the ease and unconcern with which he could meet embarrassing
emergencies at either; but times had changed for him. His old employers
had died, a scolding wife had made his home unhappy, he had lost the
little money he had saved, and he was no longer the bright, cheerful
young fellow he had been. Age and rheumatism had made him crusty; but
beneath the outward manner, which sometimes was very cross, he had a
tender heart and a pitiful nature.
Of late years he had picked up enough for his support in the many little
ways incident to city life. He could whitewash, sweep chimneys, run on
errands--or rather walk on them, and that, too, very slowly. He
shovelled snow and carried coal, sawed wood and helped the servants at
whose homes he was employed.
His occupations took him about to many houses, but he always irritated
the people with whom he came in contact by invariably assuring them that
their masters and mistresses were not of the real stuff that ladies and
gentlemen of _his_ day were made of; that fine feathers did not make
fine birds; that people nowadays were all alike, and had no manners.
He made one exception only, in favor of a maiden lady, whose parents he
had known, whose servants were kind to him, and whose retired and
dignified way of living quite suited his fastidiousness.
This was a Miss Schuyler; and nothing pleased Joe more than to have this
one person, whom he regarded with unqualified admiration, send for him
to bestow the monthly allowance she was in the habit of giving him. On
the day that he expected this summons he always gave an extra touch to
his toilet, exchanged his torn coat for a patched one, his slouch hat
for a very much worn beaver adorned with a band of rusty crape, and out
of the pocket of his coat, but never upon his hands, was to be seen an
old pair of yellow kid gloves.
In the course of Joe's wanderings he had chanced to hear of the invalid
boy Phil, who liked to listen to his fiddle, and it did not take long to
strike up an acquaintance between them.
Often on a rainy day, or when work was dull, Joe would spend an hour or
two with Phil, relieving his loneliness, soothing his pain, and cheering
him with his music and his rambling talk about "old times" and the
people he had seen.
It was the latter part of May, and had been very warm; but Joe buttoned
up his best coat and donned his beaver, for his pay was due at Miss
Schuyler's. She lived in a large house, rather imposing and handsome,
and in the gayest part of the city; but she was by no means imposing or
gay in her own person. A little figure, simply dressed, a kind face
without beauty, a gentle manner, and a certain gracious kindliness and
familiarity had endeared her to Joe. On this day she was not, as usual,
sitting with her work in the library, where the sun poured in on the
bronzes and richly bound volumes, on the old engravings and the frescoed
ceiling--for Miss Schuyler liked light and warmth and color--but she was
away up in the top of the house, directing her maids in the packing of
blankets and woollens and furs, preparatory to leaving her house for the
summer. Joe had mounted stair after stair seeking her, and by the time
he reached her was quite out of breath; this, and the odor of camphor
and cedar wood, made him sneeze and cough until Miss Schuyler said to
one of the maids in a whisper, "The poor old soul would have been black
in the face had he ever been white."
To Joe himself she said, very kindly, "My good old friend, you need not
have taken so much trouble to see me; I could have come down to you."
"Laws, Miss Rachel, I knew you was busy, and nuffin's ever a trouble to
do for you; I go to the tops of houses often--just come from one where
poor Phil's a-groanin' with pain. That chile'll die if somebody don't do
suthin fur him soon."
"What child?" asked Miss Schuyler, whose tender point was her love of
children. "You haven't any grandchildren, Joe, have you?"
"No, Miss Rachel, de Lord nebber trusted me with any chil'en."