Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 19. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, March 9, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
ACROSS THE OCEAN; OR, A BOY'S FIRST VOYAGE.
A True Story.
BY
J. O. DAVIDSON.
CHAPTER I.
THE FIRST NIGHT AT SEA.
P.M. steam-ship _Arizona_ sails this day at 4.30 P.M. for China
and the East, _viâ_ Suez Canal. Freight received until 4 P.M. Hands
wanted.
"I guess that's what I want," muttered a boy, who was comparing the
printed slip in his hand with the above notice, conspicuously displayed
from the yard of a huge ocean steamer alongside one of the North River
piers at New York.
Not a very heroic figure, certainly, this young volunteer in the battle
of life: tired, seemingly, by the way in which he dragged his feet;
cold, evidently, for he shivered every now and then, well wrapped up as
he was; hungry, probably, for he had looked very wistfully around him as
he passed through the busy, well-lighted market, where many a merry
group were laughing and joking over their purchase of the morrow's
Christmas dinner. But with all this, there was something in his firm
mouth and clear bright eye which showed that, as the Western farmer
said, on seeing Washington's portrait, "You wouldn't git that man to
leave 'fore he's ready."
Picking up the bag and bundle which he had laid down for a moment, our
hero entered the wharf house.
"Clear the way there!"
"Look out ahead!"
"Stand o' one side, will yer?"
"Now, sir, hurry up--boat's jist a-goin!"
"Arrah, now, kape yer umbrelly out o' me ribs, can't ye? Sure I'm not
fat enough for the spit _yet_!'
"Hallo, bub! it's death by the law to walk into the river without a
license. Guess you want to keep farther off the edge o' the pier."
The boy's head seemed to reel with his sudden plunge into all this
bustle and uproar, to which even that of the crowded streets outside was
as nothing. Men were rushing hither and thither, as if their lives
depended on it, with tools, coils of rope, bundles of clothing, and
trucks of belated freight. Dockmen, sailors, stevedores, porters,
hackmen, outward-bound passengers, and visitors coming ashore again
after taking leave of their friends, jostled each other; and all this,
seen under the fitful lamp-light, with the great black waste of the
shadowy river behind it, seemed like the whirl of a troubled dream.
And the farther he went, the more did the confusion increase. Here stood
a portly gray-beard shouting and storming over the loss of his purse,
which he presently found safe in his inner pocket; there a timid old
lady in spectacles was vainly screaming after a burly porter who was
carrying off her trunk in the wrong direction; an unlucky dog, trodden
on in the press, was yelling; and an enormously fat man, having in his
hurry jammed his carpet-bag between two other men even fatter than
himself, was roaring to them to move aside, while they in their turn
were asking fiercely what he meant by "pushing in where he wasn't
wanted."
Suddenly the clang of a bell pierced this Babel of mingled noises, while
a hoarse voice shouted, "All aboard that's going! landsmen ashore!"
The boy sprang forward, flew across the gang-plank just as it began to
move, and leaped on deck with such energy as to run his head full butt
into the chest of a passing sailor, nearly knocking him down.
"Now, then, where are yer a-shovin' to?" growled the aggrieved tar, in
gruff English accents. "If yer thinks yer 'ead was only made to ram into
other folks' insides, it's my b'lief yer ought to ha' been born a
cannon-ball."
But the lad had flown past, and darting through a hatchway, reached the
upper deck, where a group of sailors were gathered round a cannon. On
its breech an officer had spread a paper, which a big good-natured
Connaught man was awkwardly endeavoring to sign. After several
floundering attempts with his huge hairy right hand, he suddenly shifted
the pen to his left.
"Are you left-handed, my man?" asked the officer.
"Faith, my mother used to say I was whiniver she gev me annything to
do," answered Paddy, with a grin; "but this _is_ my right hand, properly
spaking, ounly it's got on the left side by mistake. 'Twas my ould uncle
Dan (rest his sowl!) taught me that thrick. 'Dinnis, me bhoy,' he'd be
always sayin', 'ye should aiven l'arn to clip yer finger-nails wid the
left hand, _for fear ye'd some day lose the right_.'"
This "bull" drew a shout of laughter from all who heard it, and the
officer, turning his head to conceal a smile, caught sight of our hero.
"Hallo! another landsman! Boatswain, hold that gang-plank a moment, or
we'll be taking this youngster to sea with us."
"That's just what I want," cried the boy, vehemently. "_Will_ you take
me, sir?"
"Run away from home, of course," muttered the officer. "That's what
comes of reading _Robinson Crusoe_--they all do it. Well, my lad, as I
see it's too late to put you ashore now, what do you want to ship as?
Ever at sea before?"
"No, sir; but I'll take any place you like to give me."
"Sign here, then."
And down went the name of "Frank Austin," under the printed heading of
"Working Passenger." The officer went off with the paper, the sailors
dispersed, and Frank was left alone.
Gradually the countless lights of New York, Brooklyn, and Jersey City
sank behind, as the vessel neared the great gulf of darkness beyond the
Narrows. Tompkins Light, Fort Lafayette, Sandy Hook, slipped by one by
one. The bar was crossed, the light-ship passed, and now no sound broke
the dreary silence but the rush of the steamer through the dark waters,
with the "Highland Lights" watching her like two steadfast eyes.
Of what was the lonely boy thinking as he stood there on the threshold
of his first voyage? Did he picture to himself, swimming, through a hail
of Dutch and English cannon-shot with the dispatch that turned the
battle, the round black head of a little cabin-boy who was one day to be
Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel? Did he see a vast dreary ice-field
outspread beneath the cold blue arctic sky, and midway across it the
huge ungainly figure of a polar bear, held at bay with the butt of an
empty musket by a young middy whose name was Horatio Nelson? Was it the
low sandy shores of Egypt that he saw, reddened by the flames of a huge
three-decker, aboard of which the boy Casabianca
"stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled"?
Or were his visions of an English "reefer" being thrashed on his own
ship by a young American prisoner, who was thereafter to write his name
in history as "Salamander" Farragut? Far from it. Frank's thoughts were
busy with the home he had left; and amid the cold and darkness, its cozy
fireside and bright circle of happy faces rose before him more
distinctly than ever.
"Wonder if they've missed me yet? The boys'll be going out to the
coasting hill presently to shout for me: and sister Kate (dear little
pet!), she'll be wondering why brother Frankie don't come back to finish
her sled as he promised. And what distress they'll all be in till they
get my first letter! and--"
"Hallo, youngster! skulking already! Come out o' that, and go for'ard,
where you belong."
"I didn't mean to skulk, sir," said Frank, startled from his day-dream
by this rough salutation.
"What? answering back, are ye? None o' yer slack. Go for'ard and get to
work--smart, now!"
Frank obeyed, wondering whether this could really be the pleasant
officer of a few hours before. Down in the dark depths below him figures
were flitting about under the dim lamp-light, sorting cargo and "setting
things straight," as well as the rolling of the ship would let them; and
our hero, wishing to be of some use, volunteered to help a grimy fireman
in rolling up a hose-pipe.
But he soon repented his zeal. The hard casing bruised his unaccustomed
hands terribly, and it really seemed as if the work would never end. It
ended, however, too soon for him; for the pipe suddenly parted at the
joint, and splash came a jet of ice-cold water in poor Frank's face,
drenching him from head to foot, and nearly knocking the breath out of
his body.
"Why didn't you let go, then?" growled the ungrateful fireman, coolly
disappearing through a dark doorway, hose and all, while Frank, wet and
shivering, crawled away to the engine-room. Its warmth and brightness
tempted him to enter and sit down in a corner; but he was hardly settled
there when a man in a glazed cap roughly ordered him out again.
Off went the unlucky boy once more, with certain thoughts of his own as
to the "pleasures" of a sea life, which made Gulliver and Sindbad the
Sailor appear not quite so reliable as before. He dived into the
"tween-decks" and sank down on a coil of rope, fairly tired out. But in
another moment he was stirred up again by a hearty shake, and the gleam
of a lantern in his eyes, while a hoarse though not unkindly voice said,
"Come, lad, you're only in the way here; go below and turn in."
Frank could not help thinking that it was time to turn in, after being
so often turned out. Down he went, and found himself in a close,
ill-lighted, stifling place (where hardly anything could be seen, and a
great deal too much smelled) lined with what seemed like monster chests
of drawers, with a man in each drawer, while others were swinging in
their hammocks. He crept into one of the bare wooden bunks, drew the
musty blanket over him, and, taking his bundle for a pillow, was asleep
in a moment, despite the loud snoring of some of his companions, and the
half-tipsy shouting and quarrelling of the rest.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A FAIRY FLIGHT.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
A fairy lived in a lily bell--
Ring, sing, columbine!
In frosts she stole a wood-snail's shell,
Till soft the sun should shine;
And spring-time comes again, my dear,
And spring-time comes again,
With rattling showers, and wakened flowers,
And bristling blades of grain.
And, oh! the lily bell was sweet--
Ring, swing, columbine!
But the snail shell pinched her little feet,
And suns were slow to shine.
It's long till spring-time comes, my dear,
Till spring-time comes again:
The year delays its smiling days,
And snow-drifts heap the plain.
The fairy caught a butterfly--
Swing, cling, columbine!
The last that dared to float and fly
When pale the sun did shine;
For spring is slow to come, my dear,
Is slow to come again,
And far away doth summer play,
Beyond the roaring main.
She mounted on her painted steed--
Ring, cling, columbine!
And well he served that fairy's need,
And hot the sun did shine.
The spring she followed fast, my dear,
She followed it amain;
Where blossoms throng the whole year long
She found the spring again.
Oh, fairy sweet! come back once more--
Ring, swing, columbine!
When grass is green on hill and shore,
And summer sunbeams shine.
What if the spring is late, my dear,
And comes with dropping rain?
When roses blow and rivers flow,
Come back to us again.
ANIMALS THAT LOVE MUSIC.
Music affects animals differently. Some rejoice, and are evidently happy
when listening to it, while others show unmistakable dislike to the
sound.
For some years my father lived in an old Hall in the neighborhood of one
of our large towns, and there I saw the influence of music upon many
animals. There was a beautiful horse, the pride and delight of us all,
and like many others, he disliked being caught. One very hot summer day
I was sitting at work in the garden, when old Willy the gardener
appeared, streaming with perspiration.
"What is the matter, Willy?"
"Matter enough, miss. There's that Robert, the uncanny beast; he won't
be caught, all I can do or say. I've give him corn, and one of the best
pears off the tree; but he's too deep for me--he snatched the pear,
kicked up his heels, and off he is, laughing at me, at the bottom of the
meadow."
"Well, Willy, what can I do? He won't let me catch him, you know."
"Ay, but, miss, if you will only just go in and begin a toon on the
peanner, cook says he will come up to the fence and hearken to you, for
he is always a-doing that; and maybe I can slip behind and cotch him."
I went in at once, not expecting my stratagem to succeed. But in a few
minutes the saucy creature was standing quietly listening while I played
"Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled." The halter was soon round his neck,
and he went away to be harnessed, quite happy and contented.
There was a great peculiarity about his taste for music. He never would
stay to listen to a plaintive song. I soon observed this. If I played
"Scots, wha hae," he would listen, well pleased. If I changed the
measure and expression, playing the same air plaintively, he would toss
his head and walk away, as if to say, "That is not my sort of music."
Changing to something martial, he would return and listen to me.
In this respect he entirely differed from a beautiful cow we had. She
had an awful temper. She never would go with the other cows at
milking-time. She liked the cook, and, when not too busy, cook would
manage Miss Nancy. When the cook milked her, it was always close to the
fence, near the drawing-room. If I were playing, she would stand
perfectly still, yielding her milk without any trouble, and would remain
until I ceased. As long as I played plaintive music--the "Land o' the
Leal," "Home, Sweet Home," "Robin Adair," any sweet, tender air--she
seemed entranced. I have tried her, and changed to martial music,
whereupon she invariably walked away.
HOW MANY WORLDS?
"Professor," asked May, "are there more worlds with people on them like
this one of ours?"
"That is a hard question," said he. "For many ages it was believed that
there could be _only one_. More recently, when astronomers learned by
the aid of their telescopes the countless number of the heavenly bodies,
it began to be doubted whether such an immense creation could be
destitute of intelligent creatures like man; and it was argued that most
likely the Almighty had supplied the heavenly bodies with inhabitants,
but had for some good reason thought best not to reveal the fact to us,
perhaps because our attention might be too much drawn away from the
truths that He wished us particularly to remember. At last, however, men
of science, continuing their researches, seem to be settling back in the
first opinion."
"Why is that?" asked Joe.
"Because they find reasons for thinking that our earth has had human
beings on it only a very little while in comparison with its own
existence. And if this world was millions of years without man, then, of
course, any or all the heavenly bodies may still be without any such
creature on them."
"Is there no better reason than that?" asked Joe.
"Yes, there is considerable evidence that the bodies nearest to us can
not be inhabited by any creatures at all like man. On the moon, for
instance, there is no air to breathe and no water to drink. And without
air and water there can be no grass, trees, or plants of any kind, and
no food for any animal. And besides starving, all creatures that we know
of would immediately freeze to death; for the moon is excessively cold.
The nights are about thirty times as long as ours, and allow each
portion of its surface to get so cold that nothing could live."
"How did the moon get so cold?" asked Joe. "What became of the heat?"
"It went off into the surrounding space, which is all very cold. Empty
space does not get warmed by the sun, whose heat seems chiefly to lodge
in solid bodies and dense fluids."
"But some of the planets are larger than the moon, are they not?" asked
Joe.
[Illustration]
"Yes, Jupiter, for instance, is very much larger than the moon and the
earth; and Professor Proctor tells us it will take Jupiter millions of
years to become as cool as the earth, while the moon was as cool as the
earth millions of years ago. Here is a picture of the planet; but its
surface is changing so constantly, that it seldom appears the same on
two nights in succession. Jupiter at present is wrapped in enormous
volumes of thin cloud that rises up from a melted and boiling mass in
the centre. Professor Newcomb supposes that there is only a
comparatively small core of liquid, the greater part of the planet being
made up of seething vapor. So you see it would be about as difficult to
live on Jupiter as in a steam-boiler, or a caldron of molten lead. Since
last summer a great red spot has been noticed on the surface of the
planet, which has attracted much attention. Some think it is an immense
opening, large enough for our earth to be dropped through."
"Are the other planets such dreadful places?" asked May.
"Saturn seems to be in about the same condition as Jupiter. Mars is
thought to be solid, and to have land, water, and air. It has also two
brilliant white spots on opposite sides, which are supposed to be vast
fields of ice and snow. But the water seems to be disappearing; and the
time when the planet could be inhabited is thought to be long gone by."
"Where does the water go?" asked Joe.
"Probably it sinks into the cracks or fissures which form in the crust
of the planet when it begins to shrivel up with the cold."
"Then it must be like a great frozen grave-yard," said May. "But is
there no other planet that is pleasanter to think about?"
"The one that seems on the whole to be most like our own is Venus, and
so Professor Proctor calls it our sister planet. It is so close to the
sun that it is hidden most of the time, being only seen for a while
before sunrise, and at other times a while after sunset. In the one case
it is called the morning, and in the other the evening star. Also there
is Mercury, still nearer the sun, and hidden almost all the time."
"Then," said May, "there seems to be no way of knowing anything about
there being people like us in other worlds; and the more we look into
it, the more uncertain we become."
"That is about the way the case stands," said the Professor. "But if
science continues to make as rapid progress as it has lately done, we
may hope that it will yet throw more light on the question."
"How many planets are there?" asked Joe.
"Until quite recent times there were supposed to be only the five we
have mentioned. Since the beginning of the present century about two
hundred little planets, called asteroids, have been discovered between
the orbits, or paths, of Mars and Jupiter. Then there are Uranus and
Neptune, very far off from the sun and from us, so much so that the
latter was mistaken for a fixed star."
"Professor," said May, "you mentioned the moon as being near to us. Can
you explain to us how its distance is measured, so that we can
understand it?"
"And then, Professor," said Jack, "I would like to know what _parallax_
means."
"There," said Gus, "is another big word of Jack's--pallylacks,
knickknacks, gimcracks, slapjacks!"
"Hush, you goose."
[Illustration]
"I think," said the Professor, "I can answer May's and Jack's questions
both at once, as they are very closely connected. Suppose that at night,
when you look down the street, you see two gas lamps, one much farther
off than the other. Then if you go across the street, the nearer lamp
will seem to move in the opposite way from what you did. Thus, in the
diagram, when you are at A, the nearer lamp is on the right of the
other, and when you go over to B and look at it, it is on the left. This
change in direction is called _parallax_. Now we can imagine the nearer
one of the lights to be the moon, and that an observatory, or tower with
a telescope in it, is located at A, from which the direction of the moon
is carefully noted at six o'clock in the morning. Then by six in the
evening the earth, spinning round on its axis, will have carried the
observatory about 8000 miles away from A, and placed it at, say, B. If
the moon's direction be again noted, it is very easy to calculate her
distance by a branch of mathematics called trigonometry, which Jack, I
have no doubt, has already studied."
[Illustration: THAT NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY BOY.
"Gimee more pie-ee!"]
A FOUR-FOOTED MESSENGER
Just after the raising of the siege of Fort Stanwix, in the Mohawk
Valley, the neighborhood continued to be infested with prowling bands of
Indians.
Captain Gregg and a companion were out shooting one day, and were just
preparing to return to the fort, when two shots were fired in quick
succession, and Gregg saw his comrade fall, while he himself felt a
wound in his side which so weakened him that he speedily fell.
Two Indians at the same time sprang out of the bushes, and rushed toward
him. Gregg saw that his only hope was to feign death, and succeeded in
lying perfectly still while the Indians tore off his scalp.
As soon as they had gone, he endeavored to reach his companion, but had
no sooner got to his feet than he fell again. A second effort succeeded
no better, but the third time he managed to reach the spot where his
comrade lay, only to find him lifeless. He rested his head upon the
bloody body, and the position afforded him some relief.
But the comfort of this position was destroyed by a small dog, which had
accompanied him on his expedition, manifesting his sympathy by whining,
yelping, and leaping around his master. He endeavored to force him away,
but his efforts were in vain until he exclaimed, "If you wish so much to
help me, go and call some one to my relief."
To his surprise, the animal immediately bounded off at his utmost speed.
He made his way to where three men were fishing, a mile from the scene
of the tragedy, and as he came up to them began to whine and cry, and
endeavored, by bounding into the woods and returning again and again, to
induce them to follow him.
These actions of the dog convinced the men that there was some unusual
cause, and they resolved to follow him.
They proceeded for some distance, but finding nothing, and darkness
setting in, they became alarmed, and started to return. The dog now
became almost frantic, and catching hold of their coats with his teeth,
strove to force them to follow him.
The men were astonished at this pertinacity, and finally concluded to go
with him a little further, and presently came to where Gregg was lying,
still alive. They buried his companion, and carried the captain to the
fort. Strange as it may seem, the wounds of Gregg, severe as they were,
healed in time, and he recovered his perfect health.
[Illustration: SHINNY ON THE ICE.]
WILL'S BELGIAN NIGHT.
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
"Just like so many sheep!"
This was Will Brooks's exclamation, as he waited, with his elder brother
Charlie, at the Northern Railroad station, in Paris. And truth to tell,
the passengers were driven about and distributed somewhat after the
manner of flocks, for, having purchased their tickets, they were obliged
to pass along a corridor, opening into which were medium-sized
waiting-rooms, separated from one another only by low partitions, and
labelled, so to speak, as first, second, and third class. Here they were
compelled to wait until five or ten minutes before the train was to
leave, during which interval everybody endeavored to obtain the place
nearest the door, so as to be sure of a choice of seats in the cars.
Will and his brother had succeeded in getting pretty near the knob,
where they were nearly suffocated with bad air, and much bruised by the
satchels and umbrellas of their fellow-travellers.
"Now, Will, be ready," said Charlie, as a man was seen to approach with
a key in his hand.
"All right; America to the front!" returned his patriotic brother; and
at the same moment the doors were flung open, and in his nasal French
tones the guard sang out, "Pour Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle, et Cologne!"
With a rush as of the sudden breaking away of a long pent-up mountain
stream, the crowds surged forth from their "pens," and ran frantically
up and down the long platform in search of the carriages for which they
were respectively booked. The first-class compartment which Will and his
brother had selected was speedily occupied by the six others required to
fill it, their companions consisting of a gentleman and his wife, an old
lady and a little boy, and two young men, evidently all French.
Everybody had got nicely settled, the luggage was arranged in the racks
overhead, and the train was just about to start, when a lady mounted to
the doorway, with a little girl in one hand, and a bag, basket, and
umbrella in the other. With a great volume of French she endeavored to
thrust the child into the compartment, but was forced to desist from the
attempt in deference to the remonstrances of the majority of those who
already occupied it.
"C'est complet! c'est complet!" was the cry, and in the midst of the
confusion the guard approached to close the doors preparatory to
starting. To him the distressed lady appealed in behalf of her
offspring, for whom, she declared, there was no room in any of the
carriages, and further stated that she herself was obliged to remain
with her youngest, who was at present in charge of her next to the
youngest in another car. The guard was finally obliged to settle matters
by delaying the train, and adding thereto another carriage.
The conversation incidental to the foregoing episode had been
interpreted to Will by his brother, whose French had been polished up
considerably during his three weeks' stay in Paris. He and Will were
over for an autumn tour in Europe, and having "done" the British Isles
and the capital of France, they were now on their way to Germany.
Will had enjoyed his trip thus far immensely, even though he knew no
modern language but his American English, and he now looked forward to
seeing the wonders of the father-land with all the bright anticipations
of fourteen.
"What's that for, I wonder?" he suddenly exclaimed, catching sight of a
small triangular piece of looking-glass set in the upholstery at the
back of the front seat of the compartment. "Read what it says
underneath, Charlie;" which the latter accordingly did, reporting that
it was a device for calling the guard in cases of emergency, the way of
doing so being to break the glass and pull a cord which would be
discovered in the recess thus exposed, which cord communicated with the
engine. But if the glass be broken, the notice went on to state, without
sufficient cause, a heavy fine would be imposed on the offender.
"But suppose I couldn't read French, as indeed I can't," surmised Will,
"and were in here alone--that is, alone in company with a crazy man who
was about to murder me--how could I ever imagine that by smashing that
bit of glass I might stop the train, and so be rescued? Besides--"
"Nonsense!" interrupted his brother. "Don't you see the directions are
repeated both in English and German underneath?" and Will looked and
saw, and immediately turned his attention out of the window, leaving
Charlie to peruse his French newspaper in peace.
There was, however, not much of interest to observe in the somewhat
barren-looking country through which the railroad ran; and voting France
(Paris excepted) a very slow place indeed, Will buried himself for the
rest of the afternoon in a boy's book of travels. Nevertheless, the
journey proved a very tedious one, and after stopping for dinner at six,
the two brothers endeavored to bridge over the remaining hours with
sleep.
"Verviers!" shouted out by the guard, was the sound that caused them
both to awake with a start. The train had stopped, and all the
passengers were preparing to "descend," as the French have it.
"Now, Will," said Charlie, sleepily, trying to read his guide-book by
the light of the flickering lamp in the roof of the compartment, "this
is the Belgian custom-house; but all trunks registered through to
Cologne, as ours is, they allow to pass unopened; but it seems that
everybody is required to get out and offer their satchels to the
officers for examination; but, as we've only one between us, there's no
use in our both rousing up, so you just take this, and follow the
crowd."
"All right," responded Will, now thoroughly wide-awake; "then I can say
I've been in Belgium;" and snatching the small hand-bag from the rack,
he hurried off, leaving his brother to continue his nap.
"Wonder which room it is?" surmised Will, for the platform was deserted,
and there were four waiting-apartments opening out on it. It did not
take him long, however, to discover the proper one for him to enter, and
he was soon among the jostling crowd that surrounded the low counter,
behind which were the customs officials, who sometimes opened a bag and
glanced over the contents, and then hastily marked on it with a piece of
chalk, but oftener simply chalked it without examining anything
whatever, which latter harmless operation was all to which Will's
effects were subjected.
Rejoiced at getting through so easily, he turned to hasten out to the
cars again, but the door by which he had entered was now closed, and
guarded by a gendarme. From the gestures the latter made when he
attempted to pass him, Will understood that he was to go out by another
exit into an adjoining waiting-room, where he found most of the other
passengers assembled in the true flock-of-sheep style; but while he was
wondering where he might be driven to next, he saw through the window
the train, containing his brother, his ticket, and his power of speech,
whirl suddenly away into the darkness, and disappear.
"Hallo here! let me out!" cried Will, rushing up to the officer
stationed at the door. "I'm going to Cologne on those cars, don't you
understand?"
But the man evidently did not understand, for he shook his head in a
most stupid fashion, at the same time feeling for his sword, as though
afraid "le jeune Américain" were going to brush past him with the energy
characteristic of the nation.
Seeing that it was now too late for him to catch the already vanished
train, even if he should succeed in gaining the tracks, Will gave up the
attempt, and resigned himself to his fate.
"But why are not the other passengers in as great a state of anxiety as
I am?" he thought, as he looked around at his sleepy fellow-travellers,
who had disposed themselves about the room in various attitudes of
weariness and patience. "Perhaps, though, they're not going to Cologne;
very likely they're all bound for some place in Belgium here, on another
road. And now what's to become of me, a green American, with no French
at my tongue's end but 'oui' and 'parlez-vous,' not a sign of a ticket,
and with but six francs in my purse? Oh, Charlie, why did you send me
out with this bag?" and Will paced nervously up and down the
waiting-room, trying to think of a way out of his predicament. Suddenly
a happy idea struck him.
"I'll go out by the door that opens into the town, and walk along till I
come to the end of the station building, and then perhaps I can make my
way around to the inside, and so see if the train really has gone off
for good. Very likely it was only switched off, and will soon back down
again."
Putting this plan into execution, Will was soon out in the streets of
the queer Belgian city, wandering along in the darkness, striving to
find the end of the dépôt, and then of a high board fence, which latter
seemed to be interminable. At length, however, he reached an open space,
and was about to leap across a telegraphic arrangement that ran beside
the tracks, when one of the inevitable gens-d'armes sprang up from
somewhere behind, and gave Will to understand that he was not allowed to
put himself in the way of being killed by an engine.
Poor boy, he was now completely bewildered, and wished with all his
might that he had studied French instead of Latin. As it was, he
screamed out, "Cologne! Cologne!" with an energy born of desperation,
and the officer, faintly comprehending his meaning, at last muttered a
quick reply in his unknown tongue, and hurried Will off back to the
dépôt with an alacrity that caused our young American to have some fears
he might be taking him to quite another sort of station-house. But,
notwithstanding their haste, when they entered the waiting-room it was
empty, and the flashing of a red lamp on the rear car of a departing
train told whither its former occupants had gone.
And now Will understood it all. The passengers had been locked up while
some switching was done, simply to prevent them from becoming confused.
"What a blockhead I was!" he thought, quite angry with himself. "If I'd
just staid quietly where I was put, and not gone racing off, with the
idea that I knew more about their railroads than the Belgians
themselves, I'd never have gotten myself into such a scrape. And now
what am I to do? I suppose Charlie's still fast asleep in the cars,
being carried further and further away from me; and here am I, left at
nine o'clock at night in an entirely foreign country, without a ticket,
and, for the matter of that, without a tongue in my head. Why didn't
some of the other passengers explain matters to me, and-- But, pshaw!
what good would it have done if they had? I couldn't have understood a
word."
All this time the gendarme had been talking with the ticket agent, and
pointing to Will as though the latter had been a stray dog not capable
of saying anything in his own behalf. What should he do? where should he
go? and how could he manage to pass away the time that might elapse till
his brother should miss him and return in search of him? And now the
officer came up, and began to question him, speaking very slowly, and in
an extremely loud tone. Notwithstanding, poor Will could only understand
a word here and there, and at length, in despair, he determined to try a
new plan.
Taking out his purse, he showed the money therein to the gendarme, at
the same time exclaiming, "Hotel! hotel!" and pointing to himself. The
officer evidently comprehended this pantomime, for, with a nod to the
ticket agent, who had all the while been grinning through his little
wicket, he motioned for Will to follow him out into the street.
The Hôtel du Chemin de Fer (Railroad Hotel) was close at hand, and
having in a few rapid sentences explained the situation to the landlord,
the gendarme left Will to his own resources.
The latter thought for a moment that he had stepped into pandemonium
itself, for opening on the right into the main hall of the hotel was a
large apartment decorated with a sort of stage scenery to represent
trees and lakes, the room itself being filled with little tables, around
which were seated men smoking and drinking beer, while a thin-toned
brass band discoursed popular music from a gallery overhead.
Will stared at this strange sight with all his eyes, and then suddenly
became conscious at one and the same moment that he was hungry and being
talked at by the proprietor. Encouraged by his former success with
one-word speeches, Will simply said "Coffee," and then sat down at one
of the little tables, where he was speedily served with a generous cup
of the invigorating beverage, together with a plentiful supply of bread
and butter.
"What a queer adventure!" thought the youth, his spirits much improved
by the warm draughts of coffee, to say nothing of the lights and music.
"But now how shall I ever be able to make the man understand that I want
to stay here all night? Charlie's sure to come back for me in the
morning. Oh, I have it! I'll register my name on a piece of paper, hand
it to the landlord, and exhibit my purse again;" which plan succeeded
admirably, and "William C. Brooks, New York, America," was immediately
shown to a good-sized room on the second floor, where he lost no time in
retiring to rest after his eventful evening.
His sleep, however, was not undisturbed, for all night long he imagined
himself to be an American locomotive towing an English steamer across
the Atlantic, and crashing into several icebergs on the way.
The next morning Will opened his eyes in a flood of sunshine, and at
first could not recollect where he was, but the whistling of an engine
near by soon recalled to him his situation, causing him at the same time
to hurry with his dressing, that he might hasten over to the station for
news of his brother. He did not have to go as far as that, however, for
as he was going down stairs he ran against Charlie coming up, and Will
had never been so glad to see anybody or anything since the time when he
used to open his eyes on Christmas mornings to behold the well-filled
stocking hanging from the mantel-piece.
Over the breakfast, which the brothers ate together in the theatrical
dining-room, the elder explained how he had not missed Will till the
train had left Verviers a good distance behind. "And then when I awoke
from my nap," continued Charlie, "you can imagine the fright I was in
when I found the cars going, and you gone. We had just passed
Aix-la-Chapelle when I made the dreadful discovery, or I might have
driven back here from there with a carriage, for it is only twenty miles
off; but as it was, I could do nothing but fret till we arrived at
Cologne, from which city I at once telegraphed to the station-master
here, and ascertained that you were safe and sound, and fast asleep in
bed."
"But why didn't they wake me up, and let me know that you knew that--"
broke in Will, but choked the remainder of his speech with a swallow of
coffee and a slice of bread, from a sudden remembrance of the crashing
of icebergs, which might have been knocks on the door he had heard in
his sleep.
"The whole thing was my fault, though," summed up Charlie, as, having
settled with the smiling landlord, they walked over to the station. "I
should not have let you go off alone in a new country; but then," he
could not help adding, "you should not have left the rest of the flock,
when you were shut up in the pen."
"I never will again," said Will, as they took their places in the train
for Cologne; "I'll be in future the meekest lamb they ever drove. But
anyway," he continued, as the cars rolled slowly away from the dépôt, "I
can say I have been in Belgium, even though it was only by mistake, and
so have experienced not an Arabian but a Belgian Night."
HETTY.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
They were all in the sitting-room. Matilda Ann was trimming a bonnet to
wear to the concert which was to take place that very evening in the
Town-hall, and the roses did look so pretty that Hetty wished she was
grown up enough to have some one come for her in a brand-new buggy, and
take her to a concert; but where was the use of wishing? Every one told
her she must not be too childish, and then every one said she mustn't
think herself a young woman, and want long gowns and trains, and big
braids and puffs--that there was "time enough yet." She wondered what
"time enough" meant. It seemed to her as if it must be the time of
freedom, and certainly that was a long way off.
Jane was sewing strips of woollen cloth together for the big balls that
were to make carpet, and their mother was darning stockings, and they
were all talking about the school-teacher who had lately come to the
little brown house next to the district school. Jane said she was
"hity-tity," mother said she didn't like to see so many furbelows, and
Matilda Ann criticised her manner of wearing her hair; so Hetty ventured
to say, "I don't think it matters much what she wears, or how she looks,
if she can teach the children."
"Yes," said the mother, "it does matter; for children, need a good
example."
"Of course she ought to be neat," said Hetty.
"Yes, and simple, and not be sticking on jewelry every day."
"For that matter, Aunt Maria says people in the city wear diamonds when
they go to market."
"That does not make it any more sensible; fools are to be found
everywhere."
"But, mother, Miss Martin isn't a fool; she is very nice. I think you
would like her."
"Perhaps so," said the mother, somewhat doubtfully; adding: "She had on
a flounced skirt the last time I saw her. It takes a great deal of time
to do them up nicely. Only rich folk ought to wear them."
"Suppose some one gave her her fine clothes?" said Hetty.
"Not very likely; but that would make it a little better."
Hetty went out to take a swing under the elm-tree, wondering why big
people couldn't find something better to talk about than what other
people wore. Then Jane spoke up:
"Hetty always hates to hear others spoken of when they can't take their
own part."
"She's a good little thing, anyhow," said Matilda Ann, who was standing
before the looking-glass, in high good humor, with the new bonnet on,
and turning her head from side to side, so that she could the better
survey the trimmings.
"Well," said Mrs. Hall, "you've stood there long enough, Matilda Ann. I
never did see such an amazin' amount of vanity as there is nowadays."
"Oh, mother, I dare say you were just as silly when you were young,"
said Jane.
"No," said the mother, severely, "I never was given to fineries; my
heart was set on higher things."
"I don't see, then, how father ever got the chance to do any courting."
"Jane," said Mrs. Hall, "Jedediah Hall would never have married me if I
had been like the girls of the present day, who scorn to churn, and to
wash, and to do housework of any sort. He respected a woman who could
make her family comfortable."
"But the courting--did he ever talk nonsense, mother?"
"The courting was over in short meter, I can tell you. Nonsense?--no,
there was no nonsense about him. Well, well, it's a long time ago." And
she arose, and went out into the kitchen. The table was set for tea, and
the biscuits were ready for the oven. She went to the cellar to skim the
cream, and found a large bowl of custard had been left over from the
dinner. There was more than would be eaten on their own table. What
would she do with it? Pretty soon Hetty heard her mother calling her:
"Hetty! Hetty!"
She ran in quickly from the garden.
"How would you like to take some of this custard to Miss Martin?"
"Splendid!" said Hetty. "But, mother," she said, hesitating, "I thought
you didn't like her?"
"Pshaw, child, I didn't say so. I said I didn't approve of too much
dress. Get your hat and a tin pail. Here;" and she poured out the
custard. "Now go, and mind you come home in time for tea."
[Illustration: HETTY AND JIM--DRAWN BY T. ROBINSON.]
It was a level road, and the afternoon a pleasant one late in the fall.
Hetty could not chase the squirrels, for fear of upsetting her pail;
neither could she pick berries, for they were all gone. And so she
trudged on silently, wishing she were as old as Matilda Ann, so that she
might go to the concert. As she passed a lot which was covered with
stubble, a boy appeared, leaning over the fence. He was a big fellow,
and the son of an old neighbor, and Hetty liked him, but there were
people who said he was mischievous, and told tales of him, which perhaps
made him somewhat shy. He nodded pleasantly enough to her, however, and
asked her where she was going.
"Down to Miss Martin's," was Hetty's reply.
"I say, Hetty," said Jim, "do you think Miss Martin thought it was me
who tried to frighten her the other night?"
"No," said Hetty.
"Well, I was afraid she did. Give a dog a bad name, you know, and he
never gets rid of it."
"But, Jim, you don't mean to speak of yourself that way?" said Hetty.
"Yes, I do; people believe anything of me, and I half the time get the
credit of doing things that never came into my head."
"I only heard a little about Miss Martin's fright; some one chased her,
I believe."
"Yes, Sam Tompkins made believe he was a tramp, and scared her 'most out
of her wits. He ought to have been shot. I licked him when I heard he
had tried to make out it was me who did it, and I'll lick him again,
too."
"Oh, don't, Jim; you had better forget all about it."
"Indeed I won't; I mean to make him repent it. See here, Hetty, I've got
some tickets for the concert. Don't you want to go?"
"Don't I?" said Hetty; "I guess I do; but I can't, you know."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I am not big enough yet," said Hetty, blushing.
"Now I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will ask Miss Martin to go, I'll
take you both, for, you see, I want to be sure that she doesn't hold any
ill-will against me; and if she goes, all the people hereabouts will
know that I was not the mean sneaking coward who tried to frighten her."
"All right," said Hetty. "I understand; and I will go on now as fast as
I can, and coax Miss Martin to go."
"Let me know what she says when you come back, and I'll get the horse
hitched, for father said he'd let me have the wagon."
"I will," said Hetty, already hastening on her way.
The teacher was sitting in rather a lonely and dejected mood at her
window as Hetty's bright face appeared before her. She was a young girl,
with soft brown eyes and a patient expression. It was her first
experience at district-school teaching, and she found it laborious.
Hetty soon told her errand, and in her eagerness so mixed up the concert
and the custard and Matilda Ann's new bonnet that Miss Martin was
bewildered, but after a while made out what it all meant.
"So James Stokes wants me to go to the concert?"
"Yes, ma'am, and me too."
"Have you permission?"
"I'll get it, Miss Martin. I'm sure mother'll say 'yes,' and I sha'n't
tell any one but her. I want to surprise Matilda Ann, and I will get
ready and come here, so that Jim Stokes needn't go to our house."
"Please thank your mother kindly, Hetty, for the custard; it is so nice.
And tell James I shall be happy to go. I knew he was not the one who
frightened me."
Away Hetty flew, as fast as possible, to arrange the matter at home.
Mrs. Hall could not say no, and Hetty soon exchanged her every-day
clothes for her best gown and ribbons.
The Town-hall was crowded, and Hetty heard some one in a pink bonnet
say, "Why, there's our Hetty; how did the child get here?" Then she
turned her smiling face upon Matilda Ann in triumph.
When the concert was half over, and the singers were taking a rest, a
very grand-looking person came to Miss Martin and said: "How do you do,
my dear Amy? I am so glad to see you! And who is this little friend with
you?"
Then the teacher spoke very kindly of Hetty as one of her best pupils,
and Jim was also introduced, and the grand-looking lady said some very
pleasant things to them.
"Who is that?" whispered Hetty.
"It is my aunt," replied Miss Martin--"the one who gives me so many
pretty things. She would like me to live with her, but I prefer to
maintain myself. I could never dress half so tastefully if she did not
give me such nice clothes."
"Oh," said Hetty, much pleased to hear this confirmation of her own
charitable supposition. "May I tell mother about it?" she asked.
"Certainly," said Miss Martin; "I wish you would, for I don't want to be
thought extravagant."
From that time Miss Martin had no stancher friends than Jim and Hetty;
and when one day Jim's big brother led her up the aisle of the village
church as a bride, there were two young people behind her in white
gloves and ribbons who looked almost as bright and happy as the chief
actors of the day.
[Illustration: "STRAYS."--FROM A PAINTING BY H. H. CAUTY.]
A LITTLE GIRL'S IMPRESSIONS OF MADEIRA.
BY KATIE C. YORKE.
It was a beautiful clear day in October when I had my first view of
Madeira. The high blue mountains, the green shores, and the white city
of Funchal gleaming in the distance, looked very lovely to us as we
approached the island.
About noon we anchored at a little distance from the city, and swarms of
row-boats came around the ship. Some of them were full of half-naked
brown boys, and if we threw a piece of money into the beautiful blue
water, they would dive down and catch it before it reached the bottom.
Some of the other boats were full of men, who came on board, bringing
fans, canary-birds, parrots, feather flowers, basket-work, filigree
jewelry, and many other things to sell.
We and some of the passengers got into a row-boat, after a good deal of
trouble, because there is always a heavy swell there, so one minute the
boat was very high up, and the next very low down. When we had managed
to get in, we rowed to the city. There were great waves dashing up on
the shore, and four or five bare-legged men rushed into the water, and
drew the boat on land just as a wave came in.
What was our surprise to see waiting for us, instead of a horse and
carriage, a great sleigh drawn by bullocks. This is called a bullock-car
in English, and a _carro_ in Portuguese. We got into one of them, with a
great deal of laughter, and drove to the hotel. The driver walked by the
side of the _carro_, and threw the end of a greasy rag first under one
runner and then under the other, to make it run more easily.