Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 39. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 27, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FREE SWIMMING BATH.--DRAWN BY A. D. SHULTS.--[SEE NEXT
PAGE.]]
PODDIE AND DICK AT THE FREE BATH.
BY UNCLE FRANK.
"Dick, Uncle Fritz'll never come!" exclaimed Poddie Monell, with an
impatient stamp of his foot, and once more he peered anxiously through
the bars of the gate at the South Ferry.
"Hold on; don't be so sure, old fellow; there he comes now," said Dick;
"look just beyond the Elevated. Let's go meet him."
"Keep cool, boys, keep cool; don't rush; there's plenty of time," said
the gentleman, kindly, giving a hand to each; and crossing the street,
they sauntered leisurely along one of the broad walks of the Battery.
"Which of the free baths are we going to, and what are they like?" asked
Dick, whose mind was always travelling ahead of time in a curious
fashion.
"We are going to the Battery bath, because it is nearest. They are all
pretty much alike, however," replied his uncle.
"Do tell us all about them," begged Poddie, earnestly, "for I want to
know if they're anything like our bath at Central Park--whether they
have hanging rings, a flying trapeze, and places to dive off of."
"Well, no, they don't indulge in the first two luxuries, but they have
plenty of space, ropes, diving places, and a fair depth of water. But
let me tell you how much good they do.
"There are four free baths stationed on the East River--at
One-hundred-and-twelfth Street, Thirty-seventh Street, Fifth Street, and
Gouverneur Street; and three on the North River--at the Battery, Bethune
Street, and Fifty-first Street; and one floating around without any home
at all--that is, it is built, and the authorities have not decided where
to anchor it."
"Well?" exclaimed both boys, interestedly.
"Now, boys, in order to understand thoroughly how much these free baths
are to the people who use them, you must put yourselves in some other
boys' boots, or perhaps I should say jackets, so many of them have no
boots at all.
"You and Dick live in a very lovely home. Just imagine yourselves in a
dingy tenement-house, shut up for the night, with three or four other
boys, to sleep in a dark room where never sunlight or breeze enters
through the whole year; the heat is suffocating; you toss uneasily back
and forth, more than likely on the floor. You have heard during the day
that to-morrow the Gouverneur Street or some other bath will be open.
What do you do?
"Before the day breaks you leap from your bed, waken your brothers or
comrades, fling on your jackets and trousers, rush down the rickety
stairways out into the cooler air of the morning, and scud down to the
docks.
"When you arrive there you find already quite a line of boys and men
ahead of you. You can not go above them--the policemen won't allow
it--so you take your places at the foot of the line, glad that it is no
longer. Poddie is number fifty-one, Dick fifty-two. By twos and threes
the line grows to be three hundred strong. At five o'clock the doors
open, the keepers appear, and one hundred are admitted. But here we are:
you shall begin to judge for yourselves."
"Whew!" exclaimed Dick, looking up and down a long line of ragged, grimy
urchins, who were tiptoeing in impatience to enter. "How will all those
fellows get in? Shall we have to foot the line?"
"Not while I have my 'open, sesame,' with me," replied Uncle Fritz,
pointing to a small silver badge on his coat lapel.
The keeper just glanced at it, and Dick was greatly surprised to see how
politely they were invited to walk in, "all through a bit of shiny
silver," as he expressed it afterward.
"What a crowd of boys!" thought Poddie, as his eye roved from one to
another of the hundred ducking, diving, splashing little and big
fellows, who were laughing and shouting with delight. "What a jolly time
they're having!" said he, turning to his uncle.
"Yes," said that gentleman. "I don't believe you have more fun at the
Central Park bath, Poddie."
"Don't know as we do," replied Poddie, dubiously. "But what does that
mean?" added he, startled by the brazen clangor of a large bell that
rung high above the noises a warning "Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding."
"Time's up!" shouted the keeper, almost as loud as his bell. Silence
fell upon the gleeful throng instantly. With downcast faces and slow,
reluctant feet the bathers commenced to crawl up the wet steps, tumble
over the railings, and trailing little brooks of water behind them,
sought the bath-rooms, whence they slowly emerged, some fairly well
dressed, but the majority in rags and tatters.
"The boys is putty fair to-day, along o' you visitors, sir," said the
keeper; "but we mostly has to hunt 'em out o' the dark corners--where
they dart to as soon as the bell rings--with this rattan, or they'd stay
in all the day."
"How about the girls--do they enjoy the privileges of these free baths?"
inquired Uncle Fritz?
"Yes, sir, they does, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, an' a lively
lot they is, too; the women keepers has their hands full."
No sooner had the first crowd of boys disappeared than pell-mell in
rushed a tumultuous throng, pushing and jostling in spite of the
shouting keepers.
Begrimed and perspiring, and panting with impatience to enjoy the
blessing of the cooler element, it is the work of but a moment in the
bath-rooms; the doors fly open, and down they plunge from steps and
railings into the cool green depths.
The water splashes and dashes and foams, lashed by scores of active
hands and feet, until the boys are fairly deafened by the roar.
"Gracious! you'd think they hadn't seen water in a year, wouldn't you,
Dick?" said Poddie.
"Half o' them's repeaters," said the keeper, overhearing the remark.
"Beg pardon--did you call them repeaters? what's that?" inquired Poddie,
politely.
"Repeaters? Why, repeaters is boys who go from bath to bath, only
waiting to get their heads dry; then they rubs mud on their faces to
make 'em dirty, so we can't know 'em, consequentially they gets in half
a dozen times at different baths. How are we to know them? bless your
eyes!"
"Have you any fine swimmers among them?" inquired Uncle Fritz,
pleasantly.
"Yes, sir," replied the keeper, "some o' these chaps are reg'lar
fishes--nat'ral-born eels, you may say. Here, Patsy Miller, 'Roxy,'
'Spider,' come along and show these young gentlemen some o' your
tricks."
The three boys, hearing their names shouted by the keeper and their
playmates, come forward, looking sheepishly pleased at their momentary
importance.
"Go to the roof and dive," commands the keeper.
In a few seconds they appear on the pebbled roof opposite, thin-limbed,
brown, and lithe as Arabs.
"Ready--dive!"
One after another the heads are bowed, hands are clasped palm to palm
and pointed forward, and away they go, head-first like frogs. Three
splashes mark where they go under; three lines of bubbles across the
bath tell where the glossy heads will come up.
"Bravo! bravo! well done!" cries Uncle Fritz.
"Dive backward, and swim oar stroke," directs the keeper.
Nothing loath, the boys mount the railings, the swimmers making way for
them. One, two, three. Down they go on their backs, come up like corks,
throw their arms high in air, bring them down full length behind their
heads, draw back their feet, and with an oar-like sweep of their limbs
make long darts through the water.
"How splendid!" observes Dick, turning to his uncle.
"Turn somersaults," shouts the keeper.
"Goody gracious! that's what they do up at the Central," says Dick,
laughing heartily, as now six heels, then three heads, alternately
appear on the surface of the water.
"Make a raft," orders the keeper. Immediately Patsy and "Spider" and
"Roxy" are on their backs again; they lock arms, paddle with their feet,
and make quite a respectable raft as they cross the bath.
Suddenly the raft goes to pieces, the swimmers dive, and stay under so
long that Poddie thinks they are gone for good; but no, they are up
again, ready for more fun.
A game of "leap-frog" and "playing porpoise" are both entered into with
fine spirit, for the boys all wish to show off.
A boat-race, in which a dozen boys either "sculled" or swam "oar
stroke," as they fancied, Dick and Poddie declared "quite the best
thing" they had ever seen in the swimming line.
Once more the great bell sounded its notes of doom, and the dripping
crowd gave place to a dry one.
"We're obliged to do this in midsummer," remarked the keeper, alluding
to the clearing-out process, "to give the largest numbers a chance; we
must git through with the boys, for after six the men'll be comin'
along, tired and dusty, from their work."
* * * * *
"What do you think of the free baths, boys?" asked Uncle Fritz, as they
crossed the Battery.
"I'm mighty glad that _poor_ boys have as good a chance as _we_ rich
fellows," replied Dick, clinking some silver in his pocket, with the air
of a banker.
"Then it keeps them from the sharks," remarked Poddie, thoughtfully.
"And makes them clean and healthy, besides giving them any amount of
innocent pleasure," added their uncle.
ROSE AND CATERPILLAR.
"Oh, caterpillar," said a rose
One lovely summer day,
"Your constant eating drives me wild;
I wish you'd go away.
I really can not see what use
You and your kind can be;
You naught but mischief do, and are
Unpleasant things to see."
A moment after that same rose
Smiled on a butterfly
That stopped to show his rainbowed wings
As he was passing by.
Oh, if she only could have known--
The pretty, dainty rose--
_He_ was a caterpillar too,
Arrayed in splendid clothes!
VISITING A TEA PLANTATION.--PREPARATION OF TEA.
FROM ADVANCE SHEETS OF "THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE FAR EAST." PART
SECOND.
BY THOMAS W. KNOX.
Frank and Fred had long wished to visit a tea plantation, and while they
were in Java this wish was gratified. The following extract from their
journal describes what they saw and learned during their visit:
"The first thing the tea-planter has to do after getting possession of
his lease is to clear the land and get ready for planting. The outlay
for this is considerable, and not much unlike clearing up a farm in New
England, or in the backwoods of Canada. Then the young plants are set
out; after this has been done, the ground must be kept clear of weeds,
just as in raising corn or potatoes. It must be frequently stirred, so
that the plant can get as much nourishment as possible from the earth;
and when this is done, the planter has the satisfaction of seeing the
bushes grow with considerable rapidity.
"We walked through the fields where the plants were growing, and found
them of different ages and sizes. If we had not known where we were, we
might have thought we were in a field of English myrtle bushes, as the
tea-plant is much like the myrtle in general appearance. It grows from
two to six feet high, and has white blossoms that resemble small
dogroses.
"One of us asked which were the plants that produced green tea, and
which the black. The owner of the plantation smiled, and said there was
no difference.
"We laughed at our own ignorance, as he explained that the difference of
the teas was entirely owing to the manipulation. We asked why it was
that some districts in China produced only green teas, while others were
reputed to make none but black; and he told us it was because the
workmen in those districts had been accustomed to follow only one form
of manipulation.
"It takes three years to get a plantation in condition to produce tea.
The seeds are sown in a nursery bed, and the young plants are not ready
to be set out till they are a year old. They are then about nine inches
high, and covered with leaves, and the first crop is taken when they
have been growing two years in the field. The leaves are the lungs of
the plant, and it would die if all of them were stripped off.
Consequently only a part of them are removed at a picking; and if a
plant is sickly, it is not disturbed at all. The plants will last from
ten to twelve years, and are then renewed; and on all the large
plantations it is the custom to make nursery beds every year, so that
there will be a constant succession of new plants for setting out in
place of the old ones.
"At the first gathering the half-opened buds are taken, and from them
the finest teas are made. Then they have another gathering when the
leaves are fully opened, and then another and another, till they have
five or six gatherings in the course of the year. Each time the leaves
are coarser than those of the previous gathering, and consequently the
tea is not of so fine a quality. A well-managed plantation produces all
kinds of tea; and it was a wise requirement of the Dutch government,
when they started the tea-culture in Java, that the planters should
produce proportionate quantities of both black and green, and not less
than four qualities of each."
[Illustration: GATHERING TEA-LEAVES.]
"The gathering takes place only in clear weather; and for the best teas
the picking is confined to the afternoon, when the leaves are thoroughly
dry, and have been warmed by the sun. Only the thumb and forefinger are
used in plucking the leaves from the bush; the pickers are generally
women and children, who can gather on the average about forty pounds of
leaves in a day. It takes nearly four pounds of leaves to make one pound
of dry tea; and the usual estimate is that a plantation of one hundred
thousand plants can send ten thousand pounds of tea to market in the
course of a year."
[Illustration: DRYING TEA IN THE SUN.]
"Different kinds of tea require different treatment, as we have already
seen. For green tea the leaves are roasted as soon as they have been
gathered, and are then rolled and dried; but the leaves intended for
black teas are spread on bamboo trays five or six inches deep, and
placed on frames where they can have plenty of sun and air. They remain
here from noon till sunset; and if the weather is damp they are further
dried by artificial heat. For this purpose they are placed on frames
over shallow pans containing burning charcoal, and are tossed and
stirred with the hand until they emit a certain fragrance. The heat
should be very slight; and the frames are made so high that it is
necessary for a man to mount a small ladder in order to reach the
trays.
"The sense of smell in the skillful workers of tea is very acute, and
they can tell, to almost a minute, the exact time when the drying should
cease, and the next process begin. The Chinese workmen are better than
any others for this branch of the business, and on many plantations most
of the manipulation is performed by Chinese, though their labor is more
expensive than that of the Malays. Our host showed us through his
factory, where the men were busy in the various processes; and as he
told us about each step of the business, he took us to the department
where that particular work was going on.
"After showing the leaves spread out on the frames, he led the way to a
sort of stove, where a man was manipulating some tea in a pan over a
charcoal fire."
[Illustration: DRYING OVER CHARCOAL.]
"'This is what we call roasting,' he said, 'and the great object of the
roaster is to dry the leaves without burning them. You see he does not
allow them to be quiet a single instant, but tosses and turns them in
all directions, so that none may stick to the bottom of the pan, which
they might easily do, owing to the moisture they contain.'
"We watched the roasting till we thought we understood it well, and as
the place was hot, we did not care to stay there a great while. The
leaves lose their fragrance when first thrown into the roasting pan, and
give out a rank smell, but they gradually recover their perfume, and are
ready for the next process, which is called rolling.
"The tea from the roasting pan was given to a couple of men, who stood
in front of a table or bench, with bamboo mats before them. One had a
large mustache, the largest we had ever seen on a Chinese face, and the
other consoled himself for the absence of that hairy ornament by smoking
a pipe.
"The roller takes as much tea as he can cover with both his hands, and
places it on the mat in a sort of ball. He keeps the leaves closely
together, and rolls them from right to left; this motion gives each leaf
a twist on itself, and rolls it so firmly that it retains the shape when
dry. This part of the work requires peculiar dexterity, and can only be
performed successfully after long practice. When a man becomes skillful
in it, he can roll the tea with wonderful rapidity; and when his work is
done, every leaf will be found separate from the others, and twisted as
though it had been passed through a machine.
"The work of rolling the tea is very tiresome, and so the men sometimes
perform it with their feet when they wish to give their hands a rest. We
saw one man at his occupation in this way, and he certainly seemed to
enjoy it.
"After they have been properly rolled, the leaves are spread on trays,
and exposed to the sun and air for several hours, and then they are once
more roasted. The second roasting is milder than the first, and is done
over a slower fire; and afterward the leaves are rolled again, to make
sure that none of them have become spread out. For the black tea the
roasting is done in a shallow pan, the same as the first; but the green
teas are put in a deep pan, and subjected to a very high heat.
"While the green tea is being roasted there must be a great deal of care
on the part of everybody concerned. The pan is nearly red-hot when the
tea is put into it, about a pound at a time, and the operator in charge
keeps it in rapid motion. One boy tends the fire, while another stands
by with a fan to prevent the burning of the tea.
"After their final roasting the teas are put in a long basket, shaped
like an hour-glass, and having a sieve in the centre. This basket is
placed over a charcoal fire and submitted to the heat for several
minutes, when the tea is poured out and receives another rolling. This
operation is repeated several times, till the tea is thoroughly tired of
it, and also thoroughly dry. Then it is passed through sieves, to
separate the different qualities from each other; and finally it is
winnowed, to remove all the dust and dirt. Then it is 'fired,' or dried,
once more, to drive away the last particle of moisture; and in this
condition it is ready to go into the chests in which it is carried to
the lands where it is to be used."
[Begun in No. 31 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER IX.
The boat was in a shallow part of the river, between the shore and a
long row of piles that marked the steamboat channel. Harry sounded with
an oar, and found that the water was only two feet deep. "We'll have to
get overboard and drag the boat over the piles," said he, "and it's
going to be a mighty hard job too. That swell threw us over as neat as
the bull threw Joe over the fence up at Lenox last summer."
"When I got pitched over that fence I staid there," said Joe. "I didn't
try to get back into the field where the bull was, and I don't see what
we want to get back where the steamboats are for."
"That's so," exclaimed Harry. "We're safe enough here. Let's get the
water out of the boat, and keep on this side of the piles."
When the boat was made dry, and the lighted lantern was hoisted to the
top of the mast, Tom resumed his place at the helm, and Harry and Joe
prepared to take another nap. "I don't want to grumble," said Joe, "but
I wish I didn't have to lie on the coffee-pot and a tin cup. I don't
feel comfortable on that kind of bed."
"I'll change with you if you like," replied Harry. "I'm sleeping on a
beautiful soft bottle of oil, and some sardine boxes; but I don't want
to be selfish and keep the best bed for myself."
"Oh, never mind," returned Joe. "I'll manage to sleep if Jim don't step
on my face. I always did hate to have anybody step on my face when I was
asleep."
"Well, good-night, everybody," said Harry. "I'm going straight to sleep.
Tom, be sure you wake me up if a steamboat tries to climb over these
piles."
This time Tom did not fall asleep at the helm, but the wind gradually
died away, and the sail hung limp and useless. Jim got out the oars
without stepping on anybody, and rowed slowly on. In a little while they
came to the end of the shallow lagoon into which the swell had so
unexpectedly cast them. A sand-bank stretched from the shore to the line
of piles, and it was impossible to go any farther. Tom decided to make
the boat fast to the limb of a willow-tree that projected over the
water, and to go ashore and sleep on the sand. Neither he nor Jim
thought it worth while to wake the other boys; so they gathered up their
blankets, crept quietly out of the boat, and were soon asleep on the
soft, warm sand. When Harry and Joe awoke at daylight, stiff and
cramped, they were disposed to be rather indignant at Tom and Jim, who
were sleeping so comfortably on the sand; but Tom soon convinced them
that he had acted from the best of motives, and they readily forgave
him.
[Illustration: GETTING OUT OF THE TRAP.-DRAWN BY A. B. FROST.]
Of course breakfast was the first business of the day, and after that
was finished the boat had to be entirely unloaded before she could be
lifted over the piles into the channel. For the first time since they
had started on the cruise the breeze was ahead, but it was so light that
it was of very little consequence. The sky was cloudy, and the day
promised to be a cool one; so the boys resolved to take to their oars,
and try, if possible, to reach Albany before night. When the boat was
loaded, Tom and Jim each took a long oar, and Harry took his usual seat
in the stern-sheets. They all felt fresh, in spite of their night's
adventure, and started gayly on their intended long day's row.
By this time they had found out that although round tin boxes were very
well to keep things dry, they are by no means handy to carry in a boat.
Their shape made it impossible to stow them compactly. Joe, who sat at
the bow, always had to pick his way over these tin boxes in going to or
coming from his station; and he was constantly catching his foot in the
spaces left between the boxes, and falling down on them. This smashed in
the covers, and tried Joe's temper sorely. Once he sat down so violently
on the box which held the sugar, that he went completely through the
cover, and was fastened in the box as securely as a cork in a bottle. He
was only released after a great deal of work, and just in time to enable
the boys to have sugar in their coffee at night. Harry resolved that he
would never cruise again with round boxes, but would have small rubber
bags made, in which to put everything that required to be kept dry.
The boys took turns at the oars every hour, and rowed steadily until
noon. They gave themselves an hour for lunch and resting, and then
resumed their work. Late in the afternoon they came in sight of Albany,
and went ashore, so as to get their dinner before reaching the city.
After dinner they again pulled away at the oars, and at about nine
o'clock they stopped at a lumber-yard on the outskirts of Albany, and,
creeping in among the lumber, wrapped their blankets around them, and
dropped asleep, completely worn out, but proud of their long day's row.
Before sunrise the next morning, Tom was awakened by a stick which was
thrust into his ribs. Without opening his eyes, he muttered, "You quit
that, or I'll get up and pound you," and immediately dropped asleep
again. Somebody then kicked him so sharply that he roused himself up,
and, opening his eyes, was dazzled by the gleam of a bull's-eye lantern.
He could not at first imagine where he was; but as he presently found
that a big policeman had him by the collar, and was calling him "an
impudent young thief," he began to imagine that something was wrong.
"I've got you this time," said the policeman, "and the whole gang of
you. Where did you steal that property in your boat from, you precious
young river pirate?"
"We're not river pirates," replied Tom. "We're Moral Pirates, and we
brought those things in the boat with us from New York."
"Well, I like your cheek!" said the officer; "owning up that you're
pirates. Now just you and your gang take everything out of that boat and
let me see what you've got. If any of you try to escape, I'll put a
bullet into you. You hear me?"
The other boys had been awakened by the loud voice of the policeman, and
were staring at him in utter astonishment.
"He thinks we're river thieves," said Tom. "Harry, we'll have to show
him what we've got in the boat, and then he'll see his mistake."
Harry eagerly assured the policeman that they had come from New York on
a pleasure cruise, and had nothing in the boat except provisions and
stores. "That's a pretty story," said the officer. "You can tell that to
the court. Your boat's full of junk that you've stolen from somewhere;
and you'd better hand it out mighty quick."
The boys were thus compelled to unload their boat, while the policeman
stood over them with his club in one hand and his lantern in the other.
He was not a stupid man, and he soon perceived that the boys had told
him the truth; they were not the gang of river thieves for whom he had
mistaken them. He therefore apologized, in a rough way, and even helped
the boys repack the boat.
"What I can't understand," said he, "is why you boys come here and sleep
in a lumber-yard, when you might be sleeping at home in your beds. Now
if you were thieves, you couldn't get any better lodgings, you know; but
you're gentlemen's sons, and you ought to know better. Why don't you go
down to the hotel, and live like gentlemen? Where's the fun in being
arrested, and taking up my valuable time?"
The boys assured him that they had never enjoyed themselves more than
they had while on the cruise, and after a little more talk the officer
turned slowly away.
"By-the-bye," he exclaimed, suddenly turning back again, "one of you
told me you were pirates. I ought to take you in after all. I believe
you're a lot of boys that have been reading dime novels, and have run
away from home."
"I didn't say we were pirates," replied Tom. "I said we were Moral
Pirates. That's a very different thing."
"Of course it is," said Joe. "A Moral Pirate is a sort of missionary,
you know. I'm afraid you don't go to Sunday-school, officer, or you'd
know better."
The policeman could not quite make up his mind whether Joe was in joke
or in earnest; but as he could find no real reason for arresting the
boys, he contented himself with telling them to leave the lumber-yard as
soon as the sun rose. "And you'd better look out," he added, "that you
don't come across any real river thieves. They'll make no bones of
seizing your boat, and knocking you on the head if you make any noise."
When he was fairly out of sight, the boys crept back to their shelter
among the lumber, and coolly went to sleep again. They were so tired
that neither policemen nor river thieves had any terrors for them.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A CONFESSION.
BY GEORGE N. LOVEJOY.
"Do you love me?" stammered Benny
To a bright-eyed little maid;
"Do you love me, love me, Jenny?--
I'll not tell; don't be afraid."
"Yes, I love you," answered Jenny;
"But 'twas only yesterday
That I said the same thing, Benny"
(And she blushed), "to Robbie Gray."
POOR BEN!
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
"Ha, Uncle Dud, I've found your lady-love's curl!"
His uncle drew near Hal, as he rummaged in an old desk.
"Ah," he said, "is that there? I haven't seen it for many a year, but
now I remember putting it there."
He took the short brown lock of hair in his hand, and looked at it with
almost a tender interest.
"He saved my life when I was a boy, Hal."
"Who, uncle?"
"The one who wore this curl."
"Oh, tell me all about it; come, do, Uncle Dud;" and Hal laid his hand
coaxingly on his uncle's arm. "Was he one of your playmates?"
"Yes."
"How old was he when he did it?"
"I didn't know exactly his age. Ten or twelve, perhaps, or thereabouts.
But there is the tea-bell. I'll tell you about it after tea."
Uncle Dudley found his audience increased by four or five expectant boys
and girls, who gathered around him on the broad piazza, attracted by the
rumor that "one of Uncle Dud's stories" was in prospect. Little Elsie
crept into his lap as he began:
"I don't think I have ever told you anything of my poor friend Ben, but
he played a very important part in many of the pranks and sports and
joys and sorrows of my earlier boyhood. I think that, outside of my own
family, my attachment to him was the strongest I have ever formed.
People used to laugh at us, and call him my younger brother, we showed
so much affection for each other."
"Was he a son of your neighbor?" asked Hal.
"No, not his son, but his home was with our nearest neighbor. It was
never known who his parents were. He came to Mr. Washburn's house one
day, nobody knew where from; but he attracted the attention of all by
his fine bright, honest face. I shall never forget the look of his great
earnest brown eyes; I used to think they expressed more in a minute than
some folks could talk in an hour. Then he had soft hair--this you
see--brown, with the least tinge of auburn through it, and was most
graceful in his movements. He would strike any one as a handsome
fellow."
"What did he come for, uncle? Do you mean that he was a beggar? Did he
ask for food?"
"He didn't ask for anything, but it was easy to see what he needed, and
country hospitality was not likely to wait till he asked. He staid about
there a few days, and made friends with every one. Before long he seemed
to have quietly grown to be almost one of the family, and I think they
would have been as sorry to lose him as he would to go. He and I 'took
to' each other at once, and I owe many of the happiest hours of my boy
life to his companionship, for I had no brother near my own age."
"And did your parents really allow you to make a companion of such a
little tramp?" asked Hal, with a slight sniff, and a toss of the head
which he conceived to be rather aristocratic. "How did they know what
kind of a fellow he might have been?"
"Well, they never seemed to fear any harm coming to me through him. Ben
showed a much better disposition than I ever did. He was very gentle in
his manners, always inclined to yield to me in everything, giving me my
own way to an extent which unfortunately fostered my tendency to be
domineering and overbearing. It was this trait in my character which led
to the incident I am about to tell you of.
"In the summer vacations he and I--"
"Excuse me for interrupting you, Uncle Dud; but how did this Ben get
along at school?"
"Well, he never went to school--"
"Never went to school? Why, didn't those folks he lived with give him
any advantages?"
"--But I don't think any one seemed to consider him neglected. He was
naturally very quick of perception, and had a wonderful faculty of
gathering information from his surroundings. He seemed so well fitted
for whatever duties fell to him, that I don't believe any one thought it
necessary to send him to school."
"What was he good for, anyhow?"
"He made himself generally useful and agreeable. He used to drive cows,
dig in the garden, etc., and as the family grew fond of him, they used
to take him out with them a great deal."
"They must have been a queer set, though, to let him grow to be a man in
ignorance."
"Ben never got to be a man. But I agree with you, Hal, that a man
without education, or a boy either, is a poor thing."
"Oh, did Ben die young?" said Hal, with a soberer face.
"Yes. I _did_ take him to school with me once--what a tricky young
rascal I must have been! He walked to the school-house door with me, and
I forced him in--much against his will it was, but I always made him
mind me. I seated him in the master's chair, and ordered him to stay
there, while I went to my seat. Of course the boys all laughed, and poor
Ben trembled and looked imploringly at me, but I shook my fist at him to
make him sit still. Presently the master came in. He was a
quick-tempered man, and when he saw what was going on, how mad he was!
He snatched up a rule, but Ben was too smart for him. He sprang from the
chair and went out of the half-open window at one bound, with an awful
crash of glass and sash, and was off swift as the wind. Then the master
tried to find out who was in fault, but could get no further than the
truth that he belonged to none of us. No one told of me, so I missed the
thrashing which would have been so willingly bestowed."
"I think it was right mean of you to treat Ben so, uncle."
"I think so too, and that wasn't my worst treatment of him, as you shall
hear.
"A small river formed the boundary of one side of my father's farm. On
its bank, in one spot which was surrounded and sheltered by a thick
growth of willows, Ben and I used to spend many an hour. He was an
excellent swimmer, and very fond of the water. One morning we were
having a merry time; we swam, dived, and rowed in the lovely sunshine.
At last I picked up a piece of wood and threw it to the other side of
the stream, trying to hit a water-rat. As it left my hand, I saw that it
was a piece I had selected for the hull of a miniature boat, just
suitable for that purpose, being straight-grained and exactly the right
thickness. I told Ben to go and get it for me, but he was probably tired
of play, for, for the first time, he refused to do my bidding, and went
and lay down under a tree. I was angry, and ordered him loudly and
roughly, picking up a stone and threatening him. He looked reproachfully
at me, and turned and walked quickly toward his home.
"Now throwing stones was one of my great faults. I can not tell how
often my mother had scolded, threatened, and punished me for it. Even at
that moment there came vividly before me the remembrance of a time when
I had killed a robin, and brought it and showed her what I had done--for
I must do myself the justice to say I was always frank in confessing my
faults. She took the poor dead bird in her hands, and with tears in her
eyes talked to me in a tone of deeper anger and sorrow than I had ever
heard from her.
"'They are God's little creatures. They are dumb, except for the sweet
songs they bring us. They are helpless, except as their helplessness
appeals to human beings for pity and protection. I believe the Lord's
blessing will _never_ rest on those who are cruel to things weaker than
themselves.'
"I was really sorry, and wanted to tell her so, but a spirit of pride
tempted me to 'brave it out,' so I said, with a poor attempt at a laugh,
'Oh, I'm sorry, of course, but you know it comes natural to boys to
throw stones.'
"If I had been at all decent about it, she would have forgiven me at
once; but, ah me! I never saw her move so quickly as when she went out
the back door and broke off a supple green apple switch. After making
most vigorous use of it she sent me to my room, with the remark, 'It
fortunately comes natural to mothers to punish.'
"I spent the rest of the day there, and as I feasted on bread and water,
and realized that there was company to tea, and that my whole being
craved spring chicken, jelly cake, and quince preserves, I made up my
mind that in future there would be one boy to whom it would come less
'natural' to throw stones.
"All this passed through my mind as I stood with the stone in my hand.
But my tyrannical temper mastered me, and as Ben turned and looked back,
I flung it at him. I did _not_ mean to hit his head, but there was where
it struck, in the brown hair just above one eye. I saw the blood trickle
from a cut, as with a sharp cry of pain he ran away and disappeared. I
was shocked at what I had done, but you know there are some conditions
of mind in which self-reproach only makes anger hotter. I did not obey
my impulse to follow the poor fellow, but threw off my jacket and
plunged into the stream to recover the block I wanted. I suppose I had
already been too long in the water, for when about half way over I was
seized with a cramp. In a moment I became helpless, and screamed wildly
as I felt myself going down--down--down. I arose to the surface again
too nearly drowned to scream any more, but with just sense enough left
to feel myself seized by something. That was the last I knew.
"But I was afterward told how my father and some of the farm hands came
rushing down just in time to see Ben panting, almost exhausted, as he
drew me to the shore. There was blood on my face, which added to my
mother's great alarm when I was carried to her. Not my blood, as you may
guess, but poor Ben's--the result of my cruel blow.
"There is not much more to tell. I was in bed several days after it. The
first time Ben came to see me I put my arms around his neck, and begged
him to forgive me."
"What did he say?"
"Not a word. He never was a talker. But I knew by his clear, earnest
eyes that he had never harbored a hard thought of me. I need not tell
you I treated him more kindly after that. We continued, if possible,
closer friends than ever, till I was sent away to school."
"And you say Ben did not live to be a man, uncle?" said Hal, whose
interest in the "little tramp" had greatly increased. "How old was he
when he died? Tell us about it, please."
"His death was a very sad occurrence, taking place the same season I
left home. One night a suspicious-looking person came prowling about Mr.
Washburn's place. Ben was the first to hear him--he always seemed to
have one ear open when the interests of his friends were concerned--and
ran toward him, making all the noise he could to arouse the family. The
brave fellow seized hold of the marauder, who drew a revolver, and beat
him about the head, and as he still held on, shot him."
A murmur of regret and indignation arose from the little audience.
"The man made off, and Ben was found to be not dead, but terribly
injured: a leg was broken, and his head fearfully bruised. All that kind
care could do for him was done, but it soon appeared that he was beyond
all hope of recovery, and to put an end to his sufferings another
bullet--this time aimed in sorrowful kindness--did its quick work on the
life of poor Ben."
"_What's that?_" cried Hal, starting up. "Do you mean that they _shot_
him? Killed a boy because he was badly hurt? I never heard of such--"
"_Boy?_" said his uncle, looking at him in great surprise. Then he went
on: "When I heard of it, it almost broke my heart; and the first time I
went home after it, and no Ben came bounding to meet me, wagging his
tail, and with a face beaming welcome, I felt as though I had--"
"Hey, uncle! Wagging _his tail_? _Whose_ tail? What are you talking
about? Haven't you been telling us about a _boy_ all this time?"
"Yes. _I_ was a boy. But Ben was not."
"A--dog!"
Hal threw himself on the grass-plot and shouted with laughter, all his
sympathy for Ben lost in his amusement at this unexpected disclosure.
"Oh, Uncle Dud! you're too much for me. 'Never went to school,' 'never
grew to be a man'--oh no. 'No talker,' 'didn't ask for anything'--modest
fellow! Oh, that's too good!"
Boys and girls had a hearty laugh, and ran away to play hide-and-seek in
the summer twilight--all but little Elsie, who tenderly stroked the
brown curl, and laid it against her soft cheek, sighing, "Poor Ben!
poo-oor doggie!"
[Illustration: AN UNWELCOME GUEST.--DRAWN BY H. P. SHARE.]
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 31, July 13.]
THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
CHAPTER III.
"North African pirates are out on the Mediterranean Sea; our budding
commerce there is in danger; we _must_ have a navy to protect it," wrote
a distinguished American in Europe to Alexander Hamilton. President
Washington called the attention of Congress to the matter, and in the
spring of 1794 he was authorized to have six frigates built, each
carrying not less than thirty-two cannon. The keel of the _Constitution_
(yet afloat) was soon laid at Boston, and so the creation of the Navy of
the United States was begun.
To the heroes of the Continental Navy the people looked for commanders
of the new frigates, and Barry, Nicholson, Talbot, Barney, Dale, and
Truxton, all of whom had done gallant service in the war for
independence, were chosen.
The building of the frigates was unwisely suspended in the fall of 1795.
"Pay me so many hundred thousand dollars every year, and I will let your
ships alone," said the piratical ruler of Algiers. The terms were agreed
to. Congress seemed to think that now all danger to commerce was
overpast, and a navy would be an extravagant toy. But when, not long
afterward, French cruisers seized American ships, and English cruisers
claimed the right (and exercised it) to take seamen from our vessels
without leave, Congress perceived the folly of their humiliating action.
War with France was threatened in the spring of 1798. The startled
Congress ordered the six frigates to be finished, and more to be built
or purchased. A Navy Department was organized, and a Secretary of the
Navy appointed. Recruits were called for. The navy became very popular,
and the ships were soon filled, with the sons of the best families in
the land holding the rank of midshipmen.
The first vessel of the new navy that went to sea was the _Ganges_,
twenty-four guns. She was to protect the ports of New York,
Philadelphia, and Baltimore against French cruisers. Toward midsummer
(1798), Congress authorized the seizure of French armed vessels found
prowling along our coasts. For this purpose Truxton, with the
_Constellation_, and Decatur the elder, with the _Delaware_, immediately
went to sea. Decatur soon returned with the French cruiser _Le Croyable_
as a prize. She was added to the navy, named _Retaliation_, and put
under the command of Lieutenant Bainbridge. Captain Barry, with the
frigate _United States_, soon followed, with many young men who
afterward became distinguished in their country's service. Before the
end of the year nearly the whole American navy was among the West India
Islands, engaged in convoying merchantmen to and from the United States.
This sudden appearance on the sea of a new naval power astonished the
English and the French, and made both more cautious.
[Illustration: FIGHT BETWEEN THE "CONSTELLATION" AND "LA VENGEANCE."]
Early in 1799, Truxton, with the _Constellation_, captured the famous
French frigate _L'Insurgente_, near the island of Nevis, after a severe
battle for an hour. This triumph made Truxton famous. His praises were
on every lip. A song called "Truxton's Victory" was sung everywhere in
public and private. A year later his fame was increased by his combat
with another French frigate, which he had searched for among the islands
of the West Indies. Off Guadeloupe he fell in with a large French vessel
at twilight, and they fought desperately in the darkness that followed.
Suddenly the stranger disappeared in the gloom of night. Some time
afterward Truxton learned that the ship was the very one he was
searching for--the frigate _La Vengeance_; that he had shattered her
terribly; and that she ran away in the darkness to a friendly port to
save her life.
These victories made the navy very popular. Truxton was the hero of this
war with the French on the ocean. It soon ceased, and the little navy
found ample employment in the Mediterranean.
In the year 1800 Bainbridge was sent, in command of the _George
Washington_, to pay tribute to the Algerine ruler. The Dey, as he was
called, commanded the Captain to take an Ambassador to Constantinople.
Bainbridge refused. "You pay me tribute, and are my slave," said the
haughty Dey; "you must do as I bid you;" and he pointed to the guns of
the castle. The Captain was compelled to obey. The Sultan received him
kindly, for the crescent moon on the Turkish banner, and the stars on
the American flag, seemed to prophesy good-will between the two nations.
He gave Bainbridge an order that made the insolent Dey tremble. With it
in his hand, the Captain said to the turbaned ruler, "Release every
Christian captive you have, without ransom." The astonished and humbled
Dey obeyed, and Bainbridge sailed away with threescore liberated
captives under the American flag.
Meanwhile the rulers of Tunis and Tripoli--other North African
robbers--had exacted and received tribute from the United States. The
treatment of Bainbridge made the latter resolve to pay tribute no
longer, but to humble the piratical powers. In the spring of 1801
Commodore Dale was sent with a squadron on that errand. He captured a
Tripolitan pirate ship, and appeared before Tunis, where the flag-staff
before the house of the American Consul had been cut down. Dale
threatened the ruler with chastisement. He was astonished and perplexed.
Dale cruised in the Mediterranean until fall, effectually protecting
American commerce, for the half-barbarian powers were made timid and
cautious.
The following year a relief squadron was sent to the Mediterranean
under Commodore Morris. The _Constellation_ blockaded the harbor of
Tripoli. A flotilla of Tripolitan gun-boats tried to drive her away, but
failed. At one time the _Constellation_ successfully fought seventeen of
them, as well as troops of cavalry on shore. The other vessels of the
squadron cruised along the northern shores of the Mediterranean,
effectually protecting American commerce; and in January, 1803, all the
vessels collected at Malta. In the spring they appeared off the ports of
the Barbary States, as these African provinces were called, and
effectually imprisoned their corsairs, or pirate ships, in their
harbors. In May the _John Adams_, which had been blockading the harbor
of Tunis, had a severe combat with Tunisian gun-boats and land
batteries, and was much bruised. Very soon Tripolitan and Algerine
corsairs appeared, and the whole American squadron was compelled to
abandon the blockade of the African ports, after they had destroyed a
cruiser from Tripoli. The squadron left the coast, the Africans regained
their spirits, and very soon American commerce was again suffering from
the depredations of corsairs.
The government of the United States, annoyed by the failure of this
naval campaign in the Mediterranean, resolved to act with more vigor in
that direction. A squadron of seven vessels was placed under the command
of Commodore Preble, and sent to the Mediterranean in 1803.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE STORY OF THE DAISIES.
BY MRS. MARGARET EYTINGE.
Daisies, golden-hearted, star-like, smiling daisies, all over the fields
and meadows, all along the highways and by-ways--bonny wee flowers
looking bravely up at the dazzling sun, and giving with child-like
generosity their beauty to the loneliest spots and most desolate places.
Close up to a fence that surrounded a garden where bloomed hundreds of
rare and lovely blossoms they crowded, praising with sweet artlessness
the grace and fragrance of their more precious sisters, and wondering
every morning when the gardener came out at early dawn and collected
many young plants together, and gathered roses, and pansies, and
gladioles, and verbenas, and pinks, and other flowers by the basketful,
to carry away, where he took them and what became of them.
"I will tell you," said a tall, graceful white lily that grew near the
garden gate, one day, as she inclined her fair head toward them. "I have
been where they are going--I and the tuberoses over yonder. (We are
growing in pots sunk in the ground, and therefore can be taken up and
moved from place to place without harm.) Once I helped deck a large,
sunshiny room--I was a very young bud then--where a great many little
children, looking like flowers themselves in their gay dresses, sang,
and played, and laughed, and danced for joy, because a baby friend was
three years old that day; and once I stood at the right hand of a
gray-haired minister, in a crowded church, and heard him say, 'Solomon
in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.' But, dear, simple,
wee things, you don't understand that, do you? I forgot to whom I was
talking. They go to a large city, where nothing is seen but brick and
stone buildings and hosts of people, and nothing is heard but the sound
of voices and footsteps, and the ringing of bells, and the tramping of
horses, and rolling of wagons, and where there are no bees, nor
butterflies, nor birds, save canaries that live in cages, and sparrows
that can live anywhere."
"But the daisies are never taken to the city," said the daisies, after a
short pause, "and they are flowers as well as the verbenas and pinks."
"Bless your innocent little hearts! I know they are," said the lily.
"But the fact is, no one cares to buy daisies."