Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 148. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 29, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A STAMPEDE IN CAMP.]
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.
CHAPTER III.
Luckily the water was only four feet deep, as Charley found when he
tried to touch bottom; so he stopped swimming, and with the water nearly
up to his shoulders, stood still and began to think what to do next.
The canoes--including the sunken _Midnight_--were a good mile from the
shore, and although the sandy shoal on which Charley was standing was
firm and hard, it was of small extent, and the water all around it was
too deep to be waded.
"You'll have to get into one of our canoes," said Harry.
"How am I going to do it without capsizing her?" replied Charley.
"I don't believe it can be done," said Harry, as he looked first at the
_Sunshine_ and then at the _Twilight_; "but then you've got to do it
somehow. You can't swim a whole mile, can you?"
"Of course I can't, but then it won't do me any good to spill one of you
fellows by trying to climb out of the water into a canoe that's as full
now as she ought to be. Besides, I'm not going to desert the
_Midnight_."
"I thought the _Midnight_ had deserted you," said Joe. "If my canoe
should go to the bottom of the lake without giving me any warning, I
shouldn't think it a bit rude to leave her there."
"Don't talk nonsense!" exclaimed Charley; "but come here and help me get
my canoe afloat again. We can do it, I think, if we go to work the right
way."
Charley found no difficulty in getting hold of the painter of his canoe
with the help of his paddle. Giving the end of the painter to Joe, he
took the _Dawn_'s painter, and by ducking down under the water succeeded
after two or three attempts in reeving it through the stern-post of the
sunken canoe, and giving one end to Harry and the other to Tom. Then,
taking the bow painter from Joe, he grasped it firmly with both hands,
and at a given signal all the boys, except Joe, made a desperate effort
to bring the wreck to the surface.
They could not do it. They managed to lift her off the bottom, but Harry
and Tom in their canoes could not lift to any advantage, and so were
forced to let her settle down again.
"I've got to unload her," said Charley, gloomily. "I think we can get
her up if there is nothing in her except water. Anyhow we've got to
try."
It was tiresome work to get the water-soaked stores and canned
provisions out of the canoe, and Charley had to duck his head under the
water at least a dozen times before the heaviest part of the
_Midnight_'s cargo could be brought up and passed into the other canoes.
His comrades wanted to jump overboard and help him, but he convinced
them that they would have great difficulty in climbing back into their
canoes, and that in all probability they would capsize themselves in so
doing. "He's right!" cried Joe. "Commodore, please make an order that
hereafter only one canoe shall be wrecked at a time. We must keep some
dry stores in the fleet."
When the _Midnight_ was partly unloaded, a new and successful effort was
made to raise her. As soon as she reached the surface Charley rolled her
over, bottom upward, and in this position the small amount of air
imprisoned under her kept her afloat.
The cause of the leak was quickly discovered. There was a hole through
her canvas bottom nearly an inch in diameter, made by some blow she had
received while on the way to the lake. The wonder was, not that she sank
when she did, but that she had floated long enough to be paddled a mile.
It is probable that the ballast-bag, which was close by the hole, had
partly stopped the leak at first, but had afterward been slightly moved,
thus permitting the water to rush freely in.
The surface of painted canvas dries very quickly in the hot sun, and it
was not long before the bottom of the _Midnight_ was dry enough to be
temporarily patched. Harry lighted his spirit-lamp and melted a little
of the lump of resin and tallow which had been provided for mending
leaks. This was spread over a patch of new canvas; the patch was then
placed over the hole, and more of the melted resin and tallow smeared
over it. In about fifteen minutes the patch was dry enough to be
serviceable, and Charley righted the canoe, bailed her out, and by
throwing himself across the cockpit, and then carefully turning himself
so as to get his legs into it, found himself once more afloat and ready
to paddle.
The canoe still leaked, but the leak could be kept under without
difficulty by occasional bailing, and in the course of half an hour the
sand-spit for which the fleet had started was reached. It was part of a
large island with steep, rocky shores and a beautiful little sandy
beach. It was just the place for a camp; and though the boys had
expected to camp some miles farther north, the sinking of Charley's
canoe had so delayed them that it was already nearly six o'clock, and
they therefore decided to paddle no farther that day.
The canoes were hauled out on the beach and unloaded, and shored up with
their rudders, back-boards, and a few pieces of drift-wood so as to
stand on an even keel. Then came the work of rigging shelters over them
for the night. Harry's canoe tent was supported by four small upright
sticks resting on the deck and fitting into cross-pieces sewed into the
roof of the tent. The sides and ends buttoned down to the gunwale and
deck of the canoe, and two curtains, one on each side, which could be
rolled up like carriage curtains in fair weather and buttoned down in
rainy weather, served both as the doors and windows of the tent. The
shelters rigged by the other boys were much less complete. The two masts
of each canoe were stepped, the paddle was lashed between them, and a
rubber blanket was hung over the paddle, with its edges reaching nearly
to the ground. The blankets and the bags which served as pillows were
then arranged, and the canoes were ready for the night.
It was a warm and clear night, and a breeze which came up from the south
at sunset blew the mosquitoes away. Harry found his tent, with the
curtains rolled up, cool and pleasant; but his fellow-canoeists found
themselves fairly suffocating under their rubber blankets, and were
compelled to throw them aside.
Toward morning, when the day was just beginning to dawn, the canoeists
were suddenly awakened by a rush of many heavy, trampling feet which
shook the ground. It was enough to startle any one, and the boys sprang
up in such a hurry that Harry struck his head against the roof of his
tent, knocked it down, upset the canoe, and could not at first decide
whether he was taking part in a railway collision, or whether an
earthquake of the very best quality had happened. The cause of the
disturbance was a herd of horses trotting down to the water's edge to
drink. There were at least twenty of them, and had the canoes happened
to be in their path, they might have stumbled over them in the faint
morning light; in which case the boys would have had the experience of
being shipwrecked on dry land.
A gentle southerly breeze wrinkled the water while breakfast was
cooking, and the Commodore ordered that the masts and sails should be
got ready for use. It was impossible to make an early start, for
Charley's blankets had to be dried in the sun, and the hole in his canoe
had to be repaired with a new patch in a thorough and workmanlike way.
It was therefore ten o'clock before the canoes were ready to be
launched; and in the mean time the wind had increased so much that the
boys decided to use only their mainsails.
The moment the sails drew, the canoes shot off at a pace which filled
the young canoeists with delight. The canoes were in good trim for
sailing, as they were not overloaded; and while they were skirting the
west shore of the island the water was quite smooth. Each canoe carried
a bag partly filled with sand for ballast, and every one except Joe had
lashed his ballast-bag to the keelson. This was a precaution which Joe
had forgotten to take, and before long he had good reason to regret his
error.
As soon as the northern end of the island was passed, the canoes came to
a part of the lake where there was quite a heavy sea. The _Dawn_ and the
_Twilight_ were steered by the paddle, which passed through a row-lock
provided for the purpose; and Joe and Tom found little difficulty in
keeping their canoes directly before the wind. The two other canoes were
steered with rudders, and occasionally, when their bows dipped, their
rudders were thrown nearly out of the water, in consequence of which
they steered wildly. All the canoes showed a tendency to roll a good
deal, and now and then a little water would wash over the deck. It was
fine sport running down the lake with such a breeze, and the boys
enjoyed it immensely.
The wind continued to rise, and the lake became covered with white caps.
"Commodore," said Charley Smith, "I don't mean to show any disrespect to
my commanding officer, but it seems to me this is getting a little
risky."
"How is it risky?" asked Harry. "You're a sailor, and know twice as much
about boats as I do, if I am Commodore."
"It's risky in two or three ways. For instance, if the wind blows like
this much longer, a following sea will swamp some one of us."
"Oh, we're going fast enough to keep out of the way of the sea," cried
Joe.
"Just notice how your canoe comes almost to a dead stop every time she
sinks between two seas, and you won't feel quite so sure that you're
running faster than the sea is."
The boys saw that Charley was right. The canoes were so light that they
lost their headway between the seas, and it was evident that they were
in danger of being overtaken by a following sea.
"Tell us two or three more dangers, just to cheer us up, won't you?"
asked Joe, who was in high spirits with the excitement of the sail.
"There's the danger of rolling our booms under, and there is a great
deal of danger that Harry's canoe and mine will broach to when our
rudders are out of water."
"What will happen if they do broach to?"
"They'll capsize, that's all," replied Charley.
"What had we better do?" asked Harry. "There's no use in capsizing
ourselves in the middle of the lake."
"My advice is that we haul on the port tack, and run over to the west
shore. The moment we get this wind and sea on the quarter, we shall be
all right--though, to be sure, we've got more sail up than we ought to
have."
The canoes were quite near together, with the exception of the
_Twilight_, which was outsailing the others; but even she was still near
enough to be hailed. Harry hailed her, and ordered the fleet to steer
for a cove on the west shore. As soon as the wind was brought on the
port quarter, the canoes increased their speed; and although the
_Twilight_ made more leeway than the others, she drew ahead of them very
fast. The wind was now precisely what the canoes wanted to bring out
their sailing qualities. The _Sunshine_ soon showed that she was the
most weatherly, as the _Twilight_ was the least weatherly, of the fleet.
The _Midnight_ kept up very fairly with the _Sunshine_; and the _Dawn_,
with her small lateen-sail, skimmed over the water so fast that it was
evident that if she could have carried the big balance-lug of the
_Sunshine_ she would easily have beaten her.
The canoes were no longer in danger of being swamped; but the wind
continuing to rise, the boys found that they were carrying more sail
than was safe. They did not want to take in their sails and paddle, and
though all of the sails except the _Dawn_'s lateen could be reefed,
nobody wanted to be the first to propose to reef; and Harry in his
excitement forgot all about reefing. The wind, which had been blowing
very steadily, now began to blow in gusts, and the boys had to lean far
out to windward to keep their canoes right side up.
"We can't keep on this way much longer without coming to grief," Charley
cried at the top of his lungs, so that Harry, who was some distance to
windward, could hear him.
"What do you say?" replied Harry.
"We've got too much sail on," yelled Charley.
"Of course we'll sail on. This is perfectly gorgeous," was Harry's
answer.
"He don't hear," said Charley. "I say, Joe, you'd better take in your
mainsail, and set the dandy in its place. You'll spill yourself
presently."
"The dandy's stowed down, below, where I can't get at it. I guess I can
hold her up till we get across."
Tom was by this time far out of hailing distance, and was apparently
getting on very well. Charley did not doubt that he could manage his own
canoe well enough, but he was very uneasy about Harry and Joe, who did
not seem to realize that they were carrying sail altogether too
recklessly. The fleet was nearly two miles from the shore, and a capsize
in the heavy sea that was running would have been no joke.
Charley turned part-way around in his canoe to see if his life-belt was
in handy reach. As he did so he saw that the water a quarter of a mile
to windward was black with a fierce squall that was approaching. He
instantly brought his canoe up to the wind, so that the squall would
strike him on the port bow, and called out to Harry and Joe to follow
his example. Harry did not hear him, and Joe, instead of promptly
following Charley's advice, stopped to wonder what he was trying to do.
The squall explained the matter almost immediately. It struck the
_Sunshine_ and the _Dawn_, and instantly capsized them, and then rushed
on to overtake Tom, and to convince him that Lake Memphremagog is not a
good place for inexperienced canoeists who want to carry sail recklessly
in squally weather.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE BEDOUIN POSTMAN.
BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.
The postman in our Western lands is a common sight to city children;
they meet him at every corner, jostle against him on their way to
school, and spring for the messages which he brings from far-off friends
and distant relatives. No child but has a welcome for the postman.
But the carrier whose strange and picturesque figure is shown in the
illustration on the following page has but little resemblance to our
daily visitor on his hurrying round through our crowded cities. His
route is the desert--a dangerous, solitary, and fatiguing journey. Borne
by his lithe dromedary over its arid wastes, he paces the desert track,
with no pause in the nine days' travel, save when at some oasis he stops
to drink the cool water and to refresh his tired camel. At the edge of
the desert he leaves his precious load, taking in exchange the return
mail. He seldom penetrates into the cities' depths and crowded bazars,
or rests in the fragrant gardens of Damascus, but jogs backward and
forward over the dreary waste, loaded with messages from the outer
world, and yet indifferent to them all, except to deliver each one in
safety.
I wonder if he never wearies of his monotonous existence, or sighs for
some excitement in his silent journey, and for some companionship
besides that of his enduring steed?
I could never see this express-courier start forth on his desert journey
without being reminded of some lone mariner setting sail on a wide sea
for some distant port. The desert is so much like the ocean, with its
boundless expanse, the same unbroken curve of the horizon, the same
tracklessness and solitude. So the camel is often called "the ship of
the desert." Yet monotonous as the journey of this postman seems, he has
to be continually on the alert. It is not always silent meditation under
the burning sky and changeless heavens. There are hidden dangers lurking
on every side--plundering Arabs and terrible sand-storms. Many a
traveller is buried under the fierce drifts, suffocated by the driving
sand sleet.
[Illustration: THE MAIL-RIDER OF THE DESERT.]
As this singular postman swings on his way under the coppery sky, his
Syrian song fills the silence of the desert noon; the high shrill notes
tremble and ring in the air in a dreary strain, harmonizing with the
sultry, unchanging landscape. The camel steps more quickly to the music,
but the rider seems lost in a deep reverie.
No monk in his cell is more isolated than this old letter-carrier, so
shut out from the world, so separated from all human kind, yet carrying
messages of such lively interest.
WILLIE'S ADVENTURE.
A True Story.
BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.
"Mamma," said Willie Beetham, "may I go down to the beach this morning?"
"No, my boy; you know I don't like your going down there by yourself,
and nurse is too busy to take you and Lucy out just yet. You can go
there with her after luncheon."
Willie looked very much disappointed. "There's no fun going out with
nurse," he said; "she won't let me do anything. It is always: 'Now,
Master Willie, don't go there; you'll soil your shoes. Master Willie,
come back; you'll tumble into the water.' Going with her is all very
well for girls and babies; but I am a big boy now. You said so yourself
to papa the other day. I can take care of myself quite well."
The "big boy" was a bonny little fellow of six years' old, with golden
hair, and a sunny smile that won every one's heart. He was a bold,
thoughtless boy, always getting into mischief, but of such an
affectionate disposition, so sorry for having done anything to vex those
he loved, that no one was ever angry with him long. This made him less
careful, perhaps, in being obedient than he ought to have been.
"No, my boy, you can't be trusted to go by yourself just yet. You can go
into the garden and play with Lucy for a little. When nurse is ready,
she will take you both out for a walk on the beach."
Willie was very fond of his little sister, who cared for nobody so much
as for him. So he drew her about for a while in his little cart, ran
races, and pulled daisies with her in the field. But all would not do.
He wanted to go down to the shore. Where he stood he could see the
bright waves rolling in to land. He forgot all that had been said to
him, and resolved to go. He would not stay long.
"Lucy, I am going down to the beach for a little while. Wait here till I
come back, and don't tell any one where I have gone. I'll be back in a
quarter of an hour."
Off he ran without waiting for a reply. Lucy remained quietly sitting,
pulling the daisies, and plaiting them into a long chain, thinking how
it would please her brother. The quarter of an hour passed, half an
hour, an hour. Willie did not appear. Lucy was too faithful to leave her
post; but time was beginning to hang heavy on her hands, and, besides,
she was growing frightened at his absence. Lucy began to cry.
What was Willie about meanwhile? On reaching the shore, which was only
about five minutes' walk from the house, his delight knew no bounds at
being able to scamper about everywhere without being perpetually called
to order. He ran races with the waves that were rolling in, clear and
shining, and breaking in white foam on the yellow sands, and shouted
with glee when he just saved his distance, and escaped without even
wetting the toes of his boots. Then he tossed about the great heaps of
brown weed and tangle, and searched for the lovely crimson sea-weed his
elder sister used to gather and set so prettily on white paper when she
came home for the holidays. Then, as the tide was low, he scrambled in
among the rocks, and in the clear pools he found crabs and cockles and
beautiful red and striped sea-anemones. Willie was very fond of natural
history, which his papa used to teach him occasionally, and he became so
absorbed in examining these pretty things that he not only forgot what
his mamma had said, but also his promise to his little sister of
returning in a quarter of an hour.
He was still busy poking about in the clear water of the pool, when he
suddenly felt a cold plash on his foot. Starting up, he saw, to his
dismay, that the water had been gradually creeping up and surrounding
the low rock on which he was standing looking into the pool. At first he
could not think how that had come about, as the sands had been quite dry
toward the land side when he first went on to it. Suddenly it dawned on
him that the tide must be rising. He did not know very well what the
rising and falling tide meant, as his parents had not lived very long by
the sea, but he remembered hearing his papa speak of people having been
caught by the high tide and drowned. If he had started at once, he might
still have got safely to shore by wading. But he was too much terrified
to think of trying it. Looking about him, he saw a large flat rock near,
and with some difficulty he succeeded in scrambling on to it. He thought
it must be high enough to shelter him, until the tide should fall again.
Had he not heard papa say that the tide fell as well as rose?
Placed thus, as he thought, in a position of safety, Willie's spirits
began to rise again. All his fear had vanished, and he began to pretend
to himself that he was a shipwrecked sailor cast away on a desert
island; and he could not help laughing with glee when the merry little
waves, dashing against the rock he was standing on, sent up sparkling
showers of spray that seemed trying to reach him, but couldn't.
"Aha!" he thought, "you'll be clever if you catch me here on this big
rock. I wish you'd be quick and go lower, though. I want to go home to
mamma and Lucy."
Instead of going lower, however, the water kept rising higher and
higher, until at length a wave, in breaking on the rock, sent a shower
of spray in Willie's face.
The tide had been rising so fast that the shore seemed a long distance
away now. The rock where he had been standing looking into the pool was
now completely covered with water.
Oh, how he wished himself now sitting with Lucy plucking daisies in the
field! How he repented of having been so disobedient to his kind mamma,
who, he remembered now when it was too late, never forbade him anything
except for his own good! How he resolved that he would never, never more
be disobedient if he should ever again reach the land! But still the
water kept rising.
In the mean time poor little Lucy sat crying on the lawn with her lap
full of daisies.
"Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy! come in and get on a clean pinafore before
luncheon."
"Lucy tan't tome in yet, nursie; Lucy p'omised to wait here for Willie."
"Why, I thought Master Willie was here with you. Where is he gone to?"
"Lucy no tell oo where Willie is don to. Lucy p'omised no tell 'at
Willie is don to de beach."
"Gone down to the beach, indeed? Well, his mamma will be real angry, and
his papa too."
Lucy began to cry again at the thought of papa and mamma being angry
with Willie; but nurse carried her off to get her clean pinafore on
before luncheon.
"Are the children ready, nurse?" called papa from the dining-room. Papa
liked to have his little people about him at meal-times.
"Miss Lucy is a-coming, sir; but she says Master Willie has gone down to
the shore."
"To the shore! impossible!" says mamma. "I told him this morning he was
not to go alone."
"Well, ma'am, all I know is that Miss Lucy says so; and, as I can't find
him nowhere, I think it must be so."
"Run down to the beach and see if he is there," says papa. "If he is
disobedient like this, we must be more severe with him in future."
They began luncheon.
Suddenly, in the midst of carving a fowl, Mr. Beetham dropped the
carving knife and fork.
"My dear," he said to his wife. "I hope it is not a spring-tide to-day.
If it be, and that boy has got among the rocks, it might be a bad
business."
The almanac was consulted, and announced a high spring-tide for that
day. Any little boy or girl who had seen the dismay on Mr. and Mrs.
Beetham's faces on learning this would have resolved never to be
disobedient again so as to grieve such kind parents.
Mr. Beetham was starting up to go himself in search of the naughty
little truant, when nurse rushed in to the room.
"Oh, sir!" she cried, "Master Willie is standing on a rock far out in
the sea. He is waving his handkerchief and shouting, but there is no
getting to him."
"Run for Fisherman Ralph," said Mr. Beetham.
"My dear," to his wife, "don't be afraid. Ralph's boat will soon get him
ashore. Mind little Lucy while I run down and help to get it out."
But he was very much afraid, for all that, when, on reaching the beach,
he saw his little boy standing on a point of rock that threatened every
instant to be covered with the rising water.
"Ralph," he cried, as the fisherman--a tall, stalwart figure in a blue
cap and corduroys--came up, "where is your boat?"
"Jack's gone a-fishing in it," said Ralph.
"Heavens! what shall we do?" cried Mr. Beetham. "My boy will be drowned
before my very eyes."
"Not if I can help it, sir," said Ralph, throwing off his jacket. "I'm
big enough. I'll see if I can't wade to him."
"He'll never reach him," cried Mr. Beetham, running up and down the
beach in an agony of anxiety, which was shared by all the by-standers,
as the strong man strode on with the water above his waist, and the rock
still not reached. It was nearly up to his shoulders before he got to
where Willie stood.
[Illustration: "STEADY! STEADY! YOUNG MASTER! I'VE GOT YOU SAFE ENOUGH
NOW."]
"Steady, steady, young master. Don't be afraid of a wetting, and don't
hold on so fast. I've got you safe enough now." And so, half wading,
half swimming, the gallant fellow, battling with the great waves that
were now rolling in heavily, brought poor Willie, drenched and cold, to
land, and laid him in his glad father's arms.
Another minute and the rock had disappeared.
Willie learned a lesson that day which he has never forgotten, and after
papa, mamma, and little Lucy, there is no one he loves so much as big
Fisherman Ralph, who saved his life on the day of the high tide.
PERIL AND PRIVATION.
BY JAMES PAYN.
THE TRIALS OF PHILIP AUSTIN.
It is not seldom, in the melancholy records of shipwreck, that the
"noble savage" maintains the character with which writers of romance
have invested him. He is generally cruel, pitiless, greedy of gain, and
more to be feared by the helpless mariner than the reef or the storm.
There have been, however, one or two exceptions to this general rule,
and the British sailor Captain Philip Austin had reason to speak well of
the Caribs of Tobago.
In 1756 he sailed from Barbadoes, in a brig of eighty tons, to the Dutch
settlement of Surinam. These people were so much in need of horses that
at that time no vessel was permitted to trade with them of whose lading
horses did not form a part, and, as well may be imagined, they were not
the safest kind of cargo. So rigidly was this strange rule enforced that
masters of ships were compelled to preserve the ears and hoofs of horses
dying on the passage, and to make oath that they had embarked them alive
for the colony.
On the night of the 10th of August, of the year mentioned, when near
their journey's end, and while Austin and his mate were keeping watch
together, "sitting on hen-coops" and "telling stories to one another, in
order to while away the time, according to the customs of mariners of
all countries," the broadside of the brig suddenly turned to windward,
through the fouling of the tiller, and there being a heavy sea on, she
filled at once, so that five out of the nine men who formed her crew
"were drowned in their hammocks without a groan." The vessel then upset,
going completely over, with her masts and sails in the water, "the
horses rolling out above each other, and the whole together exhibiting a
most distressing sight."
The coast was of sand, and the sea comparatively shallow, so that some
portions of the brig were above water. To these the survivors clung, and
at once stripped themselves of their clothes, except one who could not
swim, and who was therefore without hope of saving himself by that
means. There was one small boat, twelve feet long, fortunately unsecured
by lashings, and this floated out, and was seized upon by the mate, but
it was bottom upward.
Austin swam out to him, and the two endeavored to right her. This, after
many efforts, was accomplished, "the mate contriving to put his feet
against the gunwale and to seize the keel with his hands," while Austin
"tilted her up from the opposite side with his shoulders." She was
still, however, full of water. This was got rid of in a very ingenious
manner, for the enormous hat which Austin wore, "after the fashion of
the dwellers in the West Indies," was useless to bail her. The mast of
the brig rose and fell some twenty feet, and the captain fastened a rope
to its top, and held on to it from the boat. Whenever the vessel rose,
it lifted up him and the boat, by which three-fourths of the water was
emptied; but "having no means of disengaging her from the masts and
shrouds, they fell down, driving him and the boat under the surface, and
nearly breaking his thigh."
Despite his wound, which, however, rendered any further attempt without
assistance hopeless, Austin threw himself into the water, and with the
rope in his mouth swam to the men on board the brig, who, by their
united strength, hauled the boat over the brig's stern, and emptied it.
A hole, however, was knocked in it by this rough treatment, which was
repaired by being stuffed with the shirt of the man who could not swim,
and had therefore retained that garment. They had no oar, no sail, and
except a dog belonging to the captain, "which was gladly taken in case
of necessity," no provisions.
The brig remained longer above water than might have been expected, for
she had casks of flour and butter on board, "the former of which slowly
imbibes water, and the latter always swims," but none of these things
could be got at. When she sank, the boat being still kept near her, a
chest containing clothes and linen, with chocolate and sugar, floated
out of her, and for these poor sailors it contained more than the riches
of the Indies. It was too large, however, to be lifted into the boat,
which, indeed, it would have sunk; and though they exhausted every means
to open it, they found this impossible, and had to let it go. They
picked up thirteen floating onions, and that was all.
They had no fresh-water; they were without any kind of implement except
a knife, which was in the pocket of the sailor who could not swim, and
they calculated that at the very nearest they were one hundred and fifty
miles from land. Surely never were human creatures in a worse position.
Not a moment, however, was lost in vain regrets. By patient perseverance
they loosened one of the planks with which the boat was lined, and
formed it into a kind of mast, which they tied to the foremost thwart;
another piece of plank served as a yard, and to this they fixed their
only pair of trousers for a sail. Two of the men had always to lie along
the gunwale with their backs to the waves, which would otherwise have
swamped the boat, and, even so, another had constantly to bail it by
means of the Dutch hat.
Thus they ran before the wind all night at the rate of about a league an
hour. At daylight they ate half an onion each, which "wonderfully
revived them," but they were tormented with agonies of thirst. Their
naked limbs, too, were so scorched with the sun that from head to foot
they were red and blistered as from fire. On the third day the captain
killed his dog. He "afterward reflected on it with regret, but at that
time no such sentiment affected him."
At last the exhausted men gave themselves up to despair, and refused to
make any more exertions for their own deliverance, nor would he who had
to bail the boat continue to do so, though Austin fell "on his knees to
entreat him."
On the fifth day an enormous shark followed the boat--an omen the dark
meaning of which was only too well known to them; and this depressed
them still further. The dog had long been eaten, and they caught but one
flying-fish, which was little indeed among so many. There were several
heavy showers, but there was nothing to catch the rain in but the hat
and the trousers, which had become so impregnated by salt-water that
they were almost useless for that purpose. "Their only resource was
endeavoring to catch a few drops as they fell into their open mouths to
cool the heat of their tongues."
The two seamen drank sea-water and became delirious, but the captain and
mate resisted that temptation; they each kept a nail in his mouth, and
sprinkled his head with water, which afforded but slight relief to their
sufferings. On the eighth day the two men died, but in the evening the
boat reached land, and the two survivors, "forsaking the bodies of their
companions, crept out of the boat and crawled on all fours" along the
sand. The cliffs that walled it they were quite unable to climb up.
At eight in the morning a young Carib discovered them, "whose eyes, upon
beholding their forlorn appearance, filled with tears." He understood a
few French words, and informed them that they were on the island of
Tobago. He brought them fresh-water, which they drank with passionate
eagerness, and cakes of cassava and broiled fish, which they could not
swallow.
Other natives showed them similar kindness, removing the two corpses out
of the boat "with signs of the utmost compassion," and following in all
respects the example of the good Samaritan. They brought soup, which
seemed to Austin the most delicious food he had ever tasted, but his
stomach was in so weak a state that it refused to retain it. Herbs and
broth were prepared for him by the women, and his wound was bathed with
a lotion made of tobacco. Every morning the men lifted these
unfortunates from their hammocks, and carried them in their arms under
the shade of a lemon-tree while they anointed their blistered skin with
a healing oil pressed from the tails of crabs.
In consequence of this friendly care and attention Austin was able in
three weeks to go about on crutches, and receive Carib visitors from all
parts of the island, "none of whom came empty handed." He gave boards
with his name cut on them, to be shown to any ship captains who might
chance to touch on the island, and after many weeks this plan met with
success. A sloop, bound for Martinique, laden with mules, touched at
Sandy Point, the western extremity of Tobago, and its master at once
sent the intelligence to Messrs. Roscoe & Nyles at Barbadoes, the owners
of Captain Austin's bark, who promptly sent a small vessel to fetch him.
When about to depart, the friendly Caribs loaded him down with presents
of poultry and fruit, especially oranges and lemons, which they thought
useful for his recovery. He had absolutely nothing to give them in
return, save the boat in which he had arrived, and which they might have
taken without his leave. More than thirty of them accompanied him to the
beach, where, at parting from them, "neither Austin nor the mate could
refrain from tears."
The effects of the poor captain's privations were lasting. His digestion
was so impaired that he could hardly speak or walk, and had to give up
his calling and return to England. His case excited much public
attention. A Bath physician, Dr. Russell, who had resided in the East,
and was accustomed to deal with cases arising from long-protracted
thirst in the Arabian deserts, came to London to prescribe for him. By
means of constant bathing, and asses' milk for his only diet, Austin
regained his health in six months, and survived his disaster
two-and-twenty years.
HOW BILLY WENT UP IN THE WORLD.
BY ANNETTE NOBLE.
Part I.
This is the story of a boy who had red hair, a good appetite, and much
else in common with other boys; one who rose very high in the world, who
came down and rose again, not so high, but in a better way. He was not a
genius, or I should not tell his story; for there are so many boy
geniuses nowadays in books that the record of a common red-haired child
may be more interesting, as a change.
One day fifteen years ago there had been a county fair in Langham. The
grounds were full of people even at six o'clock in the afternoon. But
under the tent the gay bed-spreads, the oil-paintings, the hair flowers,
and the wax-works were being taken down, while the farmers' wives were
exchanging compliments, sample biscuit, and currant jelly. Outside the
canvas the men were taking away the cattle--the great oxen with prize
tickets on their horns, or sheep, or swine, or poultry. Everywhere there
was bellowing, grunting, shouting, scolding, and some grumbling. This
last was chiefly done by a noisy party who came to the fair, not to
bring the grain or cattle raised by their industry, but to stare at the
two-headed calf never raised by anybody, to bet on horses, to steal
water-melons, and to join at last the crowd that was elbowing around a
man with a balloon, in which he was to go up when ready. This balloon,
already inflated, was fastened by a rope to a well-driven stake, and
floated a little way above the ground. Among the lookers-on, some who
pretended to know declared that it was not a very good balloon, and must
surely come to grief.
After a while the man drew down the car low enough to get into it, and
cried out: "Does anybody wish to accompany us in our grand aerial
flight?" He said "us," as sounding fine; but he immediately explained
that he would take a light gentleman only.
In a moment there shot from the crowd a long-legged, keen-eyed boy about
fourteen years old, who nimbly stowed himself into the car, amid great
laughter and shouts of "There goes Billy Knox!" "Good-night, Billy!"
"Bring us down a star, Billy!" and like efforts at wit.
"Did you ever see a chap so ready and willing to risk his life for
nothing?" asked somebody; and another man answered, coolly, "'Tain't no
loss if he does break his neck; nobody owns him, and the world will be
well rid of him."
Billy heard the heartless words, and turned to look at the speaker,
while the owner of the machine arranged the ropes before getting into
the car.
[Illustration: BILLY'S FIRST RISE IN THE WORLD.]
Suddenly, like a bubble from a pipe bowl, up rose the balloon, Billy in
and the man out! The crowd gave a gasp of surprise, the man stared
stupidly, and then, just too late, leaped up like an acrobat, and
clutched--only air. Billy, moving slowly up, sat like a statue; but loud
and clear came down from the car a cry, not of terror, almost one of
triumph.
"He'll be killed, sure," said the former speaker, emphatically, and his
companion echoed, "Don't seem to care a bit about it either, just as you
said."
Some of the people thought it a trick of the owner of the balloon, but
his frantic denial and his evident distress at the loss of his property
proved it to have been a mishap. Meanwhile the news flew like the wind
over the field, and in a moment hundreds of faces were upturned toward
the vanishing balloon. Everybody hoped the boy would not meet a dreadful
death, though a goodly number said it might better be Billy than any one
else; and all alike watched, not sorry, if such a thing must happen,
that they were there to see it.
Up, up, went the car, and "nobody's boy" was rising far above the earth.
The sunset light smote his red hair, and made it glitter like gold. But
Billy was soon too far away for the crowd to jeer at him, even if the
roughest could have done so while the boy was in such terrible peril.
Billy looked down once and shouted. Then he began to wish that his
conveyance would travel sideways, instead of rising so steadily.
It occurred to him at last that if the man who owned the balloon were in
the car, he would probably turn some "stop-cock" or other, and let
himself down. However, Billy was not sure that he wanted to go down even
if he could.
As he rose higher and higher, the people on the ground below him began
to look like small things crawling, and the great white tent almost like
a card-board house. He questioned whether or not he should meddle with
any mysterious part of the balloon. He remembered, not unpleasantly,
having heard some one early in the day say it would certainly collapse
of itself. If collapse meant to come down, to meddle with it might be to
turn on steam and send him beyond the sun and moon, where he had no
desire to go. He sailed across a forest, over a river, lost sight of the
fair ground, and then began to come nearer earth, slowly nearer, then
faster, the car rocking in a way that threatened to dump him out.
"We are surely 'collapsing,'" thought Billy. He grew a little dizzy, the
earth seemed coming to meet him, and all the houses, barns, and
hay-stacks were inflated, in their turn, and getting bigger. At last a
gnarled old tree that had been charging straight on the balloon ran into
it, upset, tore it, and after entangling Billy in ropes and branches,
tearing his clothes, scratching his hands and switching him like an
old-time school-marm, let him fall roughly down to earth. He was glad to
lie quiet, thinking first of the torn balloon, then of himself.
While he was thinking, the words that he had heard that afternoon as he
entered the car came back to him: "Nobody owns him, and the world will
be well rid of him."
Heretofore he had been proud of the fact that nobody owned him. He had
never thought of himself as a nuisance to the community. Billy had not
much sentiment, but to-night his heart ached as well as his limbs. He
thought of all his past life as intently as a boy could think. He had
begun to take care of himself when he was only eight years old. He dimly
remembered his poor mother as always enveloped in the steam from hot
soap suds, a practical kind of a halo, the result of her efforts to feed
him with honestly earned bread. She died and left him to the care of a
drunken father, who two years later followed her to the grave.
The town gave Billy a home in the poor-house, but he staid there only
three days. At the end of it he resolved to start out into the world and
earn his own bread. He ran away to the nearest city, where he blacked
boots, sold papers, learned a certain amount of evil in the streets, and
some good, in a night school. Finally he tired of city life, and started
for California, but after getting ten miles on the way, his money gave
out, and his courage too. He found himself in the town of Langham, and
there he staid, doing odd jobs when he could get them, and at other
times amusing himself as best he could.
There never was a fire that Billy was not close behind the hose-cart, or
a circus that he did not ride the kicking donkey, or a county fair where
he was not present looking out for anything in the way of fun that
offered. His last undertaking was going up in a balloon. Now here he
was, down again, and the question was, what should he do next?
A boy in a book would have decided to become a judge, or a merchant, or
an artist; but Billy had another ambition. He desired to become a
negro-minstrel. He knew one, a man who wore fine clothes and had plenty
of money. He earned it by being funny--oh, so extremely funny.
While Billy was considering the matter, he heard a voice, and looking up
saw a man following a cow. Naturally enough, the balloon, attracted the
man's attention, and he came near enough to discover the boy.
A conversation followed, in which the whole story was told.
"Well," said Billy's new friend, who proved to be a tailor in a very
small way of business, "how do you feel now?"
"Lonesome and sort of empty."
"Do you mean hungry?"
"Perhaps that's it," said Billy.
"Then you may come home with me to-night," said the man, "and after
supper I'll see if the balloon is spoiled.'
"It is only collapsed," said Billy, very pompously; but when on getting
up to walk he found his clothing reduced to about half what he had
before, he assumed a meeker tone, and followed his new friend
thankfully. The cow going first, turned down a lane bordered with
sunflowers, and stopped by the door of a wee red house. A moment after,
a small figure with a tin pail came out of the house, and sat down to
milk the cow.
"This is my son Ben," said the host.
At first Billy had taken the child for a girl, for the little boy's
checked apron came down to his copper-toed shoes, and he wore a green
sun-bonnet, under which Billy saw soft white hair, and a very sweet
face. They entered a kitchen, small, bare, but very clean, where a table
was spread with blue dishes, brown-bread, baked apples, and cold pork.
In the chimney-corner sat a little old woman, who sang as she rocked.
She was very deaf, but she smiled on Billy, on the tailor, and on her
little grandson. She would have smiled on anybody, as to that. But a
grandmother's kind face being new to Billy, he thought it beautiful. He
found the supper exceedingly good, if not very abundant, and he was
interested in watching Ben. The child soberly washed the dishes, and
neatly swept up the crumbs, saying very little. The reason for his
silence was after a while apparent to Billy: little Ben stuttered.
After supper, the room being warm, and Billy being tired, he dozed in a
corner of the old lounge. While he slept the tailor went to see about
the balloon, and staid a long time.
Later in the evening Billy was awakened by a voice. Ben was reading to
his grandmother. She had her cap off, and her hair was as white as snow.
She was warming her feet over the last coals, while Ben held a candle in
one hand, and bent over an old book.
"'He shall call upon me, and I will answer him,'" read the boy, in his
awkward, stuttering tones. "'I will be with him in trouble. I will
deliver him, and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him, and show
him my salvation.'"
Billy did not catch the last word, for the child could scarcely
pronounce it, but he asked, abruptly, "Who will do it?"
The old grandmother heard the boy's voice, and answered: "God will do it
all for those who love Him."
"Folks like you, old and good, I suppose," added Billy, as she tottered
away to bed.
Once she would have stopped to teach him some holy lesson, but now she
had crept in her feebleness so close to the door of heaven that she was
forgetful of all darkness that might be behind her for younger
travellers. Billy fell asleep again, then waked up blinking. The outer
door was open, and Ben was pulling, bracing, and otherwise guiding his
father into the house.
When the tailor was safely dumped into a wooden chair, he began to
jabber about the "b'loon, you know--scientif'--experiment. If I got a
chance--like to own b'loon myself--always was scientific."
"Humph! that's it, is it?" said Billy, stretching out again for the
night. He had seen too much of life to be either shocked or surprised.
Doubtless Ben could get his drunken father to bed alone; and the child
did indeed do it, as he often had done it before.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: THE RABBIT HUTCH.]
THE FRIDAY PICNIC.
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
"But you can't expect Hatty to put off her birthday, can you?" and Ralph
Wicksley shied a small pebble against the hand of his friend by way of
emphasizing the absurdity of the idea.
"Oh, pshaw! of course not," replied the other boy, with a half-smile;
"but ten chances to one it rains at a picnic anyway, and on a Friday,
and the 13th of the month, there's no knowing what may not happen."
"Why, George Hendon, how long since you've turned a superstitious
pagan?" exclaimed a voice behind the two, who were taking a "sun bath"
on the beach at Seamere.
"Hello, Graham!" cried Ralph, springing to his feet. "We'll leave the
matter to you. You know about the picnic we're to give your sister on
her thirteenth birthday? Well, we've just discovered that it occurs not
only on the 13th of the month, but on a Friday besides, and George here
thinks we ought to postpone it on that account. It's all nonsense, isn't
it?"
"I don't believe any of the girls will go on that day," put in George,
by way of influencing Graham Burd's answer.
"And I don't believe one of them has thought of the coincidence,"
returned the latter; "and probably never will, unless you put it into
their heads. You're not afraid to go yourself, are you?"
"Well, no, I'm not exactly afraid, but I think we'd feel more
comfortable all around if we should choose some other day. You know
sailors are terribly superstitious, and if, while we are in the boat,
some one should mention the three queer facts (although I give you my
word it won't be me), all the pleasure for some of the girls would be
spoiled."
"Oh, don't you believe it!" cried Graham. "I'm sure Hatty, for one, has
too much sense to make herself miserable because of a mere silly old
wives' tale, so don't put it off on her account. Besides, there'll be
more than thirteen in the party, which fact of itself ought to calm the
fears of the most timid."