It was the figure of a man in slouched hat and high boots, and
long tapering rod in hand. He seemed to be quite motionless, but
far out near the middle of the stream, just where the trout was
swimming, danced a brilliant fly. A leap, a dash, and then began
such a whirling mad rush through the water that Arthur knew he
would be overthrown. The trout had seized the fly, and the
fisherman, rapidly unreeling his line, waited for the fish to
exhaust himself. Before this was done, however, Arthur was thrown
violently off the trout's back, and by dint of desperate efforts
reached the shore, where for a long while he lay motionless.
When he revived he found himself in long sedgy grass, well
shielded from observation. The trout was nowhere to be seen, and
Arthur knew that it was idle to search for him. Poor fellow! his
fate had found him, and no doubt he was lying quietly enough now
in the fisherman's basket.
"'Streams run into rivers, and rivers to the sea,' and I must look
for some other method than the trout's back."
He hopped about wearily, ate a few flies, and then, quite worn
out, fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was dark. Fire-flies
flashed about him brilliantly; stars beamed so brightly that they
seemed double, half above in the sky, and half below in the water.
From some overhanging boughs came a dismal hooting.
"Hush!" cried Arthur, impatiently. "Why do you want to spoil the
night with such wailing?"
[Illustration: THE OWL TELLS HER SORROWFUL STORY.]
"I have lost three lovely little owlets," was the response.
"Darling little fluffy cherubs! Never had an owl mother three such
beauties!"
"Where are they?" asked Arthur.
"Devoured by a horrible night-hawk," sobbed the owl.
"Where has the night-hawk flown?"
"Far down the river after prey."
"Why do you not go after him, and punish him?"
"It is too far, and I am too sorrowful."
"You have no spirit. _I_ would peck his eyes out were I in your
place."
"Ah! you are young and strong and brave."
"Take me on your back, and we will fly after him."
"Come, then, and do battle for me, noble friend."
Down flew the owl, and up jumped Arthur quickly on its back,
inwardly wondering how a frog could be a match for a night-hawk,
but quite resolved to aid the poor owl if he could. With a
delightful sense of freedom and glorious liberty, such as he had
never before even imagined, they rose high above the tree-tops.
The moon had now risen, and the air seemed transparent silver.
Keeping near the border of the river, which had greatly widened,
they emerged from one forest only to enter another.
The wild cries of loons saluted them. Herds of deer, cooling
themselves in the water, glanced up with startled gaze as they
passed.
A dark bird flapped low over the water as a fish leaped from the
waves.
"It is my enemy," whispered the owl.
"Pursue him," returned Arthur.
"My heart sinks within me; the memory of my owlets subdues all
revengefulness. Though I should make him suffer, it would not
return to me my children."
"But if we kill him, he can do no further mischief."
"True, true; but he is a fearful fellow. What weapons have you
with which to meet him?"
"None but my eyes and legs; a frog is a poor despicable wretch
under such circumstances. Our weight together might sink him. You
must fly at him with one tremendous blow, get him down in the
water, and all the fish will assist to punish him, for all owe
him a grudge. Or stay: fly close to him, and I will leap upon him;
the weight will surprise and annoy him, and you must then make a
dash for his eyes. Pluck them out if you can; it will be worse
than death for him."
"Barbaric torture! But the memory of my owlets hardens my motherly
heart; it pulsates with tremendous force; their loss is the
world's loss. I hasten to the combat."
They swept down low as the hawk swooped for fish; Arthur sprang
upon its back; the owl darted at the creature's eyes, and with a
furious blow, first at one, then at the other, made her enemy
sightless. The hawk, with a cry of pain, fell into the water.
Instantly an enormous fish dragged him beneath, and it was only by
wonderful dexterity on the part of the owl and of the frog that
the latter was unhurt. He nestled once again amongst the owl's
soft feathers, and they sought the shore.
"Now how shall I repay you, my brave friend?" asked the owl, as
Arthur leaped upon land.
"I do not wish for any reward," replied Arthur.
"Nevertheless, you will not refuse to grant a sorrowful and
stricken mother the little balm which her grateful spirit seeks in
the return or acknowledgment of so vast a favor as you have
conferred upon me."
Arthur thought a moment, and then told the owl of his journey and
errand to the sea-shore. "Perhaps, as you are so famous for
wisdom, Mother Owl, you may be able to give me some advice which
will assist me to get the sea-weed, and return as speedily as I
can," he said, as he finished his narration.
"I will consider," replied the owl, bending her searching gaze
toward the earth. After a few moments' reflection, in which she
rolled her luminous and cat-like eyes about, ruffled her feathers,
and uttered a few soft "to-whit to-whoos," she murmured: "I have
it. Seldom do I require to deliberate so anxiously, but parental
anguish has clouded my active brain; the recent combat, also, has
exhausted my nervous system. I have the happy thought at last,
though, and you shall be assisted. We will fly to the nest of an
old friend, a celebrated kingfisher. He lives not far from here;
he knows the coast well, and will aid us. Come, mount upon my
willing back, and we will fly at once."
This was no sooner said than done. They flew swiftly over the now
broad expanse of water rolling in a powerful stream, bordered by a
wild and harsh-looking forest. A few tall and leafless trunks in a
cluster contained, high among the bare boughs, a huge nest. From
it, aroused from his sleep, sullenly flapped a large bird.
"Wait a moment, my friend," called the owl, in her most beseeching
manner. "I have a favor to ask. I wish to appeal to your
intelligent, geographical, topographical, and comprehensive
intellect for guidance. You know the coast; lead us to it before
the dawn of day."
"A most unwarrantable request, upon my word," was the answer, in a
gruff voice. "Why should you thus disturb my slumber, and demand
of me this journey in the night?"
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE EASTER BUTTERFLY.
BY SUSAN ARCHER WEISS.
George and Ella were in the garden, helping to gather the last of the
fruit from the big apple-tree under which they had played all the
summer. One large red apple fell on the walk, and rolled away under the
gooseberry hedge, and Ella knelt down to look for it. But as she was
about reaching under the bushes, she suddenly started back with a
scream. "Oh, Georgie, such a horrid, _horrid_ caterpillar!"
George, who hated caterpillars, and thought that they did a great deal
of harm in gardens, took up a stick to kill this one. But Aunt Kate, who
was looking on, checked him. "Stop, George; let us see what he is
doing."
It was a very large and very ugly caterpillar, hanging to a twig of the
gooseberry bush. He was curled up in almost a circle, and moving his
head busily from side to side. A great many fine threads were twisted
all around him.
"He is trying to get out of that cobweb," said Ella.
"No; he is making the web himself," said George, looking closely. "See
how he is spinning out the threads, and winding them round himself."
"Yes," said Aunt Kate, quietly, "he is spinning his shroud. Don't
disturb him, and to-morrow we will come and see what he has done."
So next day they came again into the garden, and looked under the
gooseberry bush. But instead of the caterpillar, they found, hanging to
the twig, a little dry brown case, or cocoon, which George said looked
very much like the stump of an old cigar.
"He is in there," said Aunt Kate. "That is his coffin."
"Why, Aunt Kate! a caterpillar burying himself in a shroud and a
coffin?"
"Yes; he has spun himself a fine silken shroud, and fastened himself up
in a coffin."
"Is he dead?" asked Ella.
"You would think so if you could see him. He is nothing now but a little
hard dry shell, which neither moves nor breathes. He can neither see nor
hear."
"Then he must be dead," said George.
"No, not dead; there remains a spark of life in the little dried-up
body. By-and-by, when the right time comes, you will see him burst out
of that shroud and coffin, but not as an ugly caterpillar: he will be a
beautiful butterfly with lovely wings."
"Why, Aunt Kate!" they both exclaimed, in surprise.
But Aunt Kate was standing with a dreamy, far-away look in her blue
eyes, and a soft sweet smile on her lips. George said she looked as
though she saw the air full of beautiful butterflies. And at that Aunt
Kate smiled, and kneeling down, tied a bit of silk thread around the
little cocoon, and took it gently off the twig. "It shall hang on a nail
in your room," she said to Ella, "and in the spring we shall see what
will happen."
So all through the winter the poor caterpillar, in his shroud and
coffin, hung on the wall, near the ceiling, where he might be out of
harm's way. More than once George and Ella were tempted to take the
cocoon gently off the nail; and feeling how light it was, and how it
rattled with a dry, hollow sound, they could not believe that any life
remained in it. But Aunt Kate told them to have faith in what she said,
until they should see with their own eyes.
On Easter-eve the children were seated before the fire, coloring eggs.
Aunt Kate was explaining to them that the festival of Easter was in
remembrance of our Lord's resurrection from the tomb.
"It was wonderful, when He had been three whole days dead," said Ella,
solemnly.
"Yes, but we shall all rise from our tombs as our Saviour did," said
George; "Mr. Danton told us so last Sunday. I know it must be true. But,
Aunt Kate, it seems such a wonderful thing to believe."
"Do you believe, George, that that poor dried-up insect on the wall
there will ever come out of its tomb a beautiful creature with wings?"
"I don't know," said George, doubtfully. "He seems too dead ever to come
to life again."
"_I_ believe he will, because Aunt Kate says so," said Ella; and Aunt
Kate smiled.
"That is having faith," said she.
Next morning was Easter--Sunday--a bright, lovely day, almost as warm
and bright as summer.
"Auntie," cried Ella, rushing into the room with her hands full of white
and yellow crocuses, "see what I have found in the garden! These dear
flowers poking their little yellow heads out of the ground, and looking
as if they were staring around to see if spring had come. Isn't it
wonderful how they could come up out of the dirt so clean and bright?"
"So the little dry balls which have lain all winter in the cold dark
ground have come to life again," said Aunt Kate. "But now put them in
water, and let us go to breakfast."
Ella went into her own room, which was next to Aunt Kate's, to get a
little blue china vase for the flowers. But in a moment she called out:
"Oh, auntie, come and see! There is a hole in the cocoon!"
Sure enough, when Aunt Kate came, she saw that a large hole had been
made in one end of the cocoon, and that it was empty.
[Illustration: THE BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY.]
Then she looked carefully all over the room, and while she was doing so,
Ella suddenly gave a cry of wonder and delight. On the window-seat in
the bright sunshine was a large and beautiful butterfly, lightly
balancing himself, and slowly waving his gold and purple wings to and
fro.
"Oh, Aunt Kate, can that be our ugly caterpillar turned into such a
beautiful butterfly?"
"Yes, this is the poor ugly worm which once crawled on the ground, and
did nothing in all its life but search for food. He has broken his tomb,
as you see, and come forth a lovely winged creature, to fly in the air,
and rest upon flowers, and sip dew and honey from their fragrant
blossoms."
"How he trembles!" said Ella; "and why does he wave his wings so?"
"He is getting them ready for flight. And perhaps he trembles from joy
to find himself what he is."
"Auntie," said Ella, in a low voice, and with a very grave look, "do you
think we shall be as beautiful and as happy when we come out of our
graves, and find ourselves angels with wings?"
"No doubt of it," Aunt Kate replied, softly. "A thousand times more
beautiful and happy."
"If we are _good_ while we are caterpillars."
"Yes, if we are good."
Ella stood a long time looking at the beautiful insect. Her heart was
full of a solemn wonder and awe at this great miracle, as it seemed to
her.
"If the caterpillar could have known," she said, "while he was a poor
ugly worm, that he would some time be a beautiful butterfly, I think he
would have been glad to bury himself up in that coffin. And, Aunt Kate,
it seems strange that he should have come out of his grave on
Easter-day, our Lord's resurrection day.[2] Perhaps it was to teach
Georgie and me an Easter lesson. George will believe it now."
Just then the butterfly slowly lifted himself on his wings, fluttered
around in a circle, and settled quivering and trembling on the crocus
blossoms. So they left him there while they went down to breakfast.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] A fact.
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
The offers for exchanges from our correspondents have come in so fast of
late that we have been obliged, for the present, to place a large
portion of them on the third page of the cover, in order to make room
for letters, answers, and puzzles, which fill the two pages allotted to
the Post-office Box.
* * * * *
NEW YORK CITY.
We children have just had a box of odd things from our auntie, who
lives in Cuba, and I thought the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE would like
to hear about it. It was a great big box, and the first thing we
saw when papa took off the cover was a lot of sugar-cane. It looked
very hard and dry, but when papa cut off the outside, how nice and
white the inside was! We sucked the juice, and it was sweeter than
sugar. Then papa took out a bundle done up in yellow paper, and
marked, "Open carefully." It was full of _pinol_, which is a kind
of corn meal made by the country people in Cuba. They roast the
corn, and then grind it fine, and mix it with brown sugar. They eat
it just that way, and sometimes they wet it with milk, and make
little cakes. Auntie wrote that the school-boys in Cuba take a
mouthful of _pinol_, and then try to say _fou-fou_ without blowing
out any meal. We tried, but the meal, which tastes very nice, was
like dry powder, and we couldn't do it.
There was a little box full of what we always called guinea-peas,
but which are called _pepusas_ in Cuba. They are a bright red pea,
with a little black spot on one side. Auntie always writes a
description of everything, and so we know that these grow on
bushes, like our hazel-nuts. The bushes are covered with husks,
which crack open when they are dry, and show a whole bunch of
_pepusas_ inside.
There were so many candied fruits that I couldn't tell about half.
There was one very curious, which they call _marañon_ in Cuba, but
papa says in Jamaica it is called cashew. The fruit is yellow and
red, and is shaped something like a pear. The curious thing about
it is that the seed, which is a kind of nut, is outside the fruit,
and hangs on the lower end. If this nut is roasted when it is
fresh, it is nicer than a chestnut.
There were a great many _corojo_ nuts in our box, and we have
enough to play with for a year; for we are going to do just like
the Cuban children--carry them in our pockets, and use them for
marbles until we are tired of them, and then crack them and eat
the meat. They are a small, round, green nut, and the meat is like
a tiny piece of cocoa-nut. The _corojo_ nuts grow on a palm-tree,
and hang in great bunches right under the crown of glistening
green leaves.
[Illustration: THE SAND-BOX.]
My letter is growing too long, but I must tell about something
auntie sent us a year ago. There is a very beautiful tree, which
grows all through the Cuban woods, which they call _salvadera_. In
Jamaica they call it the sandbox-tree, because they get the
pretty, fluted seed cases, and make sand-boxes of them. If they
are picked just at the right time, they last for years. If they
are left on the tree, they ripen until they are dark brown, and
then they fly open with a bang, and send the seeds in all
directions. You can hear them sometimes in Cuban woods popping on
every side, like hundreds of pistols.
Well, last year auntie sent us a very handsome sand-box, all
varnished, and mounted on a wooden stand. We stood it on the
mantel-piece. One evening we were all sitting in the parlor, when
some one, as it seemed, fired off a pistol right in the room. Papa
ran to the door, thinking it was in the street, and we children
all crept close to mamma, and got hold of her dress. Pretty soon
papa came back, looking very much puzzled, for the street was all
quiet. He came and stood in front of the fire, wondering what the
noise could have been, till all of a sudden he began to laugh and
point to our sand-box. There stood the wooden stand, but every bit
of the box had disappeared. We found it afterward in little pieces
scattered all over the room. I suppose it had been picked too dry,
and the heat of the fire had finished it.
HALLIE J. R.
The sandbox-tree is one of the most beautiful growths of West Indian
forests. As we are sure our little readers will like to see a picture of
the seed case which "flies open with a bang," we take the accompanying
illustration from _A Christmas in the West Indies_, by Charles Kingsley,
published by Harper & Brothers.
* * * * *
SOUTH SALEM, NEW YORK.
I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and find it very
entertaining.
I have no brothers, and only one sister. She is married, and has
gone as a missionary to far-off India. She has been there more
than a year. In her last letter she said they were camping out in
a grove of three or four hundred orange-trees. She has oranges,
lemons, bananas, custard-apples, mangoes, and other fruits growing
in her own garden, and a great many flowers too.
I go to a good district school a mile and a half from our house.
We have had twenty-nine scholars all through the winter.
LUCIE N. P.
* * * * *
NEW YORK CITY.
I have a pair of roller skates which I skate on every afternoon.
They are the easiest kind to skate on. You just have to move a
little, and they roll along as easy as possible. I read an article
in YOUNG PEOPLE about roller skates, and I thought it was splendid.
I have a little sister named Minnetta, and I let her skate. It is
real amusing to see her, as she is just learning.
ROSALEE C.
* * * * *
WEST NEWTON, PENNSYLVANIA.
I am a little boy five years old. I have a papa and mamma, and a
sister Jessie, who is nine years old. And I have a sister and
brother in heaven. My aunt is here, but she is sick now, and I have
to keep real quiet, and can't beat my drum any. We live on the
railroad, and I can see the cars nearly all the time.
My papa is a minister. I do not go to school, but I recite to my
papa. I read, spell, and recite arithmetic. I can print, and I can
write some.
FRED R. P.
* * * * *
IRVINGTON, NEW YORK.
I wish some correspondent of the Post-office Box who lives in a
maple-sugar region would tell me how much sap it takes to make a
pound of sugar.
G. H.
* * * * *
PORT ORANGE, FLORIDA.
I have come all the way from Kentucky to Florida, and I have had
such a nice time that I want to tell YOUNG PEOPLE about it.
It was snowing hard when we left Louisville on the 16th of
February, and when we reached Palatka, three days afterward,
people were sitting out under the orange-trees in summer dresses.
We felt as if summer had really come when we saw green peas and
strawberries on the table.
I saw an alligator that was twelve feet long. There are plenty of
little ones for sale. A young lady in our hotel has one for a pet.
There are a good many curiosity stores in Palatka, and all of them
are full of stuffed birds. In one is a large panther which was
killed near the town.
On our way here from Orange City we came through several cypress
swamps. The cypress-trees had tall ferns growing at their roots,
and different kinds of air plants were fastened to them all the
way up to the top. One of the swamps was so deep that the water
came up into the bottom of the wagon, and spoiled our lunch.
This is a lovely place. The Halifax River is just in front of the
hotel. The water is salt, and papa says it is really an arm of the
sea. We take a sail-boat and go across the river, a mile and a
half, then we walk a little way, and come to the Atlantic Ocean,
where we find pretty shells and go in bathing.
There are lots of fish here, and oyster beds all along near the
shore. I am keeping a diary of my Florida trip, and write in it
every day myself. I am eight years old.
ETHEL A.
* * * * *
CANTON, NEW YORK.
Here is something that may amuse some little readers of YOUNG
PEOPLE. Cut out a number of very small paper dolls, not over half
an inch long, and lay them in a row on the table. Then take a
ribbon, and rub it over your head quickly several times. Then hold
it directly over the dolls, and they will all rise up.
ANNIE W.
* * * * *
HINSDALE, ILLINOIS.
It is nice here in the summer-time, and we have many pretty
flowers, but in the winter it is so cold that people get sick, and
sometimes they have to go to Florida, and stay until the cold
weather is over.
I have a large Esquimau dog, and sometimes I harness him to my
sleigh, and have a good ride with my little sister.
In the summer I go fishing over to Brush Hill Creek. I catch as
many as fifteen bull-heads and half a dozen sunfish, and that
makes a very good meal for my Esquimau dog.
CHARLES R. JONES.
* * * * *
HINSDALE, NEW YORK.
I think YOUNG PEOPLE is the nicest paper published. We go to
Chautauqua every year. Last summer I saw YOUNG PEOPLE there, and I
thought so much of it I asked papa to take it for me, and he did.
I have been very sick this winter with diphtheria, but I am well
enough now to go to church and to school again. My papa is a
Methodist Episcopal minister. He has two little ponies, and I ride
one of them. I am twelve years old.
DORA J.
* * * * *
PORTLAND, CONNECTICUT.
My finances are nearly in the same condition as those of Percy L.
McDermott. I get a dollar monthly, papa pays all my postage, and
mamma gives me ten cents for keeping my stamp box out of the way
when I am not using it. Although papa is a great advocate of
neatness, he is interested in stamp collecting, and rejoices with
me when I get a new specimen. He always asks me to get the box down
when he is at home; mamma never hints at such a thing. She is
content to leave the box, stamps, and all put aside unless I
agitate the subject. I do not go to school. Mamma teaches me at
home. I study in the morning by myself, and it is very hard to keep
my mind from wandering, especially as the kite season is in its
height, and we are having such mild spring weather.
I take orders to manufacture kites, free of charge, from small
boys in the neighborhood, who will cut toward their hands. In this
way I drive a thriving business, but mamma gets more and more
particular with my recitations as the season advances. I study
geography, grammar, arithmetic, geology, French, drawing, and
music, and mamma holds to the point that a spelling and reading
lesson can not be studied too well. All this takes time, and can
not be done in a minute.
I sympathize greatly with Percy in his awful fix, as he expresses
it, as I too have a great many letters to write, and a geological
research on cryolite to make for a professor. (That research is
the "last feather on the camel's back.") I am one of Percy's
correspondents, but freely forgive him for not answering my
letter, and when in future years he is nominated for the
Presidency of the United States, I will never mention the stamp
exchange to a single soul.
I wish it was in my power to alleviate the sufferings of Jimmy
Brown. As it is not, I hope he will continue to write his sad
experience to YOUNG PEOPLE. I am sure he will get sympathy from us
all.
I live opposite Middletown, which truly is a "forest city." We
have a fine view of the Meriden Mountains, the Great Hills, and
the Connecticut Valley, which with its noble river is considered
by strangers, as well as ourselves, the most beautiful and
fascinating scenery in the world.
In winter the ice-boats of the Wesleyan students, sleighs with
spirited horses, and little boys and girls coasting with sleds,
make our river even more picturesque than the far-famed Neva of
Russia, while in summer tugs, schooners, and yachts pass each
other on its surface, the sailing vessels looking like
white-winged sea-birds on the water. To-day it is clear and calm,
and the water looks like silver. A few days ago the ice was
rushing and ploughing its way to the Sound.
ALTIA R. A.
* * * * *
WASHINGTON COURT-HOUSE, OHIO.