but what's to be done?"
"Done?" said the Principal One. "There is only one thing to be done,
and that is to wash her. There can be no doubt about that."
All the fairies agreed that nothing could be more sensible than to
wash little Bridget, and so they gathered around her, and, with all
gentleness, some of them lifted her up and carried her down towards
the brook, while the others danced about her, and jumped over her, and
hung on to long fern leaves, and scrambled among the bushes, and were
as merry as a boxful of crickets.
When they approached the brook, one of the fairies jumped in to see if
the water was warm enough, and the Principal One and the Next Biggest
held a consultation, as to how little Bridget should be washed.
"Shall we just souse her in?" said the Next Biggest.
"I hardly think so," said the Principal One. "She may not be used to
that sort of thing, and she might take cold. It will be best just to
lay her down on the bank and wash her there."
So little Bridget, who had never opened her eyes all this time (and no
wonder, for you will find, if you are ever carried by fairies while
you are asleep, that they will bear you along so gently that you will
never know it), was brought to the brook and laid softly down by the
water's edge.
Then all the fairies set to work in good earnest. Some dipped clover
blossoms in the water, and washed and rubbed her mouth and cheeks
until there was not a sign left of strawberry or blackberry stain;
others gathered fern leaves and soft grass, and washed her little feet
until they were as white as lambs' wool; and the Very Least, who had
been the one to carry her hand, now washed it with ever so many
morning-glory-blossom-fuls of water and rubbed it dry with soft clean
moss.
Other fairies curled her hair around flower stalks, while some
scattered sweet smelling blossoms about her, until there was never
such a sweet, clean, and fragrant little girl in the whole world.
And all this time she never opened her eyes. But no wonder, for if you
are ever washed by fairies while you are asleep, you will find that
you will never know it.
When all was done, and not a speck of dirt was to be seen anywhere on
little Bridget, the fairies took her gently up and carried her to her
mother's house, for they knew very well where she lived. There they
laid her down on the doorstep, where it was both warm and shady, and
they all scampered away as fast as their funny little legs could carry
them.
It was now about the right time in the morning to get up, and very
soon the front door opened and out came Aunt Ann, with a bucket on her
arm, which she was going to fill at the well for the purpose of giving
little Bridget her morning wash.
When Aunt Ann saw the little girl lying on the door step she was so
astonished that she came very near dropping the bucket.
"Well, I never!" said she, "if it isn't little Bridget, and just as
clean as a new pin! I do declare I believe the sweet innocent has
jumped out of bed early, and gone and washed and combed herself, just
to save me the trouble!"
Aunt Ann's voice was nothing like so soft and gentle as a fairy's, and
it woke up little Bridget.
"You lovely dear!" cried her Aunt, "I hadn't the least idea in the
world that you were such a smart little thing, and there is no doubt
but that you are now old enough to wash and dress yourself, and after
this you may do it!"
So, after that, Bridget washed and dressed herself, and was just as
happy as the birds, the butterflies, and flowers.
SOME NOVEL FISHING.
[Illustration]
Fishing has one great peculiarity which makes it often vastly more
interesting than hunting, gunning, or many other sports of the kind,
and that is that you never know exactly what you are going to get.
If we fish in waters known to us, we may be pretty sure of what we
shall _not_ get, but even in our most familiar creeks and rivers, who
can say that the fish which is tugging at our line is certainly a
perch, a cat-fish, or an eel? We know that we shall not pull up a shad
or a salmon, but there is always a chance for some of those great
prizes which are to be found, by rare good luck, in every river and
good-sized stream; a rock-fish, or striped-bass perhaps, or a pike, or
enormous chub.
But there are some fish which would not only gratify but astonish
most of us, if we could be so fortunate as to pull them out of the
water. For instance, here are some fish with both their eyes on one
side of their heads.
[Illustration]
These are Turbots, and are accounted most excellent eating. They
resemble, in their conformation but not in their color, our flounders
or flat-fish, which some of you may have caught, and many of you have
eaten. These fish lie on one side, at the very bottom of the water in
which they live, and consequently one eye would be buried in the mud
and would be of no use, if they were formed like common fish. But as
their enemies and their food must come from above them, they need both
their eyes placed so that they can always look upwards. In the picture
at the head of this article, you will see some Soles lying together
at the bottom. These are formed in the same way. They are white on one
side, which is always down except when they are swimming about, and a
very dark green on the other, so that they can scarcely be
distinguished from the mud when they are lying at the bottom. The
Turbot, however, as you see, is very handsomely spotted.
But there are much stranger fish than these flat fellows, and we must
take a look at some of them. What would you say if you were to pull up
such a fish as this on your hook?
[Illustration]
This is a _Hippocampus_, or sea-horse. He is a little fellow, only a
few inches in length, but he is certainly a curiosity. With a head and
neck very much like those of a horse, he seems to take pleasure in
keeping himself in such a position as will enable him to imitate a
high mettled charger to the greatest advantage. He curves his neck and
holds up his head in a manner which few horses adopt, unless they are
reined up very tightly. I have seen these little fellows in aquariums,
and have always regarded them as the most interesting of fishes.
But although it is by no means probable that any of us will ever catch
a sea-horse, we might get even stranger fish upon our hooks. If we had
a very large hook, a long and strong line, and a tempting bait, it is
just possible, if we were to go to exactly the right spot, and had
extraordinary good fortune, that we might catch such a beauty as this.
[Illustration]
This fellow you will probably recognize as the Cuttle-fish. Some
persons call it the Devil-fish, but the name is misapplied. The
Devil-fish is a different kind of a sea monster. But the Cuttle-fish
is bad enough to have the very worst name that could be bestowed upon
him. Those great arms, which sometimes grow to a length of several
feet, he uses to wrap around his prey, and they are strong and tough.
He has two eyes and a little mouth, and is about as pugnacious a fish
as is to be found anywhere. If I should ever haul a Cuttle-fish into
my boat, I think I should feel very much like getting out, no matter
how deep the water might be.
There was once a sea captain, who was walking on a beach with some of
his men, when he spied one of these Cuttle-fish, travelling over the
sand towards the water. He thought it would be a fine thing to capture
such a strange fish, and he ran after it, and caught hold of one of
its legs. But he soon wished that it had got away from him, for the
horrid creature turned on him, and wrapped several of its long arms or
legs--whichever they may be--around him, and the poor captain soon
began to fear that he himself would not be able to escape.
Nothing that he could do would loosen the hold of the monster upon
him, and if it had not been for a sailor who ran up with a hatchet and
cut the limbs of the Cuttle-fish from its body, the poor captain might
have perished in the embrace of this most disagreeable of all fishes.
There are a great many stories told of this fish, and it is very
probable that all the worst ones are true. Canary birds are very fond
of pecking at the bones taken from small Cuttle-fish, and India-ink is
made from a black substance that it secretes, but I would rather do
without canary birds altogether, and never use India-ink, than to be
obliged to catch my own Cuttle-fish.
But while we are hauling strange things up from the deep, suppose we
take something that is not exactly a fish, but which is alive and
lives in the water. What do you think of a living thing like this?
This is a polypier, and its particular name is the _fungia_ being so
called because it resembles a vegetable fungus. The animal lives
inside of that circular shell, which is formed something like the
under side of a toad-stool. Between the thin plates, or leaves, the
polypier thrusts out its arms with little suckers at the ends. With
these it seizes its food and conveys it to its mouth, which is
situated at the centre of its body.
[Illustration]
But there are more strange fish in the sea than we can ever mention,
and the strange fish are by no means the most profitable. Still there
is a pleasure in fishing, no matter what we pull up.
The greatest fishers in the world are fish. The Whale will catch, in
the course of a day, enough herring to last a family for many years,
and in all the rivers and oceans and lakes, fishing is going on so
constantly and extensively that the efforts of man in that direction
seem ridiculous, by contrast.
[Illustration]
The Tunny, a large fish, measuring from two to five feet in ordinary
length, is a great fisher. He, like the Whale, is fond of herrings,
and he likes them fresh, not salt, smoked, or pickled. Often, when the
fishermen are busy in their boats, setting their nets for herring, a
troupe of Tunnies will come along, and chase the herring in every
direction, swallowing every unfortunate fellow that they can catch.
Some of the fishers that live in the sea are terrible fellows, and are
by no means content with such small game as herring. The Sword-fish,
for instance, always appears to prefer large victims, and he has such
strong tastes of that kind, that he has been known to attack ships,
driving his long sword clean through the bottom of the vessel. But he
generally comes off second best on such occasions, for his sword is
very often broken off and left sticking fast in the thick hull.
[Illustration]
The Sword-fish has a better chance when he attacks a Whale, and this
he has often been known to do. The Whale could probably kill the
Sword-fish, if he could get one good crack at him, but the smaller
fish is generally active enough to keep out of the way of harm, while
he drives his sword into the Whale again and again, until the great
creature often perishes from loss of blood.
The Shark, as you all know, is the most ferocious and dangerous of
all the fishers in the sea. He considers anything suitable for a meal
which will go into his mouth; he will eagerly snap at a man, a mouse,
or even a tin coffee-pot, or a band-box. So savage and relentless is
this "tiger of the sea" as he is sometimes called, that it is
gratifying to think that he occasionally goes out fishing and gets
caught himself. Many instances have been related of natives of the
Pacific Islands, who are accustomed to bathe so much in the ocean that
they swim almost like fishes themselves, who have successfully given
battle to Sharks which have pursued them. The Shark is unable, from
the peculiar formation of his mouth, to seize the man, unless he can
turn partially over. Therefore the man takes care to keep below the
Shark, and a few stabs with his long knife are generally sufficient to
finish the combat, and to slay the monster.
[Illustration]
Still, although it appears so easy to kill a Shark in this way, I
think it will generally be found preferable to try for some other kind
of fish.
Let others go seek the Shark, the Sword-fish, or the squirming
Cuttle-fish. Give us the humble Perch and the tender Trout. Don't you
say so?
EAGLES AND LITTLE GIRLS.
[Illustration: THE CHILD AND THE EAGLE.]
Many years ago, among the mountains of Switzerland, an Eagle pounced
down upon a little girl, and carried her away. Her parents were
harvesting in the field, and they did not notice the danger of their
little daughter, until the great bird had lifted her up in his talons,
and was flying away with her to his nest in the mountain crags.
I remember having read all the particulars of this remarkable affair,
but I forget whether the child was rescued alive or not. At any rate
let us hope that she was.
But this incident suggests the following question: Ought little girls
to be allowed to play out of doors in countries where there are
Eagles?
Many a child, after looking at such a picture as that upon the
opposite page, might reasonably stand in awe of the national bird of
our country; but I will state that it is my firm belief that a child
runs quite as much risk of being swallowed up by an earthquake as it
does of being carried away by an Eagle.
There have been a few instances where the bald-headed Eagle of this
country--(so called, not because its head is bald, but because it is
gray)--has attacked children, but these cases are very rare indeed.
The Eagle which carried off the little girl in Switzerland was of a
very different kind from the national emblem of America,--much more
powerful and fierce. But even in Switzerland, if the children all
lived until they were carried away by Eagles, the country would soon
become like one great school-house yard.
So, looking at the matter in all its various aspects, I think that we
may reasonably conclude that little girls, when they play out of
doors, are in more danger from horses, dogs, snakes, and bad company,
than of being attacked by Eagles, and the children may all look upon
the picture of the Eagle of the Alps and its baby prey without a
shudder on their own account.
CLIMBING MOUNTAINS.
[Illustration]
There is nothing which can give us grander ideas of Nature than to
stand on the top of a high Mountain. But it is very hard to get there.
And yet there are very few Mountains in the world which have not been
ascended by man.
For hundreds of years, Mont Blanc, that lofty peak of the Alps, was
considered absolutely inaccessible, but it is now frequently ascended.
Even ladies, and some of them Americans, have stood upon its summit.
But few persons, except those who have actually made the ascent of
high and precipitous Mountains, have any idea of the dangers and
difficulties of the undertaking. The adventurers are obliged to wear
shoes studded with strong iron spikes to prevent slipping; they carry
long poles with iron points by which they assist themselves up the
steep inclines; they are provided with ladders, and very often the
whole party fasten themselves together with a long rope, so that if
one slips the others may prevent him from falling.
Where there are steep and lofty precipices, crumbling rocks, and
overhanging cliffs, such as those which obstruct the path of the party
whose toilsome journey is illustrated in the accompanying engraving,
the feat of climbing a Mountain is hazardous and difficult enough; but
when heights are reached where the rocks are covered with ice, where
deep clefts are concealed by a treacherous covering of snow where
avalanches threaten the traveller at every step, and where the
mountain-side often seems as difficult to climb as a pane of glass,
the prospect seems as if it ought to appal the stoutest heart.
But some hearts are stouter than we think, and up those icy rocks,
along the edges of bewildering precipices, over, under, and around
great masses of rock, across steep glaciers where every footstep must
be made in a hole cut in the ice, brave men have climbed and crept and
gradually and painfully worked their way, until at last they stood
proudly on the summit, and gazed around at the vast expanse of
mountains, plains, valleys, and forests, spread far and wide beneath
them.
In Europe there are regular associations or clubs of
mountain-climbers, which at favorable periods endeavor to make the
ascent of lofty and difficult Mountains. Nearly every peak of the
Pyrenees and the Alps has felt the feet of these adventurers, who take
as much delight in their dangerous pursuits as is generally found by
the happiest of those who are content with the joys of ordinary
altitudes.
We have very many grand Mountains in our country, but we have not yet
reduced their ascent to such a system as that which these Alpine clubs
have adopted. But very many of our countrymen have climbed to the
loftiest peaks of the White Mountains, the Catskills, the Alleghenies,
and the Rocky Mountains.
Mountain-climbing is certainly dangerous, and it is about the hardest
labor of which man is capable, but the proud satisfaction of standing
upon a mountain-top repays the climber for all the labor, and makes
him forget all the dangers that he has passed through.
ANDREW'S PLAN.
[Illustration]
"Oh, Andy!" said little Jenny Murdock, "I'm so glad you came along
this way. I can't get over."
"Can't get over?" said Andrew; "why, what's the matter?"
"The bridge is gone," said Jenny. "When I came across after breakfast
it was there, and now it's over on the other side, and how can I get
back home?"
"Why so it is," said Andrew. "It was all right when I came over a
little while ago, but Old Donald pulls it on the other side every
morning after he has driven his cows across, and I don't think he has
any right to do it. I expect he thinks the bridge was made for him and
his cows."
"Now I must go down to the big bridge, Andy, and I want you to come
with me. I'm afraid to go through all those dark woods by myself,"
said Jenny.
"But I can't go, Jenny," said Andrew; "it's nearly school time now."
Andrew was a Scotch boy, and a fine fellow. He was next to the head of
his school, and he was as good at play as he was at his books. Jenny
Patterson, his most particular friend, was a little girl who lived
very near Andrew's home. She had no brothers or sisters, but Andrew
had always been as good as a brother to her, and therefore, when she
stood by the water's edge that morning, just ready to burst into
tears, she thought all her troubles over when she saw Andrew approach.
He had always helped her out of her difficulties before, and she saw
no reason why he should not do it now. She had crossed the creek in
search of wild flowers, and when she wished to return had found the
bridge removed, as Andrew supposed, by Old Donald McKenzie, who
pastured his cows on this side of the creek. This stream was not very
wide, nor very deep at its edges, but in the centre it was four or
five feet deep, and in the Spring there was quite a strong current, so
that wading across it, either by cattle or men, was quite a difficult
undertaking. As for Jenny, she could not get across at all without a
bridge, and there was none nearer than the wagon bridge, a mile and a
half below.
"You will go with me, Andy, won't you?" said the little girl.
"And be late to school?" said he. "I have never been late yet, you
know, Jenny."
"Perhaps Dominie Black will think you have been sick, or had to mind
the cows," said Jenny.
"He won't think so unless I tell him," said Andrew, "and you know I
won't do that."
"If we were to run all the way, would you be too late?" said Jenny.
"If we were to run all the way to the bridge and I was to run all the
way back, I would not get to school till after copy-time. I expect
every minute to hear the school-bell ring," said Andrew.
"But what can I do, then?" said poor little Jenny. "I can't wait here
till school's out, and I don't want to go up to the school-house, for
all the boys to laugh at me."
"No," said Andrew, reflecting very seriously, "I must take you home
some way or other. It won't do to leave you here, and no matter where
you might stay, your mother would be troubled to death about you."
"Yes," said Jenny, "she would think I was drowned."
Time pressed, and Jenny's countenance became more and more overcast,
but Andrew could think of no way in which he could take the little
girl home without being late and losing his standing in the school.
It was impossible to get her across the stream at any place nearer
than the "big bridge;" he would not take her that way and make up a
false story to account for his lateness at school, and he could not
leave her alone or take her with him.
What in the world was to be done?
While several absurd and impracticable projects were passing through
his brain the school-bell began to ring, and he must start immediately
to reach the school-house in time.
And now his anxiety and perplexity became more intense than ever, and
Jenny, looking up into his troubled countenance, began to cry.
Andrew, who never before had failed to be at the school door before
the first tap of the bell, began to despair.
Was there nothing to be done?
Yes! a happy thought passed through his mind. How strange that he
should not have thought of it before!
He would ask Dominie Black to let him take Jenny home.
What could be more sensible and straightforward than such a plan?
Of course the good old Schoolmaster gave Andrew the desired
permission, and everything ended happily. But the best thing about the
whole affair was the lesson that young Scotch boy learned that day.
And the lesson was this: when we are puzzling our brains with plans to
help ourselves out of our troubles, let us always stop a moment in our
planning, and try to think if there is not some simple way out of the
difficulty, which shall be in every respect _perfectly right_. If we
do that we shall probably find the way, and also find it much more
satisfactory as well as easier than any of our ingenious and elaborate
plans.
THE WILD ASS.
[Illustration: WILD ASSES.]
If there is any animal in the whole world that receives worse
treatment or is held in less esteem than the ordinary Jackass, I am
very sorry for it.
With the exception of a few warm countries, where this animal grows to
a large size, and is highly valued, the Jackass or Donkey is
everywhere considered a stupid beast, a lazy beast, an obstinate
beast, and very often a vicious beast. To liken any one to a Jackass
is to use very strong language.
In many cases, this character of the Donkey (with the exception of the
stupidity, for very few Donkeys are stupid, although they try to seem
so) is correct, but nevertheless it is doubtful if the animal is much
to blame for it. There is every reason to believe that the dullness
and laziness of the Donkey is owing entirely to his association with
man.
For proof of this assertion, we have but to consider the Ass in his
natural state.
There can be no reasonable doubt but that the domestic Ass is
descended from the Wild Ass of Asia and Africa, for the two animals
are so much alike that it would be impossible, by the eye alone, to
distinguish the one from the other.
But, except in appearance, they differ very much. The tame Ass is
gentle, and generally fond of the society of man; the wild Ass is one
of the shyest creatures in the world; even when caught it is almost
impossible to tame him. The tame Ass is slow, plodding, dull, and
lazy; the wild Ass is as swift as a race-horse and as wild as a Deer.
The best mounted horsemen can seldom approach him, and it is generally
necessary to send a rifle-ball after him, if he is wanted very much.
His flesh is considered a great delicacy, which is another difference
between him and the tame animal.
If any of you were by accident to get near enough to a wild Ass to
observe him closely, you would be very apt to suppose him to be one of
those long-eared fellows which must be beaten and stoned and punched
with sticks, if you want to get them into the least bit of a trot, and
which always want to stop by the roadside, if they see so much as a
cabbage-leaf or a tempting thistle.
But you would find yourself greatly mistaken and astonished when, as
soon as this wild creature discovered your presence, he went dashing
away, bounding over the gullies and brooks, clipping it over the
rocks, scudding over the plains, and disappearing in the distance like
a runaway cannon-ball.