open as if to urge the owners to hurry and take possession. The
high-stepping trotters are covered with blankets to protect them from
the piercing cold, and, with their heads drooping, are either asleep
or wondering why they are not put into the stable to take their
night's rest; and the coachman is dancing about on the pavement to
keep his feet warm--not by any means a merry kind of dance, although
he moves about pretty briskly. He has taken off his gloves, for they
seem to make his hands colder, and now he has thrust one hand into his
pocket and is blowing on the other with all his might. His whip, that
curled so defiantly in the air, is now pushed under his arm, and the
lash is trailing, limp and draggled, on the stones. He is warmly clad,
and his great-coat has three capes, but all cannot put sufficient heat
into his body, for it is a bitter cold night, and the wind comes
howling down the street as if it would like to bite off everybody's
ears and noses. It shakes the leafless branches of the trees until
they all seem to be moaning and groaning together. The moon is just
rising over the church, and the coachman is standing right in a broad
patch of its light. But moonlight, though very beautiful when you are
where you can comfortably admire it, never warmed anybody yet. And so
the poor coachman gets no good out of that.
There is a party in the great house. The boy is standing where he can
only see the lower steps and the tall lamps, but the coachman can see
that it is lighted from garret to cellar. He knows that it is warm as
summer in there. There are stands of flowers all the way up the
stairways, baskets of them are swinging from the ceilings, and vines
are trailing over the walls.
Who in there could ever guess how bleak and cold it is outside! Ladies
in shimmering silks and satins, and glittering with jewels, are
flitting about the halls, and floating up and down the rooms in
graceful dances, to the sound of music that only comes out to the
coachman in fitful bursts.
He has amused himself watching all this during part of the evening,
but now he is looking in at the side-light of the door to see if there
are any signs of the breaking up of the party, or if those he is to
take home are ready to go away. He is getting very impatient, and let
us hope they will soon come out and relieve him.
GEYSERS, AND HOW THEY WORK.
[Illustration: THE GRAND GEYSER OF ICELAND.]
Geysers, or fountains of hot water or mud, are found in several parts
of the world. Iceland possesses the grandest one, but in California
there are a great many of these natural hot fountains, most of which
throw forth mud as well as water. Some of the American Geysers are
terrible things to behold. They are generally found near each other,
in particular localities, and any one wandering about among them sees
in one place a great pool full of black bubbling contents, so hot that
an egg thrown in the spring will be boiled in a minute or two; there
he sees another spring throwing up boiling mud a few feet in the air;
there another one, quiet now, but which may at any time burst out and
send its hot contents high above the heads of the spectators; here a
great hole in the ground, out of which constantly issues a column of
steam, and everywhere are cracks and crevices in the earth, out of
which come little jets of steam, and which give the idea that it would
not require a very heavy blow to break in, at any point, the crust of
the earth, and let the adventurous traveller drop down into the
boiling mass below.
In Iceland the Geysers are not quite so terrible in their aspect as
those in California, but they are bad enough. Their contents are
generally water, some hot and bubbling, and some hot and still; while
the Great Geyser, the grandest work of the kind in the world, bursts
forth at times with great violence, sending jets of hot water hundreds
of feet into the air.
These wonderful hot springs, wherever they have been found, have
excited the greatest attention and interest, in travellers and
scientific men, and their workings have been explained somewhat in
this way:--
Water having gradually accumulated in vast underground crevices and
cavities, is heated by the fires, which, in volcanic regions, are not
very far from the surface of the earth. If there is a channel or tube
from the reservoir to the surface, the water will expand and rise
until it fills the basin which is generally found at the mouth of hot
springs. But the water beneath, being still further heated, will be
changed into steam, which will at times burst out with great force,
carrying with it a column of water high into the air. When this water
falls back into the basin it is much cooler, on account of its contact
with the air, and it cools the water in the basin, and also condenses
the steam in the tube or channel leading from the reservoir. The
spring is then quiet until enough steam is again formed to cause
another eruption. A celebrated German chemist named Bunsen
constructed an apparatus for the purpose of showing the operations of
Geysers. Here it is.
[Illustration: THE ARTIFICIAL GEYSER.]
You see that the two fires in the engraving--one lower and larger than
the other, because the heat of the earth increases as we get farther
from the surface--will heat the water in the iron tube very much as
water is heated in a real Geyser; and when steam enough is formed, a
column of hot water is thrown out of the basin. The great subterranean
reservoir is not imitated in this apparatus, but the action is the
same as if the tube arose from an iron vessel. There is a great deal
in Bunsen's description of this contrivance, in regard to the
difference in the temperature of the water in that part of the tube
between the two fires, and that in the upper portion, which explains
the intermittent character of the eruptions of a Geyser, but it is not
necessary for us to go into all his details.
When we know that under a Geyser the water is boiling in a great
reservoir which communicates with the surface by a natural tube or
spout, we need not wonder that occasionally a volume of steam bursts
forth, sending a column of water far into the air.
A GIANT PUFF-BALL.
[Illustration]
I suppose you have all seen puff-balls, which grow in the fields like
mushrooms and toadstools, but I am quite sure that you never saw
anything of the kind quite so large as that one in the picture. And
yet that engraving was made from a drawing from the puff-ball itself.
So we need not suppose that there is anything fanciful about it.
The vegetable in question is a kind of _fungi_ called the Giganti
Lycoperdon, and it attains its enormous size in one night! It springs
from a seed so small that you could not see it, and grows, while you
are asleep, to be bigger, perhaps, than you are yourself!
Think of that! How would you like to plant the whole garden, some
afternoon, with that kind of seed? Would not your father and mother,
and everybody else, be astounded when they woke up and saw a couple of
hundred of those things, as big as barrels, filling up every bed!
They would certainly think it was the most astonishing crop they had
ever seen, and there might be people who would suppose that fairies or
magicians had been about.
The great trouble about such a crop would be that it would be good for
nothing.
I cannot imagine what any one would do with a barnful of Lycoperdons.
But it would be wonderfully interesting to watch the growth of such a
_fungus_. You could see it grow. In one night you could see its whole
life, from almost nothing at all to that enormous ball in the picture.
Nature could hardly show us a more astonishing sight than that.
TICKLED BY A STRAW.
[Illustration]
From his dreams of tops and marbles,
Where the soaring kites he saw,
Is that little urchin wakened,
Tickled by a wheaten straw.
How do you suppose he likes it,
Young one with annoying paw?
If I only were your mother,
I'd tickle you with birchen straw.
Soon enough, from pleasant dreaming,
You'll be wakened by the law,
Which provides for every vision
Some sort of provoking straw.
In dreams of play, or hope, or loving,
When plans of happiness you draw,
Underneath _your_ nose may wiggle
Life's most aggravating straw
THE LIGHT IN THE CASTLE.
On a high hill, in a lonely part of Europe, there stood a ruined
castle. No one lived there, for the windows were destitute of glass;
there were but few planks left of the floors; the roof was gone; and
the doors had long ago rotted off their hinges. So that any persons
who should take up their residence in this castle would be exposed to
the rain, when there was a storm; to the wind, when it blew; and to
robbers, if they should come; besides running the risk of breaking
their necks by falling between the rafters, every time they attempted
to walk about the house.
It was a very solemn, lonely, and desolate castle, and for many and
many a year no human being had been known to set foot inside of it.
It was about ten o'clock of a summer night that Hubert Flamry and his
sister Hulda were returning to their home from an errand to a distant
village, where they had been belated. Their path led them quite near
to the ruined castle, but they did not trouble themselves at all on
this account, for they had often passed it, both by night and day. But
to-night they had scarcely caught sight of the venerable structure
when Hubert started back, and, seizing his sister's arm, exclaimed:
"Look, Hulda! look! A light in the castle!"
Little Hulda looked quickly in the direction in which her brother was
pointing, and, sure enough, there was a light moving about the castle
as if some one was inside, carrying a lantern from room to room. The
children stopped and stood almost motionless.
"What can it be, Hubert?" whispered Hulda.
"I don't know," said he. "It may be a man, but he could not walk where
there are no floors. I'm afraid it's a ghost."
"Would a ghost have to carry a light to see by?" asked Hulda.
"I don't know," said Hubert, trembling in both his knees, "but I think
he is coming out."
It did seem as if the individual with the light was about to leave the
castle. At one moment he would be seen near one of the lower windows,
and then he would pass along on the outside of the walls, and directly
Hubert and Hulda both made up their minds that he was coming down the
hill.
"Had we better run?" said Hulda.
"No," replied her brother. "Let's hide in the bushes."
So they hid.
In a few minutes Hubert grasped his sister by the shoulder. He was
trembling so much that the bushes shook as if there was a wind.
"Hulda!" he whispered, "he's walking along the brook, right on top of
the water!"
"Is he coming this way?" said Hulda, who had wrapped her head in her
apron.
"Right straight!" cried Hubert. "Give me your hand, Hulda!" And,
without another word, the boy and girl burst out of the bushes and ran
away like rabbits.
When Hulda, breathless, fell down on the grass, Hubert also stopped
and looked behind him. They were near the edge of the brook, and
there, coming right down the middle of the stream, was the light which
had so frightened them.
"Oh-h! Bother!" said Hubert.
"What?" asked poor little Hulda, looking up from the ground.
"Why, it's only a Jack-o'-lantern!" said Hubert. "Let's go home,
Hulda."
As they were hurrying along the path to their home, Hubert seemed very
much provoked, and he said to his sister:
[Illustration]
"Hulda, it was very foolish for you to be frightened at such a thing
as that."
"Me?" said Hulda, opening her eyes very wide, "I guess you were just
as much frightened as I was."
"You might have known that no real person would be wandering about the
castle at night, and a ghost couldn't carry anything, for his fingers
are all smoke."
"You ought to have known that too, I should say, Mr. Hubert," answered
Hulda.
"And then, I don't believe the light was in the castle at all. It was
just bobbing about between us and the castle, and we thought it was
inside. You ought to have thought of that, Hulda."
"Me!" exclaimed little Hulda, her eyes almost as big as two silver
dollars.
It always seems to me a great pity that there should be such boys as
Hubert Flamry.
THE OAK TREE.
[Illustration]
I really don't know which liked the great oak best, Harry or his
grandfather. Harry was a sturdy little fellow, seven years old, and
could play ball, and fly kites, and all such things, when he had
anybody to play with. But his father's house was a long distance from
the village, and so he did not often have playmates, and it is poor
sport to play marbles or ball by one's self. He did sometimes roll his
hoop or fly his kite when alone, but he would soon get tired, and
then, if it was a clear day, he would most likely say:
"Grandpa, don't you want to go to the big oak?"
And Grandpa would answer:
"Of course, child, we will go. I am always glad to give you that
pleasure."
This he said, but everybody knew he liked to go for his own pleasure
too. So Harry would bring Grandpa his cane and hat, and away they
would go down the crooked path through the field. When they got to the
draw-bars, Harry took them down for his Grandpa to pass through, and
then put them carefully up again, so that the cows should not get out
of the pasture. And, when this was done, there they were at the
oak-tree.
This was a very large tree, indeed, and its branches extended over the
road quite to the opposite side. Right at the foot of the tree was a
clear, cold spring, from which a little brook trickled, and lost
itself in the grass. A dipper was fastened to a projecting root above
the spring, that thirsty travellers might drink. The road by the side
of which the oak stood was a very public one, for it led to a city
twenty miles away. So a great many persons passed the tree, and
stopped at the spring to drink. And that was the reason why little
Harry and his Grandpa were so fond of going there. It was really quite
a lively place. Carriages would bowl along, all glittering with plate
and glass, and with drivers in livery; market wagons would rattle by
with geese squawking, ducks quacking, and pigs squealing; horsemen
would gallop past on splendid horses; hay wagons would creak slowly
by, drawn by great oxen; and, best of all, the stage would dash
furiously up, with the horses in a swinging trot, and the driver
cracking his whip, and the bright red stage swaying from side to side.
It generally happened that somebody in the stage wanted a drink from
the spring, and Harry would take the cup handed out of the window, and
dip it full of the cold, sparkling water, and then there would be a
few minutes of friendly chat.
But the most of the talk was with the foot-passengers. The old man sat
on a bench in the cool shade, and the child would run about and play
until some one came along. Then he would march up to the tree and
stand with his hands in his pockets to hear what was said, very often
having a good deal to say himself. Sometimes these people would stay a
long time under the shade of the tree, and there were so many
different people, and they had so many different kinds of things to
say, that Harry thought it was like hearing a book read, only a great
deal better.
At one time it would be a soldier, who had wonderful things to tell of
the battles he had fought. Another day it would be a sailor, who,
while smoking his pipe, would talk about the trackless deserts of
burning sands; and of the groves of cinnamon, and all sweet spices,
where bright-colored parrots are found; and of the great storms at
sea, when the waves dashed ships to pieces. Another time a foreigner
would have much to say about the strange people and customs of other
lands; and sometimes they talked in a strange language, and could not
be understood, and that was very amusing.
The organ-grinders were the best, for they would play such beautiful
tunes, and perhaps there would be children who would tinkle their
tambourines, and sing the songs that the girls sing in Italy when they
tread out the grapes for wine. And sometimes there would be--oh, joy!
a monkey! And then what fun Harry would have!
And sometimes there were poor men and women, tired and sick, who had
nothing to say but what was sad.
Occasionally an artist would stop under the tree. He would have a
great many of his sketches with him, which he would show to Harry and
Grandpa. And then he would go off to a distance, and make a picture of
the splendid oak, with the old man and child under it, and perhaps he
would put into it some poor woman with her baby, who happened to be
there, and some poor girl drinking out of the spring. And Harry and
Grandpa always thought this better than any of the other pictures he
showed them.
[Illustration]
THE SEA-SIDE.
The ocean is so wonderful itself, that it invests with some of its
peculiar interest the very sands and rocks that lie upon its edges.
There is always something to see at the sea-side; whether you walk
along the lonely coast; go down among the fishermen, and their nets
and boats; or pass along the sands, lively with crowds of
many-colored bathers.
But if there was nothing but the grand old ocean itself, it would be
enough. Whether it is calm and quiet, just rolling in steadily upon
the shore, in long lines of waves, which come sweeping and curling
upon the beach and then breaking, spread far out over the sand--or
whether the storm-waves, tossing high their lofty heads, come rushing
madly upon the coast, dashing themselves upon the sands and thundering
up against the rocks, the sea is grand!
What a tremendous thing an ocean is! Ever in powerful motion; so
wonderful and awful in its unknown depths, and stretching so far, far,
far away!
But, even on the coasts of this great ocean, our days seem all too
short, as we search among the rocks and in the little pools for the
curiosities of the sea-side. Here are shells, and shells, and
shells,--from the great conch, which you put up to your ear to hear
the sound of the sea within, to the tiny things which we find stored
away in little round cases, which are all fastened together in a
string, like the rattles of a snake.
In the shallow pools that have been left by the tide we may find a
crab or two, perhaps, some jelly-fish, star-fish, and those wonderful
living flowers, the sea-anemones. And then we will watch the great
gulls sweeping about in the air, and if we are lucky, we may see an
army of little fiddler-crabs marching along, each one with one claw in
the air. We may gather sea-side diamonds; we may, perhaps, go in and
bathe, and who can tell everything that we may do on the shores of the
grand old ocean!
[Illustration]
And if we ever get among the fishermen, then we are sure to have good
times of still another kind. Then we shall see the men who live by the
sea, and on the sea. We shall wander along the shore, and look at
their fishing-vessels, which seem so small when they are on the water,
but which loom up high above our heads when they are drawn up on the
shore--some with their clumsy-looking rudders hauled up out of
danger, and others with rudder and keel resting together on the rough
beach. Anchors, buoys, bits of chains, and hawsers lie about the
shore, while nets are hanging at the doors of the fishermen's
cottages, some hung up to dry and some hung up to mend.
Here we may often watch the fishermen putting out to sea in their
dirty, but strong, little vessels, which go bouncing away on the
waves, their big sails appearing so much too large for the boats that
it seems to us, every now and then, as if they must certainly topple
over. And then, at other times, we will see the fishermen returning,
and will be on the beach when the boats are drawn up on the sand, and
the fish, some white, some gray, some black, but all glittering and
smooth, are tumbled into baskets and carried up to the houses to be
salted down, or sent away fresh for the markets.
Then the gulls come circling about the scene, and the ducks that live
at the fishermen's houses come waddling down to see about any little
fishes that may be thrown away upon the sand; and men with tarpaulin
coats and flannel shirts sit on old anchors and lean up against the
boats, smoking short pipes while they talk about cod, and mackerel,
and mainsails and booms; and, best of all, the delightful sea-breeze
comes sweeping in, browning our cheeks, reddening our blood, and
giving us such a splendid appetite that even the fishermen themselves
could not throw us very far into the shade, at meal-times.
As for bathing in the sea, plunging into the surf, with the waves
breaking over your head and the water dashing and sparkling all about
you, I need not say much about that. I might as well try to describe
the pleasure of eating a saucer of strawberries-and-cream, and you
know I could not do it.
There are nations who never see the ocean, nor have anything to do
with it. They have not even a name for it.
They are to be pitied for many things, but for nothing more than this.
THE SICK PIKE.
There is no reason why a pike should not be sick. Everything that has
life is subject to illness, but it is very seldom that any fish has
the good sense and the good fortune of the pike that I am going to
tell you about.
This pike was a good-sized fellow, weighing about six pounds, and he
belonged to the Earl of Stamford, who lived near Durham, England. His
story was read by Dr. Warwick to the Literary and Philosophical
Society of Liverpool. I am particular about these authorities because
this story is a little out of the common run.
Dr. Warwick was walking by a lake, in the Earl's park, and the pike
was lying in the water near the shore, probably asleep. At any rate,
when it saw the doctor it made a sudden dart into deep water and
dashed its head against a sunken post. This accident seemed to give
the fish great pain, for it pitched and tossed about in the lake, and
finally rushed up to the surface and threw itself right out of the
water on to the bank.
The doctor now stooped to examine it, and to his surprise the fish
remained perfectly quiet in his hands. He found that the skull was
fractured and one eye was injured by the violence with which the fish
had struck the post. With a silver tooth-pick (he had not his
instruments with him) the doctor arranged the broken portion of the
pike's skull, and when the operation was completed he placed the fish
in the water. For a minute or two the Pike seemed satisfied, but then
it jumped out of the water on to the bank again. The doctor put the
fish back, but it jumped out again, and repeated this performance
several times. It seemed to know (and how, I am sure I have not the
least idea) that that man was a doctor, and it did not intend to
leave him until it had been properly treated--just as if it was one
of his best patients.
The doctor began to see that something more was expected of him, and
so he called a game-keeper to him, and with his assistance he put a
bandage around the pike's head.
[Illustration]
When this surgical operation had been completed the pike was put back
into the water, and this time it appeared perfectly satisfied, and
swam away.
The next day, as Dr. Warwick was sitting by the lake, the pike, with,
the bandage around its head, swam up and stuck its head out of the
water, near the doctor's feet. The good physician took up the fish,
examined the wound, and finding that it was getting on very well,
replaced the bandage and put Mr. Pike into the lake again.
This was a very grateful pike. After the excellent surgical treatment
it received from Dr. Warwick, it became very fond of him, and whenever
he walked by the side of the lake it would swim along by him, and
although it was quite shy and gloomy when other people came to the
waterside, it was always glad to see the doctor, and would come when
he whistled, and eat out of his hand.
I suppose in the whole ocean, and in all the rivers and lakes of the
world, there are not more than two or three fish as sensible and
grateful as this pike. In fact, it was very well for Dr. Warwick that
there were no more such on the Earl of Stamford's estate. A large
practice in the lake must soon have made a poor man of him, for I do
not suppose that even that sensible pike would have paid a doctor's
bill, if it had been presented to him.
TWO KINDS OF BLOSSOMS.
[Illustration]
When the winter has entirely gone, and there is not the slightest
vestige left of snow or ice; when the grass is beginning to be
beautifully green, and the crocuses and jonquils are thrusting their
pretty heads up out of the ground; when the sun is getting to be
quite warm and the breezes very pleasant, then is the time for
blossoms.