Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 33. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, June 15, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
CHARLEY'S BALLOON VOYAGE.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
"Bal-loon! balloon! Oh, Charley! where are you, Charley? There's a
balloon a-comin'."
Charley's big brother Harry came running excitedly down the road, and
vaulted the farm-yard fence in a state of great excitement. "Oh,
Charley, come out quick and see the balloon."
Charley was nowhere to be found. He had wandered off hours before to his
favorite rock by the brook to have a "good cry." And this was the reason
of it: One day, a short time before, he had been into the town of
Wayneburg, not many miles distant, with Harry. Charley didn't often have
a chance to go to town, and you may be sure he made the best use of his
eyes. The one thing which he remembered above everything else was the
big poster-board near the market, covered over every inch of it with
bright-colored pictures of leaping horses, trick mules, flying riders
jumping through hoops, comical clowns, and, above all, a big balloon
just rising out of the crowd, everybody swinging their hats.
For two weeks Charley had talked of nothing, thought of nothing, dreamed
of nothing but the coming show, and so, when his mother promised to take
him to see it all, he was the happiest little boy in the county. But,
alas! Charley's mother was taken sick just before the circus came, and
there was no one else to go with him. Harry was too young and wild to be
trusted, she said, and so poor Charley staid at home, and, sitting upon
the big gate-post, watched the wagon-loads of people rattling merrily
into town, bound for a day's fun. With swelling heart he wished he was a
full-grown man. Then he strayed down by the creek, as I have said, to
tell his grief to the fishes.
Harry, who had felt almost as badly as Charley, though he scorned to cry
about it, kept on shouting until Charley peeped above the orchard wall
to see what was wanted. Then he too spied the balloon. It didn't look
bigger than his top, away up among the fleecy clouds, but it rapidly
grew to the size of a pippin, and then over the hill came two or three
galloping horsemen, swinging their hats, and shouting as they rode.
Now the balloon began to descend, and shortly disappeared behind the
woods back of the house. Charley didn't know whether to run or stand
still, and while he was doubting, the great yellow dome arose into sight
again, and this time Charley could see the men in the basket. They were
looking down, and calling to the men in the road to take hold of the
long drag-rope, and pull them down.
This was not hard to do, as a balloon is so prettily balanced when in
the air that in a light wind a little boy like Charley could pull it to
the earth. It is not so easy when the balloon is going rapidly. I once
saw a plucky dog catch hold of the rope with his teeth, and it jerked
him along over fences and through a stubble field on his back, and I
guess when he let go he had but very little hair left. Well, they pulled
the balloon down, and before the men got out several large stones were
put into the basket to hold it down, and the rope was tied to a strong
post. One of the men was tall and stoop-shouldered, with a long sandy
beard; they called him "Professor" (a queer title for a balloon man, is
it not?). The second man was tall and good-looking; he belonged to the
circus company. And the third was the artist, whose sketches you see in
this paper.
After a little, Charley's mother came to the door, and invited the three
strangers into the house, but they preferred to sit on the step; and the
Professor took Charley upon his knee, and asked him how he would like to
travel in the way they did. How odd! Why, that was the very thing he was
wishing for at the moment. He had often watched the birds, and longed
for their wings for a little while. The Professor said, "I'll tell you
what we'll do, Charley; you and I will get into the basket, and tell
them to let us up to the end of the rope." Charley's mother was afraid
to allow him to go; but the tall man told her the Professor often took
children up that way, where he came down when voyaging. Sometimes he had
seen a dozen in the basket at once; so she consented, and shortly they
were seated with plenty of stout hands hold of the rope, "paying out,"
as the sailors say. Above the barn they rose, then higher than the big
elm. Up, up, until the folks below looked very short and funny, with all
their faces turned up to the sky. Charley's mother didn't look larger
than a doll.
I wish I could tell you all that Charley and the Professor saw as they
sat there so high and secure. Away over the hill was the town, and,
beyond, a winding river and another village that he had never seen
before; indeed, there were several towns in sight. He was sure they must
be Boston, New York, and Chicago. He thought he could see the ocean and
the Rocky Mountains; but the one was only distant plains, and the other
the Catskills, about fifty miles away.
The Professor told Charley a great many things about his voyages. Once
he was blown out to sea, and when he had almost given up hope, the rope
was overtaken by a sail-boat in pursuit, and he was towed ashore; again,
he had floated over burning forests, and once came to the earth from the
weight of snow on the balloon; and once, too, his balloon was torn in
the top of a high tree.
Suddenly a great shout was heard from below, and the Professor looked
down. He quickly said to Charley: "Now, my boy, don't be frightened.
They have made a mistake down there, and let loose the rope. We are
going up into the clouds, but I will bring you down all right."
Charley was a brave little fellow, and besides this, he had confidence
in the Professor, who seemed to manage his "air-ship," as it is often
called, so skillfully. What a great thing it is to have confidence in a
leader!
The shouting below was very faint and distant now. They were among the
clouds, and in a moment were enveloped in one of them. It was just like
a fog. The soft white masses rolled and whirled close beside the basket;
it was very cool and damp.
In a minute the Professor exclaimed, "Look, Charley! we are above the
clouds."
"What a funny smell the clouds have!" said Charley; upon which the
Professor laughed heartily, and showed him that the neck of the balloon
was open, and some of the gas was flowing out. He explained that the gas
took up more room as they arose, until it finally escaped in this way.
Then he pulled on a small rope which was fastened to the top of the
balloon, and a rushing sound was heard. This was caused by the escaping
gas going through the valve. This interested Charley, who wanted to know
the "why" of everything.
When he looked about again, they had once more passed through the
clouds, and far below were square light and dark spots, which he knew
were woods and fields. These kept growing in size, and finally right
below appeared a mill where he had often gone with Harry for grist. What
a commotion there was among the cattle and pigs and chickens! The miller
and his men ran out and caught hold of the rope as it rattled noisily
over the roof, pulling them down in the adjoining field. They were
greatly astonished to find such a little fellow in the basket. As it was
only five miles from where they had started, some of the horsemen who
had been there were speedily at the mill. The Professor proposed that
they should take the balloon back along the road to the town, which
could easily be done. So the drag rope was tied to the axle of a heavy
wagon with a number of men riding on it, and the balloon was allowed to
float about a hundred feet from the ground. Charley still rode with the
Professor in his basket, and so they reached his home. He was the hero
of the day, and, to crown all, the town newspaper printed Charley's
story of his trip, just as he told it to them, with his name in capitals
at the top of the page.
I would like to be there, behind the door, when Charley gets this paper
and sees the pictures. I advise him to cut them out and put them in a
frame, and when he looks at them to resolve that he will always be as
brave and manly as upon the day of his balloon trip.
A MANLY BOY.
Mr. Thomas Hughes, author of _Tom Brown's School-Days_ and _Tom Brown at
Oxford_, relates many anecdotes of the boyhood of his manly brother
George, a year older than himself. Many of the most noble traits of the
boys of whom the author wrote were first exhibited in his brother
George.
The two boys were sent to school at an early age, and before they had
been there a week George showed the fine stuff he was made of. His young
brother's class had a lesson in Greek history to get up, in which a part
of the information communicated was that Cadmus was the first man who
"carried letters from Asia to Greece." When they came to be examined,
the master asked Thomas Hughes, "What was Cadmus?" This mode of putting
it puzzled the boy for a moment, when suddenly remembering the word
"letters," and in connection with it the man with the leather bag who
used to bring his father's letters and papers, he shouted, "A postman,
sir." At first the master looked very angry, but seeing that the answer
had been given in perfect good faith, and that the answerer had sprung
to his feet expecting promotion to the head of the class, he burst out
laughing.
Of course all the boys joined in chorus, and when school was over Thomas
was christened Cadmus. To this he would have made no great objection,
but the blood kindled in his veins when the word was shortened into
"Cad." The angrier he grew, the more eagerly some of the boys persecuted
him with the hated nickname; especially one stupid fellow of twelve
years old or so, who ought to have been two classes higher, and revenged
himself for his degradation among the youngsters by making their small
lives as miserable as he could.
A day or two after, with two or three boys for audience, he shut up
little Hughes in a corner of the play-ground, and greeted him with the
nickname he knew to be so offensive, "Cad, Cad," until the boy's wrath
was beyond bounds. Suddenly a step was heard tearing down the
gravel-walk, and George, in his shirt sleeves, swept into the circle,
and sent the tyrant staggering back with a blow in the chest, and then,
with clinched fists, bravely confronted him. Bullies are invariably
cowards, and Tom Hughes's persecutor, though three years older, much
heavier, and stronger than his assailant, did not dare to face him. He
walked off, muttering and growling, much to the disgust of the boys,
who, boy-like, had hoped for "a jolly row;" while George returned to his
comrades, after looking round and saying, "Just let me hear any of you
call my brother 'Cad' again."
It is pleasant to relate that this manly, gallant-spirited fellow was a
capital student. He rose from class to class until he reached the
highest, amongst boys two years older than himself, and in the
competition for prizes was invariably successful.
CAMBRIDGE SERIES
OF
INFORMATION CARDS FOR SCHOOLS.
No. 2.
The Sun as a Worker.
BY
W. J. ROLFE, A.M.
Everybody knows that we are indebted to the sun for light and heat, but
this is by no means all that we owe to him; or, rather, this includes a
good deal more than we may see at first sight. The sun really does all,
or nearly all, the work of the world. We talk of water-power,
wind-power, steam-power, animal power, and the like; but all these are
only kinds of sun-power. Let us look at them one by one, and see if the
sunbeams are not the forces within or behind them all.
Water-power is the force exerted by falling or running water; and
running water is falling water. In the most familiar forms of
water-wheels, troughs--or buckets, as they are called--are arranged on
the rim in such a way that the water runs into those on one side of the
wheel near the top, making that side heavier, so that it descends. As
the buckets go down, the water runs out of them, but those above are
being filled in their turn, so that this side of the wheel is
continually weighted with water, while on the other side empty buckets
are going up. The wheel may turn mill-stones to grind wheat or corn, or
may give motion to machinery for spinning and weaving cotton or wool;
but is it the water-wheel that really does the work? "No," you will say;
"if we trace back the force that moves the machinery, we find it in the
falling water that fills the buckets of the wheel; it is the water-fall
that is the real worker." No; it is the sun, which is a force behind the
water-fall, as the water-fall is the force behind the wheel. What
supplies the water-fall with its never-failing stream? The rain that
fills the springs high up among the hills, where a little brook has its
source--the rain that feeds the brook as it flows, and other brooks that
join it on its way, until it becomes the river that descends in the
water-fall. And what is the source of the rain? The sun, whose rays turn
the waters of the earth to vapor, and lift them up to the clouds, whence
they fall upon the hills. Were it not for the sun the rain would soon
cease to fall, the springs in the hills would dry up, the brooks would
run out, the river would dwindle away, the roar of the water-fall would
die into silence, and the wheel would stop for want of power.
The wind, which is the motive force of windmills and of sailing vessels,
is another form of sun-power. The atmosphere has been compared to a
great wheel carried round by the heat of the sun. We know that when air
is heated it rises, and that the tropical parts of the earth are hotter
than the polar regions. In the tropics, therefore, the heated air rises,
and the colder air from the poles flows in to fill its place, while the
place of the latter is filled by an upper current flowing back from the
equator; and this goes on continually, and keeps the great atmospheric
wheel turning. Wherever a wind blows, the process is similar: it is the
sun that causes the wind, be it zephyr, or gale, or hurricane.
"But," you will say, "the sun does not run our steam-engines; it is
artificial heat, not natural heat, that changes the water into steam."
Very true; but how do we get this heat? By burning wood or coal. For the
former we are clearly in debt to the sun, which made the trees grow that
furnish the fuel; and the coal is the remains of plants that grew long
before the creation of man, plants that were as dependent on the
sunshine as those that flourish to-day. When we burn coal, the heat we
get from it is nothing but the sunbeams that were caught and imprisoned
by those ancient plants; our steam-engines use the force that was stored
up by the sun millions of years before the steam-engine was invented.
All muscular power, whether of man or of other animals, may be traced to
the same source. Animals get their food either from plants or from other
animals that have fed upon plants; and the plants owe their existence to
the sun. The animal is a machine, like the steam-engine; the food which
it eats is the fuel that keeps the machine in action. With every
movement we make, a portion of this fuel is burned up in our muscles.
Every beat of our hearts is at the expense of such material; and the
material is the gift of the sun. Our very thoughts are indirectly
dependent on the sunbeams; for the brain, which is the organ of thought,
requires food to maintain its activity, like the muscles and all the
other machinery of the body.
There are other kinds of force less familiar than these--as electricity,
magnetism, and chemical force--which can also be proved to come
indirectly from the sun, but the proof can not be given here. We can
detect the work of the sunbeams in the flash of the lightning and the
roar of the thunder, in the turning of the compass-needle to the north,
and in all the wonders of chemical science, as certainly as in the
growing plant or the running stream.
The only form of force known to us which does not come entirely from the
sun is that of the tides. The tidal wave is raised and carried round the
earth mainly by the attraction of the moon. The sun, though immensely
larger than the moon, is so much farther off that it attracts the waters
of the earth much less than the moon does. A tide-mill, which gets its
motive power from the rise and fall of the tide, is therefore worked by
the moon rather than by the sun.
[_By special arrangement with the author, the cards contributed to this
useful series, by_ W. J. ROLFE, A.M., _formerly Head-Master of the
Cambridge High School, will, for the present, first appear in_ HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE.]
[Illustration: HARRY SWIMS FOR THE EDDY.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY WM. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER III.
As Harry vanished, Joe's head appeared, as he climbed up the side of the
bridge and joined his brother and Tom. Their anxiety was now for Harry,
who had been swept through the channel under the bridge, and was
manfully swimming toward the eddy where the boys had landed. He came
ashore none the worse for his bath, and was delighted to find that Joe
was not only safe, but dry. Joe explained that the boat had drifted
against one of the piles of the bridge, and the current and the tow-rope
together had forced one of her sides so low down that the water began to
pour in. Joe thought that if the river intended to get into the boat, he
had better get out; so he sprung up and caught one of the timbers of the
bridge, and so climbed safely up to the roadway. The boat, relieved of
his weight and freed from the tow-line, drifted quietly away, and was
now floating peacefully on the river about twenty rods from the shore.
Luckily an old man in a row-boat saw the run-away _Whitewing_, and
kindly caught her and brought her up to the bridge. As the boys baled
her out, they told him how the accident happened, and the gruff old man
said it "sarved 'em right." "When you tow a boat next time," he
continued, "you'll know enough to put all your weight in the stern. Did
you ever see a steam-boat towing a row-boat with a man in the bow? If
ever you do, you'll see him go overboard mighty quick. A boat'll sheer
all over creation if you tow her with a fellow in the bow. You just put
the biggest of you fellows in the stern of that there boat, and she'll
go through under the bridge just as steady as a church."
The boys gladly took the old man's advice. When the boat was baled out,
they floated the rope down again, and when it was made fast, Tom
Schuyler, who was the heaviest of the boys, offered to sit in the stern.
His weight brought the bow of the boat out of the water, and she was
towed quickly and safely through. The boys resumed their places as soon
as Harry had put on dry clothes, and after a short and easy row glided
under the Spuyten Duyvel railway bridge, and found themselves on the
broad and placid Hudson. They rowed on for nearly a mile, and then,
having found a little sandy cove, ran the boat aground, and went ashore
to rest. After a good swim, which all greatly enjoyed, including Harry,
who said that his recent bath at Farmersbridge ought not to be counted,
since it was more of a duty than a pleasure, they sat down to eat a nice
cold lunch of ham sandwiches that Mrs. Wilson had kindly prepared; and
when they were no longer hungry they stretched themselves lazily in the
shade.
"Well, boys," said Harry, "we made a big mistake at the bridge; but we
learned something, and we won't get the boat swamped that way again."
"I'm awfully obliged to Harry for jumping in after me," said Joe; "but
it's the first time I ever heard of a captain jumping over after a
sailor. When a sailor falls overboard, the captain just stands on the
deck and looks around, kind of careless like, while the second mate and
four sailors jump into a boat and pick the man up. That's the way it's
done; for I know a fellow that saw a man fall overboard on a steam-ship,
and he said that was how the captain did."
"All right," said Harry; "I won't jump in for you again, Joe. The fact
is, boys, I oughtn't to have done it without waiting to find out whether
there was really anything the matter with Joe. I'll tell you what we'll
do. Joe is a first-rate swimmer, and we'll make a rule that whenever
anybody is to jump into the river for anything, Joe shall do it. What do
you say?"
"Oh, I'm willing enough," said Joe. "I don't care who jumps, as long as
the captain don't. It won't look well for the captain to be all the time
jumping overboard to pick somebody up."
"A better rule," remarked Tom, "would be that no fellow shall fall
overboard."
"I move to amend that," cried Jim, "by forbidding any accidents to
happen to any of us."
"But you can't do that," said Tom, who never understood a joke.
"Accidents never would happen if people could help themselves."
"Well," said Harry, "if the rest of you will agree not to fall
overboard, I'll promise that the captain sha'n't spend all his time in
jumping after you. But if you are all ready, we'd better start on.
There's a nice little breeze, and we can rest in the boat."
By this time Harry's shirt and trousers, which had been wrung out and
hung up on a bush, were perfectly dry. He packed them away with his
rubber blanket rolled tightly around them, and Jim attended to the duty
of stepping the mast. Then the boys took their places, and Joe pushed
the boat off with the boat-hook. The gentle breeze filled the sail, and
the _Whitewing_ went peacefully on her way up the river.
"Boys," said Harry, presently, "it's getting awfully hot."
"That's because we're sailing right before the wind," said Tom. "We are
going just about as fast as the wind goes, and that's the reason why we
don't feel it."
"Is this a lecture on wind, by Professor Thomas Schuyler?" asked Joe.
"Because if it is, I'd rather hear it when it's cooler. Let's go over to
the other side of the river, where we can get in the shade of the
Palisades."
[Illustration: SAILING BY THE PALISADES.]
It was now about three o'clock, and the sun was very hot. The boat
seemed to the boys to creep across the river, and the Palisades seemed
to move away just as fast as they approached them. When they finally did
come into the shadow of those huge rocks, they thought they had never
known anything so delightful as the change from the scorching sunshine
to the cool shade. Joe and his brother stretched themselves out, and put
their blankets under their heads; presently they grew tired of talking,
and in a little while they were fast asleep. Tom was not sleepy; but he
was so delighted with the beauty of the shore, as seen from the boat,
that he did not care to talk.
For a long time the boat glided stealthily along. The Palisades were
passed, and a long pier projecting into the river from the west shore
gradually came in sight. When the boat came up with the pier, half a
dozen barges lay alongside of it, into which men were sliding enormous
cakes of ice. The Sharpe boys woke up, and proposed to stop and get a
little ice. The men let them pick up as many small pieces of ice as they
could carry, and they went on their way so much refreshed that they
chattered away as gayly as possible.
Uncle John had warned them to select a camping ground long before dark.
They remembered this advice, and at about five o'clock they landed on a
little low point of land a few miles below the entrance to the
Highlands. They first hauled the boat a little way up the beach, so that
it would be sure not to float off, and then began to take the tent, the
cooking things, and the provisions for supper out of her.
"We want to pitch the tent and make a fire," said Harry, "and somebody
ought to get some milk. Let's pitch the tent first."
"I'll do that," said Tom, "while you fellows get the supper."
"It takes two or three fellows to pitch the tent," said Harry; "you
can't do it alone."
"I'll undertake to pitch it alone," replied Tom. "One of you can get
fire-wood, one can go for milk, and the other can get out the things for
supper. Here goes for the tent."
The tent was furnished with two upright poles and a ridge-pole, each one
of which was made in two pieces, and joined together with ferules, like
a fishing-rod. Tom selected a soft sandy spot close by the water's edge,
where he spread out the tent, and pinned down each of the four corners
with rough wooden pins, which he cut with the hatchet from a piece of
drift-wood. Then he crept under the canvas with the poles. He put one of
the upright poles in its place with the end of the ridge-pole over it,
and then, holding the other end of the ridge-pole in one hand, he put
the second pole in position with his other hand, and pushed the end of
the ridge-pole into its proper place. The tent was now pitched; and all
that remained to be done was to tighten the four corner pegs, and to
drive in the other ones.
Meanwhile Jim had taken one of the pails, and gone toward a distant
farm-house for milk. Joe had collected a pile of fire-wood, and Harry
had lighted the fire, and put the other tin pail half full of water to
boil over it. By the time the water had boiled, Jim had returned,
bringing the milk with him. It did not take long to make coffee; and
then the boys sat down on the sand, each with a tin cup of hot coffee at
his side, and proceeded to eat a supper of ham sandwiches and cake. It
was not the kind of supper that they expected to have on subsequent
nights; but Mrs. Wilson's sandwiches and cake had to be eaten in order
to keep them from spoiling. After the coffee was gone they each had a
cup of cold milk, and then put the rest of it in a shady place to be
used for breakfast. The provisions were carefully covered up, so as to
protect them in case of rain, and then the beds were made. This last
operation was a very easy one, since the sand was soft enough for a
mattress, and all that needed to be done was to spread the rubber
blankets on the ground as a protection from the damp. Then the boys
rolled up their spare clothing for pillows, and, wrapping themselves in
their blankets, were soon sound asleep.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE BIG-DOG'S LESSON.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
"There they are, Uncle Joe, the Dorking chickens, just where I found
them."
"Pulled all to pieces."
"It was Mr. Bates's yellow dog--I know it was; and they've let him out
again to-day. He'll be over, and kill some more."
"No, he won't, Parry," said Uncle Joe, as he leaned over the barn-yard
fence. "Don't you see what I've done for him?"
"You've let the chickens all out. Yes, and there's Bayard. Isn't he
pretty?"
"Yes, he's pretty enough, but that isn't all. What did we name him
Bayard for?"
"'Cause he isn't afraid. But won't he hurt some of the other roosters?"
"I've shut 'em up. See him!"
The game-cock was indeed a beautiful fowl, and he seemed to know it too,
for he was strutting around in the warm sun, and stopping every minute
or so to flap his wings and crow. His comb and wattles were of a bright
crimson, his wings and feathers of a brilliant black and red, and his
long, arching tail feathers were remarkably graceful and glossy. He was
not a large fowl, but he was a very well-shaped and handsome one.
"There comes that dog, Uncle Joe, right over the fence."
"Yes, there he comes."
"Won't you throw a stone at him, and drive him away?"
"Then he'd come again, some time when we were not here to throw stones
at him."
Mr. Bates's yellow dog was a very big one. Perhaps he was not altogether
a bad dog, either, but he had a sad weakness for teasing any animal
smaller than himself. Cats, sheep, chickens, anything defenseless, would
have been wise to keep out of his way if they could.
The two poor Dorking chickens had not been able to get away from him the
day before, and so they had lost their feathers and their lives.
He had jumped the barn-yard fence now in search of more helpless
chickens, and more of what he called fun.
A snap of his great jaws would have been enough to kill any fowl in that
yard, and it would have crushed the life out of one of the little yellow
"peepers" the old hens were now clucking to, if he had but put a paw on
it.
But Bayard, the game-cock, was neither a Dorking, nor an old hen, nor a
chicken, and he did not run an inch when the big dog came charging so
fiercely toward him. He did but lower his head and step a little
forward.
"Oh, Uncle Joe! He will be torn all to pieces."
"No, he won't. See!"
It was done almost too quickly for Parry to see, but the sharp spurs of
the beautiful "bird" had been driven smartly into the nose of the big
yellow dog, and the latter was pawing at it with a doleful whine.
The game-cock had not done with the barn-yard invader. He meant to
follow that matter up till he had finished it.
"Clip!" he had hit him again--in the left shoulder this time--and the
dog's whine changed to a howl.
Another, a deep one, in the fleshy part of one of his hind-legs; for
Bayard seemed disposed to dance all around him.
That was enough, and Mr. Bates's yellow pet turned and ran yelping
toward the nearest fence, while his conqueror flapped his wings and
crowed most vigorously, and every hen in the yard clucked her admiration
of his prowess.
Parry, too, clapped his hands, and felt as if he wanted to crow.
"He's such a little fellow, Uncle Joe, to fight such a big dog as that!"
"With teeth and claws, too, and a hundred times stronger than he."
"Did you know he could beat him?"
"Of course I did."
"He knew just how to use his spurs, didn't he?"
"That's it, Parry. He didn't have much, but he knew just what to do with
it."
"Guess the dog knows it too now. He won't chase any more of our
chickens."
"He'll keep out of this yard for a while. He's got his lesson."
So had Parry, and Uncle Joe would not let him forget it. It would be a
shame, he said, for any boy to be less wise than a game-cock, and not to
be able to use all the natural gifts he had.
THE CARPENTER'S SERMON.
BY DAVID KER.
"Tell ye what, mates, this sort o' thing won't do. Here we've been at it
these six weeks, and not a penny of wages yet. It's all very fine to
say, 'Stick to your work,' but a man won't git fat on workin' for
nothing, that's sartain!"
"Right you are, Bill. S'pose we knocks off work, and tells Sir James we
won't do no more without he pays us?"
"Gently, lads: remember what happened to the dog as dropped his meat in
grabbin' at the shadder. If we stick to this job, mayhap we'll git our
money some time; but if we knock off, we won't find another job growin'
on every bush, mark ye."
"Well, that's true; but it's mighty hard luck for _us_, all the same."
So grumbled, under their breath, a gang of English workmen, who were
repairing the interior of one of the great London churches, one fine
summer afternoon in the time of George I. And certainly they had good
reason to grumble. Sir James Thornhill, the court painter, whom the King
had employed to restore and redecorate the building, had his head so
full of his own fine plans and sketches, and of the grand show that the
church would make when all was done, that he had quite forgotten such a
small matter as the paying of his men's wages. So, although the poor
fellows had been hard at work for six weeks and more, not a shilling of
pay had any of them received yet.
"Look here, boys," cried a tall, gaunt carpenter, with a dry,
keen-looking face, "I've always heard say as Sir James is a kind old
gen'l'man at heart, and mayhap it ain't that he don't _want_ to pay us,
but only that he's forgot it, like. Let's just draw lots who shall go
and tackle him about it, and then there'll be no mistake."
The suggestion was at once followed out, and the lot fell upon the tall
carpenter himself.
This was more than the worthy man had bargained for, and he looked
somewhat nonplussed. However, there was no drawing back for him now. Up
he got, and away along the aisle he went toward the spot where Sir James
Thornhill was standing.
But the nearer he got to him, the slower he walked, and the more
chop-fallen did he appear. Indeed, Sir James looked such a grand old
gentleman, as he stood there like a statue, in his laced waistcoat and
silk stockings, with his powdered hair falling over his fine velvet
coat, and his hand resting upon his silver-hilted sword, that poor Chips
felt as bashful as if he were going before the King himself.
But, as the proverb says, "Fortune favors the brave," and the valiant
carpenter was unexpectedly helped out of his dilemma by the very man who
had caused it. Sir James suddenly turned round, and seeing him coming
up, called out:
"Ah, my good fellow, you've come just in time to do me a service. You
see, I want to be quite sure that that pulpit yonder, which we're just
putting up, is in the right place; for, of course, when the clergyman
goes up into it to preach, his voice ought to be heard equally well in
every part of the church. Now suppose you step up there and make a
speech of some sort, while I stand here and try if I can hear you
plainly."
"But what be I to say, your honor?" asked Chips, scratching his head. "I
haven't got the gift of the gab like you gen'l'men have."
"Oh, say whatever you like--just the first thing that comes into your
head."
The carpenter's small eyes twinkled, as if a bright idea had suddenly
occurred to him. Up he went, and leaning over the carved front of the
pulpit, began as follows:
"Sir James Thorn'ill, sir! Me and my mates has been a-workin' for you,
in this here church, good six weeks and more, and we haven't seen the
color of your money yet; and now we ain't going to do another stroke,
without you pays us all that's owing!"
"That'll do, my man," said Sir James, hastily; "you may come down. Your
elocution's perfect, but I can't say I quite admire your choice of a
text."
However, the sermon was not thrown away. The very next morning the men
received their wages in full, and Sir James gave the clever carpenter
half a guinea extra for himself.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 24, April 13.]
THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON.
BY EDWARD CARY.