[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 114. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 3, 1882. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NEW-YEAR'S DINNER IN THE NURSERY."]
A CHILD'S PUZZLES.
BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Pray where do the Old Years go, mamma,
When their work is over and done?
Does somebody tuck them away to sleep,
Quite out of the sight of the sun?
Or, perhaps, are they shut into crystal jars
And set away on a shelf
In a beautiful closet behind the stars,
Each Year in a place by itself?
Was there ever a Year that made a mistake,
And staid when its time was o'er,
Till it had to hurry its poor old feet,
When the New Year knocked at the door?
I wish you a happy New Year, mamma--
I am sure new things are nice--
And this one comes with a merry face,
And plenty of snow and ice.
But I only wish I had kept awake
Till the Old Year made his bow,
For what he said when the clock struck twelve
I never shall find out now.
Do you think he was tired and glad to rest?
Do you think that he said good-by,
Or melted away alone in the dark,
Without so much as a sigh?
Do I bother you now? Must I run away?
Why, that's what you always say;
The New Year's just the same as the Old;
I might as well go and play.
Oh, look at those sparrows so pert and spry!
They are waiting to get their crumbs.
For the New Year's sake they shall have some cake,
And I hope they'll fight for the plums.
MAX RANDER ON A BICYCLE.
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
We left Germany early in October, and went back to England. Father took
lodgings in a pretty little village, where I might have led an
untroubled existence, after my thrilling experiences among the
Prussians, if it had not been for one thing.
It was this: The pretty little English village was situated very near a
large town where bicycles were manufactured, and before I had been there
a week the mania to ride one seized me. I knew at once what it must come
to, and I will now proceed to relate what it did come to.
One morning father and mother set out for London, leaving Thad and me
behind in charge of the landlady, a kind, motherly person who would see
that we did not break any bones playing horse with her furniture, or
make ourselves sick by eating too much of her jam.
"Now, do be careful, boys," said mother, just as the train was about to
start. "Don't get your feet wet, nor try to stop a runaway horse; stay
away from the pond; and you, Max, keep a close watch over your brother."
I listened to these instructions with a light heart, and promised a
dutiful obedience, for had not the things I was not to do been mentioned
by name, and certainly the riding of bicycles was not among them. When
the cars rushed off from the station I made up my mind that my destiny
could be avoided no longer.
"Maximilian," a voice seemed to mutter within me, "all obstacles have
vanished as if by magic from thy path. Four shillings and sixpence hast
thou in thy pocket, so seize the opportunity ere it be too late."
And I seized it; that is to say, I went straight home with Thad, and
telling him to amuse himself with anything short of pulling the cat's
tail or fooling with ink-bottles, I left him there, and hurried off to
the bicycle head-quarters to hire a machine.
"What size?" asked the man, when I had made a deposit of my silver watch
as a guarantee that I wouldn't run away with his property.
Of course, never having ridden before, I hadn't a very clear idea of
what this question meant; so the young fellow, seeing my confusion,
promptly whipped a tape-line out of his pocket, and proceeded to find
out how long my legs were.
"A forty-six-inch'll do you," he informed me, adding, "Tall of your age,
too."
As this implied that he thought me rather young, I put on my gravest
look, and pretended I didn't hear him, and while he went to bring out
the machine, I resolved that nothing should induce me to ask for any
"points" about the management of it. Besides, hadn't I often watched
fellows mount, dismount, coast, and take "headers"?
"Only get started, and you're all right," was what I had heard riders
say over and over again; so I determined to set the thing going the best
way I could, and then stick to the saddle.
But when the man appeared again, pushing before him the bicycle, I must
confess the big wheel looked very big, and the little seat very little
and terribly far from the ground.
Still, I had no cowardly thoughts of giving way to my fears; for had I
not ridden a three-wheeled velocipede for two years around our block
home in New York without falling off a single time? And by quickly doing
a sum in mental arithmetic, I found that the proportion of seven hundred
and thirty days as against one hour was greatly in favor of my not
tumbling during the hour.
Considerably strengthened in my purpose by this method of reasoning, I
seized the handle with a flourish, and started to trundle the machine
out into the road.
"Be careful there," suddenly cried That Man, as my flourish nearly
caused the bicycle to take a "header" on its own account.
After pushing the machine as far as I dared without giving rise to the
suspicion that that was the only way I could make it go, I brought it to
a stand-still, placed both hands on the handles, a foot on the step,
and--waited a minute.
I finally nerved myself to take the flying leap, which sent me into the
saddle so surely and swiftly that I could not rest there, but in my high
ambition kept on going until I found my hands on the ground, the handles
knocking against my knees, and both wheels running up my back.
I knew at once that I had taken a "header," and so I did not feel as
badly as I would if I had fallen in a manner not dignified by a special
name.
I had simply been too eager, and resolving to profit by experience, I
began hopping again; then gave a gentle--a very gentle--spring, which
landed me on the extreme rear of the saddle, where I hung helpless for a
few seconds, with both feet wildly pawing the air in search of the
pedals, which of course I could not reach.
There could be but one end to this gymnastic exhibition, and while I lay
on the road, with the bicycle on top of me, I vowed I would try but once
more, and if the magic third time did not inspire me to success, I would
give it up, push the machine back to the shop, and ever afterward look
upon the sport as a mere "craze" that would soon die out.
Again I broke into that everlasting hop.
"Not too fast,
Nor yet too slow;
Gently, quickly,
Here I go."
I don't know whether it was owing to the rhyme, but at any rate my next
attempt to mount resulted in my sliding nicely into the saddle, while at
the same time my feet bore down upon the pedals, which sent me skimming
along famously. On and on I went, gliding as smoothly and easily over
the fine road as if in a carriage.
Of course the faster I went, the easier it was to balance the machine,
so I kept rolling on further and further away from the village, until
at last I hadn't the slightest idea where I was or whither I was going.
"This will never do," I finally decided. "It will be lunch-time before I
can get back."
Then a brilliant thought struck me. I would turn around at the next
cross-roads, where there would be plenty of room.
About five minutes later I reached one, and making a wide circuit, had
nearly accomplished my object in safety, when a farmer's wagon appeared
upon the scene, almost in front of me.
"Hold on a minute!" I shouted; but it was too late. The horse could not
be stopped short enough, and I stopped too short, being sent sprawling
on the ground right where the wagon's hind-wheels had been two seconds
before.
This final and worst fall of all left me so bruised and sprained and
strained that I found it impossible to get into the saddle again.
If I had been in America I might have climbed up by the help of a fence,
but in England the fences are all hedges. So there was nothing left for
me to do but push the bicycle back to the village again, and walk myself
every step of the way. I don't know how far it was, but going out it
seemed about a mile, and coming back I thought it must be five.
That Man did not ask me if I had had a pleasant run, but when I had paid
him for the two hours I had been out, and he was handing me back my
watch, I saw him look down at the dust on my shoes in a way that made me
hurry off home, feeling like the dying swan I've read about somewhere
that only sings one song in its life, for I had ridden a bicycle for the
first and last time in mine.
THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
An Indian Story.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER XIII.
For a moment Murray and Steve stood looking after the retreating forms of
Red Wolf and his sisters.
"I say," exclaimed Bill, "you're a pretty pair of white men. Do you mean
to turn us three over to them Apaches?"
"Who are you, anyway? Tell me a straight story, and I'll make up my
mind."
"Well, there's no use tryin' to cover our tracks, I s'pose. We belong to
the outfit that set up thar own marks on your ledge thar last night. It
wasn't any more our blame than any of the rest."
"And you thought you'd make your outfit safe by picking a quarrel with
the Apaches."
"Now, stranger, you've got me thar. 'Twas a fool thing to do."
"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do. You three stand up and swear you
bear no malice or ill-will to me and my mate, and you and your crowd'll
do us no harm, and I'll let you go."
"How about the mine?"
"Never mind about the mine. If your Captain and the rest are as big
fools as you three, there won't any of you come back to meddle with the
mine. The Apaches'll look out for that. There'll be worse than they are
behind you, too."
He was speaking of the Lipans, but Bill's face grew longer, and so did
the faces of his two friends.
"You know about that, do ye?"
"I know enough to warn you."
"Well, all I kin say is, we've got that dust, bars, nuggets and all, and
we fit hard for it, and we're gwine to keep it."
"What can you do with it here?"
"Here? We're gwine to Mexico. It'll take a good while to spend a pile
like that. It took the Chinees a year and a half to stack it up."
"Well, if you don't start back up the pass pretty soon, you won't have
any chance. Do you think you can keep your word with us?"
"Reckon we kin with white men like you. So'll all the rest, when we tell
'em it don't cover the mine. You take your own chances on that?"
"We do."
"Tell you what now, old man, there's something about you that ain't so
bad, arter all."
"You and your mates travel!" was the only reply.
They plunged into the thicket for their horses, and when they came out
again Murray and Steve had disappeared.
"Gone, have they?" said Bill. "And we don't know any more about 'em than
we did before. What'll Captain Skinner say?"
"What'll we say to him? That's what beats me. And to the boys? I don't
keer to tell 'em we was whipped in a minute and tied up by an old man, a
boy, two girl squaws, and a red-skin."
"It don't tell well, that's a fact."
Murray had beckoned to Steve to follow him.
"They might have kept their word, Steve, and they might not. We were at
their mercy, standing out there. They could have shot us from the cover.
That's the kind of white men that stir up nine-tenths of all the
troubles with the Indians, let alone the Apaches; that tribe never did
keep a treaty."
"The one we saw to-day looked like a Lipan."
"So he did. And he stood right up for the girls. Steve, one of those
young squaws was no more an Indian than you or I be. It makes my heart
sore and sick to think of it. A fine young girl like that, with such an
awful life before her!"'
"The other one was bright and pretty too, and she can use her bow and
arrows. Murray, what do you think we'd better do?"
"Do? I wish I could say. My head's all in a whirl. But I'll tell you
what, Steve, my mind won't be easy till I've had another look at that
ledge. I want to know what they've done."
"The Buckhorn Mine? I'd like to see it too."
"Then we'll let their outfit go by us, and ride straight back to it.
Might as well save time and follow those fellows up the pass. Plenty of
hiding-places."
It was a bold thing to do, but they did it, and they were lying safely
in a deep ravine that led out of the pass, a few hours later, when the
"mining outfit" slowly trundled on its downward way.
Long before that, however, Bill and his two friends had made their
report to Captain Skinner.
They had a well made up story to tell him, but it was not very easy for
him to believe it.
"Met the two mining fellers, did ye? And they're friends with the
'Paches. Wouldn't let 'em do ye any harm. How many red-skins was
there?"
"Three. We never fired a shot at 'em nor struck a blow, but one of thar
squaws fired an arrer through my arm."
"It's the onlikeliest yarn I ever listened to," said the Captain.
"Thar's the hole in my arm."
"Not that; it isn't queer an Apache wanted to shoot ye--I can believe
that. But that you had sense enough not to fire first at a red-skin. You
never had so much before in all your life."
"Here we are, safe--all three."
"That's pretty good proof. If there'd been a fight, they'd ha' been too
much for you, with two white men like them to help. Well, we'll go right
on down. It's our only show."
"That isn't all, Cap."
"What more is there?"
"The old feller told me to warn you that thar was danger comin' behind
us. He seems to know all about us, and about what we did to the ledge."
"We're followed, are we? What did he say about the mine?"
"Said he'd take his chances about that. We agreed to be friends if we
met him and his mate again."
"You did? Now, Bill, you've shown good sense again. What's the matter
with you to-day? I never heard of such a thing. It's like finding that
mine just where I didn't expect to."
Danger behind them; they did not know exactly what. Danger before them
in the shape of wandering Apaches; but they had expected to meet that
sort of thing, and were ready for it. Only they hoped to be able to
dodge it in some way, and to get safely across the border into Mexico
with their stolen treasure. They had at least made sure of their
wonderful mine, and that was something. Sooner or later they would all
come back and claim it again, and dig fortunes out of it. The two miners
would not be able to prove anything. There was no danger from them.
Perhaps not; and yet, as soon as they had disappeared down the pass,
below the spot where Steve and Murray were hiding, the latter exclaimed,
"Now, Steve, we won't rest our horses till we get there."
They would be quite likely to need rest by that time, for the old man
seemed to be in a tremendous hurry. Steve would hardly have believed
anything could excite the veteran to such a pitch, if it had not been
that he felt so much of the "gold fever" in his own veins. It seemed to
him as if he were really thirsty for another look at that wonderful
ledge. They turned their horses out to feed on the sweet fresh grass at
last, and pushed forward on foot to the mine.
"They've done it, Steve."
"I see they have. Our title's all gone."
He spoke mournfully and angrily; but Murray replied,
"Gone? why, my boy, those rascals have only been doing our work for us."
"For us? How's that?"
"It was ours. They've set up our monuments, and dug our shafts, and put
in a blast for us. They haven't taken anything away from us. I'll show
you."
He had taken from a pocket of his buck-skins a small, narrow chisel as
he spoke, and now he picked up a round stone to serve as a hammer.
"I'm going to make a record, Steve. I'll tell you what to do about it as
I go along."
Captain Skinner's miners had been hard workers, but Steve had never seen
anybody ply a chisel as Murray did. He was not trying to make "pretty
letters," but they were all deeply cut and clearly legible.
[Illustration: MARKING THE BUCKHORN MINE.]
On the largest stone of the central monument, and on the side monuments,
and then on the face of the cliff near the ledge, he cut the name of the
mine, "The Buckhorn," and below that on the cliff and one monument he
cut the date of discovery and Steve Harrison's name.
"Put on yours too, Murray."
"Well, if you say so. It may be safer. Only I turn all my rights over to
you. I'll do it on paper if I ever get a chance."
"I only want my share."
All the while he was chiselling so skillfully and swiftly, Murray was
explaining to Steve how he was to act when he reached "the settlements,"
and how he should make a legal record of his ownership of that property.
"You must be careful to describe all these marks exactly; the ruins,
too, the cañons, the lay of the land, the points of the
compass--everything. After all, it may be you'll never be able to work
it. But you're young, and there's no telling. The first thing for you to
do is to get out of the scrape you're in now."
Steve felt as if there were no longer any doubt of that.
During the busy hours spent on the ledge by their masters the two horses
had been feeding and resting, and both Murray and Steve felt like
following their example.
"Start a fire, Steve; it'll be perfectly safe. I'll try for a deer, and
we'll cook enough to last us for two days."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SPONGES.
BY SARAH COOPER.
[Illustration: SPONGES GROWING.]
Sponges are so common and so familiar that many of us have used them all
our lives without stopping to admire their curious and interesting
structure, or to inquire into the history of their past lives. We may,
indeed, have noticed that they can be squeezed into a very small space,
and that they will return to their natural shape when the pressure is
removed. We have perhaps noticed also that they are full of little holes
or pores, and that they will absorb an astonishing quantity of water.
You know there has been a doubt whether sponges belong to the animal or
to the vegetable kingdom. For a long time naturalists were in doubt
about the matter, but it is now settled that they are animals, living
and growing on the bottom of the ocean. The only part of the sponge that
reaches us is the skeleton. The living sponge is a very different
object. Shall we see what we can find out about it?
Upon naming the word "animal," a picture comes before our minds of some
creature having a mouth to eat with, and eyes to see with, and
possessing feet or wings, or some other means of moving about; but the
sponges are far from this. They are probably the lowest animals with
which you are acquainted. They have no nerves, no heart, no lungs, no
mouth, and no stomach.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.--GROUP OF SPICULES.]
Live sponges consist of jelly-like bodies united in a mass, and
supported by a frame-work of horny fibres, and needle-shaped objects
called "spicules,", which you will see in Fig. 1, and which we must
examine further after a while. This jelly-like flesh, covering all parts
of the skeleton, is about as thick as the white of an egg, but it decays
immediately after the death of the sponge. During life the flesh
presents many bright colors; in some species it is of a brilliant green,
while in others it is orange, red, yellow, etc.
The frame-work varies in different kinds of sponge. In those which are
valuable for our use it consists of horny fibres interwoven in all
directions until they form a mass of lacy net-work. This you can easily
see with the naked eye, but by looking through a microscope you will see
beauty you had not imagined, and which but for this valuable instrument
would never have been dreamed of. In our ordinary sponges these fibres
are all that remain of the former living-animal, the soft flesh having
been removed. It is found that the horny fibres are composed of a
substance very similar to the silk of a silk-worm's cocoon. They are
exceedingly tough and durable. Most of us have discovered that a good
sponge becomes like an old and tried friend, and that unless it is
abused it seems as if it might never wear out.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--CIRCULATION OF WATER THROUGH THE SPONGE.]
In looking at any sponge you will notice large holes through it, with
many small pores scattered between them. The living sponge is constantly
drawing in water at the small pores. This water passes through a set of
branching canals, and is thrown out from the large holes on the surface,
as seen in Fig. 2. (The arrows show the direction of the current.) With
a microscope little fountains may be seen constantly playing from the
large holes of a living sponge. The circulation is kept up in the canals
by the movement of "cilia," which are delicate threads waving gently but
continually. The word cilia means "eyelashes"; let us remember it, for
this is a name we shall often want to use. The cilia are shown in those
cup-like hollow places in the canals (Fig. 2). The stream of water thus
passing through the sponge brings to every part of it small particles of
food, and all the air it needs for breathing purposes.
Everything that lives must eat and breathe, but how is the sponge to eat
without a mouth? When the food touches any part of its body, the soft,
jelly-like flesh sinks in to form a little bag; at the same time the
surrounding parts creep out over the morsel of food, until it is
entirely covered and digested. After this the flesh returns to its
original position, and any shell or other refuse that remains from the
meal is washed away.
Sponges have a curious manner of producing their young. At certain
seasons very small oval masses of jelly are formed on the inner surface
of the canals, which finally drop off. They remain in the canals for a
time, and become perfect eggs, after which they are thrown out by the
stream issuing from the fountains, and instead of falling to the bottom,
as we might suppose such helpless masses of jelly would do, they swim
around as if they meant to have a little sport before commencing the
sober realities of life.
You will be interested to know that while these jelly-like eggs were
resting in the canals of the parent sponge, delicate cilia (which we
learned about just now) were forming at one end of the egg. These cilia
strike the water with a rapid motion, and the eggs are rowed about
through it until they settle down and attach themselves to some rock or
shell on the bottom of the ocean, and finally grow up into the perfect
sponge. The waters are swarming with these eggs at certain seasons, and
great quantities of them are eaten by larger animals.
[Illustration: SPONGE-FISHING.]
Sponges are common in nearly all parts of the world, and they differ
greatly in size and quality, but few species being useful to man. Some
species are nearly round, others are always cup-shaped, some top-shaped,
and some branched. A fresh-water sponge is frequently found in our
streams, growing upon sticks and stones. It is of a bright green, and
when seen under the water in a flood of sunlight it is very pretty.
The spicules of sponges grow in a variety of elegant shapes, but they
are visible only with a microscope. They are composed of lime or flint,
and are generally sharp-pointed. They are imbedded in the flesh as well
as in the horny fibres, thus serving to protect the helpless creatures
from being devoured by fish and other animals. In our fine sponges, the
skeleton is almost destitute of spicules, while in some others the flesh
is supported wholly by spicules, giving them so loose a texture that
they are of no value for domestic purposes.
Fine sponges are used by physicians in surgical operations, and are
sometimes very expensive. Should you at any time take a fancy to a
dainty little sponge in the druggist's window, and step in, thinking to
buy it, you will probably be surprised at the price asked for it. Our
finest sponges come from the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea. They are
obtained by divers, who search for them under rocks and cliffs, and who
remove them carefully with a knife, that they may not be injured; The
Turks, who carry on the trade, have between four and five thousand men
employed in collecting sponges. The value of the sponges annually
collected is estimated at ninety thousand dollars. Coarse varieties are
found in the Gulf of Mexico and the Bahama Islands. They are scraped off
the rocks with forked instruments, and consequently they are often torn.
The demand for sponges has increased so much during the last few years
that there is cause to fear the supply will be exhausted, unless some
way can be found to cultivate them by artificial means. With this view,
attempts have recently been made to raise sponges in the Adriatic Sea by
taking cuttings from full-grown ones, and fastening them upon stones on
the bottom of the ocean until they attach themselves. These experiments
have been successful, but the operation is a delicate one, requiring
great care not to bruise the soft flesh. It is necessary to keep the
sponge under sea-water during the process.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.--GLASS SPONGE.]
Some of the glass sponges are exceedingly beautiful. The delicate
"Venus's flower-basket" grows in the deep sea near the Philippine
Islands. It looks like spun glass woven into a beautiful pattern, and is
so exquisite we can scarcely believe that it is the skeleton of a
sponge. Fig. 3 shows a remarkable specimen of the sponge family, taken
between Gibraltar and the island of Madeira by the scientific party on
board the famous _Challenger_, which ship was sent out for the express
purpose of exploring the animal and vegetable wonders of the great deep.
This sponge, reduced in the illustration to one-third its size, is
composed of bands of spicules running lengthwise from end to end, with
cross bands at right angles. The corners are filled up with a pale brown
corky-looking substance, reducing the spaces to little tube-like holes,
and rising into spirally arranged ridges between them. The ridges,
instead of having a continuous glassy skeleton, have their soft
substance supported by a multitude of delicate six-rayed spicules
interspersed with what under the microscope look like little stars and
rosettes. The whole sponge is covered with fine hairs, and the mouth is
closed by a net-work of a jelly-like substance supported by sheaves of
fine needles. The glass-rope sponge roots itself in the mud by twisted
fibres.
The boring sponge spreads itself over the shells of oysters and mussels,
boring them through and through, and dissolving the shell. It even bores
into solid marble, and will, in time, utterly destroy it.
Flints are exceedingly hard substances--so hard that when we wish to be
emphatic, we sometimes say that a thing is as hard as flint. Yet all the
flints in the world are supposed to have been formed from soft sponges.
By examining small pieces of flint under a microscope the texture of the
sponge, in a fossil condition, is often clearly seen, and the spicules
peculiar to sponges are recognized.
MARJORIE'S NEW-YEAR'S EVE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
I.
Marjorie was sitting curled up in a big easy-chair before the fire. The
room was her own school-room, and the fire-light danced and played on
all sorts of beautiful, luxurious objects--everything for making the
young mistress of the big house comfortable. But Marjorie had come to
believe herself the most wretched of all young people, and while the
fire-light seemed to redden and glow with happy beams on everything
else, it darkened the look on Marjorie's little face. Now and then she
tossed her little curls; sometimes she puckered her lips, and frowned
and nodded; evidently she was thinking very hard and very unpleasantly.
If her thoughts had been expressed, they would have shown that she
thought Christmas week had been "just perfectly _horrid_--not one nice
thing about it. Uncle John away--gone to see those miserable
Williamsons, who had taken this time of all others to be ill. And Miss
Marbery talk about her having so many blessings! A lot of horrid old
presents, no tree, and Miss Marbery"--the governess--"looking so tired
all the time! And after all she had said to Uncle John, he hadn't got
her a new French doll, and her old one looked like a perfect fright."
Poor silly little Marjorie! After she had gone on thinking half an hour
or so, she gradually concluded she was a victim of the cruelest
circumstances, and that in spite of all the love and beauty and tender
thought in the life around her, she just had nothing at all done for her
comfort, happiness, or well-being.
Marjorie glanced about the room as the twilight gathered. Snow was
falling outside the luxuriously curtained windows, so that the cheer
within ought to have been peculiarly noticeable; but to Marjorie nothing
looked very pleasant anywhere just then. Her toys were scattered about,
the despised doll was nowhere to be seen, the rocking-horse of last year
was in the centre of the room. The big map Uncle John had had made to
interest her in geography loomed up on one side of the wall in a way
Marjorie didn't think at all agreeable. This map could be taken all to
pieces; even the rivers were made so that they could be taken out, and
made to bend little joints here and there in and out of the countries.
Marjorie had thought it the greatest fun imaginable to play with this
map when it first came home, but she had tired of this as soon as of
everything else. Somehow, as she sat in the fire-light, it fascinated
her to try and read the various names of the countries. She was looking
very steadily toward what she certainly thought was China, when suddenly
the letters seemed to change curiously. "Is that China?" Marjorie said,
half aloud. China on Marjorie's map was a yellow country, and so,
certainly, was the piece she was looking at; but the name gradually
seemed to unfold itself before her wondering eyes. "Why," said Marjorie,
really speaking out loud this time--"why, it's Christmas-land! How funny
I should always have thought it was China!"
"Didn't you know that?" said a queer voice near by. It was more a sort
of squeak than a voice; but Marjorie turned her head, and saw her
rocking-horse rocking violently.
"Did you speak?" she asked, a little startled.
"I rocked a few words," answered the horse, without altering the very
decided expression of his eyes. "I asked you if you had never known that
before."
"Known what?" said Marjorie.
"Look and see," rocked the horse, and so Marjorie turned her eyes back
to the map. Another change had occurred--indeed, not one, but many. The
windows seemed to have melted away into the snow-storm outside, and the
map, which usually hung between them, had slowly changed, every country
and every river fading away, until Christmas-land only seemed to remain.
But even that was changing too, for now it no longer looked like a
picture on the map, but a real country. Marjorie started forward toward
it. Fir-trees were loaded with icicles; a snowy road seemed to stretch
away ahead of her out of the place where the windows and the map had
been; and the horse? He too had undergone a change, even while
Marjorie's eyes were looking at the windows. Instead of his usual old
harness, he had a comfortable saddle and substantial bridle. Then his
hair had grown thicker, and he had a splendid blanket, and a collar of
bells.
"Dear me!" ejaculated Marjorie.
"I don't see that it's particularly 'dear me,'" said the horse. "I came
from Christmas-land last year, and now I'm going back--that's all.
New-Year's Eve is our time. Come, hurry up; if you want to go, you must
be quick about it."
"Oh, I'm all ready!" Marjorie exclaimed; and with what seemed no trouble
at all she sprang into the saddle, and was delighted to find the horse
turning carefully about toward the windows.
Well, it was a queer experience. They seemed only to float out--out into
the frosty, snowy air. The motion was delightful; but what were they
riding on?
"Excuse me," said Marjorie to the horse; "what are we riding on?"
"Why, don't you see?" he answered--"on the snow-flakes. They always hold
me up going back to Christmas-land."
"Isn't it delightful!" sighed Marjorie. And so it seemed. On they
floated, past church towers, snowy streets, and open country. The bells
grew fainter and fainter; Marjorie felt more and more comfortable. It
seemed to her as if they were entering a beautiful snowy forest--the
same she had seen slowly growing on the map, now so far away, at home.
Then she seemed to doze a little, but only to be roused up by a swift
rushing of three or four rocking-horses apparently floating on in the
same delicious fashion. At the same time Marjorie observed they were in
one of the long aisles of the forest, at the end of which lights from a
thousand windows were twinkling. She tried to discover who were the
strange-looking people on the rocking-horses flying past her, but
although she saw familiar signs about them, she could not quite remember
where she had seen them before. Finally, with a whirring noise, she saw
one of the dissections of her map right beside her; but how queerly it
was changed! It was certainly "Augusta, on the Kennebec"; she was sure
of that; but instead of just being a little town mark, she was a funny
little figure with round eyes, and a good-humored expression, only it
was certainly _on the Kennebec_. Almost at the same time a second figure
on another horse flew by. This figure seemed to be made up of round
balls, and it nodded to Marjorie's horse laughingly, saying, "How much
am I?"
"I know," cried Marjorie; "you're Nine-times-naught."
"It's well you knew," said the horse, "for where we are going you may be
asked that a great many times."
"Where are we going?" said Marjorie, a little timidly; "and isn't this
Christmas-land?"
[Illustration: "WE ARE GOING RIGHT TO SANTA CLAUS'S CASTLE."]
"Of course it is," answered the horse, "and we are going right to Santa
Claus's castle."
By this time Marjorie saw that there appeared on all sides of the wood,
a great many strange characters. It was five or six moments before she
could place them, and then she remembered having seen them in various
houses or toy-shops, and one or two looked as if they had come from her
own play-room. They were all sorts of toys, mostly broken down and
decrepit; but they moved about, talking and laughing with each other,
and every one seemed to recognize Marjorie's horse as he skimmed past.
"Well," thought Marjorie, "if I hadn't seen it, I never should have
believed it."
But her wonderment was not to end there, for the next minute the horse
had ridden up to a heavy gate in a high wall, where with his mouth he
clanged a great bell. Marjorie's heart stood still. Back flew the gate.
Marjorie saw that it had been unbolted by a little dwarf, to whom the
horse nodded in a friendly way.
"Are we late?" said the horse, drawing a long breath.
"Not very," said the dwarf. "But hurry in."
And in they went. For a moment Marjorie almost screamed with delight.
Never had she seen anything so beautiful. She was in a garden which
seemed to be hung with every possible flower that ever grew, lighted by
every soft light; and yet it was winter-time. Around the garden wall the
fir-trees from the forest reared their heads laden with snow, and above
all shone the radiance of moon and stars.
Marjorie seemed to be lifted by unconscious hands from her saddle, and
to find herself on a smooth, springing turf, where little violets lay
nestling under the starlight.
"Why, how can they grow?" she exclaimed, in shy delight.
"Shall I tell her?" said the horse.
"You may if you like," answered the dwarf. "Only I am afraid she never
would understand it."
The horse waited a moment, and giving one or two rocks, said:
"Well, these flowers grow for every kindly Christmas deed done by any
child out of Christmas-land, no matter how poor or simple the child is.
Do you see that rose-bush?"
Marjorie looked and saw a lovely garland of red roses filling the air
with fragrance.
"Well," pursued the horse, "that grew when a little child in a hospital
shared its toys on Christmas-eve with one who had nothing."
"And the winter frost does not hurt them?"
"How can it, when a good deed has given them life? Their kind of perfume
can't be touched by snow or frost."
Marjorie paused a minute; then she half-whispered, "No flower ever grew
here for me?"
The horse rocked rather angrily. "No, it didn't," he answered. "Now
good-night. Follow the dwarf. If I am allowed to take you back, I'll be
here at midnight."
In a moment he had rocked himself out of sight. Marjorie looked about
for the dwarf, and followed him down the garden to a second gateway.
From this they reached the castle steps. Lights blazed everywhere.
Marjorie followed the dwarf up the steps, and into a huge hallway
glittering with icicles and snowy branches of fir. She was given no time
for wonderment. The dwarf pulled a huge key from his pocket, and
unlocking a safe, drew out a number of smaller keys with labels
attached. He chose one, and handed it to Marjorie, saying, "Go down the
corridor to the left until you come to the room labelled as this key is.
Go in there, and wait until you are sent for."
Marjorie took the key in rather trembling fingers, and turned in the
direction he had commanded. It was a wide icicle-hung corridor, with
doors on either side. They were all labelled. Marjorie went down
comparing each name she read with that on her key. The name written
there was "Unworthy."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]
WINTER QUARTERS.
Look at me here in my mistress's muff;
My proper name is Vanity Puff;
My striped coat is, of course, very fair,
But silver-fox has a stylish air.
The muff, you see, is jolly and warm,
And suits a cat that's afraid of storm.
Snow is a nuisance, and cold I hate;
It suits me exactly to sit in state
On a damask chair with a robe silk-lined,
And comfort take with an easy mind,
While I feel myself an aristocrat,
And not a commonplace household cat.
HOW TO PLAY.
BY HUGH CRAIG.
The first thing one ought to do after learning the multiplication table
is to learn some good honest out-of-door game.
I put the multiplication table first, because in all games one has to
count and add up the score. You can not be always asking your
playfellows, "How many am I?"
In most cases they can not tell, for if they are sensible fellows, they
have enough to do in minding their own business; that is, in keeping
their own score. Of course they will keep an account of all that you
win, but they do so for their own guidance, and to check any false
claim. And it is only fair that you should be able to check them.
Some people say boys and girls play too much nowadays. I do not believe
them. I think both boys and girls do nothing a great deal too much.
Looking at your friends playing and talking about their play is nothing
but laziness. Anybody can sit on the grass and sing out,
"Butterfingers!--missed an easy catch like that." I like the boy who
tries, even if he misses. You may depend upon it, if he tries often
enough, he will not miss it every time.
A good game teaches you many things which you will not find in your
lesson books. In the first place you must know the rules of the game.
Then you will find that boys can not play unless they comply with the
rules. When they become men, they will see that men can not be free
unless they comply with the law. You must also know the rules of the
game so well as to see at once when anybody is playing unfairly.
The plain English for unfairness is dishonesty. Boys who can not or will
not play fair are left out of every game. Men who can not play the game
of life go to the poor-house, and men who will not play fair end in
State-prisons. Let us say, then, that you know the rules of what you are
playing, and play fairly, what else do you learn?
You learn, first of all, how to take a good beating without losing your
temper. You may be disappointed, but as everything has been fair, there
is nobody you can be vexed with. You must acknowledge your defeat with a
good grace, especially as the victors are your friends and playmates.
Another lesson you will learn in time is how to gain a victory without
being puffed up, or boasting, or bragging about it. You will see that as
there was in the case of defeat no reason for being annoyed at your
conquerors, so, in the case of triumph, there is no reason for crowing
over your antagonists. You will learn to play your best and fairest at
all times without regard to winning or losing. You will admire a good
player none the less because he is occasionally beaten, and see how a
boy can lose a game without losing his honor. You will see, in fact,
that the first thing in this world is to do your best, and to put up
with the result, whatever it may be.
Nothing is better training for you than to play a good up-hill game
where you are overmatched, and feel sure you can not win. An up-hill
game brings out your best points, just as a struggle with adversity
brings out a man's best qualities. At the same time that you are
compelled to rely on yourself, for nobody but you, let us say, has the
bat, still you must remember that there are others on your side, and you
must play so that they can do their part also. You must remember that
you are one of a society, and that if you are selfish, careless,
ignorant, or unfair, all the society will suffer. Above all things, play
heartily; then you will study heartily, and when you are men you will
work heartily.
EPH'S NEW-YEAR'S BOOTS.
BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.
The ship _Emerald_, under topsails, is plunging and rolling over and
through great mountains of storm-tossed wintry sea. Mr. Kendall, the
sturdy little second mate, makes his way for'ard by clinging to the
weather rail. He casts a glance at the side lights to make sure that
they are burning clear, and then, in a cheery voice, hails the look-out.
"Only five minutes longer, Ned," he bawls, encouragingly; for cold as it
is on deck, he knows that facing the bitter blast on the exposed
forecastle is a hundred times worse.
Ned Rand returns the customary, "Ay, ay, sir," and vaguely wonders if he
ever _will_ be warm again. Not only is he drenched and chilled through
and through, but the cold, which is growing more intense, has stiffened
his soaked oil-clothes until they seem like a suit of tin armor. Like a
dream the remembrance of a year ago that very night comes to mind, how,
sitting around the glowing grate in the cozy home sitting-room, he, with
the family, watched the old year out and the new in.
Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, sounds faintly from aft.
"'Ring out the old, ring in the new,'"
grimly mutters Ned between his chattering teeth, as he strikes the knell
of the old year on the big bell for'ard.
"Hillo-o-o in there! Eight bells, you sleepers! D'ye hear the news?"
As the sleepy, grumbling watch come on deck, the wheel and look-out are
relieved.
"Go below, the port watch, but stand ready for a call," says Mr.
Marline, the chief mate.
Ned is crawling stiffly down from the look-out, when very unexpectedly
the long-legged overgrown boy who, without speaking, had relieved him,
bawls in his ear, "Wish you a happy new year, Ned!"
Unexpectedly, I say, for the reason that the two boys, who were
room-mates, have not spoken together before for a whole week. Ned
hesitates a moment. Suddenly to mind come the familiar lines,
"The year is going, let him go;
_Ring out the false--ring in the true_."
"Same to you, old fellow," he exclaims, as well as his chattering jaws
will let him, and then creeping cautiously along the slippery, heaving
deck, Ned enters the "boys' room" in the after-end of the house.
Throwing off his oil-skins and drenched pea-jacket with a shiver, he is
about to turn into his bunk, when he sees lying on his gray berth
blanket a pair of half-worn rubber boots. Scrawled on a bit of paper
tied to one of the loops are these words:
"A new yeres Presunt to ned i was keeping Them for you All the time from
your aff shipmate, E Jackson."
As Ned reads this friendly message, his face begins to burn--perhaps
from the heat of the coals of fire thus heaped upon his head; for the
trouble between himself and his room-mate had begun about these very
same rubber boots. Ned's had been accidentally washed overboard by a big
sea a few days previous, he having laid them on the main hatch to dry;
and vainly had he tried to buy this pair of Eph, who wore thick
"cow-hides" in ordinary weather, keeping the rubber ones for
extraordinary.
"You're a mean, contemptible skinflint, Eph Jackson," Ned had angrily
exclaimed.
"Mebbe I be," returned Eph, as a dull red tinged his homely face; "but,
all the same, you can't buy them boots: I've got another use for 'em."
High words followed. Ned called Eph "a hay-seed-haired countryman." Eph,
in return, taunted Ned with hanging back when a royal had to be stowed
or the flying jib furled; "a sogerin' skulk" was the uncomplimentary
epithet which he applied to his room-mate, if I remember aright. Since
which time, as I have said, no word had passed between the two until Eph
had broken the ice with his New-Year's greeting.
"He's not such a bad lot, after all," said Ned, aloud. "The boots are a
couple of sizes too large," he added, as he pulled them on over a pair
of dry socks; "but they'll keep out the wet and cold, anyway."
But there was a sort of unconscious patronage in his way of accepting
the welcome present, after all; for Ned Rand's father, who owned
two-thirds of the _Emerald_, was a wealthy ship-builder of East Boston,
while Eph Jackson was an uncultured young fellow from the country. Ned
was making this his first sea-voyage "just for the fun of it"; Eph,
because he had an old mother up among the Berkshire hills, for whom
every cent of his wages was meant.
"Some day I cal'late to be a officer, an' git my forty or fifty dollars
a month," said Eph, sturdily, to himself.
Ned had obtained his parents' consent that he should make a trial voyage
with Captain Elton. "But don't favor him, Captain," privately suggested
Mr. Rand.
"Favor him!" echoed the plain-spoken Captain; "I _guess_ not. There's no
favor shown aboard ships. Your boy will be treated the same as that
long-legged young chap from the country who shipped yesterday--no better
and no worse." Which assurance Ned has found to his extreme disgust is
carried out to the very letter.
But the voice of the storm without grows louder and fiercer.
"I thought so!" growls Ned, as two hours later he hears the command to
"turn out and shorten sail."
Ugh-h-h! It is ten degrees colder at least than when he went below. Mast
and spar, brace and rigging, alike are cased in thin ice.
The upper topsails have been lowered on the caps, where they are
thrashing as only stiff, half-frozen sails can thrash.
"Jump up there lively, and roll up the main topsail first," bellows Mr.
Marline, and in a moment wiry little Mr. Kendall is in the main-rigging.
Closely following him is Ned Rand, but not from any desire to show
unusual activity. He has learned that in furling a sail the extremity of
the yard is the easiest place, for here he has nothing particular to do
except to hold on by the "lift" with one hand, and pass the yard-arm
gasket to the man who stands next inside.
The sail is "picked up," and secured after a fashion, for it is as
unmanageable as an oak plank. The gaskets are passed, and the men
descend the slippery rigging. Ned delays as long as possible, for the
fore and mizzen topsails have yet to be furled.
"You, Ned, are you going to stay on that yard all night?" thunders Mr.
Marline from below, at which gentle hint Ned bestirs himself.
Crawling cautiously along the slippery, swaying foot-rope, one moment
high in air, and the next with the boiling, seething sea beneath his
feet, Ned is nearly half way in, when, as the ship rolls heavily to
leeward, his mittened hands slip on the icy iron jack-stay, and with a
wild cry, which is heard even above the storm, he is launched into
space.
"Man overboard!" yells Mr. Kendall, who is very excitable.
Eph Jackson, who has been sent to the lee, hears it, and stooping,
"yanks" the grating from under the helms-man's feet, sending it spinning
over the rail.
Captain Elton was never known to be excited in his whole life.
"Put the wheel down, Jerry, and let her head come up in the wind."
Raising his voice a little, he then orders the after-yards braced aback,
and the fore stay-sail sheet raised.
While one watch is obeying this order, others of the crew clear away the
port quarter boat. But when there is a call to man it, one and all
hesitate, for verily it is venturing into the very jaws of death.
Eph Jackson suddenly leaves the lee wheel, and follows the plucky little
second mate, who is shipping the rudder.
"If that young chap is goin'," mutters Bob Stacy, "blowed if I'll hang
back;" and in another moment the boat is manned, and afloat in darkness
and storm.
Meanwhile, what of Ned Rand? This: As his head disappeared under the icy
waves he felt as though a terrible grasp had seized his ankles and was
dragging him deeper and deeper despite his efforts to rise.