Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 144. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS. NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 1, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BOB AND THE "GRIZZLEE BARE."]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
CHAPTER XVIII.
COLLECTING THE ANIMALS.
It was quite a task to extract the porcupine quills from Mr. Stubbs's
brother, because the operation was painful, and he danced about in a way
that seriously interfered with the work.
But the last one was out after a time, and the monkey was marched along
between Joe and Toby, looking very repentant now that he was in his
master's power again.
"I tell you what it is," said Joe, sagely, after he had walked awhile in
silence as if studying some matter, "we'd better get about six big
chains an' fasten Mr. Stubbs's brother to the tent; 'cause if we keep on
tryin' to train him, he'll keep on gettin' loose, an' before he gets
through with it, we sha'n't have any show left."
"I think that's the best thing we can do," panted Leander; "'cause if
all hands of us has to start out many times like this, some of the boys
will come up while we're off, an' pull the tent down."
"We can tie him in the tent, and have him for a wild man of Borneo,"
suggested Joe.
"I guess we won't train him," replied Toby, rather sorry to deprive his
pet of the pleasure of being one of the performers, and yet fearing the
trouble he would cause if they should try to make anything more than an
ordinary monkey out of him.
The pursuit had led the boys farther from home than they were aware of,
and it was noon when, weary and hungry, they arrived at the tent, where
they found the other party, who had given up the search some time
before. They had travelled through the woods without hearing or seeing
anything of the runaway, and had returned in the hope that the others
had been more successful.
Leaving Mr. Stubbs's brother in charge of the partners, who, it was safe
to say, would now take very good care to prevent his escape, Toby
hurried into the house to see Abner.
The sick boy was no better, Aunt Olive said, neither did he appear to be
any worse--he was sleeping then; and, after eating some of his dinner at
the table, and taking the remainder in his hands, Toby went out to the
tent again.
He found his partners indulging in an animated discussion as to when the
performance should be given.
Reddy was in favor of having it within two or three days at furthest;
Bob thought that, as Mr. Stubbs's brother was not to be one of the
performers, there was no reason for delay.
All the others were of the same opinion, but Toby urged them to wait
until Abner could take part in it.
To this Bob had a very reasonable objection: in two weeks more school
would begin, and then, of course, the circus would be out of the
question. If their first exhibition should be a success, as it
undoubtedly would be, they could give a second performance when Abner
should get well enough to attend it; and that would be quite as pleasing
to him as for all the talent to remain idle while waiting for his
recovery.
Toby felt that his partners asked him to do only that which was fair.
The circus scheme had already done Abner more harm than good, and, as he
did not seem to be dangerously sick, it would be unkind to the others to
insist on waiting.
"I'd rather Abner was with us when we had the first show," said Toby;
"but I s'pose it'll be just as well to go ahead with it, an' then give
another after he can come out."
"Then we'll have it Saturday afternoon; an' while Reddy's fixin' up the
tickets, Ben an' I'll get the animals up here, so's to see how they'll
look, an' to let 'em get kinder used to the tent."
Reddy was a boy who did not believe in wasting any time after a matter
was decided upon, and almost as soon as Toby consented to go on with the
show, he went for materials with which to make posters and tickets.
His activity aroused the others, and all started out to bring in the
animals, leaving Toby to guard Mr. Stubbs's brother and the tent. The
canvas would take care of itself, so long as it was unmolested, but the
other portion of Toby's charge was not so easily managed. After much
thought, however, he settled the monkey question by tying Mr. Stubbs's
brother to the end pole, with a rope long enough to allow him to climb
nearly to the top, but short enough to keep him at a safe distance from
the canvas.
By the time this was done, Ben arrived with the first installment of
curiosities. His crowing hen he had under his arm, and Mrs. Simpson's
three-legged cat and four kittens he brought in a basket.
"Joe's got a cage 'most built for the hen, an' I'll fix one for the cat
this afternoon," he said, as he seated himself on the basket, and held
the hen in his lap.
"You can't fix it if you've got to hold her," said Toby, as he brought
from the barn a bushel basket, which was converted into a coop by
turning it bottom side up, and putting the hen underneath it.
Ben was about to search the barn for the purpose of finding some
materials with which to build the cat's cage, when a great noise was
heard outside, and the two partners left the tent hurriedly.
"It's Bob an' his calf," said Ben, who had got out first, and then he
started toward the new-comers at full speed.
It was Bob and his calf; but the animal should have been mentioned
first; for it seemed very much as if he were bringing his master,
instead of being brought by him. In order to carry his cage of mice and
lead the calf at the same time, Bob had tied the rope that held this
representative of a grizzly bear around his waist, and had taken the
cage under his arm. This plan had worked well enough until just as they
were entering the field that led to the tent, when Bob tripped and fell,
scaring the calf so that he started at full speed for the barn, of
course dragging the unfortunate Bob with him.
Sometimes on his face, sometimes on his back, screaming for help
whenever his mouth was uppermost, and clinging firmly to the cage of
mice, Bob was dragged almost to the door of the tent, where the
frightened animal was finally secured.
"Well, I've got him here, an' I hain't lost a single mouse," said Bob,
as he counted his treasures before even scraping the dirt from his face.
Ben and Toby led the calf into the tent after some difficulty, owing to
the attempts of Mr. Stubbs's brother to frighten him, and then they did
their best to separate the dirt from their partner.
In this good work they had but partially succeeded, when Reddy arrived
with a large package of brown paper, and his cat without a tail. This
startling curiosity he carried in a bag slung over his shoulder, and
from the expression on his face when he came up it seemed almost certain
that the cat's claws had passed through the bag and into her master's
flesh.
"There," he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, as he threw his live
burden at the foot of the post to which Mr. Stubbs's brother was tied.
"I've kept shiftin' that cat from one shoulder to the other ever since I
started, an' I tell you she can scratch as well as if she had a tail as
long as the monkey's."
It surely seemed as if the work of building the cages had been too long
neglected, for here were a number of curiosities without anything in
which they could be exhibited, and the audience might be dissatisfied if
asked to pay to see a cat in a bag, or a hen under a bushel basket.
Toby spoke of this, and Bob assured him that it could easily be arranged
as soon as all the partners should arrive.
"You see, we've got to carry Mrs. Simpson's cat an' kittens home every
night, 'cause she says the rats are so thick she can spare her only
daytimes, an' we don't need a cage for her till the show comes off,"
said Bob, as he bustled around again to find materials.
Mr. Stubbs's brother demanded his master's attention about this time,
owing to his attempts to make friends with the calf. From the time that
this peaceful animal, who was to be transformed into a grizzly bear, had
been brought into the tent, the monkey had tried in every possible way
to get at him, and the calf had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to
butt the monkey. But the ropes which held them both had prevented the
meeting. Now, however, Bob detected Mr. Stubbs's brother in trying to
bite his rope in two, and it was considered necessary to set a guard
over him.
Reddy was already busily engaged in painting the posters, despite the
confusion that reigned, and as his work would keep him inside the tent,
he was chosen to have general care of the animals--a task which he,
without a thought of possible consequences, accepted cheerfully.
Leander and Joe came together, the first bringing his accordion, and
four rabbits in a cage, and the last carrying five striped squirrels in
a pasteboard box.
Leander was the only one who had been thoughtful enough to have his
animals ready for exhibition, and the cage in which the long-eared pets
were confined bore the inscription, done in a very fanciful way with
blue and red crayons: "Wolves. Keep off!"
This cage was placed in the corner near the band stand, where the
musician could attend to his musical work and have a watchful eye on his
pets at the same time.
Reddy had been busily engaged in painting a notice to be hung up over
the calf; and as he fastened it to the barn just over the spot where the
animal was to be kept, Bob read, with no small degree of pride in the
thought that he was the fortunate possessor of such a prize:
[Illustration: Grizzlee Bare from the Rockey Mountains]
Then the artist went back to his task of painting posters, while the
others set to work, full of determination to build the necessary number
of cages, if there was wood enough in Uncle Daniel's barn.
They found timber enough and to spare; but as it was not exactly the
kind they wanted, Toby proposed that they should all go over to the
house, explain the matter to Aunt Olive, and ask her to give them as
many empty boxes as she could afford to part with.
As has been said before, Aunt Olive looked upon the circus scheme with
favor, and when she was called upon to aid in the way of furnishing
cages for wild animals, she gave the boys full permission to take all
the boxes they could find in the shed. They found so many that they were
able to select those best suited to the different animals, and yet have
quite a stock to fall back upon in case they should make additions to
their menagerie.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
ADVICE TO BOYS.
BY H. C. VAN GIESEN, M.D.
HOW TO RESTORE PERSONS APPARENTLY DROWNED.
Every boy should know how to swim, and it should be a part of every
boy's early education. But even good swimmers are exposed to the danger
of drowning; and to show what to do for an apparently drowned person is
the object of this article. When life is supposed to be extinct, proper
exertions will often restore the circulation, and establish breathing.
It is estimated that a minute and a half's submersion is sufficient to
cause death by drowning, and hence the necessity of rescuing a person
from the water as quickly as possible, and using restorative measures
promptly, is very great.
As soon as the body is taken from the water, the feet and lower part of
the body should be elevated, and the head allowed to hang down, that the
water may be allowed to run out of the throat and mouth as much as
possible; then the clothing should be removed from the upper part of the
body, exposing the chest. The person should then be placed upon his
back, with a roll of clothing or something else convenient to form a
pillow, upon which the shoulders should rest. Then some one present
should take hold of the arms just below the elbow, and slowly raise them
above the head, so that the elbows may nearly touch on a line parallel
with the body; then as slowly bring down the arms to the side of the
chest, pressing the elbows firmly against the ribs. This movement must
be repeated many times, alternately extending the arms, and replacing
them by the side. The object is to cause expansion and contraction of
the chest walls, and thus mechanically causing the entrance of air into
and exit from the lungs.
It is advisable, also, to see that the tongue has not fallen back into
the mouth, and in case it has done so, to seize it with the thumb and
finger, and draw it forward. Dashing cold water in the face may also be
tried. The feet and legs should be rubbed dry, and kept warm by wrapping
in dry clothing or blankets if they can be obtained.
When the least sign of breathing is seen, the exertion should be
actively continued, and pressure made upon the chest wall at short
intervals to aid the expulsion of the air in the lungs, and allow fresh
air to enter. If ammonia is available, it should be poured on a
handkerchief, and held at a little distance from the nose at occasional
intervals; and when the breathing is established, if brandy or some
other stimulant, as whiskey or alcohol even, can be procured, a small
quantity, say half a tea-spoonful in a tea-spoonful or two of water,
should be cautiously given, and repeated in fifteen minutes.
After animation is restored, the person should be wrapped up warmly in
blankets, and seclusion should be observed.
Efforts such as these are often rewarded with success, and no one
recently taken from the water should ever be given up as drowned until
they are faithfully tried. It is never safe for a boy to go in swimming
alone, for unforeseen accidents may occur, such as cramps, or
entanglement in weeds. Some other hidden danger may spring up, as
unexpected force of current, or great depth of water, and then it is
safer by far to have help within calling distance.
In cities, swimming-schools supply the place which nature affords to the
boy in the country. The feeling of security which a knowledge of the art
of swimming secures to its possessor compensates for all the danger and
trouble one is exposed to in acquiring it.
[Continued from page 612, No. 143, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.]
UP THE CREEK.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
They knew, but the very excitement of it kept them silent, and Quill
again gave up the oars to the stranger. He made short work of that
stretch of smooth, sunny water, and the _Ark_'s original crew were proud
of her. It seemed but a few minutes before she ran almost up on shore in
a little cove of the thickly wooded islet.
"Magnificent! Ours by right of discovery. Boys, we must have a fire. You
go for loose sticks and things, while I kindle one."
What could they do but shout their loudest, and dart away after supplies
of fire-wood?
"He's got some matches," said Quill. "He's lighting a piece of paper.
He's kindling some brush."
He was certainly a very remarkable man for two boy-boatmen to meet on a
cruise like the one in question, for, even while the bright blaze leaped
out through the first black smudge of smoke, he burst into another
foreign song.
The stranger was standing by his fire, fanning it with his wide-brimmed
straw hat, and his closely trimmed curly head was bare. They could guess
that he was not more than twenty, and he was a very handsome young
fellow, if his clothes had not been so fine.
"This is great," he muttered to himself. "First piece of genuine
out-and-out fun I've had since I got here. Hullo, what's this?"
There had been an unnoticed rustle among the trees and bushes to the
right of him.
"Please, sir, we--we--we're--are--are--all drownded."
The words came out all broken to pieces by childish sobs, and there
stood a pretty little barefooted girl of eight or nine summers looking
up at him. Her rosy face was wet with tears, and the larger share of her
dress looked as if it were wet with Pawg Lake water.
"Drowned, my dear? Is that so? Were you drowned?"
"N-n-n-o--no, sir."
"Were any of the rest drowned?"
"N-n-n-o, sir, but Aunt Sally can't make the boat swim, 'cause there's
come a hole in it."
"That's awful. Tell Aunt Sally to bring it to me, and I'll mend it."
"She--she can't come. She's lost one of her shoes."
"Is that so? We must go and hunt for that shoe."
"We did hunt, and she got her feet wet. It's in the mud. 'Way down."
"Boys, come on. We've got a shipwreck."
"Hear that, Quill?"
"See that girl, Mort? There's something happened. Come on."
They stopped as they went by to throw their armfuls of sticks and bark
on the fire, and then they dashed after their dandy fisherman, who was
already following the eager leading of the wet little girl. She was in a
desperate hurry, and she led the way almost straight across the islet.
This did not contain more than a couple of acres of rocks and trees, and
was easy to cross; but there on the northern shore was a scene which
both Mort Hopkins and Quill Sanders understood at a glance.
A large, square-nosed, rickety-looking old punt of a boat was pulled
part way up on a log at the water's edge, and anybody could see that one
of her worn-out bottom boards had fallen away bodily from its proper
place.
"There's no sort of float in that thing," said Quill to Mort.
"No, sirree; she's done for."
"One, two, three, four, five, besides my little wet messenger," remarked
their grown-up friend. And then he added: "I declare! A young lady!"
They saw him color slightly, too, as a tall, well-dressed, and quite
pretty girl of seventeen or near it slowly arose from the rock on which
she had been sitting. She did not come forward, and she was blushing,
and Quill whispered:
"Mort, where's her other shoe?"
"Lost it, I guess. They're awfully shipwrecked. Let's rescue 'em."
"Hush! Hear that fellow talk. She's telling him all about it."
There was very little to tell. She had taken her sister and niece and
some little girls who were visiting them out for a boat ride on Pawg
Lake. They all lived near the head of it. The girls danced about. The
boat began to leak. She rowed to the islet because it was nearest. She
tried to fix the loose board, and it came all the way off. They had been
there for hours. Nobody on shore knew where they were.
"How many mothers are anxious?" asked the dandy fisherman.
"Three, and quite a number of aunts and uncles and fathers."
"We must put you ashore at once, then. I really can not doctor that
boat. Boys, may I land them in the _Ark_?"
"Why, that's what we came for," said Quill Sanders, a little vaguely.
"What they came for?" said the young lady, with one foot a trifle behind
the other.
"Exactly," said the fisherman. "All the way from I don't know where. I'm
only a foremast hand. They are the captains and owners. Will you walk
over? No, please, I'll bring the _Ark_ around here."
"Thank you, I wish you would."
"Come on, boys. This is better fun than catching trout."
"Well, it is," said Mort.
"Mister," remarked Quill, "if we all crowd into the _Ark_, we'll sink
her."
"We must look out for that. You and Mort stay here, and I'll row the
girls ashore, and come back after you."
"Capital idea! We'll take her right around, and rescue 'em all."
They did so; but just as they were pulling to the beach where the old
punt lay, Mort came out of a sort of thoughtful fit, and said, suddenly:
"Guess it won't do, Quill. You and I'll stay and take care of the
island, while he puts the girls ashore."
"I don't care. Let him."
The pretty young lady was the first to remark upon the small size of the
_Ark_, and received for reply:
"She's withered a good deal since Noah's time. If you'll take the stern
seat, I'll try and stow the rest in. The boys have volunteered to wait
here for me."
"We shall crowd your boat."
"Not at all; but there will be no room for them to dance out any of the
bottom boards. The passengers must keep still. Is it of any use to fish
around for your shoe?"
"No, sir. It's in the mud. I stepped out in a hurry. It came off."
[Illustration: THE SHIPWRECKED PARTY RESCUED BY THE "ARK."]
"I see. Yes. Glad you took better care of the other. I'm sorry for that
shoe. Now, children--young ladies, I mean--if you don't want another
shipwreck, and all to be drowned again, you'll keep still till we get
ashore. If any of you wish to speak to me, call me Ham. All the rest of
the _Ark_'s original crew have gone somewhere."
Away he pulled, and Quill Sanders and Mort Hopkins sat on the shore and
watched him, until the former exclaimed:
"Mort, we might as well save the time. Let's go and eat something."
"It's a big thing, Quill. We'll have an awful time getting home."
The fire was blazing finely, and the two young discoverers found their
appetites all they could ask for. They even discussed the propriety of
cooking a trout or so, but decided that it would be better to catch some
fish for themselves. There were plenty of promising places along shore,
but the results astonished them.
"Mort," said Quill, at the end of ten minutes, "did you ever know fish
to bite this way?"
"Never. Got another. Here he comes--perch. What's yours?"
"Hurrah! it's a pickerel."
Not a very heavy one, but in he came, and the excitement of that next
hour of Pawg Lake fishing made it seem a wonderfully short one.
"Quill," said Mort, "there he comes."
"I knew he'd bring the boat back."
"Of course he would."
There he was in a few minutes more, smiling as ever, and remarking,
"Come along, boys; you are both wanted at Ararat."
"Where?" said Quill.
"Where the _Ark_ landed her passengers. Come along. I'm a dove, with no
end of olive branch in my mouth."
They gathered their fish, and hurried into the boat, while he explained
that the long absence of that shipwrecked young lady and her younger
companions had stirred up a tremendous excitement along the shores of
Pawg Lake, and that their rescue was no small affair.
"I have been kissed by any number of mothers and aunts, and have had to
shake hands with quite a large body of men. You boys must come and take
your share."
"Don't you do it, Quill," said Mort. "Let's go right home."
"Yes, mister. I say, give me the oars, and I'll start for the creek."
"Couldn't think of it, my young friends. I gave my word I would bring
you ashore."
There was no help for it, and in what seemed to them a terribly short
time Quill and Mort were the centre of a crowd of people in a big
farm-house. They were compelled to eat again until they could not eat
any more; but Quill remarked, in a whisper:
"Glad none of 'em hugged me, Mort. That woman looked like it."
The whole subject of the voyage of discovery came out, and when dinner
was over--it was supper too, and almost anything else--and the boys
declared they must set out for home, a big man, who owned the
farm-house, and was father of the young lady and her sister, and uncle
of the wet little girl, got up and said:
"Home? Of course. Come on, boys. I've fixed all that."
So he had; for there was the largest kind of a lumber wagon, with the
_Ark_ already in it, and a man holding the horses, ready to start.
"That's our boat," said Quill.
"So it is," said the dandy fisherman. "I'm going with you. It's the
first voyage of discovery that ever went home overland, ship and all."
"Quill," whispered Mort just then, "either she's found her shoe, or she
had another pair."
The young lady was blushing remarkably all the while they were getting
into the wagon, and the fisherman said "good-by" for the crew of the
_Ark_.
When they reached Corry Centre, the driver pulled up in front of the
village tavern.
"Here's your trout," said Quill, as their strange friend sprang lightly
out.
"Keep 'em--keep 'em. Best day's fun I ever had. I'm coming down to hunt
you boys up to-morrow. Good-by. Take care of the _Ark_."
"Good-by!" they both shouted as they were hurried away. But they had to
turn at once and answer the driver's question about where he was to go
next.
They were glad enough to get home safe and sound; but even when the
_Ark_ was once more floating in Taponican Creek, near the bridge, Quill
and Mort had to look hard at her and at each other, and then at the
trout and their own strings of Pawg Lake fish, before they could quite
make up their minds that they had not been dreaming a good deal that
splendid Saturday.
THE END.
[Illustration: "ME'S SICK."]
THE "FIRST GRENADIER OF FRANCE."
BY C. W. FISHER.
How many of the young people have ever heard the story of that
simple-hearted, brave soldier of Napoleon's empire, so long known as the
"First Grenadier of France"?
Born in the provinces, La Tour d'Auvergne received a thorough military
schooling, and entered the army when quite young.
Throughout a career of nearly twoscore years, he served ever with
fidelity and distinction, yet always refused the promotion which was
constantly offered him, preferring, as he said, the familiar duties of
the grenadier to even the glories of a marshal.
His wishes were, in a measure, respected. He held always the rank of
Captain, though eventually his command equalled in numbers almost ten
regiments.
After his death, which occurred in action, there was instituted in the
regiment with which he had been connected, and by the express directions
of Bonaparte himself, a most touching tribute to his faithful service.
His name had never been stricken from the roll, and at its call, upon
the daily parade, the oldest veteran present would step forward, and
saluting, answer, "Died on the field of battle."
The details of his history show that his life was well worthy the honors
thus paid to his memory, and many incidents are told of him which
illustrate his unselfish devotion to the profession he loved so well.
Upon one occasion, being on furlough, he paid a visit to an old friend
in a section of the country as yet remote from actual war.
While there, he learned that a detachment of several hundred Austrians,
having in view the prevention of a certain important movement of the
French, was on the march to a spot where this purpose could be easily
accomplished. To reach this they must pass through a narrow defile,
guarded by an old stone tower, which was garrisoned by perhaps half a
company of French soldiers.
To warn these of their danger in time to prepare for defense was the aim
of our hero, and putting up a slender store of provisions, he started
off.
To his dismay he found on arriving at the tower that his comrades had
been only too well warned already, and had fled, even leaving their
muskets and a goodly supply of ammunition behind them.
He knew that if the Austrians could be held in check long enough to
allow the completion of the French manoeuvre, by that time tower and
pass would be of little use to either side. He determined,
single-handed, to make the fight against a regiment.
There were many conditions which favored the successful carrying out of
this brave resolve. The tower could be approached only through a narrow
ravine, in which but two or three men could walk abreast, and as he was
abundantly supplied with arms, the grenadier did not despair of at least
partial success. He barricaded the doors, carefully loaded all the
muskets, which he placed in convenient positions for instant handling,
made a good meal off the food he had brought with him, and then sat down
to await the enemy.
He was unmolested until near dawn, when unusual sounds without announced
the Austrians' approach.
They halted at the mouth of the defile, and almost immediately an
officer, bearing a flag of truce, appeared with a demand for surrender.
D'Auvergne answered the call, replying that "the garrison would defend
itself to the last," and the messenger, little suspecting that the
entire garrison was comprised in the person of the single soldier who
stood before him, retired.
A small cannon was shortly after brought to bear upon the tower; but our
grenadier made such good use of his weapons that half a dozen of the
Austrians lay wounded upon the ground before they could fire a single
shot. Finding this mode of attack ineffectual, an assault was ordered;
but as the head of the column came within range of the tower, so deadly
a fire was poured upon it that it was ordered back amid great confusion.
Two further attacks were made, with like results, and when night fell,
the solitary grenadier was still in possession of his stronghold, and
unhurt, while nearly fifty of the enemy were either killed or wounded.
Sunset brought a second summons to yield, with an intimation that, if
refused, a regular siege would be entered upon, and kept up until hunger
should compel submission.
Deeming the twenty-four hours which had elapsed sufficient time for the
accomplishment of the French move, D'Auvergne returned answer that the
garrison would surrender the following morning if allowed safe-conduct
to the French lines, and permission to retain its arms. These terms,
after a little parley, were acceded to.
At daybreak on the morrow, accordingly, the enemy were drawn up to
receive the vanquished garrison.
The door of the tower opened, and a soiled and scarred veteran,
literally staggering under the weight of as many muskets as he could
carry, walked slowly between the ranks, and depositing his load at the
feet of the Colonel, saluted. To the surprise of the latter, no one
followed.
"But where is the garrison, grenadier?" asked he.
"Sir, I am the garrison," replied the soldier.
For a moment astonishment held the Austrian dumb; then ordering his
command to present arms, and raising his cap, "Grenadier, I salute you,"
said he: "so brave a deed is without parallel."
The desired escort was provided, and with it was sent a dispatch
relating the whole affair.
When the circumstance became known to the Emperor, the offer of
promotion was renewed, and again declined, and D'Auvergne remained to
the day of his death simply the "First Grenadier of France."
A NIGHT ON CHOCORUA.
BY ESEMEE.
"Where's your Tom Matthews, Ned?" said Phil Hartshorn. "Here it is half
past nine by my watch, and he was to be on hand at nine sharp."
As he spoke a little freckled boy came panting up to them, saying: "Tom
says as how he can't go up 'Corua to-day nohow. He's sick with suthin
I've forgot the name of. He's awful sorry, and said if yer'd only hold
on till to-morrer, he'd go; and he thinks it'll be a sight better day,
too, for he's 'most sure there'll be a thunderin' big shower to-night."
"Nonsense!" said Dick; "there isn't one chance in a million of a shower;
sky is as clear as a bell."
"But," says Arthur, "there are no two ways about it. Mother said we were
not to go if Tom Matthews were not here."
"You don't suppose mother really meant that?" said his brother Phil.
"Now, Cousin Arthur," said Dick, "you just put that conscience of yours
to sleep as fast as you can.
"'Hush-a-by, conscience, on the tree-top,
Dear Mrs. Hartshorn would never say stop.'"
"But, Arthur," interrupted Ned, "she wouldn't care if she knew how many
times I've been up Chocorua. Why, I've been to the top thousands of
times. I know the way just as well as Tom."
Though Arthur's duty was as clear to him as at first, he decided to take
Dick's advice, and silence his conscience.
Half an hour later they were climbing up the steep side of the mountain,
laden with the tent, provisions, and other necessaries for their night's
encampment.
Chocorua is one of the most difficult of the New Hampshire hills to
ascend, not so much on account of its height as its rocky and steep
outline. To Ned Brown, however, accustomed to scrambling over the hills
of his native place, it was simply a very tiresome walk; but to the
three city boys, who for the first time were spending part of their
vacation among the mountains, it was a novel and rough experience.
Nevertheless, their spirits did not flag, and about two o'clock they had
reached the rocky summit, as tired and hungry a set of boys as you ever
saw.
They soon found a comfortable spot, where they threw themselves down at
full length, and at Dick Harris's suggestion pitched into the eatables
which Mrs. Brown had put up for them.
After a while Ned exclaimed: "Look here, boys, you can't spend the whole
afternoon eating. Just clap two or three doughnuts into your pockets,
and come along. We've got to get ready for the night."
"Wait a week," said Dick, "until I take one more drink of coffee; then
we'll go and explore the country."
"Can't you remember, Ned, where you generally pitch your tent?" said
Arthur.
"Tom Matthews pretty much always bosses that business," answered Ned.
"I guess we can find as good a place as Tom Matthews," said Phil. "There
it is now, right ahead--don't you see?--down in that hollow under that
tall tree."
"All right; let's make for it, then," said Ned. "We haven't any time to
lose."
Some hours later Ned called out: "Now that everything is ready for the
night, you shall have a high old supper. You needn't any of you put your
fingers in the pie either. I'm goin' to make a regular lumberman's
pudding. Dick, just hand me that tin plate, will you?"
"No, sir, I can't even do that; it might be putting the very finger into
the pie, or rather pudding, which would spoil the whole. I am not going
to run any such risk."
"That's too thin--a capital excuse for laziness--but I can do it myself
fortunately. First, you see, I cut a slit in this stick, and slip the
edge of the plate into it, and that makes a tip-top spider. Next I put
in some pieces of fat pork, and am goin' to fry them over this blazin'
fire. When the pork is done, I'll take that out, and crumb this
pilot-bread into the fat."
"What a mess!" the boys all exclaimed. "You don't expect us to eat that
stuff, do you?"
"You needn't trouble yourselves; I can eat every bit of it. Wait till I
sprinkle white sugar all over it thick and heavy, and then it is done.
Come, do you want any, or shall I eat it all myself?"
"As Caterer Brown has made it, we won't hurt his feelings by refusing,"
said Arthur. "Hand it along."
"Well, Ned," said Phil, "this is capital. Do they teach cooking in your
school, or has Miss Parloa been in this part of the country?"
"Oh, last winter when I camped out up North with father and the other
lumbermen, they used to make this 'most every night, and I tell you it
tasted mighty good."
After supper the boys whiled away the time telling stories. The most
interesting one was the legend of Chocorua, the Indian chief after whom
the mountain was named.
Chocorua had a son, a boy of ten or twelve years, who often visited the
house of a white man who lived in Albany, at the foot of the mountain.
One day while there he accidentally ate some food which had been
prepared for a fox, and soon after died. This brought out the Indian
spirit of revenge in Chocorua, so that he watched his opportunity, and
when the father was away, killed the wife and children. Cornelius
Campbell, the father, though a white man, was not a Christian, and the
same revengeful spirit took possession of him. Not long after, Chocorua,
while standing on the edge of a precipice, was shot by Campbell. He
lived only a few moments, uttering fearful curses against the white men.
He was never buried, but his bones were left to whiten on the rocks.
All Ned's talk tended to make the boys ready to start at every sound,
and Arthur inwardly began to wish he had not disregarded the warning
voice he had heard in the morning. Even the other boys felt a little
dismal; but they all forced out loud exclamations over the pleasure of
the day, and the moment after they had dropped on their bed of pine
boughs were all sound asleep.
The clouds which, unnoticed by the boys, had been forming behind the
hills, gathered heavily in a threatening mass over the mountain-peak,
the air trembled with peal after peal of rolling thunder, the sky was
brilliant with lightning flashes which sent gleams of intense and livid
light over the white cliffs. Still the boys slept on. The furious
storm-clouds gradually dropped lower and lower, until at last they burst
in one torrent of hail and rain. Every hollow was fast filling up, until
the one in which our boys were encamped became as it were the bed of a
pool, and the white canvas of their tent seemed like the tip of a sail
flapping in the wind.
One of those fearful claps of thunder which seem to shake the whole
earth, and which are heard only among the mountains, at last roused the
boys. In terrible alarm, they waded from their tattered tent, just in
time to see the tall tree near whose roots they had been sleeping hewn
into fragments by the glistening blade of the axe which the angry storm
was wielding. For a moment they gazed on each other with mute horror,
then, as with one voice, exclaimed, "Where's Ned?"
They wildly called "Ned! Ned! Ned Brown!" but there was no answer. They
groped back for him in the darkness, lighted only by the uncertain
flashes, which were growing less and less frequent; but the tent had
been swept away, and their fire wholly extinguished, so they had nothing
to guide them to the exact spot of their former encampment. For hours
they searched in vain. Drenched and chilled, weary and bruised, at
length, as day dawned, they found themselves in a dense forest, with no
path and no guide.
"What shall we do?" said Arthur. "Why did we come? I will never do what
I know to be wrong again."
"'No use to cry for spilled milk,'" said Dick, trying to speak
cheerfully, while his face contradicted his words.
"Let us get out of these woods and down this mountain if we possibly
can," said Arthur. "Then, if we don't find Ned, we can send some one up
for him who knows something about the way."
"All right," said Phil. "It don't look as if we should have anything to
eat till we do get down, and I'm 'most starved. Hark! What's that noise?
I do believe that's a bear's growl. He is coming nearer, surely."
"Pshaw! nonsense! it isn't a bear; it's only the rustling of the
leaves," said Dick.
But every little while some noise would cause them to fear that some
wild animal was on their track.
Several times they were stopped by a precipice so steep that no human
foot could descend it, and were obliged to retrace their course and seek
another less difficult way.
Just at dusk they reached a farm-house, where, as it was on the opposite
side of the mountain from their boarding place, they were obliged to
spend the night.
Oh, what a night it was! The heavy supper after the long fast made them
ill, and every limb was aching with pain and fatigue. Then the terrible
anxiety about Ned! What might he not be suffering alone on the mountain,
and what report could they give to his mother when they made their way
back to the boarding-house? Surely three boys were never more severely
punished for disobedience. Never again would Dick sing,
"Hush-a-by, conscience, on the tree-top."
When morning came three miserable-looking objects dragged themselves up
to the gate of the old boarding-house. But who was that walking up and
down the piazza at such a troubled pace?
Nobody less than Ned, who was fretting himself half crazy waiting for
the party who had arranged to go in search of three lost boys. Ned had
been more fortunate than they, for after the wash-out, which had
separated him from his companions, he had happily strayed into the very
path which led home.
Presently Mrs. Hartshorn came out, but after one good look at the party
she apparently concluded that they needed no word of reproof from her.
Conscience had evidently preached every effective sermon, for which the
experience of the past thirty-six hours had supplied a powerful text.
THE DAISY TRAIL.
You'd think such a small boy would not know
How to get back if he should go
Without his mother so far away
Beyond the garden fence to play.
But he lays a trail of daisies white,
That gleam in the grass like stars at night;
So running home he can never stray,
With the scattered daisies to show the way.
[Illustration]
MILLIE'S NILE-BIRD HAT.
BY ARTHUR LINDSLEY.
"Why, Millie, where did you get that bird-skin which you wear in your
hat?"
"I am sure I do not know, papa. But it is very seldom you take notice of
my hats, and I am very glad that for once I am wearing one which
interests you. Mamma bought the bird somewhere down town; I did not ask
her where. I think he is just lovely; don't you?" and off came Millie's
hat for the Professor's inspection. "Only see his breast, so bright that
it almost looks to be on fire, and just above it his throat as white as
a patch of snow! Isn't he perfectly splendid?"
Her father had taken the hat in his hand, and was examining the bird
with an expression of face that showed he was thinking of something more
than what was before him. He stood so long without speaking that Millie
broke out in her usual lively manner:
"Why, papa, I never saw you look at a girl's hat so closely before--mine
or any one's else. I have had handsomer hats than that, and you did not
say a word about them. The bird is very beautiful, I know, but what do
you see so wonderful in him?"
"I was wondering how he could come here, my child. You do not know where
your mother bought the skin, but do you know where the bird lives?"
"No, sir, not at all. I have no doubt you do, but I never thought of it.
Did you ever see them in their native country?"
"Yes, Millie, I have seen them often. The species is African; I saw them
very often in South Africa--once, I recollect, at Zanzibar, and on the
West Coast I have seen them in Senegambia and at the mouth of the
Gaboon. Shall I tell you where I first saw the bird?--for I can never
forget it, and the sight of this skin brought back that day to me so
forcibly, that for a moment I forgot where I was."
"Oh! do, papa, do. You know how I rejoice in the stories. What a
favorite hat this will be!"
"Let us go into the library, then, where I can show you an engraving
that I have. Please hand me the russet-leather portfolio from that lower
drawer. See, I have opened at once to the very one I wished to find. It
will give you an excellent idea of the two bright little kingfishers
that I saw that day on the west bank of the Nile."
"The Nile, papa! I wonder if mine came from the Nile? Only think of my
_Nile-bird hat_!"
"That I can not tell, Millie. But before I go on with my story it is
well that you should know something about the family of birds to which
this one belongs, for he has many relatives, and they are scattered in
almost all countries, and one at least of them has been famous among
poets for two thousand years. Did you ever hear or see the expression
used of _halcyon days_, meaning days of great prosperity and happiness?"
"Yes, sir, I recollect it was in one of the pieces of poetry we read
only last week in school, and I wondered at the time what it meant, and
I intended to ask you."
[Illustration: AFRICAN KINGFISHERS.]
"I will tell you. This little bird of the drawing and of your hat is a
kingfisher, and the kingfishers are found, as I explained, in almost all
parts of the world. We have one species, not at all uncommon, throughout
the United States, which is known in the books as the belted kingfisher.
Our little African here, you see, is not larger than a sparrow, but his
belted brother is almost as large as a common pigeon, and well do I
recollect what a time a lot of us had, when I was a boy about twelve
years old, in trying to get at the nest of a pair of them. Kingfishers
the world over build their nests in deep burrows which they make in
river-banks and similar places. Eight of us gathered one Saturday, with
Tom Perkins--a stout boy of fifteen--for a sort of Captain, and Charlie
Mason for Lieutenant. We worked all that day, and then nearly until
night, of the following Saturday, before we found the end of the burrow.
Tom said he really thought we should dig across Deacon Moseley's farm
and out into Widow Whitman's pasture lot. It was sixteen feet and a half
that the birds had burrowed into a very hard bank of clay.
"This was our American species, whose name is _Ceryle alcyon_; but all
about the shores of the Mediterranean a similar smaller species is found
which by the old Latins was called Alcyon or Halcyon, though in
ornithological works, now it is named _Alcedo hispida_. Most absurd
stories have always been told concerning it. It was said to have the
power of preventing storms, of keeping the sea perfectly quiet, so that
while the female was sitting on her eggs the weather was always calm and
peaceful, and you see readily how the word _halcyon_ came therefore to
have in poetry the meaning to which I have referred. Of course this was
all foolishness, but it was only one of many tales which have been told
about that very bird, and some of which I have no doubt are believed by
ignorant people to this day."
"Is he a handsome bird, papa, like this one in my hat?"
"Oh no; on the contrary, he is of quite plain plumage. You must not
fancy that our species or the European possess any such brightness of
color. Now look at the picture again. You see both the male and the
female. Notice, by-the-way, that they are sitting near the mouth of
their burrow. Look at those long crest feathers. They are shining blue,
almost like the sky, with light ashy green spots, while the jet-black
ones fairly sparkle on their blue background. And then his blazing red
lower surface, with his white throat and that enormous bill of bright
vermilion, makes such an assemblage of brilliant color as you seldom
see."
"Let me get the map, papa, and then please show me just where you found
my little bird."
"That is right, Millie; you will be more interested the more definitely
you fix the knowledge. How well I remember that day. It seems as though
it had been but yesterday. Among all the rivers of the world, there is
not one which can be compared with the Nile. It does not seem like any
other water. There's a sort of magic about it. All the time that I spent
there I felt myself living in dreamland rather than in anything that
belonged to this life and this world. It is not the river itself, for I
have seen a number of much finer and grander streams of water in other
countries. The Danube or the Ganges can either of them surpass it, while
here in America I could select half a dozen which are more than its
rivals. But any one of them I always felt that I could understand. They
were beautiful, they were grand, with charming banks and forests and
fields and cities, but there was nothing _strange_ about them. They
seemed like other parts of the world. But the Nile is not like them; it
never looked to me like a reality. Everything about it was so mixed with
mystery that if I had waked any morning and found that there was no Nile
to be seen where I saw it the night before, I should have thought it was
all right.
"All around me were monuments and temples and houses so old that those
who built them had died and been forgotten hundreds and perhaps
thousands of years before the earliest history of which we have any
knowledge commenced. Who were those people? I could tell how they
looked, for there were their figures and faces carved on the stones,
but--who were they? Where did they come from? Negroes, Asiatics,
Egyptians, such as were about me every day; there they were carved, and
sometimes painted, on the ruins, and I used to wander around and wonder,
and dream, and wonder, and it was in the midst of just such wondering as
that that a little kingfisher flashed upon me, and it is not strange
that I remember him. Do you see the First Cataract, Millie, on the
river?"
"Yes, here it is. P-h-i-l-a-e, Philæ; is that it?"
"That is the name of an island there with some extremely beautiful ruins
upon it. Few travellers ascend the river further; they stop there and
return; but I did not; I continued on to the south a long distance. One
day, just before I reached the Second Cataract, I had stopped on the
west bank of the river to rest my men for an hour or two. It was a
burning hot afternoon, perfectly calm, with the sun blazing down on the
white sand of the desert and on the glass-like water of the river, until
it was enough to almost fry one's brain. Three or four palm-trees grew
at this point, and it was their shade which had induced me to stop; but
I found to my great delight that what was probably a temple had formerly
stood there, and some of the fragments still remained. One of these
fragments represented a human figure seated. The head was gone, and one
arm; the other arm was perfect, with the hand lying on the knee, and I
began to make a drawing of the whole.
"Just as in my drawing I reached the hand, and was sketching its shape
on the paper, a little blue and red bird passed me, with a cry somewhat
like the one you may hear any morning from our American species, and
swinging up he perched himself on the very hand which I was drawing at
the moment. It was a lovely little kingfisher. He sat there but a
moment, and then darted to a hole in the river-bank, which he entered,
and which I knew must contain his nest. It was such a burrow as our
American species makes, and forthwith came back to my mind the time when
I was a boy, and when Tom and Charlie and the rest of us worked so hard
at digging toward Deacon Moseley's lot.