Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 30, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 809. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
HEROES OF AMERICA.
THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS.
BY HONORABLE THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
[Illustration: Decorative W]
hen in 1814 Napoleon was overthrown and exiled to Elba, the British
troops that had followed Wellington into southern France were left free
for use against the Americans. A great expedition was organized to
attack and capture New Orleans, and at its head was placed General
Pakenham, the brilliant commander of the column that delivered the fatal
blow at Salamanca. In December a great fleet of British war-ships and
transports, carrying thousands of victorious veterans from the
Peninsula, and manned by sailors who had grown old in a quarter of
century's ocean warfare, anchored off the great lagoons of the
Mississippi Delta. The few American gunboats were carried after a
desperate hand-to-hand struggle, the troops were landed, and on the 23d
of December the advance-guard of two thousand men reached the banks of
the Mississippi, but ten miles below New Orleans, and there camped for
the night.
It seemed as if nothing could save the Creole City from foes who had
shown in the storming of many a Spanish walled town that they were as
ruthless in victory as they were terrible in battle. There were no forts
to protect the place, and the militia were ill armed and ill trained.
But the hour found the man. On the afternoon of the very day when the
British reached the banks of the river the vanguard of Andrew Jackson's
Tennesseeans marched into New Orleans. Clad in hunting-shirts of
buckskin or homespun, wearing wolf-skin and coon-skin caps, and carrying
their long rifles on their shoulders, the wild soldiery of the backwoods
tramped into the little French town. They were tall men, with sinewy
frames and piercing eyes. Under "Old Hickory's" lead they had won the
bloody battle of the Horseshoe Bend against the Creeks; they had driven
the Spaniards from Pensacola: and now they were eager to pit themselves
against the most renowned troops of all Europe.
Jackson acted with his usual fiery, hasty decision. It was absolutely
necessary to get time in which to throw up some kind of breastworks or
defences for the city, and he at once resolved on a night attack against
the British. As for the British, they had no thought of being molested.
They did not dream of an assault from inferior numbers of undisciplined
and ill-armed militia, who did not possess so much as bayonets to their
guns. They kindled fires along the levees, ate their supper, and then,
as the evening fell, noticed a big schooner drop down the river in
ghostly silence and bring up opposite to them. The soldiers flocked to
the shore, challenging the stranger, and finally fired one or two shots
at her. Then suddenly a rough voice was heard exclaiming, "Now give it
to them, for the honor of America," and a shower of shell and grape fell
on the British, driving them off the levee. The stranger was an American
man-of-war schooner. The British brought up artillery to drive her off,
but before they succeeded Jackson's land troops burst upon them, and a
fierce, indecisive struggle followed. In the night all order was
speedily lost, and the two sides fought singly or in groups in the
utmost confusion. Finally a fog came up, and the combatants separated.
Jackson drew off four or five miles and camped.
The British had been so roughly handled that they were unable to advance
for three or four days, until the entire army came up. When they did
advance it was only to find that Jackson had made good use of the time
he had gained by his daring assault. He had thrown up breastworks of mud
and logs from the swamp to the river. At first the British tried to
batter down these breastworks with their cannon, for they had many more
guns than the Americans. A terrible artillery duel followed. For an hour
or two the result seemed in doubt; but the American gunners showed
themselves to be far more skilful than their antagonists, and gradually
getting the upper hand, they finally silenced every piece of British
artillery. The Americans had used cotton bales in the embrasures, and
the British hogsheads of sugar, but neither worked well, for the cotton
caught fire, and the sugar hogsheads were ripped and splintered by the
round shot, so that both were abandoned. By the use of red-hot shot the
British succeeded in setting fire to the American schooner which had
caused them such annoyance on the evening of the night attack; but she
had served her purpose, and her destruction caused little anxiety to
Jackson.
Having failed in his effort to batter down the American breastworks, and
the British artillery having been fairly worsted by the American,
Pakenham decided to try an open assault. He had ten thousand regular
troops, while Jackson had under him but little over five thousand men,
who were trained only as he had himself trained them in his Indian
campaigns. Not a fourth of them carried bayonets. Both Pakenham and the
troops under him were fresh from victories won over the most renowned
marshals of Napoleon, and over troops that had proved themselves on a
hundred stricken fields the masters of all others in continental Europe.
At Toulouse they had driven Marshal Soult from a position infinitely
stronger than that held by Jackson, and yet Soult had under him a
veteran army. At Badajos, Ciudad Rodrigo, and San Sebastian they had
carried by open assault walled towns whose strength made the
entrenchments of the Americans seem like mud walls built by children,
though these towns were held by the best troops of France. With such
troops to follow him, and with such victories behind him in the past, it
did not seem to Pakenham possible that the assault of the terrible
British infantry could be successfully met by rough backwoods riflemen
fighting under a General as wild and untrained as themselves.
He decreed that the assault should take place on the morning of the 8th.
Throughout the previous night the American officers were on the alert,
for they could hear the rumbling of artillery in the British camp, the
muffled tread of the battalions as they were marched to their points in
the line, and all the smothered din of the preparation for assault. Long
before dawn the riflemen were awake, and drawn up behind the mud walls,
where they lolled at ease, or, leaning on their long rifles, peered out
through the fog toward the camp of their foes.
At last the sun rose and the fog slowly lifted, showing the glorious
array of the scarlet British infantry. As soon as the air was clear
Pakenham gave the word, and the heavy columns of red-coated grenadiers
and kilted Highlanders moved steadily forward. From the American
breastworks the great guns opened, but not a rifle cracked.
Three-fourths of the distance was covered, and the eager soldiers broke
into a run: then sheets of flame burst from the breastworks in their
front as the wild riflemen of the backwoods rose and fired, line upon
line. Under the sweeping hail the head of the British advance was
shattered, and the whole column stopped. Then it surged forward again
almost to the foot of the breastworks; but not a man lived to reach
them, and in a moment more the troops broke and ran back.
Mad with shame and rage, Pakenham rode quickly among them to rally and
lead them forward, and the officers sprang around him, smiting the
fugitives with their swords, and cheering on the men who stood. For a
moment the troops halted, and again came forward to the charge; but
again they were met by a hail of bullets from the backwoods rifles. One
shot struck Pakenham himself. He reeled and fell from the saddle, and
was carried off the field. The second in command was wounded, and then
all attempts at further advance were abandoned, and the British troops
ran back to their lines. Another assault had meanwhile been made by a
column close to the river, the charging soldiers rushing right up to the
top of the breastworks: but they were all killed or driven back. A body
of troops had also been sent across the river, where they routed a small
detachment of Kentucky militia; but they were, of course, recalled when
the main assault failed.
For the first time in a quarter of a century the British soldiers, the
men who had conquered the conquerors of Europe, had met defeat. Andrew
Jackson and his rough riflemen had worsted in a fair fight a far larger
force of the best of Wellington's veterans, and had accomplished what no
French marshal and no French troops had been able to accomplish
throughout the long war in the Spanish Peninsula. For a week the sullen
British lay in their lines; then, abandoning their heavy artillery, they
marched back to the ships and sailed again for Europe.
IMPORTANT NOTICE.
TO THE READERS OF "HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE."
HARPER'S ROUND TABLE? We imagine how puzzled and surprised a great
throng of you are when your favorite HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE suddenly puts
on a new dress and wears a new name. Yet it is the very same paper which
has been your favorite ever since you first read it--the same, except
that it has taken on some additional features of interest, and will be
more pleasing to you than ever.
Of course you wish to know why a change has been made, and what the
Editor means to give you in the ROUND TABLE which will make up for the
disappearance of YOUNG PEOPLE. The ROUND TABLE will be so big and bright
that it will accommodate more young people than you can count--all, in
fact, who belong to the wonderful Order you all love. Listen to our
programme for the future:
Serial stories by our best authors, short, timely, and entertaining
articles, and the regular departments will be continued. You will find
that not one of the attractions is omitted. The only alteration in the
periodical, beyond the title and make-up, is to be found in the
additional departments. Something new has been added which is sure to
interest everybody.
Part of this addition is the athletic department, entitled
Interscholastic Sport. This department is to be conducted by "The
Graduate," who is an experienced writer and student of scholastic
athletics, and who, while following the course of school athletics all
over the United States, will give you many valuable suggestions on
physical training. Another part of this addition, which will be sure to
please you just now especially, is a department on Bicycling, which will
contain charts and maps showing pleasant bicycle trips in or near the
large cities of the United States. This department will be under the
editorship of an expert wheeler, who will have the assistance of the
officers of the League of American Wheelmen. Besides these features the
type will be changed so that about two hundred words will be added to
each page of the paper, thus increasing the amount of letter-press by
nearly one-fourth. You will now receive nearly one-quarter again as much
reading matter as heretofore for the same amount of money. You will
approve of this, we know.
But why give the paper another name? Because the Order of the Round
Table, founded by HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE four years ago, has grown to
such enormous proportions, has spread so far and wide, has gone into so
many corners of the States of the Union, and European countries as well,
that it demands some definite recognition, as one of the largest
organizations of its kind in the world. But the title HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE means something more than this. It not only acknowledges the
growth, the power, and the interest of the Order of the Round Table, but
it is the journal which goes into the home of its readers as they sit
about the family "round table" of an evening. It brings with it reading
of interest to the children and to the young men and women of the
family, as well as to the parents; and its purpose is to introduce and
maintain in the family of this nineteenth century some of the manly
qualities, some of the chivalry, honesty, and uprightness which have
made the Table Round of King Arthur so famous in history. HARPER'S ROUND
TABLE represents the chivalry of brother to sister and sister to
brother, children to parents and parents to children, in this present
day. It maintains that all the good qualities of King Arthur's Order are
equally applicable and necessary in the family circle of to-day, and it
purposes to stand for them week by week. The ROUND TABLE, therefore, is
not only the title of a great organization of young Americans, but it
also stands for a periodical which should be a welcome visitor in every
family circle. Its readers will find in its pages amusement, interest,
instruction, as well as suggestions of what courtesy and courage mean,
and what they can accomplish. HARPER'S ROUND TABLE is HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE in a larger form, with its field broadened and its interest
increased. You will endorse this change, not only for itself, but
because it also furnishes you with more reading matter than was promised
you when you subscribed for HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
A CHANGE OF FORTUNE.
"Oh, the days when I was happy!"
Sighed a pensive little Jappy,
As the crystal tears rolled down and washed the color from his cheek.
On the table in my study
Sweetly smiling, round, and ruddy.
Many years he had been standing in a china jar unique.
Now, alas! his smile was faded.
His expression worn and jaded.
And his bursting heart found utterance in a woful lamentation:
"Oh, that from my proud position,
Highest goal of my ambition,
I should ever stoop to suffer such a sad humiliation!
"Once I was caressed and flattered,
Rich or poor, it little mattered.
Young and old, from babe to grandsire, every one must have a 'Jap.'
And alike by tastes aesthetic,
Grave or humorous or poetic,
I was hailed, and all-triumphant, lived and throve in Fortune's lap.
"Then--ah me!--the reigning fashion,
Every artist had a passion
For displaying me in pictures, and the studios were my own.
Now, to claim their whole attention,
One whom I am loath to mention
Comes, an upstart, a usurper, and ascends my rightful throne.
"Hard it is my grief to smother,
Bitter thus to see another
Wear my honors! Artists paint him, poets his perfections praise.
Everywhere his visage hated
Greets me. He is fondled, feted.
Worst of all, he rules the children as did I in other days.
"Nevermore shall I be happy,"
Said the weeping little Jappy,
"Nevermore my days be merry, and my slumbers soft and downy.
I shall live, but all unheeded,
Quite cut out and superseded
By that precious, omnipresent pet and paragon, _the Brownie_!"
MARGARET JOHNSON.
OFF WITH THE MERBOY.
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
CHAPTER II.
THE START.
[Illustration: Decorative J]
immieboy grabbed up his blue suit and in a very few minutes was arrayed
in it, but on his return to the aquarium to join the goldfish he found
it empty.
"Dear me!" he cried, "I wonder if he can have gone off without me."
"No, he hasn't," came a silvery voice from behind him.
Jimmieboy turned sharply about, and there, sitting upon the sofa arrayed
in his red bathing-suit, sat a beautiful boy of about his own age and
size, with great masses of golden hair falling over his shoulders.
"Hullo!" said Jimmieboy, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise.
"Who are you?"
"I am your goldfish," laughed the boy. "Or, rather, I was. I am now my
true self. I am a merboy, as, in fact, all goldfish are. See?" he added,
holding up what Jimmieboy had taken for feet. "I have a tail like a fish
instead of feet."
Jimmieboy was delighted. He had heard all about mermen and mermaids, but
merboys were something new.
"Now," said the merboy, as a tremendous lashing of something in the
aquarium began to ruffle up the water therein, "come along. Get into my
carriage and we shall start."
[Illustration: STARTING OFF.]
Mute with astonishment, Jimmieboy could do nothing but obey, and
entering a huge vehicle that floated upon the surface of the water in
the aquarium--which had, singularly enough, taken on tremendous
proportions--the merboy gave a whistle, and they were off. The carriage
had the appearance of a superb shell lined with mother-of-pearl, and
studded all over with the most costly and lustrous jewels, and soon
passing out from the limits of the aquarium, Jimmieboy found himself
bounding over a great body of water, drawn by a pair of gayly
caparisoned dolphins, which the smiling merboy guided with two golden
ribbons.
"How do you feel?" asked the merboy, as, after driving along for several
minutes, the travellers passed out of sight of land.
"First rate," said Jimmieboy. "This is lots of fun."
"I'm glad you find it so," returned the merboy, with a smile of relief.
"I was afraid you were not enjoying yourself very much. You looked a
little anxious. Were you anxious?"
"Not exactly," replied Jimmieboy. "But it did sort of bother me when I
thought of what might happen if this wagon should upset."
"Don't see anything you need to bother about in that," said the merboy,
giving the near dolphin a flick with his whip for shying at a buoy.
"It's twice as safe as driving on land. The land is hard, and if you
were thrown out of a wagon there the chances are you'd be hurt; but here
it is very different. Falling out here would be like tumbling into a
feather bed. The water is very soft."
"I understand that, of course," said Jimmieboy, with a smile. "But what
I was worrying about chiefly was that the water here is very deep. It
must be two or three times over my head, and I can't swim. I can only
wade."
"What of it? I don't see anything in that to worry about," retorted the
merboy. "I might just as well get timid when we are near the shore
because I can't wade."
"Wouldn't I be drowned?" asked Jimmieboy.
The look which the ex-goldfish gave Jimmieboy as the latter said this
was one of reproach. He was evidently deeply hurt by Jimmieboy's remark.
"You aren't a polite boy, I think," he said. "The idea! Wouldn't you be
drowned! Let me ask you a question. If you were invited out to dinner by
a person you knew, do you think while you were sitting at his table
you'd go hunting about in your head for some _if_ that would end in your
starving to death? Wouldn't you know that being invited to eat with that
man you'd get your dinner all right?"
"Certainly," said Jimmieboy. "But what has that got to do with it?"
"Plenty," snapped the merboy. "You are my guest, and I look after all
the details, such as swimming and so forth, just as your other host
would look after all the details, such as eating and so forth. If you
are going to be a scarecat I'll drive right back home again, for I don't
like cats of any kind."
"I'm not afraid," said Jimmieboy. "I trust you, Mermy."
"Thank you," said the merboy, dropping one rein to squeeze Jimmieboy's
hand. "Thank you very much. You will find your confidence is well
placed, for as long as you are with me as my guest you can stand on your
head miles deep in water without being in any danger of drowning. Why,
if you couldn't, I never should have thought of bringing you along, for
in a very few minutes we come to a turn in our road and then we shall
drive down under the water three miles and a half, and, what is more,
you won't even know you are under water unless I tell you."
So Jimmieboy was reassured on the one point concerning which he had been
a little timid, and he proceeded at once to enjoy everything he saw. In
silence they drove on and on, and as the ocean was as smooth as glass
they covered a great many miles in a few minutes. Suddenly the merboy
reined in his dolphins with a sharp jerk, which caused the carriage to
stop with such suddenness that Jimmieboy was nearly thrown out of his
seat.
"What's the matter?" cried Jimmieboy, a little alarmed at this sudden
stoppage. "Nothing wrong?"
"No," said the merboy, shortly. "But there might have been. Look ahead
of you there."
Jimmieboy did as he was told, and saw in an instant why the merboy had
stopped short. A great big ocean steamer was ploughing its way through
the waves at a tremendous rate of speed directly across their path.
"Don't you see?" said the merboy, as the steaming monster passed on,
leaving a great strip of white foam behind it; "we were nearly run down
that time. It is dreadful the way these steamers are allowed to ignore
the safety of the rightful occupants of the seas. On land, when a
railroad crosses a driveway, they make the trains go over or under a
road in many places, and where they don't do that, they make them put up
fences or bars and station men to signal people who are driving of the
approach of trains. Out here they are perfectly lawless. They cross our
drives on the level always, and never yet has one of the steamers
whistled or rung a bell to warn a fish to get out of its way."
"It doesn't seem right, does it?" said Jimmieboy.
"No, it doesn't," replied the merboy; "and the meanest part of it all is
the steamship people don't care. If I had my way they'd be compelled to
fence in their routes all the way over, and station signal-men in boats
at road crossings to warn us of impending danger. Why, if it hadn't been
for our own police, police that we have to pay ourselves, you and I
would have been run down just now."
"You don't mean to say you have police out here on the ocean?" said
Jimmieboy.
"Yes," said the merboy; "several of 'em. In fact, we have about a
million of 'em altogether. You land people call 'em porpoises. Ever see
a porpoise?"
"Lots of them," Jimmieboy replied. "They come up our river sometimes,
and papa has told me lots of stories about them, but he never said they
were policemen."
"They aren't police-_men_," laughed the merboy. "They are police-fish.
What did he ever tell you about them?"
"Oh--well--he said he'd seen schools of them jumping about in the water
when he was crossing the ocean on one of those big boats," said
Jimmieboy; "and one of them, he said, followed his ship for four days
one time. The reason why I remember about it particularly is that he
told me, maybe, if I would be a very good boy, he'd try to get me one
for a pet that I could tie a chain to and lead around when we went
rowing some time."
The merboy laughed.
"The idea!" he said. "As if a porpoise could be treated like a poodle!
That shows how little you land people know about porpoises. Did your
father say they went about in schools?"
"That's what he told me," said Jimmieboy, meekly. "Don't they?"
"Humph!" said the merboy. "Don't they! Well, let me tell you one thing.
Don't you ever let a porpoise hear you say he goes about in schools.
Leave schools to minnows and moss-bunkers and children. Why, my dear
boy, porpoises know too much to go about in schools. They'd be much more
likely to go about in colleges, if they went in anything of the sort.
Didn't you ever hear the story of the Porpoise and the Land-sage?"
"I never did." Jimmieboy answered. "I never heard of a land-sage either.
What is a land-sage?"
"A land-sage is a creature like a man. In fact, he is a man, and he
lives on the land, and thinks he knows everything, when in reality he
only knows land things."
"But isn't it good to know land things?" Jimmieboy asked.
"Oh yes--in a way," said the merboy, patronizingly. "But just because
you know land things doesn't make you the wisest thing in the world.
It's a great deal better to know sea things, because if you know sea
things you know more than you do if you only know land things. There's
three times as much sea as land in the world, and so, of course,
sea-sages are three times as wise as land-sages. What's more, you who
live on the land don't begin to hear of a half of a millionth part of
the things that happen under the sea, while we who live under the sea
can get all the land news we want by tapping your Atlantic cable."
"Why, so you can," said Jimmieboy. "I never thought of that."
"Of course you didn't. You haven't got the kind of mind that thinks that
kind of thoughts," sneered the merboy. "You people think you are great
when you are able to sit at your breakfast tables in New York on Friday
morning and talk about what has happened in London that same Friday
afternoon--and it is rather smart to be able to do that, I admit--but
what do you know about what has been going on in Sealadelphia, or
Sharkargo, or Whalington, or Moss-bunkerton? Not a thing, I'll warrant.
But these sea creatures know all you know, and all their own news
besides. So, you see, when a land-sage begins swapping knowledge with a
sea-sage he finds himself 'way behind."
"And what was the story about the Porpoise and the Land-sage?" asked
Jimmieboy.
"Well, as I remember it," said the merboy, "it went this way:
"THE PORPOISE AND THE LAND-SAGE.
"A Land-sage once, who thought he knew
All that there was to know,
Went out to sea without a crew,
And floated to and fro.
And then, before he was aware
Just what he was about,
A fearful wind did straightway tear
His jib and mainsail out.
"I'm all at sea!" he moaned and cried;
"Oh dear, what shall I do!
Would that I'd never come outside
Without my gallant crew."
Just as he spoke a Porpoise came.
The Land-sage cried, "What, ho!
Where are you from, and what's your name?
Hullo there, you! Hullo!"
"What do you wish?" the Porpoise said
In accents soft and meek.
"I'd like to be at home in bed--
What language do you speak?"
"Sea-doggerel," the Porpoise then
Made answer with a grin,
"Unless I speak with Englishmen,
And then I speak in Finn."
"Perhaps," the Land-sage then observed,
"You can enlighten me
By telling me-- I'm much unnerved--
Just where I chance to be."
"Of course I can," the fish said. "You,
I think 'tis very clear,
Are out of sight of Manitou
And just about off here."
"Pray do not mock me," quoth the sage;
"I'm truly badly off,
And 'tis not right one of your age
At one like me should scoff.
I am the most enlightened man
That e'er the world did see;
So help me home, sir, if you can,
And tell me where I be."
"You make me laugh," the Porpoise said.
"Why should you come to me?
If you've all knowledge in your head,
I truly cannot see
Why you should ask a Porpoise, who
Is ignorant and plain,
What in this instance you should do
To get back home again?
"But I will tell you what I'll do:
If you will shed some light
Upon a few things--one or two--
I'll get you back all right."
"A bargain!" cried the Land-sage, loud.
"I pray you do begin."
"I will," the Porpoise said, and bowed.
"Why do you wear a chin?
"Why have you hair upon your head?
And why do men wear cuffs?
And why are cannon-crackers red?
And why is cream in puffs?
Why can't you swim on mountain-tops?
And why is water wet?
And why don't hens, like lambs, have chops?
And why don't roosters set?"
"The Land-sage paled as to his cheek.
"I cannot say," said he.
"Then why does Friday come each week?
And why do maids drink tea?
Oh tell me why all kittens mew?
And why do little boys,
When with their daily tasks they're through,
Make such a dreadful noise?
"The Porpoise waited for the sage
To answer, but in vain.
It filled the wise man full of rage
To have to flunk again.
Whereat the Porpoise, with a sneer
And very scornful glance,
Remarked: "You're very dull, I fear.
I'll give you one more chance.
"Tell me one thing I never heard
In all my life before,
And I will pass to you my word
To see you safe ashore.
But don't be rash, oh, sage," said he.
"Take all the time you need
To think of what to tell me
That's truly new indeed."
"The Land-sage thought and thought all day,
He thought the long night through,
But not an idea came his way
That he was sure was new;
And finally, in great despair,
He thought that he would see
What could be done to ease his care
By simple flattery.
"And so he spoke, "Oh, Mr. P----,
Oh, Porpoise, sleek and trim,
The thought has just occurred to me
My wisdom's rather slim;
But I believe a creature that
'S as beautiful as you
Can't have the heart to let a flat
Like me die in the blue."
"You think me so?" the Porpoise said.
"I do!" the sage replied.
"You have the purest classic head
I ever have espied.
Your eyes are truly lovely,
And your mouth is full of grace,
And nothing nobler can one see
Than is your noble face."
"The Land-sage ceased; the Porpoise smoled
And winked his eyes of blue.
"You've won, professor. You have told
Me something truly new.
I never heard my beauty praised
In all my life before."
And then his good right fin he raised
And towed the sage ashore."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
MISS APPOLINA'S CHOICE.
BY AGNES LITTLETON.
Part I.
Outside, the house was simply one of a long row of brownstone houses
which line many of the New York streets, but the room in which Millicent
Reid was sitting this fine spring afternoon had an individuality of its
own.
"The girls" were Millicent and Joanna Reid.
Millicent was nearly seventeen, and with her cousin Peggy, who lived
across the street, studied with a governess and various masters, but
Joanna, or Joan, as she was frequently called, went to school. At this
very moment she burst into the room, carrying a pile of school books,
which she flung on the table with a resounding crash.
"It is to be on the 30th of April, and we are all asked to send just as
much as we can, and Mrs. Pearson said anything would do," said Joanna,
as she pulled off her gloves.
"Oh, don't, Joan!" exclaimed Millicent, who had a pencil in her hand,
and had hastily thrust a morocco-bound book under the sofa pillow when
her sister entered. "You do startle me so. What is to be on the 30th of
April?"
"The fair, of course. Now don't pretend you don't know anything about
it, when the Pearsons have talked of nothing else for weeks."
"I have had other things to think of," returned Millicent, with dignity.
"For one thing, I am wondering which of us three Cousin Appolina will
take with her to England. If she only would choose me! And then--oh,
there are other things!" And she nibbled the end of her pencil.
Millicent was Joanna's only sister, and she had beautiful golden hair,
large blue eyes, and poetic tendencies. Joan was very sure that the
morocco-bound book, of which she had caught a glimpse more than once
when it was thrust away just as it had been this afternoon, contained
poems--actual poems.
Joan gazed at her sister, as she lay back among the big cushions, with
pride and admiration not unmixed with envy. She would so love to write
poetry herself, but next best to that was having a sister who could do
it. She only wished that Milly would let her see something that she had
written. She could then assure her cousin, Peggy Reid, with absolute
knowledge of facts, that her sister was a poetess. Now she could only
darkly hint upon the subject, and it was not altogether satisfactory,
for she felt confident that Peggy did not believe her.
But at present the fair was the all-absorbing topic, and Joanna returned
to the charge. "We shall have to send something, Milly, for Mrs. Pearson
said she depended upon us, and it is for such a good object she said she
knew we would help her all we could. It is to furnish the new chapel,
you know: to get a lee--lack--luck--something for them to read the Bible
on. What is it, Milly?"
"A 'lectern,' I suppose you mean."
"Yes, that's it--'lectern'; and a big Bible to put on it, and lots of
Prayer-books and Hymnals to stick around the church, and some vases for
flowers, and a brass cross and foot-stools, and lots of other things
they need. Mrs. Pearson said we must try to send as many fancy articles
as we could to the fair, and try to sell some tickets."
"I have no time to make anything, and besides I don't do any
fancy-work," said Millicent; "and if you don't mind, Joan, I wish you
would go. I am very busy just now."
"You don't look a bit busy. What are you doing? Nothing but biting a
pencil. I wish you would tell me what you were doing when I came in,
Mill."
"If you only would not call me 'Mill' or 'Milly'! I simply detest it. As
long as I have a good name, I do wish I could be called by it."
"I promise and vow I will always call you Millicent, full length, if you
will only tell me what you were doing when I came in."
"I can't, Joan. Do go away. It was--nothing of any importance."
"Oh, Milly--I mean Millicent--please, _please_ tell me! I do so want to
know, and I am only your own little sister, who never did you any harm,
and who wants to know so much. Won't you tell me?"
Joanna had slipped down on the floor by her sister's side. One arm she
threw across Millicent, the other went under the sofa pillow. In a
moment the morocco blank-book was in her hand. She clutched it tightly.
If she only dared draw it out, run away with it, and read it! Peggy
would have done it without any hesitation whatever, but then Joanna was
not Peggy.
Millicent looked at her pensively. Sympathy is pleasant, particularly to
a poet, and she felt sure that Joan, if any one, would appreciate some
of the beauties of her verse.
"I really believe I will," she said at length; "only, Joan, I don't want
Peggy to know anything about it. Peggy does laugh so at everything. Not
that there is anything to laugh at in these little poems of mine--for
they are real poems, Joan. Do you know I actually write poetry? Did you
ever have any idea of it?"
"I am not a bit surprised," declared Joan. "In fact, I was almost sure
of it. I am so glad you are going to let me see them. They are in this
book, aren't they? Oh, Milly--I mean Millicent--think of your being a
poetess! Do hurry up. Shall I read them myself, or will you read them
to me?"
"I will read them aloud. I can do it with more expression, probably, for
I know just where to put the emphasis, and it makes a great difference
in poetry. I often think that if I could only take them myself to the
editors of the magazines and read the poems to them, they would be more
apt to take them."
"Of course they would. But do you mean to say, Millicent, that you have
really sent anything to the magazines?"
"Certainly I have. I want recognition, but somehow they don't seem to
suit."
"How hateful!" exclaimed Joan, with a sympathy that warmed her sister's
heart. "But do hurry up and read them. I am dying to hear what you have
written."
Millicent opened the book and turned over the pages. She could not quite
decide which she should choose as her first selection. Before she had
made it, however, there was a tap at the door, and then, without waiting
for a reply, a tall girl of sixteen came into the room.
Again the morocco-bound book went under the sofa pillow, and Joanna
could not suppress an exclamation of disappointment.
"What's the matter? What's up?" said their cousin Peggy, glancing
quickly from one to the other. "Secrets? Now that's not a bit fair, to
have secrets from me. I've got oceans of things to talk about; but,
first of all, I met the postman just as I was coming in, and he gave me
this for you, Mill. This huge envelope, and addressed in your own
handwriting. It's awfully mysterious, and I am just about wild with
curiosity. You must tell me what it is."
A blank look came over Millicent's face, but she took the letter and
said nothing.
"Oh, come, now, aren't you going to tell us?" continued Peggy. "I'll
never tell."
"Do, Millicent!" urged Joanna. "If it's--if it has anything to do with
what we were talking about when Peggy came in, you may as well tell. I
want Peggy to know about it, and I'm sure she would like to hear them
too."
"Hear them? What in the world is it? Oh, I know! I know!" cried Peggy:
"you have been writing and sending things to the magazines! Oh, Milly,
_do_ show me!"
Millicent looked at her long and doubtfully. "Will you never, never
tell?" she asked at last.
"Never, on my oath!"
"I believe I will tell you, then, for I do think it is the meanest thing
in those editors, and I just want to see what they have said this time,
whether they have answered my note."
She opened the envelope and drew forth several papers, one of which
appeared to be a printed one.
"No, they haven't. They have just sent the same old slip they always do,
thanking me ever so much for sending the poems, and it may not be
because they are not good that they send them back, but because they
have so many things on hand. Oh dear, I think they might have answered
it!"
"What did you say in your note?" asked Peggy.
"Oh, I told them that I thought these poems were perfectly suited to
their magazine, and so they are. And I asked them to tell me of a good
place to send them if they couldn't take them. I do think the man might
have had the politeness to answer my note."
"Well, do let us hear them," put in Peggy, briskly. "I am wild to know
what they are like."
Millicent again looked at her doubtfully. But in a moment she took a
more upright position on the sofa, and holding her pretty head a little
to one side, she remarked:
"This is a little poem on something which is very familiar to us, but I
like the idea of idealizing familiar things." Then she paused. "Oh, I
don't believe I can read it, after all," she said, in an embarrassed
way; "it is very hard to read your own productions."
"Then let me read it," cried Peggy, attempting to seize the paper.
"No, no! I would rather do it myself than have you," said Millicent, and
presently she coughed hesitatingly and began. "It is about the mosquito,
and is called
"LINES TO A MOSQUITO.
"When day is done, and darkness comes shadowing down the way,
And Night with her rustling winglets blots out the garish day,
We hear the song of an insect, singing its musical lay.
"Oh, insect with wings that flutter! Oh, insect on murder intent,
Oh, creature, we'd love thee dearly if thou wert not on bloodshed
bent!
And we'd bear with thy visits gladly, we e'en would be content.
"Then cease thy busy prattle, and cease thy dangerous stings,
Learn, learn to be meek and lamblike like other less-harmful things.
Till we hail with joy thy coming, thy coming on peaceful wings!"
Here the poem ended, and the reader paused for the applause which she
felt to be her due. Peggy had turned aside, and was leaning her head
upon her hand so that Millicent could not see her face. Joan was the
first to speak.
"Millicent, how perfectly lovely! Did you really do it all yourself? You
are the smartest thing I ever knew. That beginning was just too perfect.
Somehow it reminded me of something else."
"Longfellow, probably," said Millicent "'When day is done, and darkness
comes shadowing down the way,' is suggestive of him."
"All except the 'shadowing,'" said Peggy.
"No; I made that word up," returned Millicent, with complacency. "Poets
are obliged to coin words sometimes. What do you think of the poem,
Peggy?"
"Wonderful!" replied her cousin, in a stifled voice. "How did you think
of asking a mosquito to be like a lamb?"
She turned away again, and her shoulders shook convulsively.
"Do read the other!" cried Joan, enthusiastically. "I don't see how you
ever make them rhyme so beautifully."
"Oh, that is easy enough," said Millicent, much pleased. "Whenever I
don't know just what to put I look in my rhyming dictionary for a word."
"Rhyming dictionary?" repeated Peggy, at last uncovering a crimson face.
"Do poets use rhyming dictionaries?"
"Of course. They are obliged to very often, and it saves so much time
and thought, you know. Now this is a sonnet. It is my favorite form of
verse. I suppose you both know that a sonnet must be just fourteen
lines?"
"Oh, I know," agreed Peggy, amiably, "and there are other rules about
it, too."
"Well, that one is the most important, about the fourteen lines. I don't
pay much attention to the other rules. I think rules hamper you when you
are composing."
"Oh!" said Peggy.
"This is Called 'A Sonnet to the Moth Miller,'" continued Millicent:
"Oh, little creature, made so fair, so white,
What seekest thou about my closet door?
To see thee fills no soul with deep delight,
Thy coming almost all men do deplore.
So silent and so fatal is thy task
We haste to catch thee, bring the camphor forth,
To kill thee quite stone-dead is all we ask,
Thou little quiet woollen-loving moth!
We crush thee, cast the atoms to the wind,
Stamp underfoot, and tread thee with the heel.
Oh, tell me! Dost thou really truly mind?
Can little frail white creatures like thee feel?
What are thy thoughts, and what emotions thine?
To know thy feelings, dear white moth, I pine!"
When Millicent's pathetic voice ceased there was silence in the room,
and then from the table upon which Peggy's head was resting came peal
after peal of laughter.
[Illustration: PEGGY FAIRLY SHRIEKED WITH LAUGHTER OVER THE POEM.]
"Oh, do excuse me, Milly!" she cried, as soon as she could speak. "I
didn't mean to laugh, but it struck me as so awfully funny, don't you
know. 'About your closet door,' and bringing the--the--camphor forth.
Oh, oh, moth-balls are better, and you might have put in something about
the smell! Ha, ha, ha!" and Peggy fairly shrieked with laughter as she
held her side and rocked to and fro. "Oh, do excuse me! But--but-- I
can't h--help it! It's--the funniest thing I ever heard! At least it
isn't really, but it just struck me so. And--and--if you can tread a
moth under your--your heel, you're terribly smart. Oh, Mill, Mill!"
"There!" said Millicent, rising, and thrusting her papers into a drawer
in her desk, and turning the key with an angry snap. "I knew just how it
would be. I believe you would laugh at my funeral."
"Oh no, indeed, I wouldn't. Milly--not at your funeral. But really, you
know, it just struck me. I think the rhymes are perfectly splendid.
Don't you, Joan?"
"Indeed I do," cried Joanna; "and I don't see what you saw to laugh at.
I think they are beautiful, Millicent. Aren't you going to read some
more?"
"No, indeed. Never!"
"I wish you would write a poem about Cousin Appolina," said Peggy.
"Hateful thing! She might take at least one of us abroad with her, if
not all three. She has such loads of money, and no one to spend it on
but herself."
"Probably she _will_ take one of us," observed Joan.
"It won't be me, then," said her cousin, positively, but
ungrammatically; "she hates me like fury. It will be one of you. Well,
it wouldn't be much fun to dance attendance on Cousin Appolina if she
should happen to have a cranky fit. Mill, I know you are mad, for you
haven't spoken a word since I laughed. Do forgive me. And, tell me, what
are you going to send to the fair?"
"I have nothing to send," replied Millicent, rather shortly.
"Send your poems! Brilliant idea!" exclaimed the incorrigible Peggy.
"Have them printed on separate slips of paper, and sign some queer name,
and say a member of the congregation wrote them, and see how they take."
"I don't care to have you make any more fun of me and my writings," said
Millicent, with great dignity.
"No fun, honor bright! Only I wish you would put in one about Cousin
Appolina Briggs. If you don't, I believe I will. You could lend me your
rhyming dictionary to do it with, and I believe I could write a poem as
well as--anybody. But haven't you got anything on hand that you don't
want, in the way of fancy-work, that you might send?"
"I have those worsted slippers Cousin Appolina gave me for Christmas.
They are in the box, just as she sent them."
"The very thing! Who wants her old worsted slippers? And fairs are
always full of them. And you will have your poems printed and send them,
won't you, dear child?"
Her cousin did not see the gleam of mischief which came into Peggy's
eyes as she said this. Millicent was pondering the situation too deeply.
Peggy had never dreamed until now that she would take the proposition
seriously.
"I believe I will," said the poetess, after some minutes' pause,
interrupted only by the admiring Joanna, who urged her sister to act
upon Peggy's suggestion. "It would give me the recognition I want. They
can be sold at five cents a copy, and if I see people buying I shall
know that they are liked, and then some day I might have some published
in a book. Thank you ever so much, Peggy, for thinking of it. I will
sign them 'Pearl Proctor,' just as I do those that I send to the
magazines, and no one will ever know who it is. I will have them
type-written on attractive paper. And I will send Cousin Appolina's
shoes. She won't be home from Washington until after the fair, and she
will never know. They had really better be doing some good."
"She wouldn't recognize them, anyhow; she is so near-sighted that even
that gold lorgnette wouldn't discover her own stitches. Well, good-by,
girls. I'm going."
Unknown to her cousins, Peggy slipped away with the rhyming dictionary
under her arm. She had discovered it on the table, and the opportunity
was too good to be wasted.
She crossed the street to her own home and retired to her own room, from
which she did not emerge for an hour or more. At dinner that night her
family, had they looked at her with attention, might have discovered an
additional expression of mischief in her eyes and a satisfied look on
her face. But fortunately one's family are not apt to notice.
"If I thought there was the least chance of Cousin Appolina choosing me
to go abroad, I might not run the risk," she said to herself; "but she
wouldn't take me on any account. Besides, she'll never hear of this, and
it will be such fun to paralyze Milly. Just fancy her taking me in
earnest, and sending her poems to the fair! Oh, oh! What a dear old
innocent she is! It is a shame to tease her, but I just can't help it.
Pearl Proctor! Pearl Proctor! what naughty deed is about to be
perpetrated in thy name!"
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES.
A Sequel to "The Fur-Seal's Tooth."
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "DORYMATES," "CAMPMATES," "RAFTMATES," "CANOEMATES," ETC.