[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. III.--NO. 115. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 10, 1882. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
THE HOLIDAYS OVER.
MARJORIE'S NEW-YEAR'S EVE.
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
II.
It seemed to Marjorie as though she never would find that particular
door; but at last it was reached. She put in the key; it turned in the
lock, and she went in, not a little frightened and trembling.
She found herself in a large room covered, like the rest of the castle,
with crystals; but on one side of the wall seemed to be a sort of
gallery, evidently overlooking some other room. "I wonder if I ought to
go in?" thought Marjorie. But almost at the same moment she felt herself
impelled on, and to the foot of a little staircase leading up to the
gallery. Now even before she had time to be surprised at what she saw
below, she had a feeling that if she asked the horse a question, he
would answer from somewhere. So she said, quite aloud, "What place is
this?"
And the answer sounded from somewhere, "It's SANTA CLAUS'S COUNCIL
CHAMBER." (Marjorie felt as if it was written or spoken in big letters.)
And then Marjorie, trembling in the white gallery, looked down on the
most splendid room she had ever even dreamed of. It was long and high;
there were panels of crystal; there were panels of sapphire and emerald
and jasper, and there were lines of golden toys strung here and there.
At the upper end was a splendid throne, with reindeers on either side.
The whole room was ablaze with light. Marjorie longed for a hundred
eyes.
Presently there came a rushing noise like the music of a million
sleigh-bells; doors behind the throne fell back, and behold! a
procession entered. Crowds of brilliantly dressed people came first, and
then heralds and trumpeters, and many elves ringing bells. At last a
majestic figure clothed in a snowy cloak of fur, with a long white beard
and a crown of icicles, appeared. Every one fell back, the ladies and
gentlemen, elves and dwarfs, bowing, the trumpeters flinging back their
heads and pealing forth a triumphal blare. Through this double line
Santa Claus walked, and took his place on the throne. Marjorie waited,
breathless, for what would come next. Then she saw that the gayly
dressed ladies and gentlemen had taken places on either side of the
throne, and suddenly she seemed to know just who they all were.
"Why, _of course_!" she whispered to herself, eagerly. They were the
fairy-tale people. There was Beauty; there was Prince Charming,
Cinderella, and the Sleeping Beauty, and even the Babes in the Wood. As
for Jack the Giant-killer, he was there in fine array. Marjorie saw him,
and lots of other dear people she loved to read about. There were
absolutely no giants.
As soon as they were all seated, the doors again opened, and four dwarfs
entered, bearing huge silver dishes, full of something which sent up a
most delicious odor. Santa Claus stood up, and called out, loudly:
"Beans porridge hot,
Beans porridge cold,
Beans porridge in the pot
Nine day's old."
And then Marjorie perceived that this supper was for the fairy people.
Those who liked it best "in the pot nine days old," grouped themselves
around a great big silver kettle, and dipped in long gold spoons.
Marjorie was still watching with eager eyes, when again the doors opened
and a second procession entered. This was as queer as the other was
gorgeous, for all sorts of toys came in of themselves; not only
rocking-horses, but baby houses and blocks (each one by itself), and toy
alphabets, and tea sets walking, Noah's arks ahead of the animals,
woolly dogs, and bears on sticks. Directly after them came Marjorie's
horse, and Nine-times-naught, with Augusta on the Kennebec.
A second pause followed, and then a whole group of dolls rushed in. They
did not come in as sedately as the toys. The French dolls flounced
about, the rag dolls pushed each other, and the china dolls just seemed
to come in higgledy-piggledy, anyhow. But as soon as toys and dolls had
assembled, they gathered about Santa Claus's throne with a most intimate
air of proprietorship. Marjorie hadn't seen him smile before.
"Now, _what_ next?" said Marjorie.
"_Will_ you wait?" said the voice of the horse.
But somehow Marjorie felt as if she just couldn't wait. The toys and the
dolls made very free with Santa Claus. When everything and everybody
looked comfortable he spoke. His voice was loud, but kind.
"Lot No. 14."
From the toys came an ark, a big doll, and a woolly horse. They stood in
the middle of the splendid room, and the doll, who had on a red satin
dress, came forward.
"We are very happy," she said, and Marjorie listened eagerly, never
having heard a doll's voice before. "We were given to a little girl who
is a cripple. She lives in a small room with her mother and two sisters.
When we came, she said God was so beautiful and kind this Christmas. She
sent for other children to play with us. They were ragged and cold and
hungry, but they were perfectly happy and thankful because they had us.
They were so happy, that they forgot that a little girl named Marjorie
had been cruel to them."
(Up in the gallery Marjorie gave a little shiver, for she remembered
these poor children perfectly. Her governess, Miss Marbery, had wanted
her to share her Christmas money and presents with them. Marjorie had
stamped her feet angrily, had called them "miserable little beggars,"
and had openly refused to think of such a thing. Now she bowed her head
and silently cried.)
The doll seemed to have done speaking. She moved back, and took her
place with the woolly horse and the ark. Marjorie heard a voice say.
"These toys can come back on New-Year's Eve for an hour or two, and
report to Santa Claus," and at that minute to her horror she beheld all
of her own Christmas presents troop forward.
"Where have _you_ all been?" said Santa Claus.
It was her own doll who answered.
"We came to Marjorie," she said. "She lives in a warm, comfortable,
beautiful house, where every one pets her, and is kind to her, and tries
to make her happy. She is never cold, nor hungry, nor sick, but nothing
pleases her. These toys did not satisfy her." (Here the toys sprang
about angrily.) "She was cross and petulant, and she flung me into a
corner because she did not get a new doll. All the toys hate her and
despise her. She has never done anything at Christmas-time for any one
else."
Then Santa Claus spoke again:
"What could she have done this Christmas?"
The doll gave a little sigh.
"I wanted very much to be given to the poor little lame girl," she
answered. "To her I would have been a treasure. It would have been so
easy for Marjorie to have made Christmas a happy day for a great many
people."
The doll ceased speaking, and then Marjorie saw that all the fairy
people were busy writing down something on the wall behind them. There
was perfect silence for a moment, and then it seemed to poor bewildered
Marjorie that all those beautiful walls blazed forth terrible words
about herself. "Shut her out from our favor forever." "Miserable."
"Ungrateful." "Cold." "Proud." "Cruel."
"Oh!" she moaned to herself, "what _can_ I do, what _can_ I do?"
Suddenly the clock struck twelve. New-Year's Day had come, and in a
flash toys, dolls, fairy-tale people, all seemed to melt away, and
Marjorie found herself cold and weary in that strange flower garden.
She stood still a moment, and listened eagerly for the sound of the
horse's rock. It came at last.
"Well," he said, gravely, "you were allowed to come out. Get up into the
saddle and I'll tell you why."
Marjorie obeyed, and then said, softly,
"Please why?"
"Because you are sorry for your faults--you showed humility."
"Oh yes, indeed, I _am_ sorry," murmured Marjorie.
The horse's rock sounded a little softened. "And next year perhaps a
flower may grow for you in this garden."
"I will try," Marjorie answered. "But if I never come back, how shall I
know?"
"By your own feelings. When it grows, its fragrance reaches down to the
world, and brings you peace and happiness. You will not need to be told
that somewhere a blossom is waiting for you. God's garden paths reach
down to every heart."
* * * * *
Marjorie sprang up. She was in her own room; it had grown dark, the fire
was dying away, and there was Uncle John in his great-coat looking at
her and laughing.
"Well, Pussy," he exclaimed, "you're a great girl to go to sleep. Come,
I want you to go out with me and buy New-Year's presents for the
Williamsons. Hurry up."
Marjorie felt dazed. What _had_ she been dreaming about?
"Why," she said, and looked around to see her horse standing very still
and bright-eyed in the middle of the room--"why, where's Augusta, on the
Kennebec?" she said, suddenly, rubbing her eyes.
Uncle John roared laughing. "You've been studying too much lately,
Puss," he said, kindly.
"No, I haven't," said Marjorie. "I've been a mean girl."
Later, as they were driving through the snowy streets, Marjorie put her
hand into her uncle's, and said, gravely, "Uncle, where is God's
garden?"
He was silent for a moment, and then he answered, quietly: "Dear, it
ought to be all around us. It is wherever we can do any good or prevent
any evil; the place we are going to to-night might be your part of His
garden if you chose."
Marjorie looked up at the star-lit sky, wondering what she could do.
Then she said to herself, "I feel as if somewhere there I might plant my
flower."
And I am sure she did.
PERILS AND PRIVATIONS.
BY JAMES PAYN.
II.
THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE."
In a letter which Miss Martineau once showed me, from a relative of
hers, long dead, addressed to her great niece from Southsea, near
Portsmouth, and dated August 9, 1782, there occurred this singular
passage:
"The day is calm and pleasant, and as I sit at the open window, the
great vessel in the offing, betwixt me and the Fair Island" (the Isle of
Wight used to be so called), "seems to sway not a hand-breadth, nor to
flutter a single pennant." Then, in a trembling hand, but still the
same, was added: "A dreadful thing has happened. When I had written that
beginning of my letter, Dorothy, I looked again southward; the sea was
as waveless as before, and the Fair Island sparkled in the sun, but
betwixt us and it I saw no trace of the great three-decker. I thought my
brain had gone wrong, and rang the bell for Agnes; but when she too
could see nothing of the ship, a terrible apprehension took hold of me;
and when the alarm-guns from the fort began to thunder, I knew she had
gone down. I hear near a thousand men were aboard of her."
This was the famous "wreck of the _Royal George_," immortalized by the
verse of Cowper. She was a ship of one hundred guns, carrying brass
24-pounders on her main-deck, brass 32-pounders on her middle deck, and
iron 32-pounders on her lower deck. Her lanterns were so large that the
men used to enter them to clean them. She had six months' provisions on
board, and many tons of shot. The blue flag of "brave Kempenfelt" was
flying at her mizzen, and in two days she was to leave Spithead to join
the fleet in the Mediterranean.
So sudden and unexpected a catastrophe was never before heard of in
nautical annals; but the cause of it is common enough. It arose from the
obstinacy and fool-hardiness of the lieutenant of the watch. These
caused the death of some eight hundred human beings. It is not necessary
to mention his name; indeed, the sailor from whose personal narrative I
compile the story, and who had probably just joined the ship, did not
know his name, though of course it could be discovered easily enough.
"He was, if I remember right," he says, "the third lieutenant, a
good-sized man between thirty and forty." Fortunately for himself,
perhaps, he was drowned with the rest.
The accident arose through the heeling over of the ship. It was
necessary to lay her on her side to get at the water cock, situated in
that part of the hold called the well, in order to replace it by a new
one. The operation was begun at eight o'clock in the morning. The ship
at that time was "full of Jews, women, and people selling all sorts of
things," as was usual on the eve of a long voyage. The last lighter,
with rum on board, had just come alongside, and was lashed to the
larboard side of the vessel, and the men were piped to clear her, and
stow the rum in the hold. Though the water was almost level with the
port-holes through which the larboard guns were run out, no danger seems
at first to have been apprehended. The sea dashed in with every wave,
and disturbed the mice in the lower deck, and the men amused themselves
with hunting them in the water. "There was a rare game going on," are
the words of the narrator.
[Illustration: "I SAW THE PORT-HOLES AS FULL OF HEADS AS THEY COULD
CRAM."]
By nine o'clock the weight of the rum barrels and of the sea water
brought the larboard port-holes still lower, and the carpenter applied
to the third lieutenant to give orders to "right ship, as she could not
bear it." But the lieutenant gave him a very short answer. The
captain--Captain Waghorn--was on board, and also the admiral; but
admirals and captains are not consulted in such matters. The lives of
those at sea, as of those on land, are mainly in the hands of
subordinates. In a very short time the carpenter repeated his warning,
and the lieutenant answered, "Sir, if you can manage the ship better
than I can, you had better take the command." In a minute or two
afterward, it is true, this fool-hardy officer ordered the drummer to be
called to beat to right ship, but it was then too late. There was no
time to beat his drum, or even time to get it. "Let us try," said our
sailor to the lieutenant of his gun, "to house our gun out without
waiting for the drum, as it will help to right the ship." They pushed
the gun, but it ran back on them, and they could not start it. "Then I
cried, 'Ned, the ship is sinking, jump out at the port-hole!' He did so,
but I believe was drowned, for I never saw him again. I followed him. _I
saw the port-holes as full of heads as they could cram, all trying to
get out._"
What a picture! Imagine all those poor fellows struggling to escape
through a space not large enough for one-tenth of them, up an incline as
steep as the peaked roof of a house, and with a hungry sea rushing in
behind them! Above all, think of the poor women! Our sailor, holding on
to the best-bower anchor, which hung above the port, seizes hold of one
and drags her out, but at that moment the draught of air from
between-decks, caused by the sinking of the ship, blows him off his
feet. Then the huge mass goes down, and draws him down with it. He tries
to swim, but can not, "though I plunged as hard as I could with both
hands and feet; but when the ship touched bottom, the water boiled up a
good deal, and I felt that I could swim, and began to rise." So, even if
a vessel with a hundred guns goes down and takes one with her, there is
some use, you see, in having learned to swim. When he comes to the
surface he hears--what a sound at such a moment!--the cannons ashore
firing their signals of distress, but he can see nothing. His face is
covered with tar, a barrel of tar having been staved in as the ship went
down, and its contents spread over the water. He strikes it away from
his eyes as well as he can, and looks about him.
The fore, main, and mizzen tops of the huge ship were all above water,
and he climbs up into comparative safety. In the shrouds of the
mizzentop he finds the admiral's baker, and sees the woman he has just
pulled out of the port-hole rolling by. He seizes her once more, and
hangs her head over one of the ratlines of the mizzen-shrouds, like
clothes to dry, which is the best he can do for her; but a surf comes
and knocks her backward, and "away she went, rolling over and over."
Strangely enough, the poor creature is saved after all by the boat of a
frigate lying at Spithead, whose captain has just put off to the rescue.
"I must look to those who are in more danger than you, my lad," he sings
out to our sailor, as he goes by.
"Ay, ay, sir," is the reply; "I am safely moored enough."
The captain of the _Royal George_, though, strange to say, he could not
swim, was picked up alive. But out of nearly a thousand men, which was
the ship's complement, although some were on leave, and sixty marines
had gone ashore that very morning, only a very few were saved.
Government allowed five pounds to them for the loss of their things. "I
saw the list, and there were but seventy-five."
For several days afterward bodies would suddenly come up to the surface
at the spot where the ship had sunk, "forty and fifty at a time. The
watermen made a good thing of it; they would take from the men their
buckles, money, and watches; then, making fast a rope to their heels,
would tow them to land."
The poet who sings of the calamity tells us "no tempest gave the shock,"
and indeed there was scarcely any breeze at all. The ship was anchored,
and had not even a stitch of canvas on her to keep her steady.
Sixty years afterward the interest of this terrible event had by no
means died away, and I well remember, as a boy, going on board the ship
that was stationed above the scene of the calamity, to see the divers
who were still employed upon the wreck. The aspiration of the poet,
"Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by her foes,"
was never realized; but almost everything was taken out of her; and more
fancy articles--paper-knives, work-boxes, etc.--affirmed to have been
made from her timbers, were sold, I am afraid, than the _Royal George_,
big as she was, could ever have furnished. In country places and at the
sea-side in England you may purchase them even now at the
bazars--old-fashioned articles, with this tomb-like inscription on them:
"This desk" (or letter-weight, or paper-knife) "was made out of the wood
of the _Royal George_, sunk off Spithead in 1782, with eight hundred of
her crew."
THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]
[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.
An Indian Story.
BY W. O. STODDARD.
CHAPTER XIV.
The advance of To-la-go-to-de and his Lipans that day had been a slow
one, and it grew slower and more cautious as hour after hour went by
without any word from the two pale-face scouts.
The chief himself grew uneasy. He thought they would surely return or
send him some word before night-fall; but the sun was nearly setting
when at last he went into camp with his discontented warriors on the
very spot where Steve and Murray had made their halt before daylight.
Then, indeed, he could wait no longer, and several braves were ordered
out on foot, with others on horseback a little behind them, to explore
what was left of the pass, and see what they could find.
They could have done more for their chief and themselves if the night
had not been a cloudy one, so that not a brave among them ventured to
descend into the valley.
If they had done so they might have discovered two very important facts.
The first was that the Apache hunting village had left it, bag and
baggage. The second, and quite as important a discovery, would have been
that the camping ground abandoned by the Apaches had been promptly
occupied by a strong party of pale-faces.
All the scouts could really do was to bring back word that the pass was
clear of enemies to the border of the valley.
That was an anxious night for To-la-go-to-de.
The morning would bring news, at all events, for he determined to dash
on with all his warriors, and find out about matters for himself.
"No Tongue is wise. He is a great warrior. Sometimes wise old warrior
gets knocked on the head. Then he not come back at all."
There was a possibility, as he well knew, that the Apaches themselves
had something to do with the silence of his two pale-face friends.
Another head had been quite as busy and troubled as that of
To-la-go-to-de all that day. Captain Skinner also would have given
something for a few minutes' conversation with "them two mining
fellers."
He felt sure they could have given him both information and advice; but
he said to himself: "Of course they won't come nigh our outfit. They
know we've jumped their claim. Still, they did the friendly thing with
Bill and the boys, and they sent word they didn't bear us any ill-will.
That's 'cause they feel sure of their own ground. They're on good terms
with the red-skins. I wish I could say we were."
[Illustration: THE RAGGED LITTLE CAPTAIN.]
Well he might, considering how many of them there were in that country,
and how near to him some of them were coming. All the way down the pass
the ragged little Captain had ridden in advance of his men, carefully
scanning every rock and bush and tree. At last he paused at the very
spot where Bill and his companions had had their little difficulty. He
seemed to see some signs that needed studying, and he stooped down and
picked up something. Only a pair of strong thongs of buckskin, that
looked as if they had been recently used in tying up something. He could
make very little out of them; but he noticed the marks of horses' feet
going in and out of the forest.
"Signs are getting pretty thick. Hullo! an arrow. Cut in two, and blood
on it. Bill, isn't this the spot?"
"This 'ere's the very place, Cap. We came awful nigh havin' a fight
right yer."
"Glad you made out not to have any. Did those two white men and the
Indians ride away in company?"
"Wa'al, no. The red-skins rid away first, and the two fellers promised
to foller 'em after a while. Then I reckon they cut off into the timber.
'Peared like they must ha' been huntin'."
"Most likely they were; and waiting for us to get away, so they could go
back to their mine. Boys, I'm afraid our claim won't be worth a great
deal by the time we get back."
"We'll take care of that when we come, Cap. They said they'd take thar
chances. We'll take ours; that's all."
Slower and more and more cautiously the mining train again moved
forward, until from under the last of the pine-trees Captain Skinner
could look out upon the valley and see that it was empty.
How would he and his men have felt if they could have known that at that
very minute Murray was chipping away with his chisel at his
inscriptions upon the central monument of the great Buckhorn Mine?
"Not a red-skin in sight," he remarked. "We'll go straight on down.
There must be plenty of ways out of the valley."
No doubt of it, but the first business of those wanderers, after they
reached the spring and unhitched their mule-teams, was to carefully
examine every hoof-mark and foot-print they could find.
The fact that there had been lodges was proof that the Apaches were not
a war party, but there was plenty of evidence that they were numerous
enough to be dangerous.
"Glad Bill didn't pick a quarrel with such a band," grumbled Captain
Skinner. "But how did he happen to show so much sense? I never suspected
him of it."
This was not complimentary to Bill, and it was clear that the Captain's
opinion of him had not changed.
"Some kind of an accident," he said. "Nobody need waste any time looking
out for another one just like it."
It was getting late in the day, and a better place for a camp could not
have been found.
"This'll do for to-night, won't it, Cap?" asked one of the miners.
"Of course it will. We'll try to move east from here, or south, when we
leave it."
"Shall any of the boys go for game? Must be plenty of it all around."
"Game? Oh yes. Plenty of it, after a hundred Apache hunters have been
riding it down for nobody knows how long. The red-skins leave heaps of
game behind 'em, always."
This answer prevented any further remarks on the subject of hunting that
afternoon. They had plenty of fresh meat with them, nevertheless, and
there was no reason why they should not cook and eat.
There was a reason why they should not be altogether pleased with their
camping ground. They found the coals of one fire still hot enough to
kindle with.
"The Apaches haven't been out of this a great while," said Captain
Skinner, "but the trail of their lodge poles shows that they set off to
the west'ard. That isn't our direction. I don't care how far they go,
nor how fast."
The other miners did not agree with him. Neither did they like the looks
of the mountain range through which the Apaches had come.
"Danger behind us or not," said one of the men, "I move we spend a day
or so in huntin' and findin' out jest what's best to be done before we
light out of this. We must be getting pretty close to the Mexican line."
They were even closer than he had any idea of, but when their evening
conference ended, Captain Skinner was outvoted, and a "hunt and scout"
was agreed upon.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE STORY OF A LITTLE DOG'S TAIL.
BY HELEN MARVIN.
Flash was the name of the little dog whose tail I am going to tell you
about. Flash's master was a great actor, whose name was David Garrick.
Flash and his master lived more than a hundred years ago.
One evening the family and a number of their friends were at a theatre
in the great city of London. Flash's master was on the stage, playing
his part, while Flash was in the audience, lying on his mistress's lap.
The play was almost over, when a big countryman, whom nobody knew, came
out on the stage, and spoke a piece that was called the epilogue.
Everybody asked, "Who is he?"
"I don't know," said Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was a great artist, and
painted beautiful portraits, to Miss Angelica Kauffman, a lovely young
lady, who was also very famous as an artist.
"I don't know," said Dr. Burney to his daughter, Miss Fanny, who had
written a charming story-book.
"I don't know," said Dr. Samuel Johnson to his friend Mr. Boswell, who
had taken the liberty to nudge the great man's elbow.
"Can you tell me who that actor is?" asked Mrs. Thrale, the wife of a
very wealthy brewer.
"No, I can not tell you who he is," replied Mrs. Garrick.
At this the little dog in Mrs. Garrick's lap jumped to his feet, pricked
up his ears, looked toward the stage at the big countryman, and began to
wag his tail.
Wig-wag, wig-wag, wig-wag went Flash's tail, and Mrs. Garrick said,
"Why, it is my husband; Flash knows his master better than his own wife
does."
"Sure enough, it _is_ Mr. Garrick!" they all exclaimed.
"We might have known it," said Miss Kauffman.
"Yes, yes: yes, yes," replied Sir Joshua Reynolds. "You see, my dear
young lady, the little dog knew more than all of us put together."
This is how Flash Garrick recognized his master, and told everybody in
the theatre by the wagging of his little tail.
This is a true story, and it happened, as I told you, more than a
hundred years ago.
MY FAMILY OF ORIOLES.
BY W. O. AYRES.
We were down in the country last summer, Fred and I, at Blackberry Farm.
Fred is a bright, lively boy, nine years old, and everything there was
novelty to him, for he had never been out of the city before, excepting
once, when he was too young to notice and remember what he saw. Perhaps
no boy who left New York in July enjoyed his vacation more than Fred did
his two months at Blackberry Farm.
Among the residents at the farm-house was one Tiglath-Pileser, commonly
called Tig for short, though Fred almost always gave him at least one of
his two names in full in speaking either to him or of him. Tig was a
very handsome Maltese cat, to whom his little mistress, who was very
fond of him and very proud of him, had given this name of the old King
of Assyria. Now Tig was a very industrious cat; he not only caught mice
about the house and barn, but birds also out in the orchard, and once I
saw him come in dragging a garter-snake much longer than himself.
One morning Fred came hurrying to the veranda, where I was sitting,
closely followed by Tig, both of them in a state of great excitement.
"Oh, Uncle William, Tiglath has killed such a beautiful, beautiful bird!
Only see! I made him give it up, though he tried hard to keep it."
And in fact Tig was at that very moment manifesting great
dissatisfaction with the condition of things, and a decided
determination to recover his property.
"Did you ever see such a beautiful bird, Uncle William? Tiglath-Pileser,
keep your foot down. His head is so black and his breast is such a
bright orange."
"Yes, Fred, there are few birds of more brilliant plumage which come so
far north as New England. It is a Baltimore oriole, though if you should
ask any one of the people about here, you would probably be told that it
was a hang-bird, or perhaps a fire hang-bird--a name which they give it
from the nest which it builds, and from its very bright colors. There
are various species of orioles in other countries, but this and the
orchard oriole are the only ones which are ever seen in New England."
"But why is he the Baltimore oriole if he comes here to Connecticut to
live?"
"Who was the first Governor of the colony of Maryland, Fred?"
"Cecil Calvert, known as Lord Baltimore," replied Fred, in regular
school-boy style.
"Yes; and when Lord Baltimore came to America his servants wore a
livery of orange with black trimmings; and so this bird, which is very
common in Maryland, was called the 'Baltimore oriole' from the colors of
his coat. And it is very true of him, as it doubtless was of the
servants just mentioned, that his wife and children are much more
plainly dressed. The female bird and the young ones wear no such gay
colors; you would scarcely suspect that they were part of his family.
The people of Baltimore always speak of the oriole as 'our bird,' and if
you had kept watch of the papers, Fred, you would have seen that last
year in October, when they wanted to have a great festival to celebrate
the completion of their splendid water-supply system, they called it
'The Baltimore Oriole Celebration.' Everywhere in the decorations, and
in the dresses of the ladies, and in the scarfs and neckties of the
gentlemen appeared the black and brilliant gold of the oriole."
"What does he live on, Uncle William? His bill is very smooth, and comes
to a round, sharp point. It does not look as though he could bite
anything hard."
"Ah! that bill, Fred, is a wonder. And it is not merely for eating that
he uses it. You remember I told you the people called him hang-bird,
because of the sort of nest he builds. Now that nest he never could
build unless he had this curious bill. I must tell you a story about his
mode of using his bill; but before I do it we will start out for a walk,
and find one of their nests, if possible, even an old one of last year
will do. We will put this dead bird away, so that we can examine him
again. So, Tig, if you want a bird for your breakfast, you must go and
catch another."
"Yes, Tiglath, we can not spare him, even though he does really belong
to you. But you can go with us." So away we three went across the
fields, Tig, however, soon wandering off in search of a mouse or
something.
We had not gone very far before I espied an oriole's nest. It was on the
extreme end of the branch of an apple-tree. Fred climbed it, and
presently we had the nest in our hands. It was hung where a branch
divided into two smaller twigs, and I showed Fred very easily how the
bird had begun by fastening an end of a very long soft piece of grass to
one of the twigs, and then fastening the other end to the other twig, so
that the middle of the grass hung down in a long loop as much as five
inches deep. Then it had made another loop, which hung across the first,
and of the same depth, but this time the loop was made of a piece of
bark. Then there was another loop--actually a string which the bird had
found; and so it went on until there were seven or eight loops hanging.
"Now look at these other fibres, Fred, which run across and around the
loops, and make a real basket of it. Do you see they go over one loop
and under another, and so on? How do you suppose they were put there?
There is where that shape of the bill which you noticed comes into play.
Come, let us go back to the house, where you can have the bird and the
nest together, and I will tell you the story, and you shall see for
yourself."
We were soon quietly seated on the veranda, Fred all eagerness for a
lesson in ornithology.
"The story is about a family of young orioles, three of them, which I
took from their nest just before they were large enough to fly away.
Perhaps it was cruel to take them, on their mother's account, but she
seemed to care very little about it, and in a few days they would have
left her anyway. I carried them to my room, and put them in a large open
cage, where I thought they would be as comfortable as possible.
"Knowing that their mother fed them on berries and insects, I gave them
plenty of both; but they would not touch them, and all that day they ate
nothing. Next morning I tried them again, but it was of no use, and
fearing they would starve, I was about to carry them back to the old
nest, hoping their mother could do better with them than I could, when
an accident showed me how to manage them.
"I was at that time making a collection of birds, and on my
working-table lay the body of a robin, whose skin I had just prepared
and stuffed. I had one of the little orioles sitting on my finger, when
he hopped off on the table, and seeing a piece of the flesh of the
robin, he swallowed it on the instant. As he seemed to like that sort of
food, I cut him another piece, and down it went like a flash, and I
continued to feed him until he could eat no more, and then I brought out
his brother and sister and fed them in the same manner.
"After that I had no trouble in keeping them supplied with food, and
they grew rapidly. They never ate anything but the flesh of the birds
which I was skinning daily. I had no suspicion that such birds would eat
meat at all, nor do I think that it is generally known. Neither Mr.
Audubon nor any other writer mentions any such habit as belonging to
them; but these little fellows were very fond of it, and they certainly
throve well on it.
"Of course they were soon strong enough to fly, and I left the door of
their cage open for them to come and go as they pleased. They grew very
tame, and soon learned to come to the table and get food themselves.
They always slept in the cage, but during the day they were everywhere
about the room. They grew so much attached to me, that the instant I
entered the room every bird with a loud chirrup would start for me with
his utmost speed, lighting on the top of my head, on my shoulders, on my
finger when I held it out to them--anywhere that they could find a
place.
"If a stranger came with me, they were doubtful; would let him take
them, and possibly sit a minute on his finger, but nothing more. It was
when one of them was sitting on my finger that I first learned that
curious use of his bill in nest-building of which I spoke before we went
out.
"I had brought him up to my face, when, to my great surprise, he put the
point of his bill between my lips, and tried to pry them open. I tried
him again, and he did it the second time. I lifted one of the others,
the female, and she used her bill in the same manner. It occurred to me
at once that that was the way in which they built their nests. I watched
them constantly, and became perfectly certain that I was right. They
would try to pry open my fingers; if I separated my lips, they would try
to part my teeth. They often went up to books, and put in the point of
the bill to pry apart the leaves, opening the bill each time with all
their strength."
"And is that the way, Uncle William, he has done with this nest? Sure
enough, I can see. Look!--look here! that piece of grass has gone under
this loop, and then it comes over, and here it goes under again."
"That is just what the bird did, Fred. At first it was all open work,
and easy; but as the nest was getting nearly finished, the bill was
shoved in under that loop and opened widely, and the grass passed
through, and so on one after the other. And the nest could not have been
made as you see it now except for that singular way of using the bill.
"But I must tell you more of their doings. They soon learned that their
food came from birds, and that it was because I skinned the birds, and
they learned just how I did it. If a bird lay on the table, they gave no
attention to him till I sat down ready for work. Then every oriole flew
immediately to the table; but each one looked around carelessly, as
though he had come there by accident, and had nothing particular on his
mind. They would walk about, and try to pry open books and whatever else
came in their way, and very often I waited some time, just to try them
and see what they would do. I would profess to read something, as though
skinning a bird was not in my thoughts at all.
"But no; they knew better; one would look up at me, and then another,
and then they would run about again, but all the while keeping a sly and
cunning watch of me; they knew they would get the better of me in a few
minutes. For the instant I took up the bird, turned him on his back, and
raised my knife, a rush was made, and there they stood watching for the
first bite.
"It was a most comical sight, and time and time again I used to laugh to
see them. I parted the bird's feathers with two fingers of my left hand,
almost always with an oriole on each finger, while three little heads
were thrust close down, and as I cut through the skin; in went three
bills digging and tearing for a mouthful each."
[Illustration: AN ORIOLE FEEDING HIS MATE.]
"Oh, Uncle William, what a strange thing! Do tell me what ever became of
the little orioles! What did you do with them in the winter, when there
were no birds for them to eat?"
"Two of them, the female and one of the males, died very shortly after
they were fully grown. The other used to fly in and out of the window as
he pleased, into the orchard, and across to the woods. The first time he
went out he seemed quite uncomfortable, and called very loudly for me to
come and bring him back again, and when I climbed up the apple tree to
him, he hopped on my finger, and settled himself down in a contented way
that showed he was very glad to be at home again. But after a number of
excursions he learned to prefer living out-of-doors, and doubtless went
to the South in the autumn with the others of his kind."
[Illustration: "THAT FAIRY HOPE, OH! SHE AWAKED SUCH HAPPY
DREAMS."--DRAWN BY MRS. JESSIE SHEPHERD.]
THE LAMENT OF A LEFT-OVER DOLL.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
I'm a left-over doll, and I grieve to relate
How sad is my fortune, how lonely my fate;
For I had no notion that I should lie here,
Forlorn and neglected, at this time of year.
Oh, long before Christmas they dressed me up fine--
No dollie had clothes any better than mine;
And I rather imagine I looked very nice,
As many fine ladies inquired my price.
I was handled and dandled, and fondly caressed,
My beauty admired, my value confessed,
And yet for some reason or other was I
Put back in the show-case; the buyer went by.
One dear little maiden came into the store;
She saw me, and for me began to implore,
And said that there wasn't a doll in the place
With a handsomer dress or a lovelier face.
She stared at me long, so of course I stared back,
And saw that her eyes were a beautiful black;
And I wanted to speak, but I couldn't, because
I hadn't been made with a hinge in my jaws.
I dreamed about Christmas, and how I should be
Stuck into a stocking or up on a tree,
Then carried about in my mistress's arms
That all might admire my wonderful charms.
But Santa Claus came, and he went on his way,
And took with him many a doll, I dare say;
But as I've a chance to look round me, I find
That dozens and dozens have been left behind.
If you were a left-over dollie yourself,
You'd know how I feel lying here on the shelf
So long after Christmas; and wouldn't expect
Me to smile at old Santa Claus' cruel neglect.
They've marked down my price; and I very much fear
That those who buy cheaply will hold me less dear,
And the army of curious shoppers I shun
Since I had no part in the holiday fun.
FELIX.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
It is early morning in a cathedral town of Germany, and a boy is
muffling his head in the bedclothes, trying to keep out the sound of
bells and the sight of the bright sun-beams. His comrade, however, is
doing all he can to arouse him.
"Go away, I say," is all the reply to these well-meant efforts. "What's
the use of getting up to be knocked about and scolded? When mother was
here, one was sure of a cup of hot milk and a kind word. I'm going to
sleep again. Do hush! There, take that!" and he gave his friend a cuff
on the ear.
The friend howled, which sent a pang through the boy's heart. He
stretched out his hand with a gesture prompted by remorse.
"Come here, come here. I've given you just what I don't like for myself,
poor fellow. I beg your pardon."
His face was well washed after that by a dog's warm tongue, which had
also the effect of waking the boy very thoroughly. The conversation too
went on.
"Turk, old dog, you're the best friend I have in the world, and if you
didn't wake me up every day, I'd never be in school. Since mother's
death, father is so cross and still and dull! he does nothing but work,
work, work. But my rose-tree must be planted to-day, and if I don't do
it now, I don't know when I will have the chance."
So saying, he dressed rapidly, tossed open his lattice, and took a small
plant from the window-sill, ran down the outside flight of steps leading
from the door of his father's shop, paused a moment to snatch up a roll
and his bag of books, and then with his dog hurried down the village
street.
He was soon past the houses and shops, and nearing the vast towers of
the great church, which was but partly finished; and as he looked up at
the points and pinnacles of heaven-aspiring height a thought which had
long been in his mind burst into bloom.
It was a simple thought, but a religious one, and it so absorbed him
that for a while he forgot his errand, and stood gazing up into the pure
sky, blue as forget-me-nots. He was startled, however, by the village
bells and clocks, and a hurrying group of workmen approaching, so he
quickly sought out a lonely grave, took his plant from its pot, and
digging a little hole, set the rose-bush in it.
Quick as he was, he was yet too late for school, and received frowning
disapprobation from the master as he took his seat.
Unfortunately Felix was often late, often too his lessons were
unprepared. But he was so ready to make amends, and was so quick in
learning, that he could get on better than the duller pupils who labored
more systematically.
But to-day everything went wrong; his head was full of fancies, and with
his ready pencil he was sketching when he should have been studying,
scrawling scrolls and rose-windows over his Latin, and sending flocks of
pigeons up and down the margin of oceans and continents. He stumbled at
his lessons, he bothered those who knew them, and perplexed those who
did not, until the master's patience was exhausted, and he gave him a
sound thrashing.
After that there was silence, sullenness, and an appearance of work, but
a sudden roar of laughter from the boys made the master look up. Felix
was bending over his book as if he were the only one undisturbed. The
master was not, however, easily deceived.
"Come here, Felix."
"Yes, sir;" and the lad slowly obeyed.
"Give me that book."
"I'd rather not, sir."
"Give it to me."
Now Felix had a real liking for his master, and was usually sorry for
offending him; but the whipping had not been beneficial, although his
conscience told him that it was deserved. He presented the book. On its
fly-leaf was a drawing of the master--a very clever caricature--as Cupid
drawing his bow at a group of girls, who, with much disdain and
derision, were pelting him with sticks and stones.
The master's face flushed at the disrespect; but he quietly laid the
book aside, and proceeded with his duties, Felix remaining standing.
The recitations went on, the hum of study, the drawl of the lazy ones,
and the quick, eager replies of the ambitious. Felix was forgotten.
The boy began to think he had made a mistake. What had he gained by
misconduct? Where were the thoughts of the morning under the cathedral
windows? How was he fitting himself to work on the beautiful structure
which was to be the medium of praise and prayer for multitudes, in the
long ages to come? And yet he knew this had been his mother's hope and
wish. Was he making good use of the talents God had given him?
He was looking out the window now, watching the lights and shadows on
the carved stone of buttress and gable.
The boys were dismissed. He sat down to the extra tasks assigned him. He
was hungry, he was miserable, but he plodded on, and finished his work.
The master bade him go, and he went, but not home.
He lingered about the cathedral, watching the workmen. Finally he became
fascinated by their employment; and taking up their tools, worked out a
leaf pattern on a bit of refuse stone. The men left him there. Tired and
faint, he sought his mother's resting-place. The rose was drooping for
want of water.
"Come, it is time you were home," said a familiar voice.
Felix looked up astonished. It was the master.
"You must go with me to your father. I wish to speak to him."
Felix obeyed. The climax had come. His father was stern and hard, and
the master, of course, would have a sorry tale to tell.
Fortunately the village people had gone in to their evening meal, and he
would be spared the disgrace of being seen conducted like a culprit to
his father. He did not speak a word, nor did the master, but shame and
remorse were written on every feature. He felt as if he were a criminal
about to receive sentence--a sentence, too, which was deserved, and
which justice demanded.
"Well, what now, Herr Professor, is the matter?" asked the father,
grimly surveying his son.
"Felix is in trouble again, Mr. Zimmerman."
"Hah! idle as usual--good for nothing--won't study?"
"Yes, a little of all, I am sorry to say. But I have a remedy to
propose."
"A thrashing, of course."
"No, once a day is enough. We've tried that; it did not answer in this
case as well as it does sometimes. May I have the pleasure of Master
Felix's company to supper?"
"What, sir, you want the boy to be rewarded for bad behavior?"
"Not at all--not at all. Run away, Felix; get your face washed and your
jacket on, and you shall be my guest for this evening."
Felix was almost too much surprised to be able to move, but without
daring to question his father, he did as the master told him. While he
was gone, a conversation went on between Mr. Zimmerman and the teacher.
It is not necessary to repeat it; but Felix saw a different expression
on his father's face when, neatly dressed, he came down the steps and
followed the master home.
He was fearfully hungry, and yet almost ashamed to take the good broth
and bread which were set before him in the master's quaint and quiet
little parlor; they somehow choked him; and as he looked about at the
book-covered shelves and old engravings, the detestable caricature he
had drawn in the morning danced before his eyes.
At last he could stand it no longer. The teacher seemed to have
disappeared, and only this kind, genial host sat opposite him, heaping
up his plate and bowl.
"Herr Professor," he stammered, "I beg your pardon--indeed I do."
"I am very glad to hear that, my boy; but don't think any more about it
just now," was the response, and filling his pipe, wreaths of smoke
began to play about the old man's head.
"It is a great pity that a lad of your talent should waste any time,
Felix, and if you are willing, I think your father will let me give you
drawing lessons."
Felix could hardly believe his ears.
"To be sure, you will have to apply yourself more diligently, be prompt
and industrious, or all the lessons in the world won't make a man of
you."
"I'll try," said Felix, though a mist was in his eyes.
"That's right," said the Professor, and then he opened some great
volumes full of pictures, and the boy gazed in delighted wonder at a
world more beautiful than his dreams. Not an allusion did the Professor
make again to anything that had happened during the day.
When evening was over, and he courteously bade him good-night, Felix was
dazed, and went home with light steps to his little bed.
As soon as Turk woke him next morning he sprang up with alacrity, and
would have been off with the dawn to water his rose-bush, but his father
detained him.
"Felix," said he, somewhat sternly, "the master says there's good stuff
in you if you'll use it. Come here and eat your breakfast before you go,
and let me hear what you have to say for yourself."
"I'll try," was the sum and substance of Felix's talk over his brown
bread and milk.
* * * * *
Ten years after this there was a great celebration in the town, for the
cathedral was finished. Cannon thundered, bells pealed, and a grand "Te
Deum" was chanted to the rolling rhythm of the magnificent organ.