[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 26, 1897. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 900. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
BOYS AT SEA.
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL.
Everybody will remember the exciting story of the ship _Aberfoyle_: how
her Captain drank himself into delirium-tremens and then poisoned
himself, how the crew mutinied, how the mate was washed overboard, and
how this ship was eventually safely navigated to Melbourne by her second
officer, who was little more than a boy. But perhaps the most memorable
example of a boy's heroism is that of young Shotten. He was an
apprentice on board a vessel called _Trafalgar_, which left Batavia
fever-stricken, with the result that the superior officers perished, and
young Shotten was left alone with the remains of a wicked ship's company
to navigate the vessel. He carried her to Sydney in safety. His story is
a true romance of the deep. This fine young fellow had not only to fight
the ocean and its tremendous perils, he had also to handle a set of
desperate, reckless men who refused to recognize his authority, and,
charged with the dreadful spirit of mutiny and murder, scarcely suffered
the boy commander to save their lives. Stories of this sort need the
pen of a Defoe; they should be submitted to the world by the hand of
genius, that, being in all senses things of beauty, they might be
immortal as inspirations in such hours of conflict as young Shotten
passed through. It is to be regretted that writers for boys do not
uniformly invent with some perception of the good taste, sound judgment,
and high aspirations and feelings of the young public they address. The
typical boy hero of the boy's book is, for the most part, impossible;
the lad as he reads grows disdainful, he may even detect blunders in
seamanship or in the employment of nautical words, and his confidence is
gravely shaken. No impression is left, no animating and lofty influence
exerted, because the tale is trash; it is not true; the boy knows it
never could have been true. I was once a boy myself, though I find this
hard to believe, and I remember that the sea-stories which influenced me
and which did me most good were tales founded on the facts of the ocean,
plain and sincere narratives of the stern realities of the deep, such as
this of Shotten. A young apprentice in Shotten's situation might, after
reading his story, take courage from it, find an example in it, and
achieve an end not less heroic than the model he imitated.
Can it be imagined that any one of M. Jules Verne's boy heroes could
animate a lad by his impossible, albeit ingenious adventures, into the
rendering of such splendid services as the whole English-speaking world
was praising in young Shotten in 1895? It is a truth that boys at sea
have done daring and glorious things, and their stories should be told
by able hands for boys to read, because there is no calling that makes,
in times of disaster, such demands upon the stout heart and all that is
manly in the human qualities as the ocean life. One of the pluckiest
boys that ever rose to rank in the British royal navy, and to the
achievement of a great reputation for prudence, foresight, and gallantry
scarcely inferior to Nelson's, was Admiral Hopson, who was born in the
Isle of Wight, left an orphan when a child, and apprenticed by the
parish to a tailor. The tailor's board, however, soon grew hateful to
the little fellow; he yearned for quite another sort of board--I mean
shipboard. And being one day alone in the shop, looking across the sea,
he spied a squadron of men-of-war floating slowly around Dunnose.
Acting upon the impulse of the instant, he rushed from the shop, sprang
into a boat, cast her painter loose, and contrived, by sculling with all
his might, to reach the Admiral's ship. He was received and entered as a
volunteer. Early next morning the British squadron fell in with a number
of Frenchmen, and a hot action began. Little Hopson obeyed orders with
wonderful alacrity and fearlessness; but when the fight had proceeded
for two hours he grew impatient, and, turning to a seaman, asked why the
ships were firing at one another. Jack answered that the action must
continue till the white rag at the enemy's mast-head was struck. The
ships were then engaged yard-arm to yard-arm. The air was thick with
smoke of gunpowder. Hopson sprang into the shrouds, ran out to the
main-yard-arm, gained the French Admiral's yard-arm, and running aloft,
cut away the French flag, and brought it safely on board his own ship.
The effect was amazing. The British yelled "Victory!" believing the
French had struck; and the Frenchmen fled below, not doubting, now that
their Admiral's flag had disappeared, that the battle was lost. For this
surprising act of heroism young Hopson was promoted to the quarter-deck.
Every one must regret that more is not known of these gallant worthies
of past times. Why is not the story of their services written for boys?
Who amongst living authors who produce literature for the rising
generation could invent a more thrilling, romantic, and exciting tale
than this which I have only glanced at? Here is another example of the
courage of a boy and what the spirit of a lad may achieve in an hour of
grievous peril at sea: A famous frigate, _La Tribune_, was lost on the
Halifax coast one November towards the close of the last century. Four
men escaped in the jolly-boat, eight others clung to the main and fore
tops; the remainder of the large ship's company perished. The
inhabitants approached so close to the wreck as to be able to shout to
and hear the shouts of the poor fellows upon the masts.
One of the first to attempt to succor them was a boy thirteen years old
belonging to Herring Cove; he jumped in a little skiff at about eleven
o'clock in the day, and with extraordinary labor and skill so
manoeuvred his tiny ark as to back her under the frigate's foretop,
and two of the shipwrecked men dropped into her. The boat was too small
to carry more. The boy conveyed them in safety ashore, and the record of
this inimitable piece of youthful heroism affirms that he "had them
instantly conveyed to a comfortable habitation." The 'longshore men,
spiritless and afraid, in spite of this glorious example, held back, and
six men remained to be saved. The undaunted boy at once put off again;
but the sea and the boat combined opposed too heavy a task to his
strength exhausted by his previous labors, and he failed to reach the
wreck. But his example was at last an animation; some boats were
launched, and after much trouble and in the face of grave peril, they
brought off in triumph the remaining survivors.
It is a story that should be written in letters of gold. But what will
you think of the enthusiasm of the chroniclers of that lad's deed when I
tell you that I am unable to give his name? I have searched for it--to
no purpose. All we know is he was a Boy. But he was among the very
noblest, and with something of emotion after all these long years I
salute the darling little chap's memory.
At the battle of Copenhagen a lad so distinguished himself as to excite
the admiration of the great Nelson. He was a Danish boy, about sixteen
years of age, by some called Welmoes, but others have given him a
different name. Be that as it may, this young fellow was in command of a
praam, a sort of raft armed with small cannon and manned by a company of
some twenty-four men. Nelson's flag was flying aboard the _Elephant_;
the heroic young Dane resolved to attack the famous Admiral, whose name
was a terror, and he forthwith shoved off in his raft from the shore,
and gained the stern of the line-of-battle ship, then thundering in
broadsides. The marines of the flag-ship promptly discharged their
muskets at the gallant little band, and the praam was rapidly converted
into a shambles. Twenty fine fellows lay dead and dying, but their boy
commander, who stood up to his waist amongst the bodies, stuck to his
post until the truce was proclaimed. Nelson had observed the splendid
behavior of this lad. He held him in memory, and when he was banqueted
at the palace, he begged the Prince to introduce young Welmoes to him.
When the boy was presented, the most famous of all sea chieftains put
his arm round his neck and kissed him, and, addressing the Prince,
exclaimed that the young fellow deserved to be made an Admiral.
"If, my lord," was the answer, "I were to make all my brave officers
admirals, I should have no captains or lieutenants in my service."
Twice were the wonderful battles in which Lord Nelson fought associated
with the heroism of boys. One of the French ships at the battle of the
Nile was _L'Orient_. She took fire, and hundreds of her people sprang
overboard. Amongst those who perished in her was Commander Casabianca.
All will remember Mrs. Hemans's moving verses beginning,
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled.
This boy was the Commodore's son; he was but ten years of age, yet
behaved with amazing intrepidity whilst the battle raged. When the ship
took fire his father bade him remain on deck, and he stuck to his post
until the huge ship blew up. Memories of this sort should stir the blood
of the young. They cannot be too often recited. They quicken the higher
impulse, shape fancies into ardent resolution, and all will believe that
they must be infinitely more valuable, even in an educational sense,
than narratives of impossible adventure and of fictitious achievements
which cannot serve as encouragements, because even the smallest boy
will perceive that they are impracticable.
I have spoken of Lord Nelson, and of this great sailor many stories of
his spirit when a boy are told. Some of these tales must be viewed with
suspicion; one or two, perhaps, are worth recalling. The lad joined an
expedition to the frozen sea under the command of Captain Phipps,
afterwards Lord Musgrave. One night, when it was as bright as daylight,
the ship lying hard and fast amid the ice, young Nelson took his gun and
left the ship to shoot a bear which he had seen a long way off.
Something went wrong with the lock of his musket, whereupon he grasped
the weapon by the barrel, and gave chase to the beast, which went off on
a trot. Having killed the bear, the boy returned to his ship, the
Captain of which reprimanded him for going upon the ice without leave,
and with a stern countenance asked what motive could have induced him to
attack with a useless gun so formidable a beast as a polar-bear. The
young hero's reply was to the point. "I wished, sir," he said, "to get
the skin for my father."
All boys who are acquainted with the life of Lord Nelson--and every boy,
be he American or English, who speaks the language in which this article
is written, ought to read it and gather the meaning of that wonderful
career--must have heard of Captain Trowbridge, one of the Admiral's
favorite officers. He was the son of a baker, and rose by his splendid
gallantry to be an Admiral and a baronet. One story of his fearlessness
when a lad recalls Hopson's feat. He was midshipman aboard the
_Seahorse_ when she chased and captured the French ship _Sartine_. Much
of the glory of that day was owing to young Trowbridge, who, watching
his chance and shouting for followers, boarded the enemy from the
forecastle, and with his own hands hauled down the French colors.
Perhaps not every commander of a victorious ship would have proved so
frankly honorable as was Captain Farmer of the _Seahorse_, for
afterwards, whilst dining with the commander-in-chief, Sir Edward
Hughes, he checked the congratulations he was being overwhelmed with by
saying that the victory was entirely owing to the heroism of a boy, a
midshipman named Trowbridge. Sir Edward was so struck and delighted that
he became the boy's fast friend, and was of signal help to him in the
earlier stages of his splendid career. These and the like are stories
which are true, and they should be made known to boys. My instances are
British; but scores of inspiriting examples may be culled from the
American records.
OWNEY, THE MAIL-DOG.
[Illustration: OWNEY.]
Had that extremely humorous cur Crab, the property of one Launce, in
Shakespeare's _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, met with an accident
terminating his career, his master could have found a successor in
Owney, the railway mail-dog, a product of our own time, who would be
fully qualified to fill the shoes, or rather the place of the other.
Owney is a terrier, now ten years old, and weighs about thirty-five
pounds. By his own exertions he has achieved a fame of which to be
proud, and as a traveller a distinction that few men can boast of. When
a pup he decided upon his vocation, and in accordance with his views he
entered the basement of the post-office at Albany and attached himself
to the regular mail service. His devotion to the self-appointed duty of
guarding mail-sacks interested the clerks, and as a reward he was
permitted to accompany them on trips in the mail-cars.
Owney recognized this as an upward step in his career, and permitting
his independence to assert itself, he would disappear for weeks at a
time, returning at last to his adopted home at Albany. The numerous
railway tags attached to his collar upon his return showed that he had
been travelling with the mails. The route his dogship selected sometimes
embraced the four extreme points of the United States, and it was, and
is, no uncommon thing to find him wearing such tags as Seattle,
Washington, Galveston, Texas, and Tampa, Florida, after one of these
trips.
One day, thinking that some mail-pouches for Washington from Albany
might contain state secrets to be zealously guarded, he assumed the
duty, and thus received his introduction to John Wanamaker, then
Postmaster-General. Mr. Wanamaker presented Owney with an elaborate
harness, and, proud of his present, the dog made an extended tour. The
weight of the tags gathered on this trip at last equalled his own, and,
unable to stand the strain, he was compelled to return home and be
relieved of his honors.
There are few post-offices and railway lines in the United States and
Canada that have not entertained Owney. His Canadian experience was,
however, a lamentable one, as a railway collision deprived him of an eye
and part of one ear. The North German Lloyd steamers have carried him as
passenger a number of times, and the P. and O. steamers took him to the
far East during the Chino-Japanese war. During this trip he inspected
the mail service of India.
Nothing will induce him to ride in any but the mail-cars, where, curled
up on the pouches, he will permit none but the mail-clerks to touch
them. These men are very fond of him, and he never lacks for attention.
He treats them all impartially, and comes and goes as he wills. As
another dog knows a bone, so Owney does a mail-sack, and he will leap
aboard the trains with them in the most unexpected places, to be always
received with delight. Duly recorded in the history of the United States
Post-office, he has its great army of employees, from the highest to the
lowest, for his firm friends.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
"Isn't it blind-man's holiday?" was John's question, as, "betwixt the
dark and the daylight," he put his head in his mother's lap, stretching
the rest of his long body meanwhile on the tiger-skin rug which lay at
her feet.
"Yes;" and immediately Mrs. Colfax laid aside her mending-basket,
touching the top pair of socks as she did so, and then followed the
words: "I've been busy with those for the last hour. Do you know you are
more destructive on socks than your father and three brothers put
together?"
"Am I, mother?" and the boy took one of her hands between his own, while
she at once ran the fingers of her other hand through his short thick
hair, remarking, "that she didn't know where it got its curly tendency
from, as none of her family could lay any claim to curls, nor the
Colfaxes either."
But John had not come to discuss his kinky locks, nor to talk about his
school affairs; on the contrary, he had something peculiarly strange to
tell to-night. In fact, nothing less than that his great chum, Hiram
Scott, was to have an "out-and-out boss party to celebrate his sixteenth
birthday."
"That means, my son would like a party on his sixteenth birthday."
"That's about the size of it, mother."
"All right. You may have one."
"Hurrah!" and John sat upright, while he eagerly explained, "But,
mother, Hiram's going to have a regular gilt-edged affair. One of the
kind you read about."
"And you wouldn't wish to be outdone by him; is that it?"
"Well--no, I wouldn't."
"Is his birthday before yours?"
"Yes; ten days."
"Has Hiram told you any particular plans about his party?"
"Why, all there are to tell, I suppose. They are to have the biggest
orchestra--harp, horn, and all that sort of thing." Then, shaking his
head impressively: "And the supper will cost one hundred dollars--maybe
two hundred. And Hiram is to have a new pair of black silk socks and
patent-leather pumps, and an elegant new dinner jacket, for the
occasion; he's to be brand-new all over, indeed, for, with a real
whipper-snapper air, he informed me he was to have awfully swell black
trousers and waistcoat, and a new black satin tie. The whole thing is to
be mighty fine, I can tell you."
"Well, it's quite impossible for you to give as costly a party as
Hiram's, for your father is a poor man in comparison to his, my son."
"I know it," and John once more threw himself forward and laid his head
on his mother's lap.
"So we must think of something fantastic and fanciful," Mrs. Colfax
resumed, "and hope that the unusualness of your party will compensate
for the expensive supper and orchestra of Hiram's."
"What would you give, mother? For you know right off I could never plan
a new party any more than if I was a--"
"A what, my son?"
"A--barber's pole--or a wax figure, or any other know-nothing thing."
"You're interested in Indians, aren't you?"
"_Indians!_" and jumping to his feet John trod forcibly across the
floor, as if he was on his way to encounter a whole tribe of them. Then
he slowly stated: "I should remark that I am. But what have Indians to
do with my party?"
"You'll see," and Mrs. Colfax, leaning back in her chair, inquired: "How
would you like to play that you are Hiawatha just for a night? In fact,
the invitations might read:
"Hiawatha
"Requests the pleasure of
"Miss B---- B----'s
"company on Monday evening,
"March nineteenth, at eight o'clock.
"Dancing, Games. Address."
[Illustration]
"Oh, go on, mother," were John's impatient words, as Mrs. Colfax
hesitated a second; "I can hardly wait," and giving a low whistle, he
shouted: "Excellent, fine, clever! Hiram is welcome to his new toggery
for aught I care; I'll appear in Indian array--eagle feathers, bead
necklaces, bracelets, moccasins, and all. What a jolly scheme!" and John
stood as erect as though his eagle plumes were already waving above his
head.
"And perhaps, since Hiram is your most intimate friend, he would take
the character of Chibiabos, for
"Very dear to Hiawatha
Was the gentle Chibiabos.
"And then another of your friends should be the very strong man Kwasind,
and then, of course, there must be Laughing Water, Minnehaha, and the
old arrow-maker, her father."
"Would it be a Hiawatha party or an Indian party?"
"Neither, John, because all of Longfellow's people should come. The only
reason I have been talking about Hiawatha was because we might as well
fix your character at once."
"Oh, that's the how of things. Are you sure there would be enough
characters to go around?"
"Without a doubt, John;" and then, with an affectionate gesture on her
big boy, Mrs. Colfax added, "I guess somebody that I know would better
read Longfellow's poems over again."
"I _am_ sort o' rusty. I suppose, too, that would be the only way to
advise a fellow as to his get-up."
"It would be the best way; for example, in the _Tales of the Wayside
Inn_ we read
"But first the Landlord will I trace;
Grave in his aspect and attire;
"and
"A youth was there of quiet ways,
A student of old books and days;
"and a
"Theologian from the school
Of Cambridge on the Charles was there.
"And a Poet, and a Spanish Jew, a young Sicilian, and a Musician, all are
minutely described."
"Will Minnehaha be the only girl, mother?"
[Illustration]
"Why, what a nonsensical question! Perhaps somebody would personate
Margaret, the Blind Girl of Castèl-Cuillè, only it would be pleasanter
to personate her before
"The dread disease that none can stay,
The pestilence that walks by night,
Took the young bride's sight away.
"And surely some mischievous girl would delight to make believe she was
"A woman bent and gray with years,
"and be the village seer. And I've just had an idea, John, that your
father can be the Master who builds the ship. You remember the way the
poem commences,
"Build me straight, O worthy Master.
[Illustration]
"And I'll dress like a young girl and be the promised bride
"Standing before
Her father's door."
"Oh, capital! What fun!" and John excitedly once more jumped to his
feet, adding, "What a jolly mother I have!"
"And, of course," Mrs. Colfax continued, "there will be a Priscilla and
an Evangeline. Indeed, you need not trouble about there not being enough
characters to go around."
"Well, granted that they all come, mother, what then?"
"Then we will give a tableau vivant, called The Children's Hour. Our
house is just the place for it."
"In what way? I don't understand."
[Illustration]
"The library can be seen from any part of the parlors. And grandpa, who
bears such a close resemblance to Longfellow, can act his character. The
library must be dimly lighted, because
"The night is beginning to lower,
"and the parlors will have to be almost dark while the tableau is shown,
otherwise we cannot see into the library. There grandpa will sit in his
favorite high chair, in the attitude of listening to the patter of
little feet above him. Some unseen person, perhaps I, will read the poem
which describes the scene, and after a while three young girls,
"Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair,
[Illustration]
"will be heard descending our long stairs, and they will make a rush from
the stairway through the hall and climb over the arms and back of his
chair. Trust me, John, the tableau will be very pretty. I know exactly
how to arrange it, and if I did not, there is a fine illustration in the
edition that your father gave me last Christmas. Besides, grandpa will
enjoy it so much. Indeed, it was only the other day that he told me that
his party days were over."
"I'm so glad you thought of putting grandpa in, mother. But after the
tableau?"
"After the tableau it will be a Children's Hour in very truth--games,
songs, dances, and supper. During the dance immediately preceding the
supper, paper hats will be given as favors, which everybody will don,
excepting when, like yourself, their eagle plumes would interfere. In
that case they can suspend them from the arm. The girls will wear
broad-brimmed hats, and the boys, turbans; and the boy must invite the
girl who has the same colored hat as himself to go to supper."
"But where are all these hats to come from? I guess you're the one
that's forgetting that papa isn't rich."
And Mrs. Colfax, throwing back her head, laughed merrily. When she
recovered herself she exclaimed: "Why, John, I'll make the hats. It will
only be a little bit of fun for me, and all the paper put together
wouldn't cost a dollar."
"I know the fellows will just think you're a beaut--y." For it was very
difficult for John not to use slang.
But Mrs. Colfax talked on regardless of her son's interruptions, and
therefore it was that John learned that both the Longfellow and birthday
schemes should unite in the supper-room.
"For example, The Children's Hour would appear in large letters over the
mantel-piece. The letters could be cut out of card-board and covered
with asparagus, which should be tacked on with green silk. Then candy
could be twisted to represent a coil of rope, and a candy man to
represent the Skipper. Another candy man would be called the Village
Blacksmith, and a chocolate man the Black Knight, and so on. Tiny
papers, similar in size to motto papers, should be glued at one end to
these figures, thus introducing them. The large cakes should be iced
around with flowers, for Longfellow wrote, 'Everywhere about us are they
glowing,' and the ice-cream models should be as appropriate as the
caterer could arrange. A ship would be a fine example; so would a bell,
the Curfew Bell; an arrow, The Arrow and the Song; and a clock, The Old
Clock on the Stairs.
"And the birthday feature, John, should be indicated by the flower for
your month; you were born in March, therefore your birthday flower is
violet. Violet-colored satin ribbon might be used to decorate the table,
and potted palms, etc., could stand in violet crépon paper pots, but,
nevertheless, real violets must show themselves as freely as we can
afford them." And Mrs. Colfax smoothed back the hair from her son's
forehead.
"I never knew that before."
"Never knew what?"
"That everybody had a birthday flower. What are the flowers for the
other months?"
"April, daisies; May, hawthorn; June, roses; August, poppies; September,
convolvulus; October, hops; November, chrysanthemums; December, holly;
January, snow-drops; February, primroses."
"I like my flower best, don't you."
"Yes, I think I do. But I must talk more about the party. At the supper
table each one in turn must tell his or her character."
"Cannot people guess before?"
"They can guess all they like, John, if they will whisper. Part of the
amusement at such a party is to discover your friends."
"What about games, mother?"
"Try the Cent Hunt. Say that a cent is wrapped in violet tissue-paper,
and is within sight. The discoverer quietly tells you, and if he is
correct, present him with a boutonnière of violets. Afterwards give a
cent, pencil, and paper to everybody, and state five minutes are allowed
to write what each side of the cent will tell. This game is called A
Penny for your Thoughts.
"Find on one side: A beverage--T. A messenger--one c(s)ent. A piece of
armor--shield. A symbol of victory--wreath. A weapon--arrow. A mode of
punishment--stripes. A gallant--bow. A sheet of water--C.
"Find on the other side: A portion of a hill--brow. A place of
worship--temple. An animal--hare. Youth and old age--18-96. One way of
expressing marriage--U. S. A cultivated flower--tulip. An emblem of
royalty--crown. Fruit--date.
"And afterwards play Stage-Coach, but, John, you know that game."
"Here comes father; shall we tell him?"
"Wait until to-morrow."
THE MIDDLETON BOWL.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER III.
"What did you tell them anything for? I knew you would. A girl can't
keep anything dark."
"I didn't tell. They found it out themselves."
"How could they? They would never have known it was broken if you hadn't
told, and they would never have known about the currant-bushes."
"They found a little bit of the china that I never saw at all, and I had
to tell about the currant-bushes, because Aunt Tom said that I had
something under my apron, and saw us go to the currant-bushes. They
asked me, and I had to answer. They think I did it. They don't believe
me when I say I didn't. It isn't a bit nice not to be believed."
"Then you didn't say anything about--about anybody else?"
"Of _course_ not!"
Theodora and Arthur were again in the garden. It was afternoon now of
the day upon which the bowl was broken, and Theodora, after spending
several hours in retirement, had been allowed to come out to get the
air.
After their return to the house her aunts had tried in vain to extract
something from her in regard to the accident. "I did not break the
bowl," was all that she could be induced to say. Each aunt tried in turn
to vary this reply, but with no success.
Finally, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, Miss Middleton said:
"I think, sisters, that the best plan will be to send Theodora to her
own room to think over the wicked falsehood which I am afraid she is
telling. You will remember that when we were young our parents were of
the opinion that solitary confinement was the wisest mode of
punishment."
"They occasionally used a slipper," remarked Miss Joanna.
"But I scarcely like to use a slipper with Theodore's child."
"No! no!" cried Miss Dorcas, Miss Melissa, and Miss Thomasine, with one
voice.
"So, Theodora, you may go to your room," continued Miss Middleton. "I
hope that when you come out you will be ready to confess."
Theodora stood for a moment looking from one to the other of the five
faces.
"I sha'n't do any such thing," she said. "I can't confess what I didn't
do. If my mother were here she would believe me. If you were to keep me
shut up in the room for weeks and weeks, when I came out I should say
the same thing. Please excuse me for being disrespectful, but I think,
except Aunt Tom, you are very disagreeable aunts, especially Aunt
Joanna. I think I would rather live with people that were no relation to
me."
So saying, she walked from their presence and went to her own room, and
again shut and bolted the door. At dinner-time a tray containing several
slices of dry bread and a glass of water was placed outside, and Mary
Ann's voice told her that her dinner was waiting. For some time Teddy
refused to open, but finally her hunger overcame her pride, and she took
the tray into her room, and just as she finished Miss Thomasine came to
the door and tapped gently.
"Teddy, my dear," she said, in a low voice, at the key-hole, "let me
in--your aunt Tom."
And Teddy again opened the door.
"Oh, my dear, how you have been crying!" said gentle little Miss
Thomasine. "I am so grieved about it all. Teddy, if you will only tell
us the truth, even now we will forgive you. Tell me quietly how it
happened."
"Aunt Tom, I can't make up a story. I didn't break the bowl. Why don't
you believe me? There are other people in the world besides me! Why
don't you think that some one else did it? Why am I the only person that
could have broken it?"
"My dear, you forget that the evidence against you is very strong. When
I came down stairs to go with you to the garden you came out of the
parlor with the pieces of china in your hand, hidden under your apron.
Why did you take the trouble to hide them, or to touch them at all, if
you were not the one who broke the bowl?"
Theodora was silent for a few minutes. She stood gazing at her aunt,
looking straight from her fearless brown eyes into Miss Thomasine's
gentle blue ones.
"That is true," she said at last. "It does seem queer. But, for all
that, I didn't break the bowl, Aunt Tom."
"Then can you not tell me who did?"
"No, I can't tell you who did," she said. "But do you believe me now,
Aunt Tom?"
"Yes, my dear, I do."
And then Theodora burst into tears, and hid her face in her aunt's lap.
[Illustration: "IT WAS SO TERRIBLE TO FEEL THAT NO ONE BELIEVED ME," SHE
SOBBED.]
"Oh, I am so glad!" she sobbed. "It was so terrible to feel that no one
believed me in this whole house."
After a while Miss Thomasine returned to her sisters, and told them of
her change of opinion. Needless to say no one agreed with her, and it
required some determination on her part to remain firm in her
conviction. It was not so easy to believe her niece guiltless when she
was confronted by four somewhat obstinate ladies, as it had been when
she was looking into Theodora's fearlessly truthful eyes.
But Miss Thomasine did not falter, and she finally succeeded in
obtaining her sisters' consent to the proposition that their niece
should be released from solitary confinement, and allowed to go out into
the fresh air.
"For she is not accustomed to it, and I am afraid it will make her ill,"
urged Miss Thomasine, "and then what would Theodore and sister Gertrude
say?"
At hearing which the others relented.
Theodora, upon being liberated, went at once to the garden, and here she
found Arthur Hoyt awaiting her. He was leaning over the wall, looking
sullenly toward Teddy as she approached.
"I thought you were never coming," he said. "What made you so long?"
"I've been shut up," returned Teddy. "They won't believe I didn't do
it--except Aunt Tom. She believes me, but no one else will."
"What did you tell them?"
"That I didn't do it."
"Nothing else?"
"Of _course_ not."
And then ensued the conversation with which this chapter opens.
Arthur Hoyt was eleven years old. He was the fifth member of this large
family, Paul, Charlie, Clement, and Raymond being older than he. Paul
was nearly eighteen, and it had been an act of great condescension on
his part to join in the funeral festivities of the morning; but, in
spite of the fact that he was to enter Harvard this fall, he secretly
loved an old-fashioned romp with his four brethren, though he would not
have confessed it for the world.
The boys were all lions of health and strength, with the exception of
Arthur. He had always been delicate, and in consequence had been greatly
indulged by his parents. His brothers were in the habit of treating him
with more consideration than they showed to one another, looking upon
him perhaps as they would have looked upon a sister. When Teddy came to
Alden and they first made her acquaintance, they fancied that "all she
would be good for," as they expressed it, would be to play quiet games
with Arthur, but they soon found out their mistake.
Teddy was as much of a "jolly good fellow" as her name implied. She
could run, she could row, she could play ball with the best of them, and
the boys had not recovered even yet from their astonishment at this
state of affairs. The Misses Middletons' niece as much of a fellow as
any of them! And they accordingly received her into their midst on terms
of absolute equality.
"I'm glad you didn't say anything about any one else," said Arthur, when
he had heard Teddy's assurance that she had told nothing. He looked
about apprehensively, as if he feared some one might be hidden in the
same currant-bushes which had sheltered the broken bowl. "I'll do
something nice for you, Teddy. Would you like to ride my wheel?"
"Arthur! Do you really mean it?"
"Of course I do," said he, magnanimously. "I've never let you before,
because I was afraid you'd bang it over the first thing and smash it;
but I guess you'll be careful."
It was the dearest wish of Theodora's heart to learn to ride. She had
intended to ask her aunts' permission that very day; in fact, she had
gone back to the house with Miss Thomasine for that especial purpose;
and then had come the fatal discovery about the bowl, and everything
else had been forgotten.
This was a fine opportunity to try it, for Arthur was not always in such
an amiable mood. Perhaps he never again would offer to lend her his
wheel and to teach her. The other boys owned bicycles, to be sure, but
it was always hard to find them at liberty. There was usually something
of importance to be done, and Theodora had noticed that neither of them
seemed anxious to lend his wheel to a beginner. Charlie had offered,
though, that morning, and she had lost the rare chance by going into the
house to ask permission. She concluded not to let another opportunity
slip; so, after giving the matter brief consideration, she joyfully
accepted Arthur's overture, with or without her aunts' approval.
"Come over the wall, then," said he. "The best place for you to learn is
on our drive. I'll try and find one of the other fellows to help teach
you; for of course you'll go tumbling all over everywhere, and we might
as well try to save the wheel."
Teddy wondered if no effort was to be made to save her as well as the
wheel; but she said nothing, and quickly climbed the wall.
The Misses Middleton meanwhile were discussing the situation.
"I know the child is speaking the truth," said Miss Thomasine, again and
again. "Some one else is responsible for the accident. Now let us
consider who it can have been."
"Not one of the servants, I am sure," said Miss Middleton. "They have
lived with us too long for us not to know that they would confess if
they were guilty; and who else has been in the house to-day?"
Miss Melissa suddenly started forward.
"Sister Adaline, you forget! Some one--there have been others! Do you
not remember?"
"Others? What others?"
"Surely you remember!"
"Melissa, do be more explicit, I beg of you!" cried Miss Joanna. "It is
so easy to say what you mean, if you would only try it. Who else has
been in the house?"
"Dear Joanna, you are so abrupt! Dorcas, you remember?"
But Miss Dorcas had discovered a mistake in her knitting, and was busy
counting.
"Four, five, six, seven," she said aloud, to show them that she could
not speak.
"I am astonished that you have the heart to knit, when the Middleton
bowl is broken, Dorcas!" exclaimed Miss Joanna. "Melissa, kindly tell us
what you mean."
But her sister's manner was apt to frighten the faltering Melissa, and
she was now looking for her salts.
"I think I know whom Melissa means," said Miss Thomasine, suddenly. "Two
or three of the Hoyt boys accompanied Theodora when she came with the
cat."
Miss Melissa nodded. There was not a sound for a moment, the new idea
presented by this recollection was so astounding.
"Do you think--" began Miss Joanna, and then stopped, for once unable to
finish her speech.
"It might be," whispered Miss Middleton.
"It seems really--but then--perhaps--" murmured Miss Melissa.
"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I should not be surprised," said Miss
Dorcas, laying down her needles at last.
"I am sure that it was not Theodora," repeated Miss Thomasine, more
earnestly than ever.
"There were several boys in the house," continued Miss Joanna, "and I
should not be at all surprised. Adaline, suppose we order the carriage
at once and drive to Mrs. Hoyt's. What do you think of it?"
"Quite right, Joanna. You and I will go, and Thomasine."
And they at once made ready for the call.
Although it was but a short distance to their neighbor's house, it did
not occur to the ladies to walk. They took a certain amount of exercise
on their own place every morning and afternoon, but a call would have
been shorn of half of its formality did they not go in their carriage,
and the Misses Middleton were nothing if not formal.
They had left their own domain, and were being driven slowly along the
bit of road which lay between their gates and those of their neighbor,
when, with a rapid whiz, a bicycle flew past them, followed by another
and another.
"It is a custom which is very alarming," remarked Miss Middleton.
"There seemed to be a girl on one of them," said Miss Joanna. "So very
unladylike!"
Miss Thomasine said nothing, but she leaned out of the carriage and
looked after the rapidly receding figures. She was quite certain that
she recognized that short scarlet skirt and that flying brown hair, but
she dared not name her fears.
Presently the carriage drew up at Mrs. Hoyt's front steps. There were no
boys to be seen but Arthur, who disconsolately leaned over the piazza
railing. Teddy had ridden away on his wheel, accompanied by two of his
brothers, and there was nothing for him to do but to await their return.
When he saw the approach of the Misses Middleton he turned and fled.
"I wonder where Theodora is?" remarked Miss Middleton. "I hoped to find
her with Arthur--such a nice, quiet little boy. Where can she be?"
And still Miss Thomasine held her peace.
Mrs. Hoyt was at home, and the ladies were ushered into the parlor.
"Sister, you must be the one to speak," said Miss Joanna to Miss
Middleton, "and I will help you when it is necessary." And neither of
her hearers doubted that she would.
It was difficult to open the subject; for Mrs. Hoyt, filled with
trepidation at being caught unawares by her stately neighbors, talked
with nervous haste. The parlor was in sad confusion, having lately been
the scene of a bear-fight, carried on by several of her boys. She
herself had not yet dressed for the afternoon, and she was wondering if
the Misses Middleton would discover the fact. Fortunately her gingham
gown was well made and clean; still, it was a gingham, and it was
afternoon, and Mrs. Hoyt had lived long enough in Alden to know Alden
ideas.
But the Misses Middleton did not notice. They were trying to find a
means of stemming the tide of Mrs. Hoyt's conversation.
"We have come on a matter of importance," said Miss Middleton at last.
"I think, Joanna, we may call it important?" looking at her sister.
"Very important," said she, with emphasis.
"Very important," echoed Miss Thomasine, more mildly, plucking nervously
at the folds of her camel's-hair shawl.
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Hoyt. "Is there anything I can do for you? You seem
troubled about something. I hope nothing has happened?"
There was a slight noise at the back of the room at this juncture, and
Miss Middleton, who was about to speak, stopped abruptly.
"It is only Arthur, probably," said his mother. "Arthur dear, come speak
to the Miss Middletons."
But no Arthur was forth-coming, so Miss Middleton began again.
"We have met with a great loss. You have heard of--in fact, I know you
have seen--the Middleton bowl."
"I should think so! My dear Miss Middleton, you don't mean to say that
anything has happened to that? Oh, how shocking! Is it broken, or has it
been stolen?"
"It is broken. It would almost have been better had it been stolen. Do
you not agree with me, Joanna?"
"I do," said Miss Joanna. Miss Thomasine did not speak.
"For there is a great mystery connected with it," continued the speaker.
"We cannot discover who broke it."
"Could it have been one of the servants?" asked Mrs. Hoyt, eagerly. "Oh,
that beautiful bowl! so valuable! so exquisite! It must have been one of
the servants."
"It was not," snapped Miss Joanna. "They have lived with us from fifteen
to thirty years, and they were all in another part of the house when it
happened. It was some one else."
"We thought at first that it must have been our niece, Theodora,"
continued Miss Middleton. "There were certain circumstances which led us
to suspect her very strongly; but she declares that she did not do it,
and our sister Thomasine is inclined to believe her."
"I am quite sure that Theodora did not break the bowl," said Miss
Thomasine, quietly but firmly.
"Then who could have done it?" asked Mrs. Hoyt.
There was a profound silence in the room, while the three sisters looked
at one another. Twice Miss Middleton essayed to speak, but her voice
failed her, and she coughed instead. Miss Thomasine pulled off her
gloves, quite unconscious that she was committing such a breach of
etiquette. Miss Joanna at length recovered her usual courage.
"We think, Mrs. Hoyt," said she, clearly, and with emphasis, nodding her
head in time to her words, and causing her spectacles to flash
ominously--"we think that it may have been one of your sons."
Mrs. Hoyt was speechless, and she grew very pale.
"What makes you think so?" she asked at length. Even Miss Joanna quailed
before the light that was in her eyes.
"Because," she faltered--"because some of them were in our house this
morning."
"Miss Middleton, I think I can safely say that if one of my boys were
responsible for such a misfortune, he would be enough of a gentleman to
acknowledge it and to apologize. However, I will question them in your
presence--that is, if they can be found. Ah, there they come now, up the
drive, and Teddy is with them. They have been teaching her to ride the
bicycle."
She left the room as she spoke. The Misses Middleton looked at one
another.
"Our niece on a bicycle!" murmured Miss Middleton.
"I believe it was she whom we met," exclaimed Miss Joanna. "I believe
also that she, and she alone, broke the bowl. This only goes to prove
it."
"How does it prove it, Joanna?" asked Miss Thomasine; but Miss Joanna
merely glared at her through the gleaming spectacles.
Clement and Raymond came quickly into the house in response to their
mother's call, followed closely by Theodora, who was fully prepared to
find her aunts in the parlor, for she had seen the waiting carriage. The
boys took off their caps, and politely shook hands with each of the
ladies. Their manners were good, as even their natural enemies, the
Misses Middleton, had always been forced to admit.
"Which of you were at Miss Middleton's house to-day?" asked Mrs. Hoyt.
"Clem, and I, and Arthur," said Raymond.
"Where is Arthur now?"
"He's round here somewhere. We left him here when we went off with Ted.
She was on his wheel; and, mother, she rides as well as a fellow. She
went right straight off instanter."
The three Misses Middleton groaned audibly, while their niece flushed
with pleasure at this hearty praise. Mrs. Hoyt did not pause, however.
"I am afraid Arthur is hiding somewhere. I am quite sure he is in the
room. Please look for him, as he has not the civility to come when his
mother calls him."
Raymond and Clem made a dash for the back of the room, where they at
once discovered the missing Arthur, and dragged him from his retreat. He
came forward, banging his head and looking the picture of misery. His
mother glanced at him reproachfully, upon seeing which Arthur looked
more miserable still.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XIV.
A BEGGAR A-HORSEBACK.
I knew, however, that I was in Gloucestershire; and from a sign-post,
pointing the way I came the night gone, I learned that I had passed the
towns of Thornbery and Slimbridge. I was cogitating over how to get a
bit to eat when something happened that put even hunger out of my
head--I heard the tooting of a horn! Turning about, I saw the coach
coming up a little hill, swinging along at a good pace, with the leaders
in a gallop.
The boldest course was the best, so I leaned against a stone post that
had cut in it "Eight miles to Hardwick," and waited for the mail to come
up. The driver, a ruddy-faced individual in a multitude of cloaks and a
wide beaver, caught my intention.
"Are ye off to Gloucester, lad?" he cried, drawing up.
"Ay," I answered. "Hold up there, and I'll take a passage."
There were but three beside the guard on top, and I clambered over the
wheel up to the front seat before the coach had lost its headway. I
feared most dreadfully that the driver would begin to question me at
once, but, thank the powers, he did not. Keeping up a continuous
clicking sound against his teeth, and gracefully flourishing the
long-lashed whip, and catching the leaders now and again with the end of
it most cleverly, he drove ahead without speaking.
Now all the time I was wondering how I was going to pay the fare, when
the red-faced man made this matter smooth sailing.
"'E better get off before we get into the town, laad," he said, "then we
won't ask noo fare o' ye."
"Thanks, very much," I said.
"Not a bit, not a bit," he returned. "A soldier on a spree wants all 'e
can spend, eh?"
I nodded, and for an hour we drove on in silence. For a long time there
had been visible a great square tower rising above the stretches of
vineyards, corn-lands, and gardens. The country was interspersed with
rich pastures in which fat, broad-backed sheep were grazing. How I drank
in all the sights and sounds, craning my neck and straining my eyes and
ears! Beautiful residences of the aristocracy, with wide-spreading
parks, were frequent on each side of the highway, and soon scattered
houses overgrowing with vines proclaimed that we were on the outskirts
of the town. That the tower that was in sight belonged to some great
church was very plain, but I feared to ask about it. The driver pulled
up his horses, and understanding him to mean that my ride was over, I
descended, after an expression of my gratitude.
The coach was barely out of sight when I saw ahead of me the swinging
sign-board of an inn. My desire to feed was so strong that I fished out
the gold piece from my catch-all, and determined to purchase a breakfast
if it took the last penny.
Walking up to the entrance to the "Moon and Starfish," I went inside the
tap-room, and found that the people of the inn were up and stirring.
Calling for the landlord, I seated myself at a table by the window, and
a flood of self-conceit came over me so that I almost gibbered with
delight.