Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 44. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 31, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
CLAUDINE'S DOVES.
BY MRS. E. W. LATIMER.
A few days since, as I was driving in the Bois de Boulogne with a
friend, a slender, sweet young girl was pointed out to me. She was
walking beside her mother, and there was a loving, tender look in her
blue eyes, a shrinking modesty in her deportment, which interested me
at the first glance. She was apparently about fifteen. I observed to the
friend who pointed her out to me that she was fair, modest, and pretty.
"Yes," he replied, "and she is the heroine of a very pretty story."
Eight years ago her father and mother occupied an _appartement_, or
flat, in the Rue de Rivoli. Part of the Rue de Rivoli has houses only on
one side; the other is bordered by a high iron railing with gilt
spear-heads, inclosing the Garden of the Tuileries. At one point (which
was nearly opposite the house where Claudine lived) one tall pavilion of
the palace abutted on the sidewalk. The Rue de Rivoli is the most
beautiful street in Paris. The windows of the sitting-room of Claudine's
mother looked over the palace and its gardens, its chestnut-trees and
its fountains, the Seine and its quays, with a more distant view of the
Place de la Concorde and its obelisk, the Chambers of the Legislature,
and the gilded dome of the Tuileries. Every procession passed under
Claudine's windows. No little girl, I think, who lives in rooms
overlooking the Rue de Rivoli would wish to exchange them for any other
home.
Claudine's parents, though of good birth and education, were not rich;
they lived on the third story. They had only one old servant. Claudine's
mother was her daughter's nurse and governess. Till the German army
marched on Paris they had a peaceful, refined, and happy home.
At the moment of which I am about to write, the siege had ceased, and
the terrible days of the Commune were almost over. The little family
began to breathe more freely--only in a certain sense, however, for they
were all gathered together in a little close room, which would have
looked into the court-yard of their house had not its windows been
blocked up by pillows, mattresses, and furniture. They dared not look
into the street, they dared not go into their own sitting-room, for the
Versailles troops were entering Paris, bomb-shells were bursting in all
directions, and volleys of musketry were being fired round every street
corner. Paris was like a city expecting to be sacked, with the
additional horror that each man's foes might be those of his own
household.
Of a sudden they began to feel a stifling heat. Thick smoke rose all
around them. There was the sickening and suggestive smell of coal-oil in
the air. Claudine's father felt that he must know what was going on. To
look out of the windows might be death to all of them; still he ran into
the sitting-room, tore down the beds and pillows from a window, and
looked out on the Rue de Rivoli.
The palace before him was in flames. As he looked, the fire swept over
the venerable gray pile. Forked tongues of flame darted higher than the
Mansard roofs of its tall towers, and threatened the stores and
dwelling-houses across the way. Claudine's father looked below into the
street: there was no safety there. The men and women of the
neighborhood, driven from their rooms by falling fiery flakes from the
high roofs of the old palace, clustered together under shelter of the
great _porte cocheres_--by which carriages drive into the court-yards of
French houses under the rooms of the first story. Muskets, rifles, and
mitrailleuses swept the street. To venture into it seemed sure
destruction. To stay beneath their blazing roof would expose them all to
perish in the flames. Bomb-shells were falling constantly to right and
left, knocking off pieces of the cornices of lofty, stately houses,
tearing off their iron balconies, and scattering shattered fragments of
wood, window-glass, iron, and plaster on the pavement.
The father of Claudine, aghast with fear and horror, stepped back into
the sitting-room. "I see no escape for us," he cried.
At that moment hoarse shouts below them in the court-yard announced that
a party of insurgents, accompanied by a band of the fiendish women they
called _petroleuses_, had burst into the house that they inhabited.
Already the dangerous fluid from which these women took their name was
being poured over the wood-work of the staircase and the two lower
_appartements_.
A cry ran through the house of "Save yourselves!" Claudine's father
gathered together some important papers, some money, and a few jewels.
The mother and her old servant spread a blanket on the floor, and flung
into it such objects as they could gather up in haste, tying it by the
four corners. As to Claudine, frantic with terror, she ran into her
bedroom and brought out what she valued most--a cage containing two
young turtle-doves. They were her only pets. She loved them better than
anything else in the world, except old Clemence and her father and
mother.
The torches of the Communards had already set fire to the wood-work
saturated with coal-oil. Flames were breaking out in every direction.
The inhabitants of the doomed houses were forced to make their way into
the street, or stay to be burned alive. The first to rush down the
staircase was Claudine, cage in hand. She ran into the street. A
bomb-shell burst as she reached it, and her terrified parents saw her
drop upon the sidewalk, while the cage fell at some distance, rolling
away out of her hand.
When her father saw her dead, as he supposed, he rushed into the street,
undaunted by the bursting of the shell, and picking up her body,
retreated with it under shelter of the _porte cochere_.
But Claudine was not dead, nor even wounded. She had fainted with
fright, and as her parents hung over her with tender words, she opened
her blue eyes and smiled at them. A moment after, she remembered her
dear doves. Before any one could stop her or forbid her she ran back
into the street through bullets thick as hail, caught up her cage, and
ran back with her recovered treasures. A _petroleuse_ who had seen her
stopped as she was setting fire to some furniture, and cried out, with a
mocking laugh,
"What was the use of running out to pick up those? They will be roast
birds anyhow in the next half-hour."
On hearing these cruel words little Claudine began to comprehend for the
first time the greatness of the danger. She drew back, darted a look of
reproach at the vile woman who stood laughing at her trouble, and then,
with the big tears rolling down her cheeks, "God will know how to keep
them safe," she said, and opened the cage door. The doves flew out. They
poised themselves a moment; then they rose into the air, and flew away
to seek a purer sky above the clouds of smoke and sulphur. In spite of
what the cruel woman said, the doves were saved.
A few moments later a drum was heard advancing up the street. The
drummers marched at the head of a body of troops--the soldiers had
come! "_Vive l'armee!_" cried the frightened householders.
In an instant _petroleuses_, robbers, and insurgents scattered in all
directions. It is a queer sight to see a French crowd run when the
troops charge. _Now_, however, every soldier "thought on vengeance." The
incendiaries dropped fast before the iron hail.
Meantime all hands were busy putting out the flames. The fire was at
last got under. The furniture and wood-work of the first and second
stories were badly burned and broken, but the rest of the house was
saved.
Claudine and her family went back into their rooms, and let in the light
of day, the father and mother blessing God for the timely arrival of the
troops who had saved all Paris from fire and pillage. By degrees they
grew more calm. But one sad heart was inconsolable. Claudine's share in
the great catastrophe which had almost laid Paris "even with the ground"
was the loss of her dear turtle-doves.
The next morning when she came out early on the balcony to look at the
blackened ruins of the noble palace, and to mourn for her lost
favorites, she uttered a cry of joy. Her doves sat on the railing of the
balcony. They had flown back to their little mistress and their home.
"Mamma! mamma!" she cried, "God has sent me back my doves!" and her
little heart recovered the happiness that in her inexperience she
fancied had been lost forever.
JOHNNY'S SONG.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
"Come, now, Johnny, sing me a song--
Sing me a song," said Mabel.
"I will," said Johnny, whose voice was strong,
"For I'm the boy that is able."
So he sang, and whistled, and sang again,
Till all the woods were a-ringing,
And Mabel frowned, and began to complain,
"Why, Johnny, what's that you're singing?"
"Don't you like it?" said Johnny Stout
(Mabel her laugh must smother),
As he straightened himself in his roundabout,
And said, "I'll sing you another."
He sang and whistled with might and main,
Till Mabel's ears were a-ringing,
And she stopped them up, and exclaimed again
"Why, Johnny, what are you singing?"
"That's _Pinafore_," said Johnny Stout,
Who thought himself quite clever;
"You've heard it often enough, no doubt."
Said Mabel, "N--hardly ever."
And she made up her mind that never again
Would she ask Minnie Stout's big brother
To sing her a song, when 'twas very plain
He knew not one tune from another.
VIOLA'S SKETCH.
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
We had been staying at Dinan, a pretty and cheap little summer
resting-place in Brittany, and so picturesque were the costumes of the
peasantry that Viola, my sister, was fascinated, and her sketch-book was
getting crammed, while I, more frivolous, was longing to be in Paris,
where I could go to the Bon Marche, see the newest fashions, and hear
the latest doings and sayings of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt.
Viola was always more sensible in some things than I, but she was weak
on jugs, and mugs, and rugs, and picturesque old rags, and old women,
and children; therefore it was no surprise to me, when we were on the
road to the railway station, and our trunks already well on the way
toward Paris, to have her insist upon stopping to find out what was the
matter with a child who was crying bitterly. When, however, Viola
discovered that the child was the grand-daughter of old Margot, who had
been our "maid-of-everything" at the little cottage which aunt had hired
for the season, who had cooked for us, and washed for us, and gone to
market for us, at some ridiculously low wages, there was no use in
arguing with her; stop she would, and alight she would from the queer
old conveyance we were in--for it was not the day for the diligence--and
aunt had to wait, nolens volens--and that means willingly if you choose,
and unwillingly if you don't choose--and I had to wait, and I had to do
all the scolding, for aunt is as meek as a turtle-dove. And after a
while both aunt and I were just as much interested as was Viola, and
there were we three all listening to little Suzette, forgetful of the
train and of Paris.
Suzette had ceased crying, and was pulling a flower to pieces as she
told us of her trouble. Margot had been obliged to remain away from home
on account of our intended departure, and she had left orders, strict
orders, for Jacques, Suzette's brother, not to do this, nor that, nor
the other--in fact, had forbidden so many things that poor little
Suzette knew not what was the thing he could do; nevertheless Jacques
insisted upon doing just as he pleased, and Suzette and he had a
quarrel. Suzette wished him to obey his grandmother; he called his
grandmother an old witch, and said Suzette was her cat, and that as for
voice and eyes, their cat had much finer ones. Then they had even worse
words, and she had pulled his hair, and he had banged the door, and said
he was going to drown himself; and he had come down to the pond, for she
had run after him, and she was sure--yes, positively sure--that her
brother was dead, and she should never see him again.
"But, Suzette," said Viola, "he may be hiding just to tease you."
"No, ma'm'selle, he has not wit enough for that; he has a tender heart,
and I was cruel to him, and of course being desolate from my unkindness,
he has effaced himself."-And then she burst out sobbing again.
"Oh, come, Viola," said I; "the child believes this to be true; let us
prove to her that it is not so. The pond is small; we will hunt high and
low for him. You take one bank, I will take the other, and between us
Jacques can not escape."
Aunt made a feeble expostulation about the train.
"The train, madame," said I, grandly, "can wait. When humanity demands
our time, there should be no thought of personal convenience. You see
this weeping girl, you hear what it is that causes her tears; how, then,
can you suggest to us the idea of evading responsibility?"
Then aunt feebly again murmured, "Dinner."
"Ah, then, ma chere tante, behold the immense luncheon Margot has
provided--good Margot, to whom we wish to render this service!" This was
from Viola; and all the while Suzette was sobbing.
"Adieu," I cried, tucking up my skirts, and running to the pond. Viola
followed me; but so lost was she in admiration of the water plants and
lilies, that had it not been for me she would have sat down and sketched
them whether Jacques drowned or not. I hurried her off, telling her the
child might be just at the last gasp, and we must hasten.
So Viola took one bank and I the other. Every other moment I shouted,
"Have you found him?"
"No-oo," came back to me.
"Neither have I," was my response.
I had a little ivory-handled riding-whip with me, and I began to beat
the bushes. Viola was now too far away to hear me, so instead of calling
to her I screamed,
"Jacques! Jacques! unless you are drowned, do answer me. Good Jacques,
dear Jacques, where are you?"
There was no reply; but the wind sighed in the trees, and the water
lapped softly on the margin of the pond. I began to have some fears of
my own. What if I should come suddenly upon the boy just as he was
sinking, the bubbles perhaps dancing up to the surface of the water?
Could I do anything to save him? could I swim? Alas! I could swim in a
bathing tank, with some one to hold up my chin. What should I do? would
my screams be heard half a mile away?
As I thought thus I again began beating the bushes, which were thick
along the edge of the water, and at the same moment a loud something,
neither a scream nor a groan, saluted my ears. I stood amazed; I could
not scream; and instantly a voice said:
"Ah, what a fine fellow I have lost! that was too bad!" and a scrubby
little head appeared above the bushes. "Is it you, ma'm'selle? I beg
pardon. I have caused you to be frightened; but you have caused me to
lose the finest frog in Brittany."
"Oh, Jacques! naughty Jacques!" I faltered, as well as my beating heart
would allow, "how could you serve us all in this way?"
"In what way, ma'm'selle?" replied the muddy creature, holding up a frog
he was in the act of skinning.
"Why, we thought--that is, we feared--or rather Suzette said, you meant
to drown yourself."
"I!" exclaimed this _gamin_, in the most innocent and artless manner.
"Yes, you. Did you not tell her so?"
"In a moment of excitement I may have uttered a careless expression,"
said the youth, peeling the frog's leg carefully. "Suzette is weak, like
all women--begging your pardon, ma'm'selle--she believes all that we men
say. She, in truth, irritated me, and I was cross. But I had promised
Monsieur le Cure that he should have a fine mess of frogs to-day, and it
was a good chance for me to get them; therefore I came to the pond, and
left Suzette to recover her composure."
I had recovered mine by this time, but I knew not whether to laugh or to
be angry; so I said, "Do you find your conscience tranquil when you
utter a falsehood?"
"Oh no, ma'm'selle, never; but this was a jest, done just to make
Suzette behave herself. She will not scold me again very soon." And with
that he strung his frogs together, slung them over his shoulder, and was
marching off.
"Come, come," said I, "you must go with me and show yourself."
"As ma'm'selle pleases," was the cool response, and we trudged back
toward the road.
[Illustration: SUZETTE.--DRAWN BY THEO. ROBINSON.]
I expected to find Suzette still sobbing, and Viola in hysterics; but
what were they doing? Suzette was posing, and Viola making a picture of
her--the cap and the sabots had been too tempting. Viola had given up
searching for the truant boy, and was trying to secure a correct sketch
of his sister. Suzette looked "all smiles" at seeing Jacques, and would
have embraced him, but Viola would not let her stir.
It is needless to say that we lost the train, that aunt mildly lectured
us, that Jacques and Suzette begged ten thousand pardons, and filled the
carriage with water-lilies. We had to stop at the cure's to return some
books he had lent us; and when we told him the story, he made us dine
with him, and I must confess that I ate some of Jacques's frog legs, and
that they were delicious.
[Begun in No. 31 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER XIV.
The boys had been on their island for more than a week when they
resolved to make an excursion to Schroon, which was the nearest village,
in order to get some sugar, coffee, and other necessaries. Schroon Lake,
or rather the lower end of it, was not more than five miles from Brandt
Lake; but there was a range of high hills between the two, and the
village of Schroon was situated at the head of the lake, which was
nearly ten miles in length. A long and tiresome journey was, therefore,
before them, and they ought to have started early in the morning; but
they did not start until nearly eleven o'clock. Harry, Tom, and Joe were
to go to Schroon together, and Jim was to stay at the island until six
o'clock, when he was to row over to the west shore and bring the others
back to the camp.
[Illustration: BIDDING JIM GOOD-BY--DRAWN BY A. B. FROST.]
When they bade good-by to Jim, the three other boys assured him that
they would certainly be back as early as six o'clock, and warned him not
to fail to meet them with the boat. They then started to cross the
hills, following a foot-path that was so little used that it was hardly
visible. Unfortunately the path led through a thicket of raspberry
bushes, and the fruit was so tempting that the boys lost a good deal of
time by stopping to gather it. After a tiresome tramp under the mid-day
sun they reached the lower end of Schroon Lake, where they hired a crank
little row-boat, and rowed up to Schroon. There was a fresh northerly
breeze which delayed them; and the spray from the bow of the boat
sprinkled them, so that they were uncomfortably wet when they reached
the village. By this time they were very hungry as well as tired, and so
they went to the hotel for dinner. It was half past six o'clock when
they started to row down the lake, and several men who saw them warned
them that they were running a great risk in attempting to return at so
late an hour.
The trip down the lake was certainly a rather foolhardy one, for there
was a good deal of wind and sea, and long before they reached the
landing-place it was quite dark. But the boys were anxious to get back
to their camp, and for the first time during the cruise they acted
somewhat recklessly. However, they met with no accident; and when they
had returned the boat to its owner, they set out to cross the hills.
The path was not easy to find in the daylight, and it was next to
impossible to find it in the night. A dozen times the boys lost
themselves, and were compelled to depend entirely upon the stars to
direct their course. The woods had been all cleared away for a space of
a mile or a mile and a half wide between the two lakes, except just
along the shore of Brandt Lake; so that it was not absolutely necessary
for them to keep in the path, as it would have been had they been
passing through a thick forest. Still, it was not pleasant to lose the
path, and stumble over stones and stumps, and of course it made the
journey longer. They must have walked at least seven or eight miles on
their way back before they finally reached their own lake at midnight,
at the point where they expected to find Jim waiting for them.
Neither Jim nor the boat was there. He had waited until ten o'clock, and
then, making up his mind that they had decided to spend the night at
Schroon, he rowed back to the island, and went calmly to bed. An hour
later a dense fog settled over the lake; and when the tired boys reached
the shore they could see but a few yards in front of their eyes.
It was a terrible disappointment, but Harry tried to be cheerful. "We
shall have to stay here to-night, boys," said he; "but we will build a
good fire and keep warm." Tom said that he thought that was the best
thing to do, for without a fire they would suffer severely from the
cold, wet fog, and he asked Harry if he had any matches. Harry had none,
Joe had none, and Tom had none; so the plan of building a fire came to
nothing.
The cold gradually chilled them as they stood talking over their
adventure, and their teeth began to chatter. Joe said he wished he could
get hold of Jim for about five minutes, so that he could warm himself up
by convincing him that he ought not to have taken the boat back to the
island. Harry said nothing; but he was wondering whether he would freeze
to death in the fog, and tried to remember how travellers overtaken by
the snow on the Alps contrive to fight off the terrible drowsiness that
steals over them when they are freezing. Tom was more practical. He did
not expect to freeze in July, although he was miserably cold; and he did
not want to punish Jim for a mistake of judgment. He knew that the house
where they were accustomed to get milk was not far off, and that a boat
usually lay on the shore near the house; so he proposed to Harry and Joe
to borrow the boat, and make their way into the camp.
"If we go to that house at this time of night, we shall get shot,"
remarked Harry. "The man is an ugly-tempered chap, and I heard him say
the other day that if he ever heard anything prowling around the house
at night he always fired at it."
"Then we won't ask him for his boat: we'll borrow it without leave, and
Jim can bring it back in the morning," replied Tom.
"This is nice conduct for Moral Pirates," said Joe. "Capturing a vessel
at night is real piracy, and when Jim takes the boat back, the man will
be sure to shoot him. I'm sorry for Jim, but I hope it will be a warning
to him not to leave his friends in such a fix that they've either got to
borrow a boat without leave, or freeze."
They made their way stealthily and with great difficulty to the place
where the boat lay. It was high and dry on the beach, and though the fog
hid the house where the owner of the boat lived, the boys knew that it
was very near. They launched the boat with the utmost caution, lest any
noise should awaken the bad-tempered man with the shot-gun. They had it
almost launched, when Harry's foot slipped on a wet stone, and he fell
with a loud crash, clinging to the boat, and dragging Tom and Joe down
with him.
It was very certain that if anything could wake the owner of the boat,
he must be awake by this time; so the boys sprang up, and shoving the
boat into the water, regardless of the noise, seized the oars, and rowed
away into the fog. When they had gained what they thought was a safe
distance from the shore they ceased rowing, and congratulated themselves
that they were all right at last. To be sure, Harry had scraped his
ankle badly; Tom had forgotten the coffee, and left it on the shore; and
Joe had put the sugar in the bottom of the leaky boat, where it was
rapidly dissolving into syrup; but they were once more afloat, and
expected to reach their comfortable camp within the next twenty minutes.
There was not a particle of air stirring, and not a star was visible, so
they had absolutely nothing to steer by. They could not even hear the
sound of the water which ordinarily lapped the shore. Still, they were
not discouraged. Harry thought he knew which way the camp lay, and so he
and Tom rowed in what they imagined was the right direction.
They rowed for two hours without finding the island, and without
reaching the shore. They could not understand it. The lake seemed to
have grown in the night, and to have reached the size of Lake Ontario.
They knew that by daylight they could row across it at its widest part
in less than an hour, but now it seemed impossible to find any shore.
Joe had just suggested that they had made a mistake in coming back from
Schroon, and had walked all the way to Lake Champlain, on which they
were now rowing, when the bow of the boat struck the shore.
It was some consolation to know that the lake actually had a shore; but
they could not tell what part of the shore they had reached. They pushed
off again, and resumed their hopeless search for the camp. A new trouble
now harassed them. From seeming to have no shore at all, the lake now
seemed to have shrunk to a mere mud puddle. No matter in what direction
they rowed, they would strike the shore within ten minutes, and always
at a different place. Joe said that he had never dreamed that so much
shore and so little lake could be put together.
Toward morning Harry and Tom became too tired to row, and they lay down
in the bottom of the wet boat, and tried to keep warm by lying close to
each other. Joe took the oars, and tried to row without hitting the
shore; but he had hardly dipped his oars when the bow grated on the
pebbles. He promptly gave up the attempt, and making the boat fast to a
tree, joined Tom and Harry, and shared their misery.
They were much too cold and wretched to sleep, but they managed to keep
from growing positively stiff with cold. The sun rose, but it did not
for a long time make any impression on the fog. All at once, about seven
o'clock, the fog vanished, and the boys found themselves in a little bay
near the extreme northerly part of the lake. They had been rowing across
this little bay, first in one direction and then in another, during all
those miserable hours when they found such an unaccountable quantity of
shore.
Of course they rowed down to the camp, where they found Jim still
sleeping soundly, with a contented, happy look that was awfully
exasperating. They woke him up, and scolded him with all the strength
they had left, and then, putting on dry clothes, "turned in," and slept
all day. Jim towed the borrowed boat back, but was not shot; and the
boys afterward said that, on the whole, they were rather glad that he
still lived, and that they would mercifully forgive him.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
JED'S FIRST HALF.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
Jed was thinking.
Anybody who looked at him would have seen that much, for he was standing
all alone at the corner, leaning against the big poplar, with both hands
in his trousers pockets.
The village was one long "main street," with little short side streets
cutting across it, so that it did not have any "middle" to speak of; but
the "centre" of it and of everything else was right there before Jed's
eyes, on the steps of the grocery. It was in the shape of a stack of
boxes of fire-crackers, and Jed was gazing at it.
It had been almost cruel of old Philips, the grocer, to pile them up out
there the last week in June, to make Jed and the other boys count their
pennies and feel uncomfortable.
Fourth of July was coming, and Jed knew he would not be half ready for
it. There were five other little Pullmans, and Jed felt as if he alone
could use up "fire-crackers for six."
Think of having one of those boxes--a whole one--with nobody knew how
many packs in it!
"I'd treat every boy I know, except Prop Hooker; and mebbe I'd give him
some if he'd promise not to throw any more stones at Barlow."
The thought of such riches was a little too much for a boy of nine, and
Jed slowly sidled around the trunk of the poplar, as if he were trying
to get away, but his eyes did not turn with him. They stuck to the
crackers.
"Hullo, my little man, what's your name?"
"Jed, sir."
He had to look up, up, up, to get at the grim, weather-beaten, but not
unkindly face of the elderly farmer before him.
"Jed, eh? What's your whole name?"
"Jedediah Rittenhouse Pullman. I live down there in that yellow brick
house behind the maple-trees."
"You don't say! Why, if you'd ha' let your name drag after you, the back
end of it wouldn't but just be coming out of the front gate now. Can you
drive cows?"
"That's what I have to do every night and morning. 'Tain't everybody can
drive our brindled heifer neither."
Jed was thinking again. He had made up his mind that the stranger was a
head taller than Grandfather Pullman--in fact, that he was taller than
any other man in the world, except old Mr. Myer, the maple-sugar man,
and he had to stoop to get into his own house.
"You don't say! Well, I'm down here alone, and I've got a loaded team to
drive, and I've bought a cow, and I want a smart boy to drive her home
for me."
"How far is it?"
"Only to Topham. Little more'n twelve mile. I'll send ye home by
somebody. Pay ye well, too. Will you go?"
Jed hesitated a moment, but it was only because he seemed to be
listening to a great rattle of fire-crackers to come--a cow-load of
them.
"Course I'll go, if mother'll let me."
"We'll see her about it right away. You're just the boy I want. Give you
four shillings."
A York shilling was twelve and a half cents, and four of them made half
a dollar. Oh, what fire-works!
Mrs. Pullman met them at the door, and the first word she said was,
"Why, is that you, Deacon Giddings?"
Then Jed knew it was all right, and while his mother talked with Deacon
Giddings, he went and combed his hair, and put on his Sunday hat and a
pair of shoes and stockings.
"Jed's a tough little fellow," said his mother, "and he's used to
driving cows."
She might have said more than that for him. Even Deacon Giddings had
picked him out as the "toughest-lookin' little chap he'd seen in a long
time." The deacon was in a hurry, though, and almost before Jed began to
realize it, he was dancing around behind a very reluctant and rebellious
cow, right up the main street, with his new friend watching him from the
seat of the heavily loaded wagon.
"Ain't I glad I brought Barlow along!" said Jed to himself, again and
again. "He's a small dog, but he just knows how to bark the best kind."
Barlow was indeed a small dog, very fat and very yellow, and with less
than two inches of stubby tail, but he was keeping up a very steady
racket at the heels of the cow. He could hardly have done better if he
had been a perpetual pack of fire-crackers, going off one at a time.
Once they were out of the village and into the country road, the work
became easier, and Barlow could now and then sit down and pant awhile
before opening a fresh bark.
"You're the boy for me," said the Deacon, from the wagon. "But ain't you
afraid that dog o' yourn'll bark himself to death?"
"No, sir, he's used to it. Our brindled heifer always keeps him
barking."
"You don't say! Well, I'm glad I know your folks. What do you mean to do
with your money?"
"Fourth of July, sir."
"That's it. I declare! Well, now, I might have thought of that.
Gingerbread, nuts, candy--"
"No, sir. Fire-crackers."
"You don't say! Look out for that cow; she's heading down the road
again. Hear that dog bark! I declare!"
She was quickly headed right again, and Deacon Giddings had by no means
got to the end of the questions he wanted to ask.
They were not all about Jed's own affairs. In fact, he seemed willing to
know everything there was to be known about the Pullman family, and all
their relations, and all their neighbors.
Jed was willing enough to answer, whenever the cow would let him, and it
made the long walk in the hot sun go by faster and easier.
It was slow enough even then, and by the time they reached Penniman's
Corners, seven miles from the village, Deacon Giddings remarked, "Twelve
o'clock, I declare! Jedediah Rittenhouse Pullman, you and I and the
horses must have something to eat. The cow too, if she can stand still
long enough."
Jed had been thinking of that very thing for the last mile or two, and
he was glad enough to drive the cow into the tavern barn-yard.
Barlow stood at the gate for a minute or so after it was shut, and
barked his best. Enough to last the cow while they were getting their
dinners.
The tavern at Penniman's Corners was not so large as some there are in
London and Paris and New York, but it was a wonderful thing to Jed, and
so was the long dinner table, nearly three times as long as his mother's
biggest table at home. There must have been more than two dozen people
at that table.
"Jedediah," said the Deacon, before a great while, "you sit still. Eat
all you can. I'm going to see about something."
Jed was busy with a great ear of boiled corn, and all he could do was to
nod; but when he at last came out of the dining-room, there was news
waiting for him.
A big son of Deacon Giddings had come on horseback to meet him, and Jed
would not be needed any more, nor Barlow.
Jed's heart began to trouble him, in spite of the boiled corn.
"Oh, it's all right, Jedediah! You needn't feel bad about it. I've fixed
a night's lodgin' for ye with Widder Simmons, right across the road
there. She's to have a shillin' for it, and you can keep the other
three, and go home in the mornin'. Here they are."
That was liberal, considering that Jed had driven the cow little more
than half way to Topham, and Jed's face was bright again instantly.
The Deacon had a good deal more to say to him, but before long he, and
his son, and the loaded team, and the cow disappeared in a cloud of dust
up the north road.
For the first time in his life Jed felt lonely. The Deacon had taken him
over and introduced him to Mrs. Simmons, and nobody could be blamed for
feeling lonely in the same room with her. Jed could not remember seeing
a smile on the face of Deacon Giddings, but then he had talked, and
there was fun in him somewhere, and he had paid him his four shillings
like a man. The Widow Simmons did not talk and she did not smile, and
she looked at Jed through her silver-rimmed spectacles in a way that
made him feel more and more alone in the world every minute.
Barlow had looked in her face just once, and then he had gone out in
front of the house, and laid down in the grass.
Nearly an hour went by, or it seemed so to Jed, before he mustered
courage to say, "May I go out, ma'am, and walk around a little?"
"Hain't ye walked fur enough for one day? I wonder your mother ever let
sech a mite of a thing go a-cattle-drovin'. Well, go 'long. Only don't
you be late for supper. You won't git a bite if you be."
Jed was out of the house in a twinkling, with his hand on the pocket
which contained his four shillings.
"Barlow, come here."
It was no use to say, "Come here," for Barlow was travelling down the
home road as fast as his short legs could carry him. When he reached
what he may have thought a safe distance, he sat down and barked back.
It was his turn to say, "Come here," and Jed understood it.
"It's only seven miles home, and no cow. What's the use of my staying
here?"
It was plain enough that Jed was thinking again, and he was counting
those four bits of silver coin over and over. There would be only three
of them left if he staid all night at Mrs. Simmons's. Two packs of
crackers gone, at six and a quarter cents a pack.
"I'd have to walk home, after all, or pay for a ride, or catch on to
some wagon. No, sir! I'm going now."
He was afraid to say as much to the widow. He did not even go near the
house again.
As for Barlow, that active dog refused to even sit down another time on
the grass of Penniman's Corners.
Jed was half afraid he might be headed off and stopped by somebody. Mrs.
Simmons might come after him, and insist on his staying overnight and
paying her that shilling. Somebody else might take the other three away
from him.
It was a great trial to be travelling alone with so much money as that,
and Barlow must have felt it more or less, for he did not even bark. He
had very few chances to sit down, however, for Jed did not feel really
safe until he could see the steeple of the village church, and he walked
better than he ever had before.
He was a very tired boy when he reached the corner of his own street,
there by Mr. Philips's grocery, and he leaned up against the big poplar
for a long look at the stack of boxes of fire-crackers.
"Ain't I glad I came back! Come here, Barlow."
But Barlow was lying down, with a large job of panting to do, and he did
not come.
SOME INHABITANTS OF AFRICA.
Boys and girls who have visited menageries have probably seen an animal
shaped something like a horse, but beautifully adorned with black and
tawny stripes, standing silent and sulky in its cage. This is the zebra,
the wild horse of the great plains of Southern Africa. There it lives in
great herds, and browses on the thin grass and low shrubs of the
wilderness. It enjoys the widest liberty, and gallops and gambols
merrily with its companions through regions where the foot of man rarely
penetrates. It is not strange that when captured it refuses to be tamed,
and retains its wild nature to the end. There are, however, exceptions
to this rule. There are at present a pair of zebras in the Garden of
Plants, at Paris, which, by the constant care and kindness of their
young keeper, have gradually come to show a great affection for him, and
will even allow him to harness them to a little carriage and drive them
about the streets of Paris.
The zebra's chief weapons of defense are its lively little heels, which
it uses vigorously when attacked. It is a very wise and cunning beast,
and as its sharp ears detect the slightest rustling among the bushes, it
is very difficult to approach. The hyenas leave the zebra in peace, and
even lions and leopards rarely engage in battle with it. They are quite
content to pounce upon the sickly members of the herd which have lagged
behind their companions, and are alone and defenseless; for if any enemy
attacks a herd, the sagacious animals at once form a circle, their heads
facing the centre, and begin such a lively battery with their heels that
the attacking party is glad to save himself by flight.
The mane of the zebra is thick, but very short, and forms an upright
fringe from its forehead down the back of its neck to its body. Its skin
is striped from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, and down its
legs to the hoof. The natives hunt it vigorously, as they prize its
beautiful skin for personal adornment, and its meat is favorite food.
They kill it with spears, or by pit-falls, in which the poor creatures
get entangled, and are easily dispatched.
Large numbers of the zebra are shot by Europeans, who are covetous of
its striped skin, while at the same time the meat gives abundant
provision to their native followers. Mr. Stanley thus describes the
killing of two of these beautiful creatures on the mountainous hunting
grounds of Kitangeh, near the east coast of Africa: "It was not until we
had walked briskly over a long stretch of tawny grass, crushed by sheer
force through a brambly jungle, and trampled down a path through clumps
of slender cane stalks, that we came at last in view of a small herd of
zebras. These animals are so quick of scent and ear, and so vigilant
with their eyes, that across an open space it is most difficult to stalk
them. But by dint of tremendous exertion I contrived to approach within
two hundred and fifty yards, taking advantage of every thin tussock of
grass, and, almost at random, fired. One of the herd leaped from the
ground, galloped a few short maddened strides, and then, on a sudden,
staggered, kneeled, trembled, and fell over, its legs kicking the air.
Its companions whinnied shrilly for their mate, and presently, wheeling
in circles with graceful motion, advanced nearer, still whinnying, until
I dropped another with a crushing ball through the head--much against my
wish, for I think zebras were created for a better purpose than to be
eaten."
The quagga and the dauw, both inhabitants of South Africa, resemble the
zebra, but are not so regularly striped nor so brilliant in coloring.
They are not so vicious in character, and are capable of being tamed.
The quagga is made useful by the settlers near the Cape of Good Hope,
and is taught to draw and to carry burdens. A settler once captured a
zebra when it was a colt. The animal accustomed itself to captivity, and
appeared so good-natured that its owner thought to make it as useful as
the quagga. As a trial, he bridled it one day and jumped on its back.
The animal at once began to rear furiously, and rushed with its rider
into a deep river. The man clung desperately to the furious little
beast, and was safely carried to the shore. But when he dismounted, the
zebra turned in a rage, and suddenly bit his ear off. After that he
concluded to remain content with his quagga team.
There are many kinds of large quadrupeds in Africa, some of which are
native to no other country. Besides the three members of the zebra
family, there is the harmless, shy giraffe, with its beautiful spotted
body, its long, slender neck, and its delicate head, which it carries
fifteen feet or more from the ground. This graceful animal is also
hunted by the natives for its soft skin and its delicate flesh, which is
considered a great dainty at a royal African feast.
[Illustration: TAKING A DRINK.]
One can imagine the peaceful life of these herbivorous animals of the
great jungles, when not disturbed by the ravages of lions and other
blood-thirsty beasts. In our engraving a pretty meeting of these
creatures is represented. A company of zebras have gathered by a marshy
pool to drink, while a huge two-horned rhinoceros, his great nose
resting on a fallen tree, looks wonderingly at these uninvited guests to
his particular swamp. Two zebras are in the water, eagerly drinking,
while the others look up at the lord of the domain as if saying, "Excuse
us, kind sir, and allow us to refresh ourselves a little, after
galloping about in the sun; we will not trample the tall reeds half as
much as you do yourself."
In the distance a crowd of shy giraffes are watching intently, as if
they too were anxious to refresh themselves with a draught of cooling
water.
[Illustration: AN ISLAND NEWSBOY.]
[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE ISLAND.]
[Illustration: WEIGHING THE BABY.]
[Illustration: THE MERRY-GO-ROUND.]
[Illustration: A STUDY OF BUMPS.]
[Illustration: THE PONIES.]
[Illustration: FORTUNES TOLD AND CORNS CURED.]
CONEY ISLAND SKETCHES.--DRAWN BY A. D. SHULTS.
THE UNINVITED GUEST.
BY ELLA M. BAKER.
"Molly, put the kettle on,
Molly, put the kettle on,
Molly, put the kettle on--
We'll all take tea."
Thus sang the cheerful mother of the Donald family, as she set the
kettle of potatoes over the fire to boil for breakfast. The kettle was a
tight fit for so many potatoes, and Bonny, looking on with interest from
his high chair by the fire, remarked,
"Full, mamma; ain't it?"
"Yes, laddie, full as it can hold--just like our house."
"How it spatters and boils over, mamma!"
"And our house spatters and boils over with us, too, wee one."
Sure enough the Donald dozen did live in such a small tenement that it
was a puzzle how they ever could all get packed into it at once.
But then early in the morning the father went out to his work; Alec
followed to the shop, Jeanie to the store, Nickie to sell morning
papers, some to school and some to do errands, till Bonny and the baby
would be left alone with the mother. Then, shutting the door after the
last, she would say,
"Do you see how they all boil away, Bonny?" and she would sing merrily
as she scrubbed, swept, and cooked.
She did not sing so often after father Donald fell one day and broke a
leg. Nor did she fill the kettle of potatoes as full either after that.
Mr. Donald lay helpless, and worried about the place he feared he should
lose.
"But I've worked for the house till it seems I could not work anywhere
else. If they'd only promise to let me back again when I'm able, I'd
bear the rest with an easy mind," said the sick man, getting fevered and
flushed.
"Lad, I can't have you fret so," spoke his wife at last. She took down
her bonnet and shawl. "I'll go and ask the master myself. I don't
believe he'll refuse a woman, and you such a faithful hand. Bonny is so
good he won't be any trouble to you, and I'll take the baby along."
So Bonny climbed up by the window, and watched his mother and the baby
"boil away" like the rest.
Then Bonny played by himself a long while, it seemed to him. He built a
church tower with his blocks, like the tower he could see shooting up
above the low roofs. He changed the blocks into street cars, and dragged
them up and down the window-sill. He thumbed his torn picture-books; he
thumped his rag doll. Getting tired of all, he flattened his dear little
soft nose against the pane, watching the people tramp, tramping by on
the brick sidewalks, and the carts, drays, carriages, that clamp,
clamped over the stony street. He liked this, and crooned over to
himself, contentedly, tunes that were no tunes, and words that he made
up as he went along.
But time went on, and still his mother did not come. Bonny grew hungry,
and crept down to ask papa about it. Papa was lying quiet and breathing
heavily. Bonny had fairly sung his father to sleep.
It occurred to Bonny, as he tiptoed back, that there could be no good
reason why he should not go and find his mother, or else Jeanie, or
Nickie, or Ted. Jeanie's old red cape hung in the corner; quickly he
threw it over his yellow head, and holding it fast under his chin with
one hand, he lifted the latch and stepped forth.
He walked slowly and thoughtfully off in the direction he had seen his
mother take, with short, nipping steps, like a meditative chickabiddy's.
He had not a doubt that he should come to some member of his numerous
family before long, but meanwhile he was thinking less of that than of
the sights by the way. Two boys were racing velocipedes. To Bonny that
was a splendid sight.
"I wist I had a velehorsipede," he whispered, with a pensive air.
On and on he plodded, blissfully bewildered, absorbed in these
enchanting visions, until he found himself before a caterer's show
window, tempting with crisp loaves of bread, daintily frosted cakes, and
unspeakable cookies, tarts, jellies.
"Oh my! oh my!" cried Bonny, beginning at last to remember that he was
nobody but a little hungry boy, "I'm hungry--I'm so hungry!"
While he stared with all his longing eyes, he heard these words spoken
loudly right by his side, "Come on, then; we shall be sure of a good
dinner."
Bonny turned round. Two men in tall black hats were striding by, and
one, as he spoke, clapped the other on the shoulder. The invitation was
not meant for Bonny at all. But that did not make any difference to him.
He simply received the idea that if he followed these two men he should
get to a dinner. So he pressed sturdily after them. He had to walk fast,
and sometimes he almost lost sight of them in the throng. But Bonny was
so hungry by this time that he was very much in earnest. He did not stop
to watch the people, nor to look into any more shop windows.
It was really not long before the two tall hats were seen turning up
some low, broad steps. The panting Bonny, tugging after, followed
unnoticed through a wide door into a vast hall, all paved with marble.
Quite confused and out of breath, Bonny suddenly stood still. Where he
had lost sight of the two tall hats and the wearers of them he did not
know.
"Seems like another out-doors," the child thought, looking up at the
high ceiling; "but where's the dinner? There is a dinner; I smell it; it
smells good. Seems to me I never did smell so much dinner in my life."
By this time he also became aware of a cheerful clatter of dishes and
voices; and following the sound across the wide hall, he pushed open a
great door that stood half ajar.
Sure enough, there before him lay table after table, adorned with
spotless linen, and spread temptingly not only with flowers and fruit,
but with plenty to eat.
How should little Bonny know that this was the day when the grand new
Metropolis Hotel first opened to the public? How should he know that
here were all the mighty men of the city--merchants, editors, ministers
even--with their wives, met together by invitation to celebrate the
dedication dinner? You see, they had not invited Bonny: nobody expected
him; so at first nobody noticed him as he slipped noiselessly in.