[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 90. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, July 19, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: FLORA MACDONALD ENCOURAGING THE SAILORS TO CONTINUE THE
FIGHT.]
FLORA MACDONALD IN NORTH CAROLINA.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
When the young Prince Charles Edward, grandson of James II., King of
Great Britain, landed in Scotland in 1745, and claimed his right to the
throne from which his grandfather had been driven, thousands of
Scotchmen, regarding him as their lawful sovereign, joined him in
fighting for the British crown. He fought, was defeated, and became a
hiding fugitive on the island of Uist, one of the Hebrides, off the west
coast of Scotland, and was assisted in making his escape to France by
Flora Macdonald, a beautiful, patriotic, and romantic Scotch girl, just
from school in Edinburgh, come to visit her kinsman, Laird Macdonald,
the chief of Uist.
Laird and Lady Macdonald were friends of the Prince, and were trying to
hide him from the searching eyes of British soldiers, who swarmed on the
island in quest of him. They could not shield him much longer. Lady
Macdonald conceived a plan for the Prince's escape, but found no man
willing to undertake the perilous enterprise. Her young kinswoman Flora
spoke scornfully of the timidity that held back her countrymen from such
a patriotic and benevolent task.
"Will _you_ undertake it, Flora?" asked Lady Macdonald, perceiving the
young girl's zeal and patriotism.
"Indeed I will," quickly responded Flora.
Preparations were immediately made for the romantic enterprise. Neil
Macdonald, a young kinsman of Flora, volunteered to accompany her. She
obtained a passport to leave the island with Neil, and three others as
a boat's crew, and Betsey Burke, a stout Irishwoman whom Flora pretended
she had engaged as a seamstress for her mother in the isle of Skye.
Flora and her little party left Uist on a pleasant afternoon. Betsey
Burke was the Prince in disguise. That night they weathered a terrific
storm, and reached Skye in safety in the morning. At the intended
landing-place they were confronted by soldiers, when, turning quickly
eastward, they escaped a volley of bullets sent after them, and landed
near the house of Sir Alexander Macdonald. Leaving the Prince concealed
among the rocks, Flora told her secret in the willing ears of Lady
Macdonald, who furnished an escort for the party, including stout Betsey
Burke, to the Laird of Kingsburg (who was also a Macdonald). Flora had
conducted the young Prince as an Irish seamstress through crowds of
soldiers and people who were searching for him. The travellers tarried
at the house of the Laird of Kingsburg that night, and the next morning
Prince Charles Edward embarked for a successful voyage to France. As he
was about to leave he kissed his fair deliverer, and said, "Gentle,
faithful maiden, I entertain the hope that we shall yet meet in the
royal palace."
The Prince and Flora never saw each other again. Her young kinsman, Neil
Macdonald, accompanied Charles Edward to France, married there, and his
son, born four years before Napoleon Bonaparte, became that great
military leader's famous Marshal Macdonald, and Duke of Tarentum.
The part that Flora had taken in the escape of the Prince soon became
known, and she, with the Laird of Kingsburg and other kindred, was
confined in the Tower of London as a prisoner of state, charged with the
crime of treason. Flora's romantic story, and her extreme youth and
radiant beauty, created almost universal sympathy for her among every
class of the English people. When George II. asked her, sternly, "How
could you dare to succor the enemy of my crown and kingdom?" she
replied, with sweet simplicity, "It was no more than I would have done
for your Majesty had you been in his place."
It was so evident that Flora was not a political partisan of the "young
Pretender," as he was called (she was not of his religious faith), and
that she had acted from the generous and benevolent impulses of a
woman's heart, that she and her kindred were pardoned and released.
While she remained in London she attracted great attention. Crowds of
the nobility and gentry of both sexes visited her, and bestowed upon her
costly presents; and the government sent her home in a handsome chaise,
accompanied by a fellow-prisoner, Malcolm McLeod, who afterward said, "I
went to London to be hanged, and returned to Scotland in a chaise and
four with Flora Macdonald."
Flora afterward married Allan, son of the Laird of Kingsburg, and became
the mistress of the mansion where Prince Charles Edward passed his last
night in Scotland, June 29, 1746. There she and her husband entertained
Dr. Johnson and Boswell when they visited the Hebrides in 1773. She had
then been a wife more than twenty years, and was the mother of numerous
children, yet she was still beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and
abiding loyalty to the British crown. Misfortune caused Flora and her
family to join some of their kindred who had settled in North Carolina,
and she abode for a while at Cross Creek (now Fayetteville).
In the winter of 1849 I started to follow the line of the retreat of
General Greene before Cornwallis across North Carolina from the Catawba
to the Dan, in 1781, but soon turned eastward to Fayetteville, where I
arrived toward sunset. In the evening I called on Mrs. McL----, an aged
and sprightly Scotchwoman, who, I was told, remembered Flora Macdonald.
She was enthusiastic in her praises of that noble woman from the
Hebrides. She described her as "not very tall, but a very handsome and
dignified woman, with fair complexion, sparkling blue eyes, the finest
teeth ever seen, and her hair, partly covered with a pretty lace cap,
was slightly streaked with gray. Her kindly voice was sweetest music,"
continued Mrs. McL----, "and oh, how the poor and the church missed her
when she went home after seeing much trouble here!"
"Is her dwelling here yet standing?" I asked.
"No; it was partly burned in the great fire here about twenty years ago.
As you pass from the Market-House to the Court-House, you may see the
ruins of it near the creek," she said.
Stepping to a quaint chest of drawers, Mrs. McL---- took out a
dingy-looking letter written by Flora to her (Mrs. McL----'s) elder
sister, then a maiden, of twenty, dated February 1, 1776. It was a brief
note, but an exceedingly interesting one, as it was in the bold
handwriting of the heroine of Skye.
"It was sent," said the old lady, "from her new home in the Barbacue
Congregation, and, as you will see, she wrote her name 'Flory.'"
"Then she did not live here long?" I said.
"No; she soon moved to the Barbacue Congregation, about twenty miles
north of here."
On the day when that note was written, the royal Governor of North
Carolina issued a proclamation calling upon all friends of the King to
assemble, with arms, at Cross Creek, and join his standard. The
Macdonalds were all loyalists, and now the troubles of Flora in North
Carolina began. Her husband and others, to the number of about fifteen
hundred, mostly Scotchmen, readily obeyed the call.
"Flora came with her husband and friends," said Mrs. McL----. "I
remember seeing her riding along the line on a large white horse, and
encouraging her countrymen to be faithful to the King. Why, she looked
like a queen. But she went no further than here, and when they marched
away, she returned to her home."
Nearly a month later these Scotch loyalists were routed, dispersed, made
prisoners, or killed in battle on Moore's Creek. Flora's husband was
among the prisoners, and was sent to Halifax jail. He was soon afterward
released, when he left North Carolina with his family for Scotland in a
British sloop of war. On the way the vessel was attacked by a French
vessel of war. The courage of the English sailors appeared to desert
them, and capture seemed inevitable, when Flora ascended to the deck,
and by words and deeds so stimulated their spirits that they beat off
the enemy, and the Macdonalds were landed safely on their native soil of
Skye. During the engagement Flora was severely wounded in the hand. She
said, sometimes, when speaking of the peculiarity of her situation. "I
have hazarded my life both for the house of Stuart and the house of
Hanover, and I do not see that I am a great gainer by it."
Flora Macdonald was the mother of five sons and two daughters. She
retained much of her beauty and all her dignity and loveliness of
character until the last. She was always modest, always kind, always
sweet and benevolent in disposition. She died early in March, 1790, and
was buried in the cemetery of Kilmuir, in the isle of Skye. Her shroud,
as she requested long before her death, was made of the sheets in which
Prince Charles Edward reposed on the night he slept at Kingsburg. Her
funeral was attended by fully three thousand persons. Two years later
the remains of her husband were laid by her side. For eighty years their
resting-place was covered only by the greensward. In 1871 a beautiful
monument was erected over them.
"When the news of Flora Macdonald's death reached the Barbacue
Congregation," said Mrs. McL----, "a solemn funeral service was held in
the church there, when Dr. Hall, who died in 1826, in the eighty-second
year of his age, preached the sermon. He had been a military leader as
well as a preacher of righteousness. My husband was then an elder in the
church, and we were both present. Flora Macdonald had no more sincere
mourners than were found in the Barbacue Congregation at that time."
A LITTLE MARAUDER.
BY MRS. MARGARET SANGSTER.
Oh, Robin, my Robin, so clever and merry,
Pray why do you never peck twice at a cherry?
You fly at the daintiest one you can see,
Eat a morsel yourself, and just spoil it for me.
Oh, Robin, sweet Robin, you dear little warden,
You're welcome to feast on the fruit in my garden:
I know what invaders you're driving away
From flower and tree through the long summer day.
But, Robin, bright Robin, please listen to reason:
You waste lots of cherries, my pet, every season.
_I_ finish my cake to the very last crumb--
Why can not you finish your cherry or plum?
A GOOD EXCHANGE.
BY ALEXANDER FRASER.
Once upon a time a poor boy, the son of a widow, went out to gather
strawberries. He well knew the paths of the forest, and the place where
the berries grew thickest and sweetest. Very soon his joyful cry was
heard:
"Hello, hello Ziegaleck!
Ich hoa mei Tippla Bodendeck!"
And as he gathered the ripe fruit, he sang in merry tones:
"Hello, hello, Koalb!
Ich hoa mei Tippla hoalb!
Hello, hello Kuhl!
Ich hoa mei Tippla vuhl!"
Soon his earthen dish was full, and the boy started for home. As he
turned his steps into the narrow path, he heard from the rocky side of
the pathway a voice saying in entreating tones, "Pray give me thy
berries."
The lad turned in fright, and saw a little old man with a long gray
beard, and worn, faded garments, who looked kindly upon him as he
repeated, "Pray give me thy berries."
"But," said the lad, "I must take the berries to my mother, who is
obliged to sell them to buy us bread."
"And I," said the little old man, "have a sick wife at home, who would
be greatly comforted and refreshed by them."
The lad's heart was filled with pity. He thought to himself, "I will
give him the berries for his sick wife, and if I am industrious, I can
again fill my dish before night-fall." Then he said to the little man:
"Yes, you may have them. Where shall I empty them for you?"
"We will exchange dishes," was the answer. "See, you may have mine,
which is empty, and I will take yours, which is filled. Mine is
brand-new, but no matter."
Thereupon the lad gave the little old man his berries, and received in
return the new but empty vessel; and the gray-bearded man with a smile
uttered his thanks.
The boy took the dish, and hastened back to the forest. Soon he came to
the place where the berries grew thickest and sweetest, and having
replenished his store, again joyfully turned his steps homeward.
When he arrived at home he related to his mother what had happened to
him in the forest, and with delight displayed the new dish. The mother
commended her son for the kindness he had manifested toward the little
man, then took the vessel in her hand, and examined it carefully.
"Ah! happy are we, my child!" she exclaimed. "The dish is pure gold. See
how it sparkles! It is the little old man of the forest who has thus
rewarded you for your goodness. Now, thanks to him, we are rich; but we
will never forget the poor and the sick in their sorrow."
WONDERS OF CONEY ISLAND.
BY A. W. ROBERTS.
If grown-up folks and young people who are desirous of becoming
acquainted with the marine wonder-land of Coney Island will take a
stroll along the beach, starting from the Iron Tower and proceeding a
mile toward Norton's Point, I'll promise them that their constant
exclamations will be, "I wonder what it is!" as they meet with one after
another of the many curious marine objects that are to be found along
the two upper lines of drift.
For years I have seen visitors (both old and young) on the island poke
at and destroy with their canes, sticks, and wooden shovels hundreds of
beautiful and interesting objects that had been cast up by the ocean, in
their efforts to determine what they were.
Some time ago I visited the island for the special purpose of writing up
and illustrating some of the most common objects that can be obtained in
an hour or two's' collecting.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--SERTULARIA.]
One of the handsomest and most abundant of all sertularians to be found
on the island is shown in Fig. 1. Sertularians consist of hydroid
communities which build up the beautiful structure shown in the
illustration, which is generally called by excursionists "sea-moss" and
sea-weed, though it is not a moss at all, nor is it a sea-weed, but is
an animal product built up by immense numbers of minute and beautifully
formed creatures known to naturalists as hydroids. From these hydroids
are created the transparent jelly-fish we see floating in the ocean.
After gathering the sertularia it should be washed in warm soap suds to
clean it; when nearly dry it can be pressed in the leaves of a book just
as ferns are treated. I have often gathered it on the island two feet
long, and have used it with evergreens for Christmas decorations. It is
said to be an excellent material for canaries when building their nests,
as it contains both salt and lime.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--KING-CRAB.]
Fig. 2 is the horseshoe-crab, also called the king-crab, from the fact
of its being the largest of all crabs on our coast. This crab is common
on sandy shores, where it partially buries itself below the surface of
the sand when in search of food. In the illustration is shown the egg of
the king-crab one-third larger than life. Some few days before the egg
of the crab hatches out, the young crab is seen tumbling about inside of
the transparent shell of the egg. King-crabs lay their eggs in the sand
on sand-bars that are exposed to the action of the sun during the low
tide.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--SQUID.]
Fig. 3 is the squid, also called the ink-pot, from the fact that when in
danger he ejects a stream of ink-like fluid, which forms a black cloud
in the water about him; through this he escapes from his enemies.
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--EGG CLUSTER OF SQUID.]
Fig. 4 is a cluster of squid eggs. The egg masses of the squid are
always to be found on the island during the months of May and June. The
eggs are inclosed in an elongated pod-shaped mass of jelly which, when
held up to the light, reveals the outline of a number of small
translucent eggs of a light yellow color. From fifty to one hundred of
the pod-shaped jelly masses occur in one cluster. The great wonder is
how one small squid can lay so great a mass of eggs.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--NATICA.]
Fig. 5 is one of the commonest shells on Coney Island, particularly
after a storm, and is known as the natica. It lives on the sand-bars
below low-water mark, where it feeds on the surf or skimmer clam by
boring a hole through the hard shell of the clam with its tongue, which
is coated with numerous fine teeth.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.--NATICA EGG CASE.]
Fig. 6 is the egg case of the natica, of which thousands are cast on the
shore every summer. This egg case is often known as the "mermaid
collar," on account of its striking resemblance to a collar. This
curious object is composed of grains of white and black sand fastened
together with a soft and transparent glue, of which the natica seems to
possess a very large supply. How the collar is so regularly and smoothly
formed out of the sand is still a mystery to naturalists.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.--CONEY ISLAND SKIMMER CLAM.]
Fig. 7 is the skimmer clam, or surf clam; it is to be found on the
entire length of the outside beach of Coney Island where the water is
clear, and exposed to the constant action of the waves. There it
constructs a burrow two or three feet deep. Sometimes, after an
unusually low tide, it is left exposed one or two inches above the sand,
when, if cautiously approached, it may be drawn out with a sudden jerk,
but if alarmed, it will penetrate the sand quicker than it can be
followed. Thousands of these clams are taken home by visitors to the
island for the purpose of cooking, but when opened are found to be so
full of fine sand that they are useless. It received the name of skimmer
clam from the Dutch settlers, who used the empty shells for skimming
their milk. On the beak, or highest point of the shell, is shown (in the
drawing) a round hole made by the natica.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.--EGG OF SKATE.]
Fig. 8 is the egg of our common skate; the four hair-like appendages
attached to the sides are tangles composed of a fine silk-like material.
The skate, after laying an egg, takes it in her mouth and carries it to
the nearest broken oyster or clam shell, and entangles or fastens it by
means of the silk-like appendages, otherwise it would be driven ashore
on the first storm.
[Illustration: Fig. 9.--EGGS OF WHELK.]
Fig. 9 is a mass of the eggs of the whelk, one of our deep-water
shell-fish, the empty shell of which is seldom cast on the Coney Island
shore, but the masses of eggs come ashore in large quantities,
particularly after storms, when they are broken from their stone
anchorages.
[Illustration: Fig. 10.--EGGS OF PERIWINKLE.]
Fig. 10 is a string of the egg cases of the periwinkle shell, which is
one of the largest shells inhabiting the waters of Coney Island. The
eggs are contained in a soft leathery case of a light yellow color,
about the size of a two-cent piece, but much thicker. Each case contains
from one hundred and fifty to two hundred eggs. These strings of eggs
vary from one to two feet in length.
[Begun in No. 80 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, May 10.]
THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST."
BY W. L. ALDEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," ETC.
CHAPTER XI.
Charley, leaving his companions near the fore-rigging, went out and
loosed the jib and flying-jib, and when this was done, returned and
showed them where the halyards were. The flying-jib was hoisted without
much difficulty, but the jib was heavier, and the boys found it
necessary to take the halyards to a "gypsy," which is something like a
small windlass, with the aid of which the obstinate sail was soon
hoisted. The sheets were then trimmed flat, and the pressure of the wind
on the sails forced the brig's head around so that she no longer lay
with her broadside to the wind and sea. The foretopmast stay-sail had
evidently been set during the gale, for it had been blown away, and
nothing remained of it but a few shreds clinging to the bolt-ropes.
Charley next went aloft and loosed the foretopsail. The brig was an
old-fashioned affair, and had the old-fashioned single topsails, so the
sail was rather a large one for four boys to handle. They, however,
succeeded in sheeting it home, and then, with the help of the "gypsy,"
managed to hoist the yard. All the yards had been squared before the
brig was abandoned, and she had swung around so far that the topsail
filled, after a fashion, as soon as it was set. Sending Joe aft to the
wheel, and telling him to keep the brig directly before the wind,
Charley again went aloft and loosed the fore-top-gallant-sail, which was
small enough to be sheeted home and hoisted up by Charley, Tom, and
Harry, without Joe's help. With the help of these two sails, the vessel
began to move slowly through the water. Her rate of speed was certainly
not very great, but it was sufficient to give steerage-way to her--at
least so Charley thought. But as the brig showed a great apparent
unwillingness to keep on her course, and acted very much like a drunken
man who staggers from one side of the pavement to the other, he went aft
to see what was the matter.
"I'm glad you've come," said Joe. "I'm afraid I don't exactly understand
steering with the wheel. Which way do you turn it if you want her head
to turn to starboard?"
"You roll the wheel over to starboard, and that ports the helm," replied
Charley.
"Then I've been doing just the opposite," exclaimed Joe, "and that's the
reason why I couldn't do anything with her. It's lucky I found out what
was the matter before any harm was done."
"I'll come back presently," said Charley, "and give you a lesson in
steering. I must go now and try to get the foresail on her."
The foresail was set after a long struggle. The breeze was now very
light, but the three square sails drew well, and the brig was certainly
making a full knot an hour. The jib and flying-jib were of course of no
use now that the vessel was directly before the wind, but Charley
decided to let them alone, as they were doing no harm, and as a slight
change in the direction of the wind would bring them into use again. The
boys were now so tired that they decided to rest and have something to
eat before resuming work.
A search for provisions did not prove very successful. There was a lot
of dried cod-fish in a box in the maintop, where nobody but Charley
would have dreamed of looking for it, and there was salt beef of very
uninviting appearance in the harness-cask near the foremast. In the
galley were a few biscuits, which did not appear to have been spoiled by
sea-water, but there was nothing else to eat on board the vessel. Below
the deck, the brig seemed to be nearly full of water--so full, at least,
that there was no possibility of going below. As nobody was anxious to
eat dried cod-fish or raw salt beef, Harry said he would go on board the
_Ghost_ and bring a supply of provisions that would give the boys a
comfortable lunch.
He went to the main-chains, to which the rope that held the _Ghost_ had
been made fast, but to his surprise it was not there. Thinking that he
had made a mistake, and looked on the wrong side of the vessel, he
turned to cross the deck. As he did so, he uttered a cry that startled
his companions. "The _Ghost_ has gone!" he cried. "There she is, a mile
astern." She had not been fastened securely, and had gone adrift while
the boys were making sail.
"We must turn right back and get her," exclaimed Harry. "Don't let's
lose a minute's time."
"Can we go back after her?" asked Tom.
Charley thought a moment, and answered: "We can't. That is, I don't
think it's possible."
"Why not?" asked Harry.
"We'll try it; but there's very little wind, and I don't believe we can
beat to windward with this water-logged craft, especially as she hasn't
any maintopsail. Run forward, boys, and let go the fore-top-gallant
halyards, and then try to haul up the foresail. I'll have to come,
though, and show you where the ropes are."
[Illustration: SETTING SAIL ON THE BRIG.]
The foresail was brailed up, and the head-sheets were let go, and then
Charley ran aloft as quick as he could, and loosed the
main-top-gallant-sail, which the boys set as well as they could with the
topsail-yard down on the cap. They then set the spanker, and hoisted the
maintopmast stay-sail.
"Now come with me," said Charley, "and we'll see if we can brace the
head-yards up." They hauled at the port forebrace with all their might,
but found they could only swing the yard a short distance. "It's
perfectly hopeless, boys," said Charley. "We can't do it."
"Can't we take the rope to the gypsy or the capstan?" said Harry. "I'm
sure we could get the yard round then."
"Perhaps we could," answered Charley, "but we can never tack the brig in
that way. It would take us an hour every time, and then it would be of
no use. We must give the _Ghost_ up, for it's an absolute impossibility
for us to work this vessel two miles to windward, and we are at least
two miles from the _Ghost_ now. However, we'll brace the yards up a
little, and steer her a little more north. All the sails will draw then,
and we'll get on a little faster."
With infinite labor the yards were braced up by taking all the lower and
topsail braces to the capstan. The fore-top-gallant-yard was once more
hoisted, and the foresail set. Joe was told to keep her N.N.W., and with
all the sails drawing, she really made a visible wake in the water. The
_Ghost_ gradually faded from sight until she completely vanished.
Harry went aloft to the maintop and brought down a cod-fish, on which
the boys made what was either a late dinner or an early supper. They
were so hungry that it did not taste bad, and they agreed that there
might be worse things than dried cod-fish eaten raw. Charley hurried
through with his meal, for he was anxious to make preparations for the
night. He found that there was oil enough in the brig's lamps to burn
during one night, and he trimmed them and made them ready for lighting.
He went aloft to the main-royal-yard and looked for land, but he could
see none, and there was not a sail in sight except two that were dimly
visible on the far horizon. Then he came down, and finding that he had
some matches in his pocket, he took a big knife that he found in the
galley, split up a shelf, and started a fire, with which he meant to
boil a piece of beef. The decks had been quite dry ever since the brig
had been got before the wind, and the sea was going down every hour.
There was nothing more that the young Captain could do for the safety of
the vessel which had so strangely come under his command.
As he went aft to where the boys were gathered around the wheel, Tom
said to him: "Charley, I know it is my fault that we lost the boat. I
thought I had her fast, so that it was impossible for her to get away,
but I didn't."
"I am the one that is most to blame," replied Charley. "I induced you
all to stay on the brig, instead of taking the compass and going about
our business. But there's no use in worrying ourselves about what can't
be helped."
"Do you really think now that we can get her into port?" demanded Harry.
"I think it depends entirely on the wind. If the wind continues to be
fair, and especially if it freshens a little, I believe we can't help
getting her as far as Sandy Hook, or somewhere, within hail of a
steam-tug. We can't be more than thirty or thirty-five miles from land,
and as soon as we get a little nearer the coast, we shall be right in
the track of the European steam-ships."
"Is there any danger of her sinking?" asked Tom.
"Not for a long while yet. We ought to keep a signal of distress flying,
though, for I'd like to have some vessel lend us two or three men to
help us work her. Look in that locker aft of the wheel, Tom, and see if
there isn't an ensign in it."
Tom looked as directed, and found a French flag.
"Now I'd like to know," said Charley, in a disgusted tone of voice, "how
we can set a French ensign upside down. It's a sign of distress to set
our ensign union down, but this thing hasn't any union. We'll have to
hoist it half way up, and I suppose that will look mournful enough to
attract anybody's attention. What I'm afraid of," continued Charley, "is
that the wind will change, and come out ahead. It's very light, and it
keeps shifting back and forth three or four points, as if it didn't know
its own mind. However, if we do have a headwind, somebody will take us
off the brig, and carry us to New York."
"I'm not complaining, I want you to understand," remarked Joe. "I'm
perfectly dry, and I never complain unless I'm wet. But if I'm to do all
the steering, I'd like to know it beforehand."
"I beg your pardon, Joe," exclaimed Charley. "I forgot that you've been
at the wheel nearly four hours. Tom, will you take the wheel, while I
hoist the ensign and attend to a few other little things?"
Tom took the wheel, and Joe explained to him the difference between
steering with a wheel and steering with a tiller. After setting the
ensign, Charley went forward and lighted the side lights. Then he put a
piece of beef in the kettle to boil, and split up the cook's bench with
which to replenish the fire. Finally he coiled all the halyards down on
deck, so that there would be no trouble in letting them go in a hurry,
and then he rejoined his companions.
"We have had no regular watches to-day," he remarked, "for we had to
have all hands on deck to make sail. It's now nearly eight o'clock, and
as everything seems all right, Joe and I will turn in till twelve
o'clock. You will steer, Tom, while Harry will go forward, and keep a
look-out. Do you know how to strike the hours on the bell?"
"I learned that long ago," replied Tom.
"Then take my watch, and strike the bell every half-hour. Harry, when
you hear four bells, come aft and take the wheel, and let Tom go on the
look-out. By-the-bye, I forgot about the binnacle lamp."
There proved to be plenty of oil in it, and it was soon trimmed and
lighted. Charley noticed that the brig was heading nearly west.
"The wind is getting round," he said, rather gloomily, "and I'm afraid
we shall have it back in the northwest again. Boys, we've got to brace
the yards up before anybody turns in."
This time the yards were braced up as sharp as the boys could brace
them, and a full hour was consumed in this hard labor. It was now
possible to keep the brig nearly on her course; but knowing that the
wind would probably go still further around, Charley told Tom not to
trouble himself about the compass, but to keep her as close to the wind
as possible, and to call him in case the wind should get into the
northwest. At nine o'clock Charley and Joe went into the galley, and
lying down near the fire, went to sleep.
At twelve o'clock the starboard watch was called. The wind was now
unmistakably ahead, and the brig was heading nearly southwest. Tom
explained that he had been able to keep her heading nearly west until
about half past eleven, and that he had not thought it worth while to
deprive Charley of half an hour of sleep by calling him before twelve.
Charley thanked him, but gently reminded him that he had been ordered to
call the Captain the moment the wind got into the northwest, and that it
was his duty to obey orders strictly.
"I shall want you and Harry to help brail up the top-gallant-sails,"
said Charley. "As long as we can't keep our course, we don't want to
carry any more sail than is necessary. We'll haul down the flying-jib,
and haul up the top-gallant-sails, but we won't try to furl them till
day-light."
The top-gallant yards were dropped and squared, and the sails brailed
up. Charley went out and furled the flying-jib, and then Tom and Harry
went into the galley to sleep. Joe took his station on the forecastle,
where he walked up and down to keep himself awake, and Charley was left
alone at the wheel.
The more he thought the matter over, the more he was convinced that he
had not been rash in undertaking to navigate the brig. Had the wind
continued fair, the boys could almost certainly have brought her near
enough to Sandy Hook to meet a steam-tug. Could they have succeeded in
this, they would have made a large sum of money, perhaps as much as
eight or ten thousand dollars, and Charley himself would have gained a
great deal of credit in the eyes of his naval superiors. The brig,
water-logged as she was, seemed to be about as safe as the leaky
_Ghost_, and there was much more chance that the brig would be seen by
some passing vessel, and her crew taken off, than there was that so
small a boat as the _Ghost_ would meet with help. Unfortunately the
change in the wind had made it apparently impossible for the boys to
bring the brig into port; but Charley felt sure that in the course of
the next day they would be taken off in case they wanted to abandon her.
So finding that his conscience acquitted him of having rashly led his
companions into danger, he felt peaceful and happy, and steered the brig
as cheerfully as if he were steering the _Ghost_ in the Great South Bay.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW FAR CAN YOU SWIM?
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"Look here, Sime, old Purdy might have told us he'd taken away his
oars."
"Well, yes; but there was a kind of a grin on his face when he told us
we might have it. Not another loose boat!"
It was a solemn fact. Every skiff along the beach but "old Purdy's" was
fastened by chain and padlock and stake, to express the objections of
its owner against its use by stray boys.
"No fun going in for a swim in this shallow water. Only a wading place."
"Barry, there's a board. That'll do for us. We can paddle her out far
enough."
It was a lost fragment of clapboard about four feet long, and with no
house to it. Nobody could guess how it got there; but in three minutes
more the clumsy flat-bottomed skiff was being slowly propelled away from
the beach, out toward the deeper water of the lake.
Sime Hopkins and Barry Gilmore had reached, to judge from the remarks
they made, that precise point in their aquatic practice when your common
small boy 'long-shore swimming is a thing to be looked down upon, and a
lake of some size, or a section of the Atlantic, was required for any
fun of theirs.
The day was warm, the water as smooth as a pane of glass, and there was
a faint haze over the sky. The very model of a day for a perfect swim.
The boat, too, had evidently been built for it. She was broad enough not
to tip too easily if you were climbing in, and the wide seat at each end
was just the arrangement for diving.
"This'll do, Sime. Pity we didn't bring an anchor."
"Water's a hundred feet deep out here. How far are we from shore?"
"Don't know. Maybe it's half a mile. Maybe it's more. Could you swim
it?"
"Guess not, Barry. Perhaps I could. But I don't care to try. Not unless
the boat came along. A fellow's legs might give out, or he might take a
cramp."
"My legs would peg out, sure, long before I got there."
They were a very good pair for a boy of fifteen, and in a moment more
they were in the air, as he sprang from the stern of the boat, and went
in, capitally well, head first.
"That was a good header," shouted Sime. "I'm coming."
Come he did, and they found the water just about right for them. Not a
trace of a chill in it, in spite of the fact that the lake was largely
supplied by springs from the bottom. Out there, of course, there could
be no weeds to catch their feet in, and there was very little to be
suggested by way of improvement.
"'Fore we get too tired, Barry, let's try a longer swim."
"Come on. Only don't let's go too far."
They were headed toward the shore, and they were not looking back, when
Barry exclaimed: "There's a ripple, Sime. The wind's rising."
"Barry, look at the boat!"
"She's drifting out. The wind's off shore."
The boys looked at each other for a moment with very serious faces; but
they were brave fellows, and there was no time for hesitation.
"She isn't so very far, Sime."
"But she's drifting. No telling how far she'll go. We mustn't risk it."
"Shore's too far. Can't do it. We can catch the boat."
"The wind's rising, Barry."
"Choose, Sime--shore or boat."
"Shore for me. Choose for yourself. See how she drifts!"
"You can't reach the shore, Sime. Besides, I want my clothes. I'm going
for the boat."
"No time to talk. Good-by, Barry."
Sime Hopkins felt a great sob rising as he struck out for the shore, and
it was every bit as much on Barry's account as on his own, but he had to
choke it down.
"Straight swimming now, and no nonsense. How plainly I can see the
city!"
That is, he could see the steeples of it, some two miles from the shore
he hoped to reach; and below them, he knew, were the roofs of houses,
and under the roofs of two of those houses were Barry Gilmore's mother
and his own.
Steadily, regularly, without a motion too much or a pull too hard--for
he was thinking very closely what it was best to do in such a case--Sime
swam on, until a dull feeling in his arms warned him of coming
weariness.
"On my back now for a few rods. It'll change the work, and rest me. I
can see the boat, but I can't see Barry. The wind is blowing harder."
All that time, however, Barry had been doing precisely what his friend
had done, only that he had watched more anxiously the increasing ripple
on the water.
"She isn't so very far," he had said to himself at first. "I do wish
Sime had come with me. He can't reach that shore, swim his best. It'll
be an awful thing to tell."
A couple of minutes later he was muttering: "That was a harder puff. How
she does drift! Seems to me I don't get an inch nearer. If it blows much
worse, I'll have to follow her to the upper end of the lake."
That was nearly six miles away, and the thought of it made the warm
water he was swimming in seem several degrees colder. Barry's lips
closed hard, and his teeth set against each other, and he measured his
every stroke to make it tell.
Then his turn came to try a "back swim and a rest," and he too said: "I
can see the shore and the city, but I can't get a glimpse of Sime.
There! isn't that his head?--that black thing? Guess it is; it's moving.
Yes, it's him!"
It was indeed the back of Sime's head, but the boy under it was saying
to himself: "The shore's as far away as it ever was: I'd no idea we had
paddled out such a distance. Reach it? I _will_ reach it. Never swam so
far in my life, but I _must_ reach it."
Still, it was getting to be weary work, and before him lay what seemed
an interminable reach of glittering ripples. He was breathing hard, his
arms and legs were moving with less force than at first, and his
progress through the water was slower and slower.
"Can I do it? It's got to be done. I'll tread water a moment for a
change. I can't see Barry. Hurrah! it's the shallows!"
As he dropped his feet they came down upon smooth sand, for all that end
of the lake was a very gentle slope from the beach. The water was up to
his neck, but the bottom was there, and Sime's heart bounded with a
great throb of relief.
"Barry? I must wade in fast now. No boat when I get there; no help."
It was a forlorn outlook, and Sime even thought for a moment of all his
clothing away out there in the skiff. Then he thought of Barry Gilmore,
and hardly anything else, until the increasing shallowness of the water
enabled him to wade faster, and then to break into what was almost a
run. It was a great splash at all events, and Sime was quickly shouting
to some one on the beach a half-breathless account of Barry's danger.
"Why didn't ye wait for the oars? I was a-comin' down with 'em. Wanted a
swim myself, and thought I'd fool ye a little. What! Barry a-swimmin'
after the skiff? There's Jim Burr's boat. Quick! jump in!"
"It's locked."
"Locked? Well, I'll jest unlock it."
The key Purdy used was of limestone, and it may have weighed twenty
pounds. It "opened Jim Burr's padlock for good and all," while Sime was
getting in; and then how Purdy did row!
"We'll be too late."
"Shut up, Sime. Don't talk to me. It's jest awful."
It came very near it, for Barry Gilmore's brave, earnest face was
getting white when he at last discovered that he was really drawing
nearer the runaway boat.
"The wind is rising. I'm almost gone. Couldn't swim two rods further."
Yes, the wind was indeed blowing harder, but the direction of it had
been for some time changing, as it is apt to do before a summer storm.
The first "surface current" of air had lost its breath, and the stronger
blast which was really to bring the cloud and rain was coming from the
other way. So was the skiff it caught and carried along, and Barry
hardly understood it.
"I'm swimming pretty fast yet, in spite of everything. Wish I knew about
Sime. Just a little further."
Oh, how difficult were those last few strokes! When Barry faintly rested
one hand upon the gunwale of the skiff, it required a great effort to
lift the other beside it.
"I can't climb in, now I've got here. What shall I do?"
Of course he could not have climbed in, if he had been obliged to lift
himself all the way up, but every ounce of weight he put upon the side
of the boat brought it down further and further, until it was hardly two
inches above the roughening water.
"Now for it!" All the strength he had left went into that last effort,
and then Barry was lying on the bottom of the boat, with his wet head on
the shining front of Sime Hopkins's shirt bosom.
He did not try to guess how long he lay there. Even after he could have
moved, he had no heart to lift his head and look toward the shore.
At last, just after he had covered his eyes with both hands, there came
upon his ears the sound of oars, as if some very zealous rower were
pulling for a prize in some regatta, and behind that sound was another,
as if some fellow had suddenly burst out crying.
A heavy "bump" against the side of the skiff.
"Here he is! Oh, Barry!"
"Sime, is that you? Don't say a word, Sime--I can't."
It was some little time before either of them could say much, but they
had both learned just about how far they could swim; and old Purdy sat
there in his stolen boat, his rough face all one redness and radiance.
All even he could find to say was,
"Ain't I glad! Jim Burr won't mind my bustin' of his lock a mite; but
I'll git him another."
[Illustration: GOING TO MAKE AN AFTERNOON CALL.]
[Illustration: SWINGING ON THE GATE.--DRAWN BY S. G. MCCUTCHEON.]
PINK'S PROPERTY.
BY ELLA M. BAKER.
Miles from any church, and miles from any railway station, stood, one
summer afternoon, shut up and empty, an old gray house. It had been a
handsome house, and there was something comely about it yet, with its
fan-light over the broad door, its many windows, its quaint roof, and
its fretted cornices. But it looked like a house fast asleep. All the
year it had stood just so. Last summer the rose-tree had reached out far
enough to tap with prickly fingers on the panes, as if to say, "Wake up
and admire me: am I to bloom unseen?" Last autumn, the grape-vine had
held waiting, until it was tired, the ripened bunches on its unpruned
branches. Last winter the winds had shaken rudely the doors, and
casements, and the storms had beat loudly enough to rouse any dreamer,
one would think. But still the old house did not stir. A hornet's nest
hung undisturbed over the front door. The lilacs and syringas, the
wax-ball and snow-ball bushes, cowered closer and closer to the walls,
and birds built in them fearlessly. All day the oriole, which, it is
said, never sings except in beautiful places, spent there his gift of
melody in songs half sad, half tender. At night the whip-poor-will took
the oriole's place. Little wild things from the woods went fearlessly
about at twilight. They seemed all to have agreed together: "Yes, there
is no make-believe about it; the place is really sound asleep. We may do
what we please."
It was a great surprise, then, when on that same summer afternoon the
long slumber of the house broke up. Horses' feet stamped at the gate,
voices laughing and exclaiming frightened the squirrels away, windows
flew up, doors were forced noisily and unwillingly open. At night-fall
lamps moved flickering past the windows up stairs and down, while a
broad swath of golden light swept from the open hall door.
A group of people sitting just within the door chattered merrily. They
were laughing at mamma about "her property." For this place had been
left to mamma as a legacy by her granduncle, who died a year ago, and
mamma had chosen for this summer to let the sea-side cottage, shut up
the house in town, and spend the season here before deciding about
selling the place or letting it.
"So here we all are," the tall son was saying, "settling down to enjoy
mamma's property like lords. This tumble-down old house--"
"Be careful how you speak of my property," smiled his mother, shaking
her finger at him, "or you may run some risk of being warned off it."
"Like the hornets," said the oldest daughter, archly.
"Oh dear! I think it would have been so much nicer at the sea-side!"
sighed a child's voice, discontentedly, as a bat flew by her head, and
each of the party was betrayed into a shriek more or less shrill, while
her brother made wild passes in the air with his hat.
"Oh, well, mamma," spoke the father's genial voice, when they had
settled back in their seats, "it will be only bats and hornets that will
dispute your property with you, at all events. Humanity is too scarce
hereabouts to trouble you. No house in sight except those distant
chimneys, is there?"
"Yes, there is one, papa," replied the youngest, quickly; "it is behind
the trees, under that hill; but I shouldn't have noticed it only that I
saw a little girl in a pink dress moving about there."
"Come, now, Pussy; maybe you'll find a nice friend in little Pink--'a
companion of my solitude,' eh?" suggested her father, carelessly. But
Laura rather sniffed, and made a mournful remark about "Florence, Ethel,
and the rest of the girls at the beach."
At that moment "little Pink" was sitting on the door-step of that same
house "behind the trees, under the hill," and gazing up, full of
excitement, toward the newly opened house on the knoll above her.
It was a great event, and great events happened very rarely to Pink.
Once since she could remember she had been with her father and mother to
pay a visit in the family of an aunt. They had taken the old horse and
the green-bodied wagon, and had been a whole day in reaching their
destination. Two or three times during every summer, also, they made a
similar pilgrimage to attend the church where Pink's mother used to go
when she was a girl and lived at "the village." Another great event was
the shopping excursion that had to be made every season. While the
father bought on one side of the store his seeds, or his new plough, or
his axe-helve, the mother, on the other side, selected her calico,
groceries, and even the ribbon that was to retrim last year's bonnet.
Pink's calico, chosen by herself this time, had been bought on the last
of these expeditions. "I wouldn't say a word," she had pleaded, "if it
cost any more than the brown, but they don't charge for the color, so
mayn't I have the pink, please?"
And the pink calico had been bought, made, and worn to grace that other
great event, the "examination day." For Pink, with a handful more of
scholars, who lived about as far from the scorched-up little
school-house as she did, walked her mile and a half every day during
term-time, and wrestled with Webster's spelling-book, and Colburn's
arithmetic, compositions, and "pieces," until the final grand display of
the closing half-day. That was brass band and military procession to
Pink. She held her head high, and went through her part with beating
heart but machine-like precision. To have missed would have been
unendurable mortification and misery.
But now all Pink's interest was centred in the changes that were taking
place in the handsome old place adjoining her father's farm. The tall,
gloomy fence in front was taken down, and the broad greensward, sloping
to the road, carefully mowed. Where boughs were too dense they were
pruned away. A gay striped awning appeared over the front door. Most
interesting of all, some one was always to be seen moving about. It
might be the motherly lady with gray hair and soft white lace upon it;
it might be girls of different sizes, in dresses wonderful to Pink's
country eyes; it might be only a workman making a flower bed.
Altogether, Pink had never known so much excitement in her life as this.
Laura and her sisters used to notice how continually, when they were
looking from their airy windows on the hill-top, the same rosy dot was
to be seen, now flitting about, now resting quietly, and they often
spoke of "little Pink," as they called her.