Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 47. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, September 21, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
$1.50 per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TED AND KITTY MAKING A FIRE.]
HOW TED AND KITTY CAMPED OUT.
BY EMILY H. LELAND.
Kitty was eight years old, and Ted was seven. They had always lived on a
large farm, and knew all about birds and squirrels, and the different
kinds of trees, and how to make bonfires and little stone ovens; and
they could shoot with bows and arrows, and swim, and climb trees, and
split kindlings, and take care of chickens and ducks and turkeys, and do
a great many jolly and useful things which city children hardly get even
a chance to do. Well, once when they went on a visit with some cousins
to an uncle's on the other side of "Big Woodsy," as they called the
mountain, they did not get home that night.
The uncle thought they had gone home, and the father and mother thought
they had remained overnight at the uncle's. So nothing was done about it
until noon next day, when the uncle came jogging over on horseback to
look at a cow he thought of buying, and the mother asked him if Ted and
Kitty were not making too long a visit.
Then the uncle said, "Good gracious! they are not at our house; they
started for home last night, along with the Elderkins, I think."
Then the mother turned very pale, and said, in a faint voice, "They are
lost!"
"Oh no," said the uncle, "not a bit of it. The Elderkins coaxed 'em home
with them, of course. I'll ride round their way when I go back and start
'em home."
But the pale look wouldn't leave the mother's face, and in a short time
who should come but the Elderkins themselves, to spend the afternoon,
they said, with Ted and Kitty. Then there was a fright indeed. The
father walked down to the gate, and looked anxiously up the long winding
mountain road, as if that would do any good, and the mother followed
him, calling out,
"Oh, John! John! where _are_ our children?"
The uncle rode off in one direction, and the father quickly saddled a
horse and rode in another, to inquire at all the farm-houses if anything
had been seen of Ted and Kitty Curtis. And no one had seen them. All the
Elderkins had to say was that Ted and Kitty had told them there was a
nearer way to reach home than by following the dusty, roundabout road,
and they had run off through the woods to find it. The Elderkins chose
to follow the road, because they had on their new lawn dresses trimmed
with torchon, and "didn't want to get all scrambled up by the briers."
So while the uncle and the father and all the neighbors were hunting up
and down the forest, and the mother was staying in the house, with dear,
calm grandma and the little twin babies to keep her from going _quite_
crazy, I will tell you what Ted and Kitty were doing in the Big Woodsy.
After they had run on quite a way, the bushes and brambles began to be
so thick they were obliged to drop into a walk, and finally to climb and
crawl as best they might, for they never found the "nearer way," and the
ground was covered with fallen trees and rocks, while the briers caught
them sometimes as if they never meant to let go.
By-and-by the pleasant light of sunset began to fade away, and they sat
down to rest on a mossy log, and looked at each other very soberly.
"I don't know which way we ought to go," said Kitty.
"No more don't I," said Ted.
"Well, then, we must stay right where we are, 'stead of trying to go on.
'Cause, don't you know, lost people always go round and round and round
and never get anywhere, and just wear their shoes out, and get tired and
hungry, and nobody ever can find 'em. You ain't afraid, are you, Teddy?"
"No--o!" answered Ted, with scornful emphasis; "course not! Why, it's
only just camping out. We've always wanted to camp out, you know. An'
it's warm, an' there's but'nuts, an'--an'--maybe we'll find a pattridge
nest," and Ted looked around at the deepening shadows, and bravely
winked back the two tears that had gathered in his eyes.
"You know there isn't anything in these woods that can hurt us," said
Kitty, cheerfully. "Papa said there was no use for those hunters to come
here last year, 'cause there's nothing bigger'n woodchucks anywhere
round."
"But somebody killed a bear here the summer I was a baby," said Ted.
"Yes, but he was the last--the very last--and it's just as nice and safe
here as if we's camping out in our orchard. And let's fix up a house
right away. Let's play we've gone West and got some land of our own."
Then the two children went to work. They were scared a little, in spite
of their brave talk, but they were soon so interested in their
camp-building that they forgot their fear. First they cleared away the
sticks and stones beside the log where they were sitting. Then they
pulled large pieces of bark from a partly fallen tree, and leaned them
against the log, making a shelter large enough for a very small
sleeping-room. Over the bark they laid boughs of butternut and maple,
with long sticks placed crossways to keep them in place. Then by the
time they had gathered a few armfuls of dry leaves to place underneath,
it was quite dusk, and too late for any more work.
"Won't we get bugs in our ears?" asked Ted, peeping into the queer
little bedroom.
"Well, we'll tie our hankchifs over our ears. And we'll only take off
our shoes, 'cause we're just emigrants, you know."
"I--I wish it wasn't quite so dark," said Ted, faintly.
"But the moon will be up right away," said brave Kitty; "and maybe we'll
hear owls. We won't mind hearing owls, will we?"
"Course not," said Ted.
In a very short time the shoes were off, the handkerchiefs tied on, and
the two tired children cuddled up in their wigwam, with Kitty's apron
over their shoulders for a blanket.
"The Lord is here just as much as He's--He's in the Methodist church,"
said Kitty.
"Course He is," said Ted; and with this comforting thought they were
soon asleep.
* * * * *
Morning came earlier in the woods than in the quiet bedrooms at home.
Birds were twittering around the little camp before sunrise, the breeze
blew noisily through the low-hanging branches, and the children were
awake before the night shadows were quite gone.
"Papa'll be sure to find us to-day," said Kitty, after they had crawled
out of their nest. "We must have all the emigrant fun we can, for we'll
only be Ted and Kitty after we get home."
"What do em'grants have for their breakfast, I wonder?" asked Ted.
"Oh, they--look around for things. Sometimes they have just butternuts,
I guess," answered Kitty, while she slipped on her shoes.
"Well, then, let's have but'nuts--and lots of them," said hungry Ted.
So Kitty, who was a nice tidy girl about everything, looked around until
she found a clean flat rock for a table; and while they were gathering
their breakfast from the nearest butternut-trees, they came across a
tiny little spring that bubbled out from under a ledge, and slipped away
in a small stream down the mountain-side.
"Oh, isn't it cute?" said Kitty. "We'll build our cabin right here, and
we'll play this is our water-power, and build a mill too. I'll be Mr.
Brown, and you may be the Co.--Brown & Co., you know."
After a good drink of the clear, cold water from a cup made of a
basswood leaf, they washed faces and hands, and went to the flat rock
for breakfast. The butternuts were not quite ripe; they stained fingers,
and they were hard to crack--with just a stone for a hammer--but there
were "lots of them," as Ted had requested.
All the long bright forenoon they worked about their water-power,
putting up an extensive mill of stones and sticks, and having no trouble
at all, except when Ted got tired of being called "Co.," and insisted on
being Mr. Brown a part of the time at least, in spite of Kitty's
argument that the youngest ought always to be Co.
So, about one o'clock, when their father and uncle were galloping here
and there in search of them, they were sitting at their rock table
cracking more nuts, and listening proudly to the mimic roar of the water
going over the dam they had just completed.
Sometimes they heard faint echoes and queer hootings off in the
distance. "We'll play it's Indians, and we're hiding from them," said
Kitty, never dreaming that all the men in the neighborhood of her home
were hunting and hallooing through the forest for two very lost
children. Once, when the shouts came quite near, the echoes mixed up
things, so that Kitty was almost frightened, and drew her brother into
the shelter of some thick bushes. "It sounds like a crazy man," she
said.
After a while the noise slowly died away down the mountain-side, and the
woods seemed more comfortable to Kitty. But sunset drew near, and still
there came no cheerful father-voice. The supper of butternuts was not a
very jolly one. Ted tried to be brave, but finally he dropped his face
into his elbow and wailed forth, "I want some bread and butter," and
cried loud and long.
"If we only had matches," sobbed Kitty, after Ted's cries had hushed a
little, "we could make a fire, and--and maybe find something to roast."
Ted stopped crying by trying very hard, and began to examine his
pockets. The prospect of a bonfire is cheering even to a hungry boy.
First a dull jackknife was laid on the rock, then two nails, then a
little rusty hinge, then a piece of slate-pencil, then a brass button
with an eagle on it, then more slate-pencil, then a piece of string
wound into a ball, then half of a match--the end that wouldn't go! Then
happily he thought of his inside pocket, and the hole that was in it!
Feeling along the lining of his jacket, there in its corner was
something which might be--yes, it _was_ a match!
"We won't care very much about it anyway," said experienced Kitty, "and
then it will be more apt to burn." Nevertheless, after they had piled up
some dry leaves, and laid birch "quirls" and small sticks over the top,
she struck the match across the sole of her shoe, shielded it with her
hand, and watched it anxiously. The little blue light quivered, paled,
almost went out, and then leaped cheerfully upon a dry leaf, and in an
instant the pile was alive with snaps and sparkles and dancing flames.
The children gave quite a merry shout.
"And now what'll we roast?" said poor Ted.
"We must fix the fire so it won't spread first," said Kitty; and she
carefully scraped away all the leaves and sticks that were near. Then
she took her brother's hand, and started to look for she hardly knew
what, but trying with all her motherly little heart to think of
something likely to be found in such a woods.
"Sour grapes roasted wouldn't be very nice, but maybe they'd be a sort
of a relish, you know, Ted;" and she stopped by a tree overgrown with
wild grapes, and began looking for the not very tempting clusters.
"Why, here are some that are nearly ripe. See! really purple a little."
Suddenly something alive sprang out of the brambles at their feet, and
whirred away with a tremendous rush.
"It's the pattridge nest, sure's you live!" said Ted, diving down among
the leaves; and after a minute's eager search they were found--two,
four, six, eight, nine speckled eggs in the cozy nest. "We'll leave one
for the poor pattridge to come back to, won't we Kit?" said Ted, swiftly
placing them in his hat.
More wood was piled upon the little fire, and they waited not very
patiently for hot ashes. The eggs were rolled up in large grape leaves,
and fastened with little twigs. The sun went down, and the fire-light
began to shine brightly on the overhanging boughs and the watchful faces
of the children. Finally Kitty said it must be time, and proceeded to
push away the blazing brands, and to roll the eggs in among the glowing
ashes. She had just covered them, after a fashion, with the stick she
used for a poker, and was saying to Ted they would soon be done, when
something came crashing along through the brush, and there was a man
with a scratched face and a torn coat, and a gun on his shoulder,
standing before them.
"Oh, papa," said Ted, after taking a second look at him, "mayn't we stay
until the pattridge eggs are done? 'Cause we're so hungry."
"Oh, you--rascals," was all the father could say; and he was either very
tired, or else Kitty rushed upon him and hugged his knees too
vigorously, for he sank right down on the ground, and commenced wiping
his face, and his eyes seemed to need a great deal of wiping.
"We didn't mean to camp out, papa," said Kitty, softly. "We only wanted
to go home the nearest way, and we couldn't find it at all; and so when
we found we were lost a little bit, we staid right where we were, so's
not to get any more lost. Wasn't that right, papa? We knew you'd find
us."
"Yes, an' we knew _you_ wouldn't come hollerin' round like crazy Ingins.
An' isn't the eggs done, Kit?" said Ted.
"Here's things to eat--things grandma fixed for you;" and the father
quickly opened a little bundle that hung at his side. "I was so glad to
see you alive, and having a good time, that I almost forgot your lunch,
you poor Hottentots."
The lunch was quickly disposed of, and after drinking two swallows
apiece of blackberry wine--which grandma sent word they must do--the
children "broke camp," and started for home, carrying the eggs in a
handkerchief.
"It was a good thing you started your fire, little folks. I was just
going to give up the mountain, and follow the others down to the creek,
when I saw a smoke curling up, and I remembered your weakness for
bonfires, and so-- Why, bless me! I've forgotten the signal." And the
happy father took his repeating rifle from his shoulder, and fired three
shots into the air.
Pop!--pop!--pop! That meant, "Found, and alive, and well." Three or four
guns answered from the valley below; and the mother and grandma, waiting
and listening by the farm-house gate, thought they had never heard such
sweet music in all their lives.
Only a quarter of a mile of very rough ground was travelled before the
children found themselves trotting along in the "nearer way" they had
tried to find the night before; and in an hour's time, after being much
kissed and very tenderly scolded, they were bathed and lying in their
clean, sweet beds, and Ted was sleepily saying to himself, "This is
nicer'n em'grants, after all."
OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.
BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.
No. VI.
LOVEWELL'S FIGHT WITH THE PIGWACKETS.
At the southern base of the White Mountains, where the river Saco winds
through green meadows, was the home of the Pigwacket Indians. Their
chief was Paugus. During the years of peace he visited the English in
Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, and was well acquainted with
the settlers, but he liked the French better.
The Jesuit Father Rale, who had converted the Kennebec Indians, made his
influence felt over all the surrounding tribes, and Paugus, through his
influence, sided with the French. He could always obtain guns, powder,
and balls at Quebec and Montreal in exchange for furs.
From their wigwams on the Saco, it was easy for the Pigwackets to go
down that stream to the settlements in Maine, or going southwest to the
"Smile of the Great Spirit," as they called Lake Winnipiseogee, they
could descend the Merrimac to the settlements in Massachusetts.
In 1724 the Pigwackets killed two men at Dunstable. When the alarm was
given, eleven men started after them, but the Indians discovering them,
shot all but two, took their scalps, and returned to their wigwams on
the Saco, where they held a great feast over the successful raid,
dancing and howling through the night, and boasting of what they would
do on the next raid.
"I will give L100 for every Indian scalp," said the Governor of
Massachusetts.
The offer of such a bounty stimulated Captain John Lovewell, of
Dunstable, who started with eight men. It was midwinter, but the snow,
cold, and hardship did not deter the intrepid men, who made their way up
the valley of the Merrimac, and eastward to the country of the
Pigwackets. The sun was going down, on the 20th of February, when
Captain Lovewell discovered a smoke rising above the trees. He waited
till midnight, when, creeping forward alone, he could see ten Indians
asleep by a fire on the shore of a pond. He went back to his men, and
all moved forward. There was snow upon the ground, which broke the sound
of their footsteps. At a signal the guns flashed, and every Indian was
killed. It was a party who had just started to fall upon the English
settlements. They had new guns, ammunition, and blankets, which they had
obtained from the French in Canada.
It was a day of rejoicing in Dover when Captain Lovewell marched into
the village with the Indian scalps dangling from a pole.
"We will attack the Pigwackets in their home," said the men.
It was in April. The snow had disappeared, the trees were bursting into
leaf, when Captain Lovewell, with forty-six men, started up the valley
of the Merrimac once more. Three of the men, after marching about fifty
miles, became lame and returned home. The others turned eastward, passed
Lake Winnipiseogee, and came to Ossipee Lake--a beautiful sheet of
water.
One of the men was taken sick, and could not go on, and Captain Lovewell
built a little fort, and left there the surgeon and six men, with a
portion of the provisions. The rest of the party, thirty-four in all,
shouldered their packs and moved on in search of the Pigwackets. No one
knew exactly where their wigwams were located, and they moved cautiously
for fear of being surprised.
Captain Lovewell was a religious man, and every morning, before
starting, the soldiers kneeled or stood reverently with uncovered heads,
while the chaplain, Rev. Jonathan Frye, offered prayer.
The morning of May 19 came. They were on the shore of a pond, and the
chaplain was offering prayer, when they heard a gun, and looking across
the pond they saw an Indian on a rocky point on the other side of the
pond.
"We are discovered," said Lovewell. "Shall we go on, or return?"
"We have come to find the Indians," said the young chaplain. "We have
prayed God that we might find them. We had rather die for our country
than return without seeing them. If we go back, the people will call us
cowards." The company left their packs, and marched cautiously forward.
The Indians had discovered them--not the one who was shooting ducks; he
did not mistrust their presence; but a party had come upon their tracks,
and were following in their rear, and took possession of their packs.
Captain Lovewell moved toward the one Indian, who quickly fired upon the
white. His gun was loaded with shot, and Captain Lovewell and one of his
men were wounded. The Indian turned to run, but Ensign Whiting brought
him down.
"We will go back to our packs," said Lovewell; but when they reached the
place they found that the Indians had seized them, and that their
retreat was cut off by more than one hundred Pigwackets. The terrible
war-whoop rang through the forest, and the fight began, Indians and
white men alike sheltering themselves behind the trees and rocks,
watching an opportunity to pick each other off without exposing
themselves. All day long the contest went on, the Indians howling like
tigers. The white men saw that they were outnumbered three to one. It
must be victory or death.
Lieutenant Wyman was their commander in place of Lovewell, who was
mortally wounded. He was cool and brave.
[Illustration: "LIEUTENANT WYMAN, CREEPING UP, PUT A BULLET THROUGH
HIM."]
"Don't expose yourselves. Be careful of your ammunition." So cool and
deliberate was the aim of the white men that at nearly every shot an
Indian fell. They suffered so severely that they withdrew and held a
powwow with their "medicine man," who was going through his
incantations, when Lieutenant Wyman, creeping up, put a bullet through
him. The Indians, howling vengeance, returned to the fight; but the
white men, protected on one side by the pond, held their ground.
All through the afternoon the struggle went on.
"We will give you good quarter," shouted Paugus.
"We want no quarter, except at the muzzle of our guns," shouted Wyman.
Paugus had often been to Dunstable, and was well acquainted with John
Chamberlain. They fired at each other many times, till at last
Chamberlain sent a bullet through Paugus's head, killing him instantly.
"I am a dead man," said Solomon Keys. "I am wounded in three places." He
crawled down to the shore of the pond, found an Indian canoe, and crept
into it. The wind blew it out into the lake, and he was wafted to the
southern shore. The sun went down, and the Indians stole away. Pitiable
the condition of the settlers. Lovewell was dead, and also their beloved
chaplain, Jonathan Frye, who with his dying breath prayed aloud for
victory; Jacob Farrar was dying; Lieutenant Rollins and Robert Usher
could not last long; eleven others were badly wounded. There were only
eighteen left. The Indians had seized their packs; they had nothing to
eat; it was twenty miles from the little fort which they had built at
Ossipee; but they were victors. They had killed sixty or more Indians,
and had inflicted a defeat from which the Pigwackets never recovered.
"Load my gun, so that, when the Indians come to scalp me, I can kill one
more," said Lieutenant Rollins.
They must leave him. Sad the parting. In the darkness, guided by the
stars, they started. Four were so badly wounded that they could not go
on.
"Leave us," they said, "and save yourselves."
Twenty miles! How weary the way! They reach the fort to find it
deserted. They had left seven men there, but when the fight began one of
their number fled--a coward--and informed the seven that the party had
all been cut off, not a man left. Believing that he had told the truth,
they abandoned the fort, and returned to their homes.
Nothing to eat. But it was the month of May; the squirrels were out, and
they shot two and a partridge; they caught some fish; and so were saved
from starvation.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]
WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?
BY JOHN HABBERTON,
AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."
CHAPTER II.
THE FIGHT.
The afternoon session of Mr. Morton's select school was but little more
promising of revelations about the new boy than the morning had been.
Most of the boys returned earlier than usual from their respective
dinners, and either hung about the school-room, staring at their new
companion, or waited at the foot of the stairs for him to come down. The
attentions of the first-named division soon became so distasteful to
the new-comer that he left the room abruptly, and went down the stairway
two steps at a time. At the door he found little Benny Mallow looking up
admiringly, and determining to practice that particular method of coming
down stairs the first Saturday that he could creep unnoticed through a
school-room window. But Benny was not one of those foolish boys who
forget the present while planning about the future. Paul Grayson had
barely reached the bottom step, when little Benny looked innocently up
into his face, and remarked, "Say!"
"Well?" Paul answered.
"You're the biggest boy in school," continued Benny. "I noticed it when
you stood beside Appleby."
Grayson looked as if he did not exactly see that the matter was worthy
of special remark.
"I," said Benny, "am the smallest boy--I am, really. If you don't
believe it, look at the other boys. I'll just run down the steps, and
stand beside some of them."
"Don't take that trouble," said Grayson, pleasantly. "But what is there
remarkable about my height and your shortness?"
"Oh, nothing," said Benny, looking down with some embarrassment, and
then looking up again--"only I thought maybe 'twas a good reason why we
should be friends."
"Why, so it is, little fellow," said Grayson. "I was very stupid not to
understand that without being told."
"All right, then," said Benny, evidently much relieved in mind.
"Anything you want to know I'll tell you--anything that I know myself,
that is. Because I'm little, you mustn't think I don't know everything
about this town, because I do. I know where you can fish for bass in a
place that no other boy knows anything about: what do you think of that?
I know a big black-walnut tree that no other boy ever saw; of course
there's no nuts on it now, but you can see last year's husks if you
like. Have you got a sister?"
Grayson suddenly looked quite sober, and answered, "No."
"I have," said Benny, "and she is the nicest girl in town. If you want
to know some of the bigger girls, I suppose you'll have to ask Appleby.
What's the use of big girls, though? They never play marbles with a
fellow, or have anything to trade. Say--I hope _you're_ not too big to
play marbles."
"Oh no," said Grayson; "I'll buy some, and we'll have a royal game."
"Don't do it," said Benny; "I've got a pocketful. Come on." And to the
great disgust of all the larger boys Benny led his new friend into the
school yard, scratched a ring on the dirt, divided his stock of marbles
into two equal portions, and gave one to Grayson; then both boys settled
themselves at a most exciting game, while all the others looked on in
wonder, with which considerable envy and jealousy were mixed up.
"That Benny Mallow is putting on more airs than so little a fellow can
carry; don't you think so?" said Sam Wardwell to Ned Johnston.
"I should say so," was the reply; "and that isn't all. The new fellow
isn't going to be thought much of in this school if he's going to allow
himself to belong to any youngster that chooses to take hold of him.
I'll tell you one thing: Joe Appleby's birthday party is to come off in
a few days, and I'll bet you a fish-line to a button that Master Benny
won't get near enough to it to smell the ice-cream. How will that make
the little upstart feel?"
"Awful--perfectly awful," said Sam, who, being very fond of ice-cream
himself, could not imagine a more terrible revenge than Harry had
suggested. Just then Bert Sharp sauntered up with his hands in his
pockets, his head craned forward as usual, and his eyes trying to get
along faster than his head.
"See here," said he, "if that new boy boards with the teacher, he's
going to tell everything he knows. I think somebody ought to let him
know what he'll get if he tries that little game. I'm not going to be
told on: I have a rough enough time of it now." Bert spoke feelingly,
for he was that afternoon to remain at school until he had recited from
memory four pages of history, as a punishment for his long truancy.
"Who's going to tell him, though?" asked Sam. "It should be some fellow
big enough to take care of himself, for Grayson looks as if he could be
lively."
[Illustration: "JUST IN TIME TO SEE GRAYSON GIVE BERT A BLOW ON THE
CHEST."]
"I'll do it myself," declared Bert, savagely; saying which he lounged
over toward the ring at which Benny and Grayson were playing. The boys
had seen Bert in such a mood before, so at once there was some whispered
cautions to look out for a fight. Before Bert had been a minute beside
the ring, Grayson accidentally brushed against him as, half stooping, he
followed his alley across the ring. Bert immediately got his hands out
of his pockets, and struck Grayson a blow on the back of the neck that
felled him to the ground. All the boys immediately rushed to the spot,
but before they had reached it the new pupil was on his feet, and the
teacher reached the window, bell in hand, just in time to see Grayson
give Bert a blow on the chest that caused the young man to go reeling
backward, and yell "Oh!" at the top of his voice. Then the bell rang
violently, and all of the boys but Bert Sharp hurried up stairs, Grayson
not even taking the trouble to look behind him. In the scramble toward
the seats Will Palmer found a chance to whisper to Ned Johnston,
"There's no nonsense about him, eh?"
And Ned replied, "He's splendid."
All of the boys seemed of Ned's opinion, for when Mr. Morton, just as
Bert Sharp entered, rang the school to order, and asked, "Who began that
fight?" there was a general reply of, "Bert Sharp."
"Sharp, Grayson, step to the front," commanded the teacher.
Bert shuffled forward with a very sullen face, while Grayson stalked up
so bravely that Benny Mallow risked getting a mark by kicking Sam
Wardwell's feet under the desk to attract his attention, and then
whispering, "Just look at that."
Before the teacher could speak to either of the two boys in front of
him, Grayson said, "I'm very sorry, sir, but I was knocked down for
nothing, unless it was brushing against him by mistake."
"Was that the cause, Sharp?" asked Mr. Morton.
Bert hung his head a little lower, which is a way that all boys have
when they are in the wrong; so the teacher did not question him any
farther, but said:
"Boys, Grayson is a stranger here. I know him to be a boy of good habits
and good manners, and I give you my word that if you have any trouble
with him, you will have to begin it yourselves. And if you expect to be
gentlemen when you grow up, you must learn now to treat strangers as you
would like to be treated if away from your own homes. Grayson, Sharp, go
to your seats."
"May I speak to Sharp, sir?" asked Grayson.
"Yes," said Mr. Morton.
"I'm sorry I hit you," said the new boy. "Will you shake hands and be
friends?"
[Illustration: THE RECONCILIATION.]
Bert looked up suspiciously without raising his head, but Grayson's hand
was outstretched, and as Bert did not know what else to do, he put out
his own hand, and then the two late enemies returned to their seats,
Bert looking less bad-tempered than usual, and Grayson looking quite
sober.
Somehow at the afternoon recess every boy treated Grayson as if he had
known him for years, and no one seemed to be jealous when Grayson
invited Bert to play marbles with him, and insisted on his late
adversary taking the first shot. But the teacher's remarks about
Grayson had only increased the curiosity of the boys about their new
comrade, and when Sam Wardwell remarked that old Mrs. Battle, with whom
the teacher and his pupil boarded, bought groceries nearly every evening
at his father's store, and he would just lounge about during the rest of
the afternoon and ask her about Grayson when she came in, at least six
other boys' offered to sit on a board pile near the store and wait for
information.
As for Grayson, he sat in the school-room writing while the teacher
waited, for more than an hour after the general dismissal, to hear Bert
Sharp recite those detestable four pages of history, and Bert was a
great deal slower at his task than he would have been if he had not had
to wonder why Grayson had to do so much writing.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW A CRAB CHANGES HIS CLOTHES.
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
"Say, now, you leave my dinner alone, or I'll tell mamma."
"You can tell, if you have a mind to. I don't care, tell-tale."
No, it was not children that I heard quarrelling; it was only two little
crabs. Children never speak so crossly to each other; but those two
little crabs scolded and bit down there in the water until-- But I am
getting ahead of my story. I'll tell you how it was.
I had been out fishing, and as the sun became too hot, I rowed my boat
to the shore under the shade of the trees, and sat thinking. I looked
down into the water, and saw a little crab holding a clam shell under
his mouth with his claw, and eating as fast as he could, at the same
time turning his queer, bulging eyes in all directions to see that he
would not be disturbed. But soon another crab came up, and tried to
snatch away the clam shell. Then ensued the conversation which I have
already quoted. I dropped a piece of clam into the water, and the
new-comer seized it. He scuttled away under a piece of sea-weed, and
cried out in triumph:
"Aha! greedy, you didn't get it, and it is much better than your old
shell. Don't you wish you had it?"
"I'll change with you," said the other. "Just see this blue on the edge
of my shell. Ain't it lovely?"
"Change! I guess not. Who cares for the blue? You can't eat the blue."
"Of course you can't eat it, but it is pretty. However, there is no use
in talking to you about it; you have no love for the beautiful," said
the other, tauntingly.
"You needn't put on so many airs. I'm bigger than you are, anyway,"
snarled the first.
"You won't be long, for I'm growing every day."
"Children! children! what is the matter?" asked the old mamma crab, who
just appeared on the scene.
"Mamma, he tried to get my din--"
"I didn't; I only wanted--"
"He's a mean, horrid old thing, and I don't--"
"Why, children," interrupted the old crab, "I am ashamed of you. What is
the matter?"
"He tried to take away my dinner," said one.
"He said I wasn't growing big," said the other.
"That did not stop your growth, did it?" said mamma.
"No--o," drawled the little one.
"And now," she continued, "I want you to behave yourselves. Stop such
silly quarrelling. You act so much like boys and girls that I am ashamed
of you."
"Say, mamma, my clothes are getting too tight for me, and I've bursted a
seam in the back of my coat," said one of the youngsters, after a short
pause.
"That is all right," answered mamma, assuringly; "you are only going to
'shed.'"
"Am I going to be all soft and helpless, like papa was, and then be
taken away and not come back any more?"
"Oh no, I hope not. You must find a quiet place, and hide until you can
take care of yourself," answered mamma.
Accordingly the young crab wandered around, and found a nice quiet place
under the shadow of a large log; here he half buried himself in the mud,
and commenced the operation of changing his clothes. He swelled himself
out until the upper shell separated from the lower, then worked his
claws slowly backward and forward, and expanded and contracted the
muscles of his body; little by little he emerged from his shell, and
finally, with one effort, he freed himself entirely from his old
clothes. He lay back, exhausted by his exertions. While the crab is soft
it is perfectly helpless, and it can be handled without fear of bites.
When it first emerges from its shell it is covered with a skin as soft
and delicate as yours, but if left undisturbed it will soon harden. If
taken out of the water and kept in damp sea-weed, the process of
hardening can be delayed for three or four days, when it dies of
starvation, as it can eat nothing while soft, and that is the way in
which it is brought to the market. But the little crab I saw was
fortunate enough not to be disturbed. He lay perfectly still, and in
about an hour, if you could have put your finger on his back, you would
have felt that it had grown stiff and rough; in between three or four
hours the shell reaches the stage known as "paper shell." It is hard and
coarse, like brown paper, and the crab begins to show signs of
liveliness, and in about seven hours there is no perceptible difference
between our recently reclothed crab and his hard brothers and sisters;
but if you should catch him you would find him to be lighter in weight,
and watery when boiled, and the fat, which in a healthy crab is of a
bright yellow color, like the yolk of an egg, is a greenish-brown. But
no one had a chance to see the color of the fat in the crab which I was
watching, for just as he started to move, a great toad-fish came along
and swallowed him at one mouthful.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HALF AFRAID.
THE INVENTION OF STEEL PENS.
According to the following extract from a manuscript document in the
library of Aix-la-Chapelle, entitled "Historical Chronicle of
Aix-la-Chapelle, Second Book, year 1748," edited by the writer to the
Mayoralty, "Johann Janssen," it would appear that the invention of steel
pens is of older date than is commonly supposed. The paper referred to
says: "Just at the meeting of the Congress I may without boasting claim
the honor of having invented new pens. It is perhaps not an accident
that God should have inspired me at the present time with the idea of
making steel pens, for all the envoys here assembled have bought the
first that have been made, therewith, as may be hoped, to sign a treaty
of peace which, with God's blessing, shall be as permanent as the hard
steel with which it is written. Of these pens, as I have invented them,
no man hath before seen or heard; if kept clean and free from rust and
ink, they will continue fit for use for many years. Indeed, a man may
write twenty sheets of paper with one, and the last line would be
written as well as the first. They are now sent into every corner of the
world as a rare thing--to Spain, France, and England. Others will no
doubt make imitations of my pens, but I am the man who first invented
and made them. I have sold a great number of them, at home and abroad,
at one shilling each, and I dispose of them as quickly as I can make
them."
OUT IN THE STORM.
BY SIDNEY DAYRE.
"That story about the baby in the storm? Oh yes, I'll tell you all about
it. See, there's the scar on his dear little forehead yet--he'll carry
it all his life, they say--but I shall never get over being thankful he
came out of it so much better than I did, the darling."
And Janet glanced at her poor crooked arm as she settled herself more
comfortably for a long talk.
"This was the way it came about. Mother said to me one Saturday
afternoon, 'Janet, I am going over to the village; I will take the
little girls with me, and I want you to take good care of Harry till I
come back.'
"This arrangement did not suit me at all. I had other plans for the
afternoon, and I said, 'But, mother, I promised Mary Hathaway I would go
down there this afternoon. She is going to show me a new stitch for my
embroidery.'
"'I don't like to interfere with you, dear,' mother said, 'but it seems
to me you have been running there quite often this week, and I must have
your help now.'
"This was true, but it made no difference in the fact of my wanting to
go again.
"'Can't Bridget take care of him?' I said.
"'No, she has too much else to do.'
"'I hate being tied to babies all the time,' I snarled. 'I think we
might keep a nurse as well as the Hathaways. Mary never has to be
bothered with the young ones.' Mother looked at me with a look which
begged for something better from me, but I kept the scowl on my face
till I saw them drive from the gate. She said good-by to me with a
loving smile, which faded out, as I would not return it. Even when I saw
three hands waved to me as they turned the corner, some ugly thing at my
heart kept my hand down, although half a minute later I would have given
anything for a chance of answering mother's smile.
"I carried baby out into the grove at the back of the house, and dumped
him into the hammock, feeling cross and miserable enough. He sat there
cooing and crowing and laughing in a way which would have put a better
temper into any one but me. I sat on the ground beside him, fussing away
at my embroidery, but I could not get it right, and I got crosser and
crosser. At last Harry stretched over toward me, and took rather a rough
grasp of one of my ears and a good handful of hair with it. He did it to
pull my face around for a kiss, but as his pretty face came against mine
with a little bump, I jumped up and spoke sharply to him. I laid him
down with a shake, saying, 'Go to sleep now, you little tease.'
"He put up a grieved lip, and sobbed as I swung him. It was about the
time of his afternoon nap, and he was asleep in a few minutes.
"Then I tried my embroidery again, but it was no use--I could not get
the right stitch without some help from Mary. Then a thought came across
my mind--why could I not just run down there? Baby would surely sleep
for an hour, and I could easily be back within that time. He could not
possibly fall out of the hammock, for there were strings tied to some of
the cords, which could be fastened above him. I thought of telling
Bridget I was going, so she would have 'an eye out' in case he _should_
awake, but I knew she would be crabbed about it, and feel as if I were
imposing on her, even if he did not give a single 'peep.' So I tied him
in very carefully--he gave another little sob as I kissed him, and I was
so sorry I had been cross to him. In ten minutes more I was running in
at Mrs. Hathaway's gate.
"I had been going toward the north, so I did not notice that a black,
curiously shaped cloud, which lay low in the south as I left home, was
rising very fast. Mrs. Hathaway told me Mary was out in an arbor back of
the house, so I ran out there, and for a little while we were so deep in
the embroidery that I forgot to notice how dark it was getting. Then
there came a flash of lightning--oh, how white and terrible that
lightning was! It came all about us; we seemed wrapped up in it; and
such a burst of thunder as I never heard before or since. It sounded
like a cannon-ball falling right at our feet.
"As soon as we could move we flew into the house. I was wild with fright
as I saw the awful blackness in the sky. Great drops of rain began to
fall, and peal after peal of thunder came, as I snatched my bonnet and
rushed to the door. Mary seized my arm and held me back. She cried, 'You
must not go; indeed you _shall_ not go out in such a storm.'
"Mrs. Hathaway came up to me too, and put her arm around me. 'Why,
Janet, you can not go, my child. It might be at the risk of your life.'
"I think they almost meant to keep me by force, but I screamed out, 'I
_must_ go! I will! I will!' and I broke away from them, and rushed out
into that blinding storm. I couldn't think of anything except the poor
baby I had left all alone. There was no one there to take care of him,
no one knew where he was, and in the noise of the storm nobody could
hear him scream.
"The rain poured down in sheets by the time I reached Mrs. Hathaway's
gate. It seemed almost to beat me down to the ground, and the water was
over my shoes in half a minute. The lightning seemed like one long
flash, and the thunder never stopped. I staggered on and floundered on,
and slipped down and got up again, all the time just saying to myself,
'The baby! the baby!--if I could only reach him and find him alive!'
"Then it seemed as if night came down all at once. It got dark in one
minute, and I heard a horrible roaring sound behind me--louder than all
the thunder. I heard a long, rattling crash, and then another. It was
Mrs. Hathaway's house and barn going to pieces, but I didn't know it
then. I heard people scream; I heard all sorts of things whizzing about
me, but it was too dark to see much. Things came striking against me,
and soon a heavy thing came banging against me on one side, and just as
I was falling down something seemed to pick me up, and I was whirled and
twisted round and round, till I didn't know anything more.
"When I opened my eyes the rain was falling on my face. It was lighter,
and I saw boards and timbers, and trees and branches and bushes, lying
all about me. I was in a field not far from home. I felt dizzy, and
didn't remember anything at first, and then I thought of little Harry,
and sprang up to run to him. But, oh, how sick and sore I felt! When I
tried to lift a heavy branch which was lying partly over me, I could
raise only one of my arms.
"But my feet were all right, and I ran as fast as I could toward home. I
saw my father in the road in front of the house, looking up and down,
with a white, frightened face. He hurried toward me.
"'Where have you been, child?' he said. 'I must go to see if anything
has happened to your mother, but I could not go till I knew you and
Harry were safe-- Why, dear, you are hurt!'
"But I ran past him, crying, 'The baby, father, he's in the
hammock--come quick!'
"When we got round to the grove I screamed at what I saw. The trees lay
about as if a scythe had mown them down. I hardly knew the place, or
where to look for Harry.
"One of the trees the hammock was tied to was lying exactly where I had
left my little brother. Another tree was blown right across it. Father
did not stop to look, but called the hired man, and they brought axes
and saws. I stooped down and listened, though I felt sure the dear
little one must be dead. But I heard a sad little sob, as if he had
cried till he was worn out. I was so glad, I got up and danced. But
father shook his head and said, 'He's alive, but how do we know how he
may be hurt.' They chopped away at the branches, while I held my breath,
oh, how long, _long_ it seemed to wait! I crouched down and crept as
near the baby as I could. I called to him, and he gave a pitiful little
cry; he expected me to take him at once, and I was glad he got angry
because he had to wait. He tried to free himself from the hammock, and I
began to hope he might not be much hurt.
"At last a great branch was taken away, and I got closer to him. I
called father, and we looked under, and I heard him say, 'Thank God!'
"There the darling was, in a kind of little bower made by two big
branches which came down on each side of him. They had saved him when
the other tree fell. His forehead was scratched deeply, but nothing else
ailed him. Father reached in and cut away the hammock with his knife,
and drew him out with hands that shook as if he had an ague fit. The
little fellow held out his arms to me; but as I tried to take him my
strength all seemed to go away. I grew dizzy, and fell down. Bridget
took the child, and father carried me in and laid me on a bed.
"Then he and Bridget tried to get us into dry clothes. But I cried out
every time they touched me, till father was nearly at his wits' end. I
called aloud for mother. I knew she would not hurt me so.
"'I will go now and see where she is, dear,' father said at last, wiping
his forehead. 'The good Lord only knows where she may be--and the little
ones. I'll bring some one to help you, poor child.'
"The sun was shining brightly again by this time, but as I lay there,
with a great deal of pain in my arm and head, I seemed to feel that
black storm coming after me yet. The roar, roar, roar kept on in my
head, and the bed was whirling up in the clouds with me, and Mary
Hathaway was holding me, while some one pelted me with the stars; and
mother said, 'Oh, my poor darling--look at her head!'
"Then the moon peeped at me, and said, 'Her arm is broken in two
places.'
"It was the doctor who said this, and mother had really come to me.
After that I seemed to be climbing and climbing through trees--oh, so
long! I kept on for years, always hunting for little Harry, hearing him
cry for me, and never able to reach him. But at last I saw a light--I
had been in the dark all the time--and I struggled toward it, and looked
out. Mother was there, but not Harry.
"'Where is he?' I cried.
"'Who, dear?' she said.
"'Why, the baby--little Harry,' I said. 'I was almost up to him.'
"'Here he is.'
"She lifted him up to me, and I tried to take him, but I could not raise
myself, and was glad to find that I was in my own bed. I went off into a
long sleep, and when I awoke I didn't want anything except to lie quiet
and know mother was caring for me, and that Harry sometimes came
toddling into my room, for he had learned to walk during the long weeks
I had been sick.
"Well, that is about all there is of it. My arm was a long time getting
well, and will always be crooked, like this. The doctor said it would
have got entirely well if it had not been for the fever.
"But, dear me, how much thinking I did when my head got clear enough to
think! When I was out in the storm all I had ever heard about the wrath
of God on the children of disobedience seemed to come back to me. How I
was punished! If I had been faithful to my duty, I should have been safe
at home when the storm came. I shall always feel as if I knew something
of that awful wrath, for wasn't I taken up in God's terrible hand?
"When I was getting well I began to wonder why Mary Hathaway never came
to see me. Mother put off telling me as long as she could that she and a
younger sister had been killed in a moment by the falling of their
house, and that Mrs. Hathaway was crippled for life. None of us had been
hurt but me. Mother had got beyond the track of the worst part of the
storm, but her horse was killed by the lightning. Father lost his barns,
most of his stock, and nearly all his crops.
"That's the story of the terrible tornado. Its path was not more than
half a mile wide, and it was all over in less than half an hour. Mother
says I grew five years older on that day, and I think she is right."
"MOONSHINERS."
BY E. H. MILLER.