CHAPTER I.

Produced by Annie McGuire

[Illustration: HARPER'S

YOUNG PEOPLE

AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]

* * * * *

VOL. I.--NO. 46. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR

CENTS.

Tuesday, September 14, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

$1.50 per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

[Illustration: CALLING THE ROLL.--DRAWN BY T. THULSTRUP.]

WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?

BY JOHN HABBERTON,

AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."

CHAPTER I.

THE NEW PUPIL.

The boys who attended Mr. Morton's Select School in the village of

Laketon did not profess to know more than boys of the same age and

advantages elsewhere; but of one thing they were absolutely certain, and

that was that no teacher ever rang his bell to assemble the school or

call the boys in from recess until just that particular instant when the

fun in the school-yard was at its highest, and the boys least wanted to

come in. A teacher might be very fair about some things: he might help a

boy through a hard lesson, or give him fewer bad marks than he had

earned; he might even forget to report to a boy's parent's all the cases

of truancy in which their son had indulged; but when a teacher once

laid his hand upon that dreadful bell and stepped to the window, it

really seemed as if every particle of human sympathy went out of him.

On one bright May morning, however, the boys who made this regular daily

complaint were few; indeed, all of them, except Bert Sharp, who had

three consecutive absences to explain, and no written excuse from his

father to help him out, were already inside the school-room, and even

Bert stood where he could look through the open door while he cudgelled

his wits and smothered his conscience in the endeavor to frame an

explanation that might seem plausible. The boys already inside lounged

near any desks but their own, and conversed in low tones about almost

everything except the subject upper-most in their minds, this subject

being a handsome but rather sober-looking boy of about fourteen years,

who was seated at a desk in the back part of the room, and trying,

without any success whatever, to look as if he did not know that all the

other boys were looking at him.

It was not at all wonderful that the boys stared, for none of them had

ever before seen the new pupil, and Laketon was so small a town that the

appearance of a strange boy was almost as unusual an event as the coming

of a circus.

"Let's give it up," said Will Palmer, who had for five minutes been

discussing with several other boys all sorts of improbabilities about

the origin of the new pupil; "let's give it up until roll-call; then

we'll learn his name, and that'll be a little comfort."

"I wish Mr. Morton would hurry, then," said Benny Mallow. "I came early

this morning to see if I couldn't win back my striped alley from Ned

Johnston, and this business has kept us from playing a single game.

Quick, boys, quick! Mr. Morton's getting ready to touch the bell."

The group separated in an instant, and every member was seated before

the bell struck; so were most of the other boys, and so many pairs of

eyes looked inquiringly at the teacher that Mr. Morton himself had to

bite his lower lip very hard to keep from laughing as he formally rang

the school to order. As the roll was called, the boys answered to their

names in a prompt, sharp, business-like way, quite unusual in

school-rooms; and as the call proceeded, the responses became so quick

as to sometimes get a little ahead of the names that the boys knew were

coming.

Suddenly, as the names beginning with G were reached, and Charlie Gunter

had his mouth wide open, ready to say "Here," the teacher called, "Paul

Grayson."

"Here!" answered the new boy.

A slight sensation ran through the school; no boy did anything for which

he had to be called to order, yet somehow the turning of heads, the

catching of breath, and the letting go of breath that had been held in

longer than usual made a slight commotion, which reached the ears of the

strange pupil, and made his look rather more ill at ease than before.

The answers to the roll became at once less spirited; indeed, Benny

Mallow was staring so hard, now that he had a name to increase his

interest in the stranger, that he forgot entirely to answer to his name,

and was compelled to sit on the chair beside the teacher's desk from

that moment until recess.

That recess seemed longer in coming than any other that the school had

ever known--longer even than that memorable one in which a strolling

trio of Italian musicians had been specially contracted with to begin

playing in the school-yard the moment the boys came down. Finally,

however, the bell rang half past ten, and the whole roomful hurried down

stairs, but not before Mr. Morton had called Joe Appleby, the largest

boy in school, and formally introduced Paul Grayson, with the expressed

wish that he should make his new companion feel at home among the boys.

Appleby went about his work with an air that showed how fully he

realized the importance of his position: he introduced Grayson to every

boy, beginning with the largest; and it was in vain that Benny Mallow,

who was the youngest of the party, made all sorts of excuses to throw

himself in the way of the distinguished couple, even to the extent of

once getting his feet badly mixed up with those of Grayson. When,

however, the ceremony ended, and Appleby was at liberty, so many of the

boys crowded around him, that the new pupil was in some danger of being

lonely.

"Find out for yourselves," was Appleby's dignified and general reply to

his questioners. "I don't consider it gentlemanly to tell everything I

know about a man."

At this rebuke the smaller boys considered Appleby a bigger man than

ever before, but some of the larger ones hinted that Appleby couldn't

very well tell what he didn't know, at which Appleby took offense, and

joined the group of boys who were leaning against a fence, in the shade

of which Will Palmer had already inveigled the new boy into

conversation.

"By-the-way," said Will, "there's time yet for a game or two of ball.

Will you play?"

"Yes, I'll be glad to," said Grayson.

"Who else?" asked Will.

"I!" shouted all of the boys, who did not forget their grammar so far as

to say "Me!" instead. Really, the eagerness of the boys to play ball had

never before been equalled in the memory of any one present, and Will

Palmer cooled off some quite warm friends by his inability to choose

more than two boys to complete the quartette for a common game of ball.

It did the disappointed boys a great deal of good to hear the teacher's

bell ring just as Will Palmer "caught himself in" to Grayson's bat.

"You play a splendid game," said Will to Grayson as they went up stairs

side by side. "Where did you learn it?"

Joe Appleby, who was on the step in front of the couple, dragged just an

instant in order to catch the expected information, but all he got was a

bump from Palmer, that nearly tumbled him forward on his dignified nose,

as Grayson answered,

"Oh, in several places; nowhere in particular."

Palmer immediately determined that he would follow his new schoolmate

home at noon, and discover where he lived. Then he would interview the

neighbors, and try to get some information ahead of that stuck-up Joe

Appleby, who, considering he was only four months older than Palmer

himself, put on too many airs for anything. But when school was

dismissed, Palmer was disgusted at noting that at least half of the

other boys were distributing themselves for just such an operation as

the one he had planned. Besides, Grayson did not come down stairs with

the crowd. Could it be possible that he was from the country, and had

brought a cold lunch to school with him? Palmer hurried up the stairs to

see, but met the teacher and the new boy coming down, and the two walked

away, and together entered the house of old Mrs. Bartle, where Mr.

Morton boarded.

"He's a boarding scholar," exclaimed Benny Mallow. "I've read of such

things in books."

"Then he'll be stuck up," declared Joe Appleby.

This opinion was delivered with a shake of the head that seemed to

intimate that Joe had known all the ways of boarding scholars for

thousands of years; so most of the boys looked quite sober for a moment

or two. Finally Sam Wardwell, whose father kept a store, broke the

silence by remarking, "I'll bet he's from Boston; his coat is of just

the same stuff as one that a drummer wears who comes to see father

sometimes."

"Umph!" grunted Appleby; "do you suppose Boston has some kinds of cloth

all to itself? _You_ don't know much."

The smaller boys seemed to side with the senior pupil in this opinion;

so Sam felt very uncomfortable, and vowed silently that he would bring a

piece of chalk to school that very afternoon, and do some rapid

sketching on the back of Appleby's own coat. Then Benny Mallow said:

"Say, boys, this old school must be a pretty good one, after all, if

people somewhere else send boarders to it. His folks must be rich: did

you notice what a splendid knife he cut his finger-nails with?--'twas a

four-blader, with a pearl handle. But of course you didn't see it, and I

did; he used it in school, and my desk is right beside his."

Will Palmer immediately led Benny aside, and offered him a young

fan-tail pigeon, when his long-expected brood was hatched, to change

desks, if the teacher's permission could be obtained. Meanwhile Napoleon

Nott, who generally was called Notty, and who had more imagination than

all the rest of the boys combined, remarked, "I believe he's a foreign

prince in disguise."

"He's well-bred, anyhow," said Will Palmer to Benny Mallow. "I hope

he'll be man enough to stand no nonsense. He's big enough, and smart

enough, if looks go for anything, to run this school, and I'd like to

see him do it--anything to get rid of Joe Appleby's airs."

Then the various groups separated, moved by the appetites that boys in

good health always have. One boy, however--Joe Appleby--was man enough

to deny his palate when greater interests devolved upon him, so he made

some excuse to go back to the school-room, so as to be there when the

teacher and his new charge returned. Half an hour later Benny Mallow,

who had sneaked away from home as soon as the dessert had been brought

in, and had vulgarly eaten his pie as he walked along the street--Benny

Mallow walked into the school-room, and beheld the teacher, Joe Appleby,

and Paul Grayson standing together as if they had been talking. As Benny

went to his seat Joe followed him, and bestowed upon him a look of such

superiority that Benny determined at once that some marvellous mystery

must have been revealed, and that Joe was the custodian of the entire

thing. Benny was so full of this fancy that he slipped down stairs and

told it as fact to each boy who appeared, the result being to make Joe

Appleby a greater man than ever in the eyes of the school, while Grayson

became a tormenting yet most invaluable mystery.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

GOOD-BY.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Good-by, vacation, you jolly old time--

Good-by to your idle hours;

Good-by to dear fields and mountains and glens,

And the beautiful sweet wild flowers;

Good-by to the hours of frolic and fun,

And to freedom's all-glorious reign;

For vacation is ended, it's season is o'er,

And now for our school life again.

No longer the fences we'll merrily scale,

Nor climb to the tree-tops each day;

But the ladder of learning before us is raised,

And upward we'll wend our way.

Ah, deep in our hearts will the memory lie

Of the happy old days so dear,

And over our books we will wearily sigh,

"Oh, would our vacation were here!"

The bright days yet linger, the grass still is green,

Not yet have the mountains turned gray;

But what are the charms of sweet nature, alas!

Since vacation has vanished away?

But there is one comfort--the seasons roll round,

And all in good time we shall hear

Dame Nature's glad joy-bell ring gayly once more,

"School is out, and vacation is here."

THE 'LONGSHORE YACHT CLUB.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"Yes, boys, de tide's a-comin' in now. Dat yot ob mine'll float afore

long."

"General," said Bob Fogg, "may we have your skiff for our yacht club a

little while to-day?"

"No, sah," replied George Washington, positively, with a wide grin on

his wrinkled, old, very black face. "De club can't hab no skiff ob mine.

Ef dey wants to borry my yot, dey can, dough."

"Bob," said Tommy Conners, "don't you know a sailin' vessel from a

skiff?"

"Look at the mast," said Gus Martin.

"And the sail," said Stuyvesant Rankin, with some dignity.

"Now, Sty," said General George Washington, as he limped a few feet

further from the spot where his rugged-looking old boat lay stuck in the

mud, "wot do you know 'bout sails? Youah mudder nebber went to sea.

She's a dressmaker."

"We can have the yacht, then, General, mast and sail and all?"

The little old black man evidently liked the members of that club, but

he shook his grizzled head doubtfully. "You mought tip ober, and git

yerselves drownded."

"No, we won't," exclaimed Put Varick; "every one of us can swim across

the Harlem and back again."

"'Cept wen de tide's runnin' too strong. Well, it's wuff w'ile dat you

kin swim. I 'mos' upsot her myself dis berry mornin' comin' home.

Wouldn't I lost a heap ob crabs! More'n a bushel. Real blue-leg channel

crabs, bestest kind."

There was more to be said, but the yacht club carried the day, and the

General limped off, turning now and then to chuckle, as he saw his young

friends crowding into the wonderful craft on the mud.

"Ef dey hasn't h'isted de sail! Yah! yah! Gwine to sail dat yot ob mine

right across de sand-bank!"

There was hardly wind enough for that; but it would be some time before

the tide would rise high enough to float the boat, and the club were not

in a state of mind to wait.

"Tell you what, boys, we'll have a cruise," said Bob Fogg. "She's a

beauty. Let's have a 'lection of officers before we start."

They were all agreed on that, but Joe McGinnis insisted that the

grown-up yacht clubs never had any elections.

"They just draw cuts, boys, and they give the longest straw to the man

that owns the club, to begin with."

"That's the best way," said Tommy Conners; "but the General's gone

home."

"I'll take his cut for him," shouted Bob Fogg. "I'll choose to be

Bo's'n, 'cause I know how to steer."

Nobody objected, although every member of the club said he knew how to

steer, and Sty Rankin had a lot of straws ready in half a minute.

Tommy Conners drew the longest straw, and said he would be Captain; but

when Gus Martin came next, and decided to be a Commodore, Tommy

muttered, ruefully, "I'd forgot about that."

Stuyvesant Rankin's memory was still better, for he had hardly compared

his straw with the others before he shouted, "I'll be Admiral of this

club."

Put Varick was so stunned by that that he only said, "I'm Cook; there

won't be any work for me this trip."

"What am I, then?" asked Joe McGinnis, with the shortest straw in his

hand.

"You?" said Bob Fogg; "why, you're the Crew. Take hold of that larboard

oar, and pull it out of the mud. There's those three landlubbers up on

the bank. They'd pelt us if they dared."

The three landlubbers were there, and they were making loud remarks

about the club, but the yacht was almost ready to float now, and no

attention could be paid to them.

Just beyond the little creek where General George Washington kept his

boat spread the busy waters of the Harlem River, with the great city of

New York on both sides, but not very close to the edge of it. It was a

very busy sheet of water indeed. There were small steamboats carrying

passengers here and there; little tug-boats tugged and puffed and

coughed at the sides of big schooners loaded with lumber from Maine;

long race-boats, with gayly dressed oarsmen, darted swiftly over the

water, like great wooden pickerel, they were so long and sharp and

narrow. There were fishing-boats, pleasure-boats, steam-launches, even

canoes that were driven by one man and a paddle. But among them all

there was no other craft like General George Washington's "yot."

"Boys," exclaimed Captain Conners, "we've forgotten."

"What?" said Admiral Rankin.

"To name the boat."

"Oh, that's all right!" said Commodore Martin. "The General named her

himself. She's the _Hail Columbia_."

"Admiral," shouted Boatswain Bob Fogg, "she's beginning to float. You

get away forward there, beyond the mast. Captain, you and the Commodore

get in the middle. Now, Cook, you and the Crew pull hard a minute, and

we'll be out of the mud."

The Admiral obeyed, although there was hardly room to squeeze into, and

the mast crowded his back a little. The Cook and the Crew also obeyed,

and the _Hail Columbia_ suddenly shot away from the bank, and around the

head of the rotten old wooden pier.

"If there ain't those three landlubbers," exclaimed Boatswain Fogg, "out

on the pier head. And they've got a lot of half-bricks to spatter us

with."

[Illustration: THE YACHT CLUB STARTS ON ITS ANNUAL CRUISE.]

There they were; but at that moment the wind came up with a sudden puff,

and filled the sail which the genius of the General had added to the

motive power of that "yot." It was just at the wrong moment, for Captain

Tommy Conners and Commodore Gus Martin were having an argument over an

extra oar they had found in the bottom of the boat, and they were

rocking it badly. The Cook was rowing his best, but the tip of the boat

sent his oar deep under water, and the Crew suddenly found his oar

lifted out into the air.

"Joe McGinnis, you've caught a crab," exclaimed Boatswain Fogg. But

before he could say anything to the Captain and the Commodore, the three

landlubbers were at work.

Splash, splash, splatter! how those bricks and sticks did fall around

the _Hail Columbia_!

"Oh dear!" said Admiral Stuyvesant Rankin to himself, in the bows. "If

the yacht upsets, I'm the only member of the club that's got a new coat

on."

The breeze came fresher and fresher, and in a minute more the _Hail

Columbia_ was out of reach of the "battery" on the pier head. Her sable

owner, however, was watching her from the door of his cabin with genuine

pride.

"Don't she go! Don't she jest slip fru de watah! She does moah sailin'

to de squar' foot dan any odder yot on de ribber."

So she did, if he meant that it took her longer to travel that foot, or

any other.

It was no joke to be "Bo's'n" of the _Hail Columbia_, as Bob Fogg soon

found out.

"Tell you what, boys," he said, "it's 'cause she hasn't any keel on her.

I have to keep steering all the while. There's no saying where she won't

go to."

"Keep along shore," shouted the Admiral from the bows. "You're heading

out into the river."

"Now, Sty, if you think you can steer this yacht better than I can, just

you come aft and try."

"Hey, there, you young pirates! Where are you heading for?"

It was the shout of a big-armed young fellow in a shell race-boat, who

found himself suddenly compelled to pull to the right desperately to

avoid being run down by the _Hail Columbia_.

"Lookout! Oh--"

Thump. "I declare!"

The first exclamation was from the tall, slim gentleman in the

"out-riggered" wherry, who had been racing with the big-armed young man,

and had not been looking out well enough.

He tried to turn to the left, but it was very late to try, and the

suddenness of it helped him "catch a crab" with his starboard oar. When

he said "Oh," he was just going over into the water.

The "thump" and the other exclamation did no harm to the _Hail

Columbia_, but the fat old gentleman in the tub of a pleasure-boat that

had bumped against the yacht remarked:

"The river swarms with boys to-day. I'm not sorry that other one got a

ducking. I've had to get out of his way twice."

The officers and crew of the _Hail Columbia_ were inclined to keep a

little quiet, all but their brave Boatswain.

"Don't you know how to steer, you fellows? Don't you know that sailing

vessels have the right of way? You ought to have blown your whistle

sooner."

"I declare!" again exclaimed the old gentleman. "The child is perfectly

right."

"Bo's'n," asked the Commodore, "can't we tack and keep along shore

again?"

"We can't tack with the sail up--not in this yacht; but we can let it

down and turn her round with the oars." They did that very thing, and in

five minutes more the _Hail Columbia_ was pointing her Admiral toward

the north shore of the Harlem again.

The slim man managed to get back into his "shell," but he had lost his

race with the big-armed man.

"Bo's'n," remarked the Commodore, as they sailed along, "you needn't run

us into the mud."

"I guess not," said Bob Fogg; "but if I can steer her close enough to

land, I'm going up as far as the bridge."

It was a grand cruise, and it lasted a long time; but when the _Hail

Columbia_ once more ran into the little cove, there was General George

Washington ready to say,

"Look a-heah, boys, I didn't say you mought cross de 'Lantic Ocean. I

wants dat yot to go for some bass."

OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.

BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.

No. V.

HOW THE SETTLERS OF WALPOLE DEFENDED THEMSELVES.

Beautiful the green meadows, the surrounding hills, and the distant

mountains forming the landscape in Walpole, New Hampshire, which Colonel

Benjamin Bellows and John Kilburn gazed upon on the banks of the

Connecticut River in 1749. They had built their log-houses with

loop-holes in the walls through which they could fire upon the Indians

in case they were attacked. Though peace had been agreed upon between

France and England, the people who lived along the frontier felt no

security, for the French in Canada were continually urging the Indians

to commit depredations on the English. It was a short and easy journey

from Crown Point, on Lake Champlain, to the valley of the Connecticut,

and the Indians who sold their furs to the French were frequent visitors

to the settlements along the Connecticut.

One of the Indians who visited John Kilburn was called Captain Philip.

He had been baptized and christened by the Jesuit priests at the Indian

village of St. Francis, on the banks of the St. Lawrence, half way from

Montreal to Quebec. The St. Francis tribe were called Christian Indians.

There were rumors that war would break out again between England and

France. Before war was declared hostilities began.

It was in the spring of 1755 that Captain Philip made a visit to John

Kilburn's house with some beaver-skins for sale. He wanted powder,

bullets, and flints for pay. While he was trading, Captain Philip was

running his eyes over the house, looking at the thick timbers, the

loop-holes in the walls. When he had finished his trade he visited the

other houses in the settlement. He was kindly treated. The settlers

never mistrusted that he was taking observations for future use.

August came. The settlers heard that war had begun, and knew that the

French and Indians might be upon them at any moment. They strengthened

their block-houses. No one went into the field to work alone. They

always carried their guns with them. They had some faithful watch-dogs

which always growled when Indians were about. There were nearly forty

men in the settlement. They were stout-hearted, and were determined not

to be driven out by the French and Indians. They appointed Colonel

Bellows to be their leader. He had a suspicion that Indians were about.

"We must have a supply of meal, so that in case we are attacked we shall

have something to eat," he said.

The settlers filled each a bag with corn, shouldered them, and then, in

single file, each man carrying his gun, they marched to the grist-mill

which they had erected, ground the corn into meal, shouldered the sacks

once more, and started homeward, their faithful watch-dogs trotting in

advance, paying no attention to squirrels or partridges, or game of that

sort.

Suddenly the dogs came back, growling, the hair on their backs in a

ruff.

"There are Indians about. Throw down your sacks," said Colonel Bellows.

The men threw their sacks on the ground, dropped into the ferns, and

looked to the priming of their guns. The ferns were tall, and completely

concealed them. Colonel Bellows suspected that the Indians had laid an

ambuscade at a narrow place in the path which they must pass. He crept

slowly forward to see what he could discover, careful not to break a

twig or make any noise. He crept to the top of a little hill, peeped

through the ferns, and discovered a great number of Indians, nearly two

hundred, crouching behind trees, or lying on the ground, waiting for the

white men to enter the trap. He made his way back to his men, issued his

orders in a whisper, and all crawled through the ferns toward the

Indians till they were only a few rods from them.

All were ready. Every man sprang to his feet, and yelled as loud as he

could, "Hi-ya! hi-ya!" It was a terrific howl.

The next moment not a settler was to be seen; all had dropped upon the

ground, and were concealed by the ferns.

In an instant every Indian was on his feet, firing his gun, but hitting

nobody.

There was an answering flash from the ferns, each settler taking aim,

and the Indians sprang into the air, or fell headlong before the

bullets.

The red men outnumbered the settlers five to one, but were so astounded

by the surprise that, picking up the wounded, they made a hasty retreat

into a swamp, and the settlers made all haste to their block-house,

anticipating an attack. Not one of them had been injured.

This body of Indians was a part of a band of more than three hundred,

led by Captain Philip, who had come from Canada with the expectation of

wiping out the settlements along the Connecticut, and of returning to

Canada with many prisoners and no end of scalps. It was at the

pleasantest season of the year. The woods were full of game, and with

the provisions they would get in the settlements which they intended to

destroy they would have an abundance of food.

Captain Philip, with the rest of the Indians, was creeping stealthily

through the woods toward John Kilburn's house. Mr. Kilburn and his son

John, Mr. Pike and his son, were out in the field reaping wheat, their

guns close at hand. Mr. Kilburn had trained his dog to scour the woods,

and the faithful animal ever had his eyes and ears open, and was

sniffing the wind if a wolf or bear was about. On this afternoon in

August the dog came running in with his hair in a ruff, and growling.

"Indians," said Mr. Kilburn. The men and boys seized their guns, ran for

the house, and had just time to get inside and bar the door when Captain

Philip and nearly two hundred Indians made their appearance.

The Indians staid at a safe distance, and so did Captain Philip, though

he came near enough to talk.

"Come out, old John! come out, young John! I give you good quarter," he

shouted.

[Illustration: THE DEFENSE OF THE CABIN--DRAWN BY A. B. SHULTS.]

There were only the two men, the two boys, Mrs. Kilburn and her daughter

and four children, in the house, with three hundred Indians attacking

them, but John Kilburn was not in the least frightened--not he. Neither

was Mrs. Kilburn, nor her son or daughter. They had several extra guns;

Mrs. Kilburn and her daughter knew how to load them. They would rather

die than be taken prisoners. The Indians had no cannon, and their

bullets would not go through the stout timbers. Only by burning the

house would they be able to get in.

"Get you gone, you rascal, or I'll quarter you!" was the defiant answer

that John Kilburn shouted through one of the loop-holes to Captain

Philip, as the latter went back to the dark crowd of savages, who set up

the war-whoop.

"They yell like so many devils," said John Kilburn; but he was not in

the least disturbed by the howling.

Then the bullets began to come through the shingles on the roof, and

strike against the timbers.

The Indians surrounded the house, but there were loop-holes on each

side. Mr. Kilburn and Mr. Pike took two of the sides, and the two boys

the others. Bang! bang! went the guns of Mr. Kilburn and Mr. Pike. Bang!

bang! went the boys' guns. They could fire at a rest, and take

deliberate aim. The Indians could not see the muzzles of the guns, and

the moment one of the red men peeped from behind a tree his skull was in

danger.

One by one they fell, which enraged them all the more, and they crept

nearer, firing rapidly, riddling the shingles, hoping, quite likely,

that a bullet might glance down from the roof, and hit those inside.

"The roof looks like a sieve," said John Kilburn, as he looked up and

saw the holes.

Mrs. Kilburn and her daughter were loading the extra guns the while, and

handing them to the men and boys, who kept up such a rapid fire that the

Indians came to the conclusion that there were a large number of men in

the house.

"We shall soon be out of bullets," said Mrs. Kilburn.

A thought came: why not catch the bullets that were coming through the

roof? The balls had nearly spent their force when they came through, and

they hung up a blanket, with thick folds, which stopped them entirely;

and the girl, gathering them as they fell harmlessly upon the floor, put

them into a ladle, melted them, and ran new bullets, which soon were

whizzing through the air, and doing damage to the enemy.

All through the afternoon the fight goes on, the Indians aiming at the

loop-holes. Their bullets pepper the logs around them. One comes in, and

inflicts a ghastly wound in Mr. Pike's thigh, but the Indians do not

know it, and the brave defense is kept up till the Indians, foiled in

all their efforts, defeated, with several of their number dead and many

wounded from the volley fired by Colonel Bellows and his men, and by

those in the house, set Mr. Kilburn's wheat on fire, kill his cattle,

bury their dead, and slink away, not having taken a scalp or a prisoner.

They have only wounded one man.

When everything goes well with the Indian he can be very brave, but when

the tide is against him he quickly loses courage and becomes

disheartened, and so Captain Philip made his way back to Canada, very

much crest-fallen at the repulse received at the hands of two men, a

woman, two boys, and a brave-hearted girl.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

CAMBRIDGE SERIES

OF

INFORMATION CARDS FOR SCHOOLS.

No. 3.

About Combustion.

BY

W. J. ROLFE, A.M.

Combustion is only another name for burning, and burning in all ordinary

cases is _oxidation_, or union with oxygen, one of the gases that make

up our atmosphere. It is a _chemical_ change; that is, one by which we

get a new substance entirely unlike any of the substances united. Common

salt, for instance, is formed by the chemical union of a yellow,

bad-smelling gas and a soft silvery metal. When coal and wood are

burned, the chief products of the union with oxygen are carbonic acid

and water. The former is a colorless gas, and the latter is in the form

of invisible vapor, and both go up the chimney and mix with the outer

air. The ashes left behind are only what can not be burned or united

with the oxygen. If we collect all the products of the burning, together

with the ashes, we find that they weigh more than the coal or wood, the

increase being exactly equal to the weight of the oxygen consumed. No

kind of matter can be destroyed by any power known to us; it may unite

with other matter, and take many new forms, but its weight can be

neither increased nor diminished. The amount of matter in the universe

is always the same.

Oxygen must be heated before it will unite with coal or wood. The air is

at all times in contact with them, but they will not burn unless they

are first kindled. The chemical process itself, when once started,

generally produces heat enough to raise more oxygen to the proper

temperature, and thus the combustion is kept up. The point to which the

oxygen must be heated varies much with different substances, as is well

shown in kindling a coal fire. The heat produced by rubbing a match on a

rough surface suffices to make the oxygen unite with the phosphorus on

the end of the match; the burning of this causes heat enough for the

union of the oxygen with the sulphur, and the burning of the sulphur

enough to set the wood of the match on fire. The shavings, the kindling

wood, and the charcoal are in turn ignited, and the burning charcoal

develops heat enough to enable the oxygen to combine with the hard coal.

Each step in the operation requires more heat than the preceding step.

This seems a very simple thing now, but the anthracite beds of

Pennsylvania long remained useless because no one had found out how to

kindle the fuel, and the discovery was at last made half by accident.

There are some forms of combustion which are very unlike ordinary

burning, and yet are essentially the same, being cases of union with

oxygen. The only difference is that the process goes on slowly instead

of rapidly. We know that vegetable and animal substances decay when

exposed to the air; and decay is a slow burning. The oxygen of the air

gradually combines with the substances, converting them into carbonic

acid and water, and leaving only a small remnant of matter as the ashes

of the lingering combustion. The _heat_ produced in this case is found

to be precisely the same as in ordinary burning, but it is set free so

gradually that it escapes our notice.

We know that green wood decays much sooner than dry wood. Indeed, if

wood is kept perfectly dry, it will not decay for ages. In the dry

climate of Egypt wooden mummy cases have been preserved for more than

three thousand years. On the other hand, dry wood burns much quicker

than green wood; it is not easy to set the latter on fire. Why this

difference, if decay and burning are similar processes? The decay of the

green wood is due to the fact that the presence of moisture causes

certain changes in portions of the wood, which enable the oxygen to

attack it at a low temperature; and the slow combustion, once started,

is self-sustaining. But in ordinary burning the temperature must be

raised to a certain point before the oxidation can begin, and this point

can not be reached until the moisture is evaporated, which uses up a

good deal of heat.

This process of decay is continually going on in our bodies; but during

life the matter which is burned up is being constantly renewed from the

food we eat. The body is not only decaying, as dead animal matter

decays, but it is also wearing out. With every motion a part of the

muscles is actually consumed, and must be replaced by fresh material.

The heat of the body is likewise due to combustion, and must be kept up

by proper fuel, like the fires in our stoves and furnaces. The products

of all this burning are carbonic acid and water, which pass out of the

body through the lungs.

The rusting of metals is a slow combustion, and scientific men have

proved that, like decay, it develops heat. Iron can be easily burned in

pure oxygen, with the production of intense light and heat. Zinc and

some other metals can be burned in the air if heated very hot, and most

metals are rapidly consumed in the flame of the oxyhydrogen blow-pipe.

Indeed, every form of matter known to us can be burned, unless it has

already been burned. All substances belong to one of these two

classes--those that will burn, or unite with oxygen; and those that have

been burned, or are products of oxidation. Water belongs to the latter

class, and so do nearly all the rocks and solid matter of the earth.

Slow burning sometimes becomes rapid, and then we have what is called

_spontaneous combustion_. When cotton or tow which has become soaked

with oil is laid aside in heaps, the oxygen of the air begins to unite

with it; but the heat developed causes the oxidation to go on faster and

faster, until in some cases the mass bursts into a flame. The same thing

sometimes takes place in moist hay, the moisture starting the process,

as explained above, and the confined heat increasing until it is

sufficient to set the heap on fire.

[_By special arrangement with the author, the cards contributed to this

useful series, by_ W. J. ROLFE, A.M., _formerly Head-Master of the

Cambridge High School, will, for the present, first appear in_ HARPER'S

YOUNG PEOPLE.]

[Illustration: GETTING WEIGHED.]

DAVE'S GREAT LUNCH.

BY J. B. MARSHALL.

It was the great day at the State Fair, and the sidewalks were nearly

deserted as Dave Burt went down Main Street toward the post-office. As

Dave approached the Town Hall, or the City Hall, as the good people of

Rawley were pleased to call that fine building, he glanced up at it, and

saw Mr. William Henry Barrington, the great lawyer, standing at one of

the large windows of his office. Mr. Barrington was frowning, and looked

up the street and down it as if impatiently waiting for some one.

"I'll bet he's mad 'cause he can't go to the fair," thought Dave.

A few days before, Billy Barrington, a nephew, had been telling the boys

of that fine office, with its brass-studded revolving chairs, great

bookcases of books, and a private room where the great lawyer ate his

dinner, which was sent up to him on a dumb-waiter from the restaurant in

the basement of the City Hall the moment he touched an electric bell.

Dave was recalling all the delightful possibilities of such a room,

when click! went something on the pavement before him.

"A penknife," said he, picking up the article, and then, looking in vain

among the branches of the tree for its owner. Examining the knife, he

noticed a slip of paper shut in under the largest blade, and on which

was written:

"Five Dollars Reward! I am on the City Hall roof, and can't get

down, as the spring-latch door has blown closed. Please send the

janitor to release me.

"CHARLES M. WILSON."

"Why, he's our Governor!" said astonished Dave, aloud, and started to

look for the janitor. Dave had been on the roof with his father only the

day previous, and knew just how the door would act if it was not

fastened back.

Stout old Billy Simms, the janitor, in his shirt sleeves, had

comfortably propped himself back in an arm-chair to take a nap, when

rap-rap-rap sounded on the door. Billy's "office," as he called it, was

on the ground-floor of the City Hall.

"Well, boy, what's wanted?" gruffly demanded old Billy, having opened

the door and discovered Dave.

"Why, the Governor's shut out on the roof, and can't get down," said

Dave, handing Billy the paper. "He must have been looking at the Fair

Grounds."

Old Billy lowered his great silver-rimmed glasses from his forehead to

his nose, and read the paper. He gazed for a moment in a queer way over

his glasses at Dave, and then laying his hand pretty heavily on Dave's

shoulder, said, "Come with me."

"I haven't time; and, besides, I don't want any reward," answered Dave.

There was a small room, or closet, back of Billy's "office," toward

which he moved, holding fast to Dave.

Remembering that the old janitor was rather deaf, Dave then formed his

hands in the shape of a trumpet and shouted in the direction of Billy's

right ear, "I say, Billy, I haven't time to go with you."

"Don't you call me Billy, you young rascal!" fiercely exclaimed the old

man. "My name's Mr. William Simms."

Before Dave could make reply he felt himself shaken, pushed into the

closet, and saw the door nearly closed.

"There, you've played that trick once too often," said old Billy. "It's

downright murder in you boys to try and fool me into going up seven long

flights of steps on an awful hot day like this."

"I did find that paper," said Dave, indignantly.

"Don't tell me you're innocent; you're a desperate character," said old

Billy, slamming to the door, and turning the key. "Now," continued he,

shouting through the key-hole, "I'll leave you in there two or three

hours to think what a dreadful thing it is to try and trick an old

rheumatic veteran."

The closet, Dave saw, was where Billy kept his brooms and brushes; the

ceiling was very high, and a small round window far up on the wall

furnished the light. At the back of the closet was a small sliding

shutter, which, after considerable trouble, Dave managed to push up,

hoping he might escape through it into another room. It disclosed a

dark, square funnel, that seemed to extend far down below and far up

above him, and suspended in which were several wire ropes.

"It must be the funnel where the dumb-waiter slides," thought Dave, and

he caught hold of the nearest rope, pulling and shaking it to attract

attention, and calling loudly at the same time. At once he heard a

tinkle-tinkle of a small bell up the dark funnel; and then a scraping

sound from the same direction, seeming to draw nearer him. Directly the

dumb-waiter cage was seen descending, and Dave held fast to the wire

rope until the cage was within a short distance of his hand.

When the cage ceased to move he climbed into it by aid of a chair, and

curled himself up, hoping to go down into the restaurant. There was a

wire running through the cage, and supposing it to be the same he had

been previously holding, he pulled at it with both hands.

The cage began to move; but in place of going down, it began to move

upward. Dave was frightened; but before he could decide what he ought to

do, the cage had passed above the open shutter, and went on scraping

between four dark wooden walls. Up and up went the cage, until Dave felt

that he had traversed a distance far more than enough to have carried

him to the very tip of the lightning-rod on the City Hall cupola.

Suddenly he saw a thin streak of light before him, and quickly releasing

the wire, the cage moved a little further, and then came to a stop. Dave

lost no time in waiting to drum on the door, partition, or whatever it

was before him, and loudly called:

"Hello! Let me out! let me out!"

In a moment there was the sound of quick feet, a sliding shutter was

pushed aside, and such a flood of light shone into Dave's face that

before he could get the dazzle out of his eyes some one carefully lifted

him out of the cage, and stood him on his feet.

"What ever possessed you to take a ride in that carriage?" asked a

pleasant voice.

Dave shaded his eyes, and saw that he was standing before Mr. Barrington

in his private office.

"It's all that old Billy Simms's fault," said Dave, hotly, "and he ought

to be arrested. I found a paper on the pavement that said a man was

locked out on the City Hall roof, and please somebody come and open the

door for him. But when I gave it to Billy, he just locked me up in a

room, and said I was playing a trick on him, and the Governor wasn't on

the roof. Then I opened a shutter, and--"

"The Governor fastened out on the roof!" said Mr. Barrington. "I've been

waiting an hour for him to come and eat lunch with me, but this accounts

for his absence. Sit down, my little man." Then Mr. Barrington stepped

into another room, where Dave heard him send one of his law clerks to

release the Governor.

"I see you are Captain Burt's son David," said Mr. Barrington,

returning. "Simms has treated you very badly; but come--you must be

hungry, being shut up in that dark hole--sit down here at the table, and

eat some lunch. There will be plenty for the Governor."

Dave excused himself, having already dined.

"Then I know what you will eat--a Neapolitan ice."

The door opened, and the Governor entered, looking as though he was

nearly roasted; and in a moment Mr. Barrington had explained to him how

Dave had tried to have him released.

"I'm many times obliged to you, David," said the Governor, shaking

Dave's hand, and making him feel very proud.

The Governor was too near broiled himself to feel like eating lunch, but

the ices appearing, he helped Mr. Barrington and Dave to eat them.

When the ices were eaten, the Governor wished to give Dave the five

dollars, as promised, but he was very, very sure he ought not to take

it. In a few days, however, there came to Captain Burt's house a package

of books, marked "Master David Burt," and within was a note with the

compliments of the Governor.

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 37, July 13.]

THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.

BY BENSON J. LOSSING.