[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 55. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, November 16, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IN THE WOODS.]
THE FOX-SKIN COAT.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
"It's a dark night, Jenny," said Dr. Putnam to his wife, as he tied on a
pair of coarse socks over his boots.
"Dark and cold too, David," said Mrs. Putnam.
"Don't fret, little woman. I've been out in many a worse. I only spoke
of it because I doubted whether or no I should take the lantern; but I
think I will, since it won't be lighter before I come back."
"Sam!" called Mrs. Putnam, and a curly dark head was thrust in at the
door, "fetch father the lantern; light it first."
The Putnam children were trained to prompt obedience. Sam was almost
sixteen, but he made neither delay nor objection. When he brought in the
old-fashioned tin lantern you saw that he was a tall boy, with an
earnest, pleasant face. He followed his father out of the door, hung the
lantern by the side of the wagon seat, and tucked in the worn and ragged
buffalo-robe as carefully as possible. His father nodded and smiled as
he drove off. Sam stopped a moment to inspect the weather: the air was
bitter enough, and not a star to be seen.
"Father'll have an awful cold ride," he said, as he re-entered the
house; "the wind's northeast, right in his face, and everything is
frozen up hard and fast."
"Poor father! he has a hard time winters," sighed Mrs. Putnam.
And indeed he did. A country doctor's life is hard enough; day and night
he must drive, in all weather and all seasons; nor does there come to
him a time of rest and vacation, for people are always ill somewhere.
Dr. Putnam had even a harder time than many others, for the district
where he lived was among the hills and forests of upper New Hampshire,
where roads were rough, winters bitter, inhabitants few, and doctors
scarce. But he had a wife and three children to support, and he could
not help himself. Besides, he was a hardy, brave, kindly man, and no
night was too stormy, no road too long, if sickness called him. He had
always been well till the year before, when an attack of pleurisy took
hold of him sharply, and warned him that flesh and blood can not endure
more than a given amount of exposure.
All this went through Sam's curly head as he mended the fire in the
stove, brought in wood, and then went over to the next neighbor's after
Mary Ann, his sister, two years younger than he, who had gone out to
take tea. Teddy, the baby of the family, was asleep long ago. Mrs.
Putnam still sat by the fire knitting when the children came back, rosy,
cold, and laughing.
"Oh, mother, it's awfully cold," said the girl. "I'm so sorry father's
gone 'way out to Accomac!"
"Mother," said Sam, "Joe Allen says when he was down to Haverhill last
year he saw a man driving stage who had a big coat on all made of
fox-skins: wouldn't that be perfectly splendid for father?"
"Yes, indeed, Sam. My father had one; he gave it to Uncle John when he
got command of that whaler I've told you about, the _Emmeline_."
"I wish he hadn't," said Sam. "It's down at the bottom of the sea now;
and if you'd had it, just think how warm father might have been!"
"No 'ifs,' Sam; you know we don't allow that little word here."
Sam laughed, and went after his old tin pail of butternuts, and the
hammer and stone; but while he cracked them he was thinking very hard
indeed, and inside his curly head a plan blossomed which in due time
fruited. The little village of Ponds, on whose edge Dr. Putnam's
homestead and small farm stood, was nestled in the very heart of the New
Hampshire hills. Five miles off a railway ran from the mountains to the
sea-board, and there was a station nominally belonging to the town of
Sabatis, which lay at least a mile and a half beyond. Ponds, however,
was so shut in by the hills that nobody would have suspected a railway
near it, except when the south wind brought a shriek of the whistle now
and then. North of it lay higher hills, and real mountains miles away,
while long stretches of wild forest harbored bears, foxes, even now and
then a wild-cat, sometimes a deer, and plenty of smaller game.
Sam had been learning to shoot this summer that was just past, and had
become a fair shot. More than one partridge had helped out the meals at
home, and many a rabbit pie, for he was skillful also at snaring; but he
had never tried his hand at larger game. Now, he thought, if only he
could kill foxes enough, his father might have a coat. It is true, he
had no hound, and he really did not like to go alone fox-hunting; for
although he was no coward, the hills were full of precipices, and the
woods of windfalls, where, if his gun should accidentally go off and
injure him, or his foot slip on a dangerous edge, he might lie till
death came without possible help; and his father had taught him long ago
the difference between courage and recklessness--taught him that no man
has a right to throw away his life or carelessly risk it. Sam had the
best sort of courage, that which is considerate and calm.
But when he had thought over the matter till he fell asleep, and woke up
still busy with it, the dawn seemed to have brought counsel: he
remembered old Peter Dupont, a Canadian coal-burner, who lived in a
shanty half way up Pine Hill, had a pair of fine hounds, and was said to
be one of the best hunters about the village. Sam knew him very well; he
had gone up to the shanty many a time with medicine from his father when
Pete lay sick with a fever, and he had carried gruel and custard and
beef tea from his mother as the old man grew better. It was from him Sam
had learned all his tricks of woodcraft, and he remembered now how many
fox-skins he had seen nailed against the outside of the little
shed--skins that Pete sold at Sabatis when he was out of a coal job, and
thereby provided himself with many a bag of meal and kit of salt pork.
But Sam must get his mother's consent before he could go hunting with
Peter, and it took much coaxing, and many representations of how much
his father would enjoy such a coat, to induce her to set aside her
fears, and say yes to his repeated prayers. It was harder for her,
because both she and Sam did not wish to have the Doctor know anything
about it till the success came--if ever it did.
"But, Sam dear," said Mrs. Putnam, "have you ever thought how you shall
get it made? Even if you get the skins, it will take a good deal of
money to pay for lining and making and all."
Sam's face fell. "I never thought of that, mammy dear; but I am sure
there'll be some way. You know what father's always saying--'God helps
those that help themselves'; and I'll help myself as hard as I can, and
you'll see if there doesn't come a way."
Mrs. Putnam stroked the curly head fondly; she would not say a word to
disturb that honest, child-like faith. Perhaps it taught her a lesson,
for she was naturally a doubting, grieving woman.
And, to be sure, the very next day the way Sam looked for was opened. A
man drove over from Sabatis with an Irish girl who wanted the Doctor to
pull a tooth out, for Dr. Pomeroy had gone to New York to see his dying
father, and there was no one nearer than Dr. Putnam at the Ponds. But he
had gone to the minister's to see a croupy child, so the girl sat down
by the fire to wait. As she looked about, her eye fell on a long soft
garland of the coral ground-pine which Sam had brought in the day
before.
"Sure an' isn't that splindid!" she exclaimed.
"Did you never see any before?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
"'Deed an' I did. I seen it to Bostin--heaps av it; they brings it in
from the counthry before Christmas-time, in big wreaths an' strings, an'
sells it be the yarrd surely, twinty-five cints for a yarrd, an' it tied
no bigger 'n me arrm, to hang up in churches an' houses. An' scarrce it
is, too, for there's so many wants it."
A thought flashed across Mrs. Putnam's mind: it was the last day of
October now; bitter as the cold was, there would probably be yet many
thaws and days of sunshine before winter came, and the hills about them
were fairly carpeted with these beautiful trailing evergreens. She gave
her idea to Sam in a private interview, and he was greatly pleased with
it; then they took Mary Ann into their counsels, and the matter worked
so nicely among the three that by the time Sam had killed his first fox
there were set away in the cellar two large rough board boxes filled
with wreaths, crosses, and coiled lengths of garland beautifully tied by
Mrs. Putnam, who had a natural taste for such things. Some were all of
the soft coral pine, rich and velvety; some of the lighter ground-pine,
darkened with clusters of the white-veined pipsissewa at even distances;
and some wreaths were made of glittering kalmia leaves alone, others of
all the sorts mixed together, while one or two crosses of tree-pine were
set with snow-white bosses of the wild amaranth--"life-everlasting"--a
store of which Mary Ann had picked when it first budded, intending to
use it for home decorations. These boxes were sent by an obliging
neighbor to the Sabatis station, and from there as freight to a cousin
of Mrs. Putnam's mother, who kept a variety store in Boston, as
specimens, the arrangement having been previously made with him that he
should exhibit and dispose of these, and receive orders for others.
It was very lucky for Sam's projects that his father was a doctor, and
absent from home three-quarters of the time.
Sam's first fox was a triumph; it repaid him well for a cold and anxious
day's work; and as he helped Peter nail the handsome skin against the
shed it seemed to him an easy task that lay before him, but he did not
find it so. The evergreen business was far more successful: the
beautiful and graceful decorations found a rapid market; orders flowed
in; Mrs. Putnam and Mary Ann got up early and sat up late to fill them;
Sam drew the boards from the saw-mill, sawed them into lengths himself,
and nailed the slight boxes together; but this was all he could do on
frosty days, though whenever it thawed he worked bravely at gathering
the greens and plucking the kalmia boughs; but the foxes were his own
peculiar work: he must divide the glory and the gift of the coat with
mother and Mary Ann, but after all it was he who would shoot the foxes.
Yet the foxes did not care to be shot by him; his patience and his
strength almost gave out as week after week the cunning animals eluded
his search and evaded his fire. It was the last week in December before
he shot another, and that happy day two fell before him. It was not easy
work at all. The long tramps through snow and rain, the treacherous
windfalls, the cold winds and freezing mists, were not pleasant
accompaniments; but they did not daunt him.
In the mean time the golden returns of their labor had come to mother
and Mary Ann. Twenty-five dollars had been sent by Cousin Jakeway, and
were carefully hidden away in a cracked tea-pot under the paper of
nutmegs.
In January, Sam shot two more; but the first week in February, as he was
standing on a high and icy rock watching for a big gray fox to leave her
den, into which the hounds had tracked her by another entrance, where
Pete was stationed, in a moment of careless excitement he leaned too
far, slipped, and lay helpless at the foot of the rock, with his left
leg doubled under him, just as the old fox darted out, actually brushing
his cap as he lay senseless. Peter heard no report of the gun, and
hastening to see why Sam had not fired, found that his leg was broken,
and he badly bruised all over. Luckily it was not far to the shanty, and
Pete, by aid of a long light hand-sled he used to fetch wood on,
contrived to get the boy on his own bed, and restored to consciousness,
before he went for the Doctor.
But Sam could not be moved. And as he lay there day after day his father
wondered why he did not mend faster: he was low and feverish, could not
sleep, and evidently fretted. Dr. Putnam thought he was homesick.
"He don't get well, Pete," he said to the old man, shaking his head. "I
think he is fretting for home."
A sudden gleam lit the old fellow's dark eye, but he said nothing till
the Doctor was gone; then he went in to Sam. "Ho! ho! I ketch you, mine
boy! The Docteur he say you fret. I tink an' tink why; then I have idea.
Oh, you one big fool, mine boy! You tink, 'I get not mine fader skins
for coat.' Ho! ho! you tink old Pete forget dat leetle boy fetch tings
so much time to him long ago? Pollidge, pill, sweet-stuff, tisane,
soups? No, Pete remember. Dem fox-skin I shoot is for Sam, just so many
as he want; all, if coat want all. Now you get well, sar, pretty quick,
eh?"
Sam turned his face into the pillow and cried. Forgive him--he was weak;
but he got well rapidly now, and when the next November came mother and
Mary Ann and Sam made a solemn presentation of the long handsome
fox-skin coat to Dr. Putnam. The Doctor looked at it with astonishment
and genuine pleasure. It meant more to him than any of them knew, for he
had already had one secretly endured pleuritic twinge. Then he put it
on, and turning round and round, surveyed himself, and looked up with a
smile.
"I can't be cold in this," he said, with a sort of thrill in his voice;
"but there's something about it more warming than the fox-skins."
"ALICE" AND THE WOLVES.
Nearly fifteen years ago, when the far West was much more wild and
unsettled than it is now, a little party of seventeen men were
travelling through the almost unknown Territory of Arizona. They were
the remnant of a government exploring party that had originally numbered
fifty members; but some had been killed by the Indians, and others had
turned back at Santa Fe, dreading to face the unknown dangers of the
approaching winter amid the mountains of Arizona.
In this party was one boy--a smooth-faced, brown-haired lad, barely
sixteen years of age, who had left his home in New England fired with
the ambition of seeing life on the plains, and who had joined the
explorers in Kansas. Although effeminate-looking, he was a stout-hearted
fellow, as merry as the day was long, and a universal favorite with the
other members of the party. His appearance was in such contrast to that
of the bearded men in whose company he was that it seemed to them almost
girlish, and he had--partly on this account, and partly because one of
the party declared that the boy looked enough like his sweetheart, Alice
Mason, of St. Joe, to be her twin brother--been from the outset called
"Alice," to which nickname he had at first made strong objections, but
to which he now answered as readily as to his own, which was Charlie
Adams.
The little party were now nearly two months out from Santa Fe, the month
was November, and the weather in the mountains to which they had
penetrated--the Sierra Madre--was growing very cold. At night, when the
camp was quiet, great gaunt mountain wolves would come down into the
valleys, and sneak about as close as they dared, in hopes of finding
something to eat; or they would go off to a little distance, and,
sitting on their haunches, point their long noses high in the air, and
give vent to the most dismal and blood-chilling howls. These sounds
would be taken up by the coyotes, which were always hanging about near
camp, and which would join in with a chorus of quick barks, ending in a
prolonged wail, and these sounds would be echoed and re-echoed from the
hills and mountains until the night would be full of the most horrible
yells and howlings imaginable.
One very cold evening camp was pitched beside a beautiful spring known
as Agua Fria, or cold water, that bubbled up from the bottom of a narrow
valley filled with great Norway pines, and hemmed in by tall mountains.
Although there was no snow on the ground in the valley, it had already
reached more than half way down the mountain-sides, and the wild animals
that lived up them had been driven down, so that in the valleys wolves
were more plentiful than usual, and they began to howl around the little
camp almost before the tents were up. "Alice" had often wished, as he
lay at night shivering under his thin blankets, and listening to the
howlings of the wolves, that he had two or three of their thick warm
skins to roll himself up in; but there had been too much work to do for
the men to devote any time to wolf-hunting, and "Alice" had not been
allowed to go out alone after them. This evening, however, the wolves
were so much more noisy than usual that the attention of the men, who
sat smoking their pipes about the roaring camp fire, was attracted to
them, and "Alice" thought it a good time to put in his plea for some
wolf-skins. His friend, old George Waite, a giant of a man, who acted as
carpenter and blacksmith to the party, listened patiently to him, and
told him that if he could get some arsenic from the doctor he thought
they could manage to get hold of some wolf-skins before long. The doctor
had in his chest a quantity of arsenic that he used for preserving the
skins of rare birds and beasts, of which he was making a collection, and
he willingly gave a small package of it to "Alice," though with many
cautions as to its use.
Taking the heart and lungs and some other portions of a deer that had
been killed that afternoon, old George rubbed over them the arsenic that
"Alice" brought him, until half a dozen pieces of meat were thus
prepared. Then he made a torch of a long sliver of pine, the end of
which he split, and into the opening thrust a quantity of birch bark.
This torch flared up with a brilliant blaze as he lighted it at one of
the fires and handed it to "Alice." Old George then gathered up the
pieces of prepared meat, and he and "Alice" scattered them along the
banks of the stream about a quarter of a mile from camp. Having thus set
their trap, they retraced their steps somewhat hurriedly, as their torch
had burned itself out, and already stealthy footfalls could be heard on
the dry leaves very unpleasantly near to them.
At the first break of day "Alice" had turned out, and waking old George,
the two started off to gather up their wolves. They were surprised, on
nearing the place where they had left the poisoned meat, to hear the
sound of voices and see smoke curling above the bushes.
"Step lightly," said old George; "let's see if the wolves have gone into
camp, and are cooking the meat we so kindly left them."
The two crept cautiously forward, until they could peer through the
bushes into the open space where they had left the meat the night
before; and "Alice" started and almost uttered an exclamation as he saw,
not an encampment of wolves, but of Indians, within a hundred feet of
where they were crouched. He and old George could hardly believe their
eyes, for Indians rarely travel after night-fall, and there had
certainly been none there the evening before.
But there they were--a dozen men crouching over two very small fires
that they nearly hid with their blankets, and two squaws preparing
breakfast. "They are Navajoes," said old George, who had lived long in
the Indian country, "and they are at peace with the whites now; but I
don't think it would be very safe for us to go unarmed into their camp."
[Illustration: "ALICE" SPRANG FROM HIS CONCEALMENT.]
Hardly had old George said this in a whisper to his companion, when,
with an exclamation of dismay, "Alice," who had been watching the
movements of the two squaws, sprang from his concealment, and rushing up
to one of them who was just lifting a large piece of meat to her mouth,
dashed it from her hand with a quick blow.
Old George followed after him, and was beside him in an instant.
The women screamed, and in another moment had scuttled away into the
bushes, leaving the two men surrounded by a group of angry Indians, who
had gained their feet and their weapons at the first alarm.
"It was the poisoned meat, George," gasped "Alice," "and she was just
going to eat it."
As both old George and the Indians could talk Mexican, an explanation
was soon made and understood. Their opportune appearance probably saved
the lives of all the Indians, and averted the war that would have
certainly followed had this band of Navajoes been destroyed.
KITTY WON'T PLAY.
[Illustration]
Kitty, dear Kitty, I want you to play,
For I'm awfully lonesome when sister's away;
They've sent her to school, and I really would cry
If I were not ashamed when my dollies are by.
You are not as good fun as you once were, you know,
Poor Kitty; you're growing too lazy and slow;
But spring for my ball; let us have a good race;
You'd like it, I'm sure, I can tell by your face.
And here is a bit of such nice sugar-cake,
So sweet, Kitty--try it; 'twon't make your teeth ache.
No? Well, then, I'll eat it, and you shall have meat
If you'll scamper and frisk on your four pretty feet.
[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]
WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON?
BY JOHN HABBERTON,
AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES."
CHAPTER X.
RECAPTURED.
On the morning after Benny Mallow's party hardly a boy started for the
brook or the woods. This was not because the dissipation of the previous
night had made them overweary, or too heavy and late a supper had
induced headaches, or the party itself had to be talked over. Each of
these reasons might have kept a boy or two at home, but the real cause
that prevented the majority going about their usual diversions was fear
of meeting the escaped counterfeiter. Where the information came from no
one thought to inquire, but the report was circulated among the boys
quite early in the morning that the criminal was armed with two heavy
revolvers that some secret confederate had passed through the window to
him, and that he would on no account allow himself to be captured alive.
This story justified the stoutest-hearted boy, even if he owned a rifle,
in preferring to keep away from any and all places in which such a
person might hide, but the story seemed afterward to have been only half
told, for as it passed through Napoleon Nott's lips a bowie-knife, a
sword-cane, a bottle of poison, and a long piece of a prison chain were
neatly added to the bad man's armament, so no boy felt ashamed to
confess to any other boy that he really was afraid to venture beyond the
edge of the town.
"You can never tell where such fellows may hide," said Sam Wardwell to
several boys who had gathered at the school wood-pile, which was a
general rendezvous for boys who had nothing in particular to do. "I've
read in the police reports in the New York paper that father takes of
policemen finding thieves and murderers and other bad men in the
queerest kind of places. They're very fond of hiding in stables."
"Then I know one thing," said Ned Johnston, promptly--"our hens may
steal nests all over the hay-loft, and hatch all the late chickens they
want to, to die as soon as the frost comes, but I won't go inside of our
barn again until that man is found."
"And I'll stay out of our stable," said Bert Sharp, "though it is fun to
go in there, sometimes, when a fellow hasn't anything else to do, and
tickle the horse's flanks to see him kick."
"You ought to be kicked yourself for doing such a mean trick," said
Charlie Gunter. "Where else do they hide, Sam?"
"Oh, all sorts of places," said Sam--"sometimes inside of barrels. And
just think of it! there's at least twenty empty barrels in the yard of
our store, besides a great big hogshead that would hold six
counterfeiters."
"Perhaps he's in that hogshead now, with his confederate," suggested
Charlie Gunter. "Can't we all get on the roof of the store and look down
into it?"
"I won't go," said Ned Johnston, very decidedly; "they might shoot up at
us."
"One fellow," continued Sam, "was found buried just under the top of the
ground; he just had his nose and mouth out so he could breathe, but he
had even those covered with some grass so as to hide them."
"How did he bury himself?" asked Canning Forbes.
"The paper didn't say," answered Sam. "I suppose his pals dug the hole
and covered him up."
"My!" exclaimed Benny Mallow. "I won't dare to go out into the garden
to gather tomatoes or pull corn for mother."
"Perhaps he's behind that very fence," suggested Napoleon Nott. "I had a
book that told about a Frenchman that laid so close against a fence that
the police walked right past him without seeing him, and then he got up
and killed them, and buried them, and--"
"Keep the rest for to-morrow, Notty," suggested Canning Forbes; "but put
plenty of salt on, so it won't spoil. We've got as much of it as we can
swallow to-day."
"I wonder why Paul don't come out?" said Will Palmer.
"He isn't at home," said Benny; "and Mr. Morton is very much worried
about him, too; but I told him that he needn't be afraid; that Paul
could take care of himself even in a fight with a counterfeiter."
"Good for you, Benny!" exclaimed Will Palmer. "If Paul only had his
rifle with him, I'd back him against the worst character in the world.
But say, boys, while we're lounging about here the fellow may have been
captured and brought back to jail. Let's go up and see."
All that could be learned, when the jail was reached, was that the
Sheriff had sworn in ten special deputies, and these, with the Sheriff
himself, were scouring the town and the adjacent country. The Sheriff
had wanted to make a deputy of Mr. Morton, for men who were sure they
could recognize the prisoner at sight were very scarce; but the teacher
had excused himself by saying he was not yet legally a citizen of
Laketon. Mr. Wardwell said to two or three gentlemen that this was
undoubtedly a mere trick to cover the teacher's foolish tenderness
toward the prisoner whom he had visited so often, and some of the
gentlemen said that they shouldn't wonder if Mr. Wardwell was right.
When dinner-time came an unforeseen trouble occurred to the boys: they
could not go in a crowd to dinner, unless some boy felt like inviting
the crowd to take dinner with him, and no boy felt justified in doing
that unless he first asked his mother whether she had enough for so
many; so the party divided, each boy retaining his trusty stick, and
going with beating heart past every fence and wood-pile behind which he
could not see.
Benny Mallow had just reached home, with his heart away up in the top of
his throat, and stuck there so tight that he was sure he could not
swallow a mouthful, no matter how nice the dinner might be, when he saw,
crossing his street, and at least a quarter of a mile away, three
people, one of whom he was sure must be Paul. He shaded his eyes, looked
intently for an instant, and then became so certain that it was Paul,
whom he felt himself simply dying to see, that he forgot his heart and
his dinner, and even the danger that might lurk in any one of a dozen
places by the way; he even dropped his stick as he sped away as fast as
he could run. By the time he reached the place at which he had seen the
men the party was two squares farther to the left, and Benny was panting
terribly; but as he now saw that it was indeed Paul whom he had seen, he
continued to run.
[Illustration: PAUL AND THE COUNTERFEITER]
After gaining considerably on the trio, however, Benny suddenly stopped,
for he noticed that one of the three carried a pistol. What could it
mean? Could it be?--why, yes, certainly; the man was one of the
deputy-sheriffs, and the man beside whom Paul was walking--holding by
one arm, in fact, as if he were dragging him along--must be the
prisoner.
Benny was no longer afraid. Paul, he was sure, could protect him against
at least six desperate criminals if necessary, even without the help of
a deputy-sheriff with a pistol. "Mister," gasped Benny, as he overtook
the officer, who walked a little in the rear of the others,
"did--Paul--oh, my!--did Paul--catch the--the prisoner?"
"No, Benny, no," exclaimed Paul, who had looked backward on hearing
Benny's voice; "I hadn't anything to do with catching him."
"He would have done it, though; I'll bet a hundred to one he would,"
said the deputy, "if he had met him before I did. I don't believe that
boy knows what it is to be afraid."
"Of course he doesn't," said Benny, proudly.
"Benny," said Paul, "come around here by me; don't be afraid."
Benny obeyed, though rather fearfully, for the prisoner, with his face
rather dirty, and bleeding besides, was not an assuring object to be so
close to.
"Benny," said Paul, "don't you go to telling the boys that I had any
share in catching--in catching this man. You know how such stories get
about if there's the slightest excuse for them."
"I won't," said Benny; "but I can tell that you helped bring him in,
can't I? because you're doing it, you know."
"Don't say that either," Paul replied. "I'm not helping at all--not to
bring him in, that is. The man is very tired; he's been in the woods all
night, lying on the ground, and he's had no breakfast; he is weak, and
I'm helping him, not the Sheriff. Don't you see how the poor fellow
leans against me?"
"Yes," said Benny. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper and said,
"Would you mind telling him that I'm sorry for him too, even if he
did--"
"Tell him yourself," said Paul, quickly. "And go on the other side of
him and give him a lift."
Benny obeyed the last half of Paul's instructions, but the strangeness
of his position made him entirely forget the first part, and he was
wicked enough to wish that, as they reached the more thickly settled
part of the town, people who saw them might think, if only for an hour
or two, that he and Paul, two boys, had caught the dreadful
counterfeiter. And his wish was gratified even more than he had dared to
hope, for suddenly they came face to face with Ned Johnston, who gave
them just one wondering look, and then flew about town and told every
boy that the prisoner had been caught, and that Paul and Benny did it.
Arrived at the jail, the deputy pointed with his pistol to the still
open door.
"One moment, please," said the prisoner. "Boys, I am very much obliged
to you. Will you shake hands?"
He put out his hand toward Benny as he spoke, and Benny took it; then he
gave a hand to Paul, and Paul looked him straight in the face so long
that Benny was sure he was going to make certain of the man's looks in
case he ever broke loose again and had to be followed. Then the man went
into his cell, and Paul stood by until he saw the three great bolts
securely shot, after which he and Benny went together toward their
homes.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE CHILDREN'S PRAYER.
Our Father, from the heaven's bright dome
Look down on us this day;
Hallowed Thy name, Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done alway.
Give us this day our daily bread,
Forgive, as we forgive,
And let our hearts be also fed,
That we in Thee may live.
Into temptation lead us not;
Deliver us from ill;
May life's hard trials be forgot,
Or borne as Thou dost will!
O lend us of Thy strength to bear
The burdens Thou dost send,
That we break not beneath the care,
Enduring to the end!
For Thine the kingdom is, and Thine
The glory and the power;
While day by day our lives decline,
To meet the mortal hour.
THE ROVERINGS AND THE PARADE.
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
The family had just moved into apartments on the Avenue; that is, they
had one room in Mrs. Smilley's tall and narrow boarding-house, the
window of which looked out on the most fashionable street in the city.
The two Eds slept in a trundle-bed that in the daytime could be pushed
out of sight underneath the big bedstead. So everything was very neat
and compact.
It was the year of a Presidential election, and one morning at breakfast
Mr. Rovering looked up from his paper to remark, "My dear, I see there's
to be a torch-light procession to-night, and--"
"Oh my! what fun!" cried Edward, dropping his fork into his coffee-cup,
and stirring vigorously in his excitement. "It'll go past here."
Edgar too was preparing to exclaim joyously as soon as he should become
rid of the potato he had in his mouth, when Mr. Rovering suddenly made a
severe gesture of disapproval, and said, "No, no, my son, we must not
look at it; it is in honor of the other party."
Thus that point was settled, and the two Eds tried hard all day to
forget there was going to be a parade in the evening, and to console
themselves with the promise that they should be taken to a country
circus some time next summer.
Mrs. Rovering entirely approved of her husband's honorable resolve, and
that night saw that the blinds were closely drawn, and the trundle-bed
pulled out promptly at nine o'clock.
The Eds, in spite of their circusy anticipations, wore rather long faces
as they prepared to retire, and both Mr. and Mrs. Rovering, in their
parental kindness of heart, felt glad as they reflected that the uproar
of the procession would probably be made at so late an hour as not to
awaken their obedient darlings.
The fond father, indeed, even went so far as to add to the already
tempting next summer's programme the promise of purchasing five cents'
worth of pea-nuts before the show began.
Under this soothing treatment the two Eds presently dropped off to sleep
in the most obliging fashion possible, and their elders were
congratulating one another on the dark spot their window would make in
the general illumination, when there came a knock on the door, and
callers for Mrs. Rovering were announced.
The horrified lady gave one glance at the card, which read "Hon.
Fielding Rollup," and another at the trundle-bed, and then she and Mr.
Rovering bent down and shoved the latter out of sight, with the Eds
still sleeping peacefully within it.
The next instant the visitors were ushered in, consisting of the whole
Rollup family, father, mother, and five children, and as the latter at
once made for the window, it speedily transpired what they had all come
for--to see the parade!
Mr. Rovering grew quite pale as this conviction was forced upon him, for
the Rollups were large purchasers of Rovering & Co.'s fire-works every
July, so it would never do to offend them. And yet how could Mr.
Rovering be so disloyal to his own party as to have his window not only
thrown wide open, but full of enthusiastic spectators of the other
party's procession?
In the midst of these dismal reflections there was another knock at the
door, and the Boxes "just dropped in," as they expressed it.
Fortunately there were only three of them; but Master Freddie Box proved
to be a whole family in himself, for while the rest of the party--eleven
in all, including Mr. and Mrs. Rovering--kept edging nearer and nearer
to the window, he occupied himself in exploring every nook and corner of
the room in search of fire-crackers. He peered into the vases on the
mantel-piece, crawled under the sofas, looked behind the fire-screen,
and tilted everything movable in the apartment.
Meanwhile the hands of the clock had crept around to nearly ten, the
street below swarmed with surging crowds, and every time a shout arose
the seven Rollups and the two Boxes all tried to put their heads out of
the window at once, while Mr. and Mrs. Rovering were obliged to content
themselves with a fine view of the latest style in back hair.
It was during one of these false alarms that a cry from young Master Box
attracted the general attention within-doors.
"Robbers! thieves! murder!" he shrieked, withdrawing his hand from under
the bed, from whence there now began to issue the most dismal succession
of howls.
"The Eds!" exclaimed Mr. Rovering.
"The trundle-bed!" moaned his wife, and at that moment the parade began
to appear.
Meanwhile the two Eds had been released from their odd prison-house, and
were staring about them with wondering eyes.
"Is it the circus?" queried Edgar, seeing the crowd in the room and
hearing the music in the street.
"Where are the pea-nuts?" demanded his brother; but as at that instant
Mrs. Rovering recovered, and bethought herself that her sons were still
in their night-clothes, they were hurried behind the screen to be
dressed.
It appeared on examination that the only reason the two Eds had not been
smothered outright was that the mattress in the trundle was a very thin
one, having, in fact, been expressly manufactured for a boarding-house,
and thus there was room for enough air to come in over the sides to keep
breath in the boys' bodies until Freddie Box woke them up.
But now everybody's attention was turned to the street again, for
torches were waving wildly, boys shouting, men cheering, and the crowd
pushing in a way that everybody loves to watch.
The young Rollups, who were not particularly little if they were young,
hung half out of the window in solid double layers; then behind them,
and clutching their sacks and jackets to prevent accidents, were the
Honorable and his wife; next stood Mr. and Mrs. Box, each very short,
trying to see over the shoulders of Mr. and Mrs. Rollup, who were both
very tall; and in the rear of them tip-toed Mr. and Mrs. Rovering, who
had by this time overcome their political scruples, and were now trying
by every possible means to obtain a glimpse of the reflection from a
lantern or to spell out a word now and then on a banner, which by dint
of dodging to look under this one's elbow, over that one's head, and
around another's arm, they sometimes succeeded in doing.
As for Freddie Box and the two Eds, they would never have known whether
it was men or kangaroos that were parading if a brilliant idea had not
suddenly presented itself to the ever-active brain of Master Fred. This
he made haste to confide to his young hosts, whereupon they all three
hurried off down stairs, and presently came staggering back with a tall
step-ladder, which they proceeded to set up behind the crowd at the
window in stealthy triumph. Then they quickly scrambled to the top,
where they had such a magnificent view of everything that Box junior
could not refrain from giving vent to a crow of delight.
At the same instant there was a louder shout than usual in the street
below, and Mrs. Box, in her absorbing curiosity to know what was going
on, turned to see if there was anything upon which she could stand, when
her eye fell on the step-ladder. And then, as another round of applause
was given by the throng, she mounted to the step below the Eds in a
flash.
"Hip, hip, hurrah! zip, bang, boom!" went the procession until nearly
midnight, and the group at the Roverings' window looked and cheered and
screamed and waved their handkerchiefs until the last torch zigzagged
out of sight. Then they all turned away, and discovered Mrs. Box on the
step-ladder.
"Come, my dear," said her husband, when he had overcome his
astonishment, "it's time we were going;" but no sooner had Mrs. Box made
a movement to descend than the step-ladder creaked so terribly that she
declared it would fall if she did not remain perfectly quiet.
Mr. Box begged and entreated her to come down, but she obstinately
refused to move hand or foot lest she should precipitate her boy to the
floor.
"I care not for myself," she affirmed, "but for him--and them,"
indicating the two Eds.
"Let Freddie creep around you and come down first," finally suggested
Mr. Box, looking quite wild with despair and sleepiness; but this too
proved of no avail.
What was to be done? Here it was past midnight, the house was being
locked up, Mr. and Mrs. Rovering were yawning, and the trundle-bed
waited to be filled.
Still the fact remained that the step-ladder had creaked, and Mrs. Box
vowed she would remain where she was until broad noon before she would
bring down her son and her friends' sons with violence to the floor.
"Look! look, somebody!" cried Freddie. "I guess another p'rade's
coming."
That was sufficient. Mrs. Box went down the ladder even quicker than she
had gone up, rushed to the window, and stared up and down the street.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Freddie, hustling the two Eds in
front of him, descended to the floor with such speed that just as the
three were clear of it the step-ladder tottered and fell with a crash.
Master Fred's drums turning out to belong to a section of the paraders
moving homeward through the next avenue, the Boxes speedily hurried off
in that direction, leaving the Roverings to settle for the broken
step-ladder and give their landlady notice that they had decided to move
into back rooms on a side street.
[Illustration: THE STORY OF VICTORIA CROSS.]
HOW "QUIET QUENTIN" WON THE VICTORIA CROSS.
"So you want me to tell you something about the Victoria Cross, eh?"
said Private Jack Phillips, of the --th Lancers, as he sat over his
bread and cheese outside the door of the "First and Last," amid a circle
of open-mouthed listeners. "Well, I can just do that; for although I
never got it myself (worse luck!), I've got a friend who did, only the
other day; and he wasn't a soldier, neither, but only a sort o' clerk.
Think o' that, now!
"There's a many different kinds of crosses, but I can only call to mind
three or four just this minute. First and foremost, there's our own
Victoria, made o' gun-metal (the guns taken in the Crimea, you know).
There's a V to support the cross, which hangs from a clasp with two
laurel branches on it; and upon the cross there's the English lion and
crown, with 'For Valor' underneath, 'cause it's only given for some
special feat o' bravery in presence of the enemy. The ribbon's red for
the army, and blue for the navy; and there's a pension of ten pounds"
(fifty dollars) "goes along with it.
"Then there's the Iron Cross of Germany, given for bravery in action,
same as our own Victoria. Mr. Archibald Forbes, the great war
correspondent that you've all heerd of, got it in the war of 1870 for
bringin' in a wounded German under fire. Then there's the French Cross
o' the Legion of Honor, started by old Napoleon Bonaparty when he was
a-fightin' against _us_; but that's given to painters, and writers, and
inventors, and all sorts o' fellows besides soldiers. They say old Nap
used sometimes to give the cross off his own breast to any man that he
saw do anything werry good; and the man that got it was fit to jump out
of his skin for joy.
"Then there's the Rooshian Cross of St. George, the biggest of all their
orders, which is more to any Rooshian soldier than if he'd been made a
General. I've heerd tell of some battle where one o' them Rooshian
Marshals, seeing his men giving way, pulled a lot o' these Georges out
of his pocket, and shied 'em right in among the enemy, callin' out,
'Lads, who's for the Cross of St. George?' The minute his men saw
_that_, for'ard they all went like mad, and swept the enemy all to
nowhere. Pretty 'cute of the old chap, wasn't it? We found one of 'em on
the body of a Rooshian officer that was killed at Balaklava; but none of
us liked to take it, 'cause we thought that as he'd never have parted
with it living, he ought to keep it dead; and so we just buried it with
him. 'Twas a cross with all four sides equal, and the figure o' St.
George and the Dragon in gold on a white ground, and very pretty it
looked.
"But I was a-going to tell you about that man who got the Victoria Cross
without bein' a soldier. You see, just before the Mutiny, a lot of us
were quartered at a little place on the Upper Ganges called Huttee-Bagh.
The chief of the station (who's like what a district magistrate 'ud be
in England) had a young fellow for under-secretary whose father had run
through all his property, and died without leavin' enough to bury him;
so the lad had to come out to India and work for a livin'.
"Quentin Masterton his name was; it's one I won't forget in a hurry, nor
my comrades neither. Some of our officers used to call him Quentin
Durward, after that feller in Sir Walter Scott; but the most of 'em
called him 'Quiet Quentin,' 'cause he was always so quiet and gentle
that he seemed to have nothin' in him at all. But hadn't he, just? Wait
a bit.
"Well, the Mutiny broke out, and one morning, first thing we knew, the
whole place was full of sepoys, yellin' and firin' like so many madmen.
Most of our men were killed before they knew what hurt 'em, and the rest
of us fought our way down to the river, with the ladies in the centre,
and got on board one o' them big rice boats that they have out there.
But before half of us were aboard, a fresh lot o' the villains came
howling down upon us, and we had to turn to and fight 'em again.
"_Then_ you should have seen 'Quiet Quentin'!--he did the work of five
men all to himself. When our two officers were killed, _he_ led us on,
and gave the black rogues sich a dose that they fairly turned tail and
ran. Before they could rally again we were all in the boat; but she
wouldn't budge, and then we found she was hard and fast to a rope under
the water.
"Quick as lightning Quentin Masterton jumps overboard, cuts the rope,
and _shoves the boat away from him_, right out into the stream, just as
another gang of the rascals came pouring down upon him. There was a
crackle of musketry along the bank, and down went poor Quentin. We saw
his head rise once, and then, bang! there came another volley, and down
he went for good.
"_That_ was a sore sight for us all, I tell ye. Some of the ladies cried
outright, and we men felt the biggest cowards that ever was for lettin'
him do it. But we soon had something else to think about, for all that
night and all the next day we were drifting along, with nothing to eat,
seeing the smoke of the burning villages all round us, and expecting to
be attacked every minute.
"At last, by God's mercy, we fell in with a British detachment, which
brought us safe across country to General S----'s division; and when we
got there, whom should we see, all alive and jolly, but 'Quiet Quentin'?
"Sich a hurrah as we gave then you never heerd in your life; and we
crowded about him, and nearly pulled him to bits, tellin' him that we'd
all thought him dead.
"'Not a bit,' says he, laughing; 'there's plenty of life in me yet. You
see, I dived as they fired at me, and then let my cap float up to the
top, keeping myself well in the shadow of the bushes; and while they
were peppering the cap I got off.'
"Just then the old General (who'd been listening with his eyes wide
open) asked what all this meant; and when we told him he faces round on
Masterton and says, quite angry like, 'Why didn't you tell me all this
before?'
"'How could I?' says Masterton; ''twould be blowing my own trumpet.'
"'Well,' says the General, 'I'll blow it for you, and pretty loud, too.
You shall have the Victoria Cross for this, my boy, as sure as my name's
Richard S----.'
"And so he _did_ have it, sure enough; and if you can find me any man
that deserves it better, why, I'll be werry glad to see him, that's
all."
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 53, November 2.]
THE BOY-GENERAL.
BY EDWARD CARY.
CHAPTER III.
We have now reached the fourth year of the Revolution. The British were
getting ready to leave Philadelphia. Should the Americans allow them to
march across New Jersey unharmed, or should they be followed, and, if
possible, be beaten? Lafayette strongly urged that they should be
closely chased, and that, if any chance offered, a battle should be
fought. General Lee, a very able man, who was next to Washington in
rank, opposed this idea. Washington sided with Lafayette, and sent him,
with a strong body of men, to follow the British, and take the first
opportunity to give them battle. Then Lee changed his mind, and wanted
the command which the young Frenchman possessed. "My fortune and my
honor depend upon it," he said, and the generous Lafayette gave up the
command.
Lee managed badly. He retreated when he should have attacked, and
ordered Lafayette to give way at the moment that the enemy was about to
yield. Lafayette, angry and disgusted, sent word to General Washington
that he was needed on the field. Washington galloped forward, took the
command from Lee, reformed the troops, and won, after a hard day, the
battle of Monmouth. From dawn till midnight Lafayette was in the saddle,
now in the thick of the light, now attending by Washington's side, and
when the battle was over, the two lay down under the same blanket,
beneath the summer stars, and talked of the morrow. When the morrow came
the British had stolen away, and all the comfort that Washington and
Lafayette had was that though--through no fault of theirs--they had not
stopped the enemy, they had rescued the American army from the jaws of
defeat.