THE CENTURY CO. NEW YORK.
F. WARNE & CO., LONDON.
Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.
THE DE VINNE PRESS.
ST. NICHOLAS:
VOLUME XIII.
PART II.
SIX MONTHS--MAY, 1886, TO OCTOBER, 1886.
CONTENTS OF PART II., VOLUME XIII.
PAGE.
ABOUT BREATHING _Hellen Clark Swazey_ 946
ADVENTURE AT THE FLUME, OUR.
(Illustrated). _W. L_ 844
AMBITIOUS KANGAROO, THE.
Jingle _A. R. Wells_ 853
AMUSING THE BABY.
Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Eva Lovett Carson_ 706
ARMY, AN. Verses _A. C_ 757
ART AND ARTISTS, STORIES OF.
English Painters. (Illustrated) _Clara Erskine Clement_ 803
AUNT DEBORAH'S LESSON. (Illustrated) _G. H. Baskette_ 694
AUTUMN TO SPRING. Poem _Edith M. Thomas_ 883
BABY'S DIMPLE, THE. Poem _William H. Hayne_ 731
BALLAD OF BASE-BALL, A. Verses _I. D_ 774
BELATED FAIRY, A. Picture, drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 693
BLOSSOM-TIME. Poem _Laura E. Richards_ 518
BOAT-BUILDING. (Illustrated) _George J. Manson_ 698
BOPEEP. Poem.
(Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) _Sydney Dayre_ 756
BOYS' CAMP, A. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) 607
BOYS' PARADISE, THE.
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _Elizabeth Balch_ 604
BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 943
BROWNIES AT LAWN TENNIS, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 857
BROWNIES IN THE MENAGERIE, THE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 707
BROWNIES ON ROLLER SKATES, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 543
BUBBLE BOWLING.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Adelia B. Beard_ 540
BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE, THE. Verse _Edith M. Thomas_ 599
CAPTAIN JACK'S FOURTH OF JULY KITE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Daniel C. Beard_ 702
CARICATURE PLANT, THE.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _.M. A_ 522
CHILDREN OF THE SUN, THE. Poem.
(Illustrated) _Arthur Wentworth Eaton_ 770
CHILDREN'S EXHIBITION, THE.
(Illustrated by E. J. Meeker) _Charles Barnard_ 916
CHILD'S FANCY, A. Poem _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 645
CONSIDERATE FARMER JONES. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 843
CRAFTY CRAB, THE. JINGLE. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Isabel Frances Bellows_ 845
CREW OF THE CAPTAIN'S GIG, THE.
(Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) _Rev. Charles R. Talbot_ 899
DAISY-SONG. Verses _Grace Denio Litchfield_ 662
DANGEROUS DOG, THE. JINGLE. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _A. R. Wells_ 837
DIFFERENCE OF OPINION, A. Verses _Lilian Dynevor Rice_ 679
DOG STORIES, ST. NICHOLAS. (Illustrated) 526, 624
"DO YOU LIKE BUTTER, BOSSY?" Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 791
DUEL WITH A STORK, A. Pictures, drawn by Frederick J. Hibbert 754
FISHES AND THEIR YOUNG.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _C. F. Holder_ 600
FLY-FISHING FOR TROUT. (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks,
Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 655
FRESH FROM A DIP IN THE BREAKERS.
Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 670
FROG IN THE SHOE, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by Boz) _Aunt Fanny Barrow_ 791
FUN IN HIGH LIFE. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 935
GEORGE WASHINGTON. (Illustrated by 505, 590, 663, 758,
H. A. Ogden and others) _Horace E. Scudder_ 838, 908
GIRAFFE, THE. (Illustrated) _Gerrish Eldridge_ 768
GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE, THE.
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _E. Vinton Blake_ 494
GRANDPAPA ROSEBUSH. Verses.
(Illustrated) _Laura E. Richards_ 583
GREAT SPRING-BOARD ACT, THE. Picture, drawn by T. J. Nicholl 677
HANDIWORK OF SOME CLEVER SCHOOL-BOYS, THE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _J. Abdon Donnegan_ 547
HER PICTURE. Verses.
(Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) _Anna M. Pratt_ 942
HIGHLY COLORED. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 869
HOW CONRAD LOST HIS SCHOOL-BOOKS.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Walter Bobbett_ 514
"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE?" Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 757
HURLY-BURLY. Jingle.
(Illustrated by L. Hopkins) _Emma Mortimer White_ 871
IF. Jingle. (Illustrated) _E. A. B._ 703
IN THE GARDEN. Verses. _Bessie Chandler_ 898
INVERTED. Jingle.
(Illustrated by W. T. Peters) _John B. Tabb_ 828
"IT WAS A FAIR ARTIST NAMED MAY." Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _O. Herford_ 501
JAPANESE BABIES. Verses. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Anna C. Vincent_ 948
JINGLES. 501, 613, 630, 681, 687, 697, 703, 733, 748, 785, 791, 797,
828, 837, 845, 853, 949
JOLLY OLD KNIGHT, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Oliver Herford_ 748
KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.
(Illustrated) _Margaret Meredith_ 537
KELP-GATHERERS, THE. 584, 687, 776,
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _J. T. Trowbridge_ 847,929
KNICKERBOCKER BOY, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) _Caroline S. King_ 542
LACE-LEAF, A SEARCH FOR THE.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _Alice May_ 518
LA FAYETTE.
(Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) _Mrs. Eugenia M. Hodge_ 643
LAKE GEORGE CAPSIZE, A. (Illustrated) _Edward Eggleston_ 829
LAST CRUISE OF THE "SLUG," THE.
(Illustrated by D. Clinton Peters) _Thomas Edwin Turner_ 671
LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) _M. B. Jordan_ 870
LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Malcolm Douglas_ 928
LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. 502, 564, 646, 734, 822,
(Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Frances Hodgson Burnett_ 884
LITTLE MISS MABEL. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Daisy Jones_ 613
LITTLE SEAMSTRESS, A. Verse. _Mary E. Wilkins_ 733
MAN OVERBOARD!
(Illustrated by the Author) _H. A. Johnson_ 775
MATTER-OF-FACT CINDERELLA, A.
(Illustrated) _Annie A. Preston_ 860
MAY SONG. Poem. (Illustrated
and engrossed by Laura C. Hills) _Laura E. Richards_ 492
MONSTER, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Maria I. Hammond_ 732
MORNING-GLORIES. Poem. _Laura Ledyard Pope_ 501
MORRA. (Illustrated) _Susan Anna Brown_ 846
MOTHER'S IDEA. _A. M. Platt_ 613
NAN'S REVOLT. (Illustrated 682, 749, 816,
by Jessie Curtis Shepherd) _Rose Lattimore Alling_ 896
NED'S BUTTERCUP. Verses. _Bessie Chandler_ 941
NEW THEORY, A. Verse. _Bessie Chandler_ 785
NEW VIEW OF THE MOON, A. Verses. _Eva Lovett Carson_ 551
NO MORE SCHOOL. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller 571
NOTIONAL NIGHTINGALE, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by L. Hopkins) _A. R. Wells_ 748
NUMBER ONE. Verses. _Charles R. Talbot_ 705
OCTOBER. Poem. (Illustrated) _Susan Hartley_ 890
"OH, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" Jingle. (Illustrated by E. Sylvester) 869
OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR. (Illustrated) _E. S. Brooks_ 936
ONCE-ON-A-TIME. Poem. _Emily Huntington Miller_ 563
ON THE WILLEY-BROOK TRESTLE.
(Illustrated by Henry Sandham) _Willis Boyd Allen_ 764
OWL, THE BAT, AND THE BUMBLE-BEE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by De Cost Smith) _Laura E Richards_ 747
PERSONALLY CONDUCTED. (Illustrated by E. J.
Meeker and others) _Frank R. Stockton_
Queen Paris. 572
PICTURES. 525, 571, 637, 670, 677, 693, 701, 715, 738, 754, 757,
791, 798, 843, 856, 869, 935, 947
PUSSIES' COATS, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by H. P. Share) _Esther B. Tiffany_ 687
PUZZLED BESSIE. Picture, drawn by Albert E. Sterner 947
PUZZLED PAPA, A. Verses. _M. L. B. Branch_ 603
QUAINT LITTLE MAN, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _A. Brennan_ 949
READY FOR BUSINESS; OR,
CHOOSING AN OCCUPATION. (Illustrated) _George J. Manson_
Boat-building. 698
RECIPE, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Mary A. Lathbury_ 629
REGATTA. A. Game.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Frank Bellew_ 783
ROBIN'S RETURN. Poem. _Edith M. Thomas_ 612
ROCK-A-BYE. Poem. _Mary N. Prescott_ 535
ROCKY MOUNTAIN HERMIT, A. (Illustrated by
J. C. Beard and others) _Alfred Terry Bacon_ 723, 832
ROPE YARN SPUN BY AN OLD SAILOR, A.
(Illustrated by the Author) _C. W. Miller_ 786
ROYAL FISH, A. (Illustrated by W. L.
Sheppard, Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 739
SAD CASE, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by Mary Richardson) _Margaret Vandegrift_ 733
SAILOR BOY, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Wallace E. Mather_ 790
SALMON: A ROYAL FISH. (Illustrated by W. L.
Sheppard, Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 739
SATCHEL, THE.
(Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) _Tudor Jenks_ 616
SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF, A.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _Alice May_ 518
SEA-URCHIN, THE. Jingle. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Isabel Frances Bellows_ 785
SHAKSPERE WHEN A BOY.
(Illustrated by Alfred Parsons) _Rose Kingsley_ 483
SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD, THE.
(Illustrated by J. G. Francis) _C. F. Holder_ 533
SOME CURIOUS MARINERS. (Illustrated by
J. C. Beard and J. M. Nugent) _C. F. Holder_ 891
SONG OF SUMMER, A. Poem. _Emma C. Dowd_ 671
SPRING BEAUTIES. Poem.
(Illustrated by A. Brennan) _Helen Gray Cone_ 513
ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES. (Illustrated)
A Clever Little Yellow Dog _John R. Coryell_ 526
A Dog that Could Count _E. P. Roe_ 529
A Clever Sheep Dog 530
A Story of Two Buckets _Charlotte M. Vaile_ 530
The Left-field of the Lincoln Nine _C. F. Holder_ 624
A Dog that Could Climb Trees _C. F. Holder_ 626
A Sociable, Sensible Dog _E. P. Roe_ 626
A Dog whose Feelings were Hurt _E. P. Roe_ 628
A Dog that Repaid a Trick 628
Mephistopheles _Anna Gardner_ 628
STORIES OF ART AND ARTISTS.
English Painters. (Illustrated) _Clara Erskine Clement_ 803
TEA-PARTY, A. Verses. (Illustrated
and engrossed by the Author) _Margaret Johnson_ 865
TELL-TALE BARN, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Esther B. Tiffany_ 924
"THE BIGGEST OF BIRDS." Jingle.
(Illustrated G. R. Halm) _E. E. Sterns_ 703
THEORETIC TURTLE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated) _A. R. Wells_ 681
"THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET." Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller 701
"THIS SEAT RESERVED." Picture. 856
THREE VELVETY BEES. Verses.
(Illustrated by F. E. Gifford) _M. M. D._ 654
TIMOTHY TIMID. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _A. Brennan_ 697
TIPPIE AND JIMMIE.
(Illustrated by H. P. Share) _Mary L. French_ 705
TODDLEKINS AND TROT. Verses.
(Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) _Anna M. Pratt_ 843
TROUT, FLY-FISHING FOR. (Illustrated by
J. H. Cocks, Henry Sandham, E. J. Meeker,
and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 655
UNDER THE SNOW. Poem. _Lilian Dynevor Rice_ 815
VEGETABLE CLOTHING.
(Illustrated by D. C. Beard) _C. J. Russell_ 523
VENETIAN MARQUETRY.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Charles G. Leland_ 866
WAITING FOR A COLD WAVE. Picture, drawn by C. Weaver 738
WEASEL AND THE ADDER, THE. (Illustrated) _Gerrish Eldridge_ 907
WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS. Poem.
(Illustrated) _L. G. R._ 536
WHAT IT WAS. Verses.
(Illustrated by F. E. Gifford) _Malcolm Douglas_ 701
WHEN SHAKSPERE WAS A BOY.
(Illustrated by Alfred Parsons) _Rose Kingsley_ 483
WILD FLOWERS, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Jessie Penniman_ 603
WILD HUNTERS. (Illustrated) _John R. Coryell_ 681
WINGED SEEDS. Poem. _Helen Gray Cone_ 571
WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY! Picture, drawn by R. Blum 525
WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET. (Illustrated) _Henry Eckford_ 538, 621,
677, 771, 854, 925
WORK AND PLAY FOR YOUNG FOLK. (Illustrated.)
A Rope Yarn Spun by an Old Sailor.
(Illustrated by the Author) _C. W. Miller_ 786
Venetian Marquetry.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Charles G. Leland_ 866
DEPARTMENTS.
FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK. (Illustrated.)
Riddles. _M. M. D._ 630
"Pretty Painted Bridges" }
"White Sheep, White Sheep" } _E. E. Sterns_ 630
"On Dormio Hill" }
A Letter from a Little Boy _Ralph Ranlet_ 710
"Dude" and the Cats 711
Riddles for Very Little Folk _E. E. Sterns_ 950
PLAYS AND MUSIC.
Easter Carol _William E. Ashmall_ 546
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. (Illustrated.)
Introduction--"Everything is Lovely, and the Goose Hangs
High"--Girls! To the Rescue!--About Little Lord
Fauntleroy--Fishing for Necklaces--A Suggestion to the
Bottled Fish--The Newspaper Plant (illustrated)--One More
Living Barometer, 552; A Bumble Grumble--Pretty Dusty
Wings--Trees that Rain--Shooting Stars--Coasting in
August--More about Turtles--A Fish that Weaves its Nest--A
Clever Humming-bird (illustrated), 632; Introduction--The
Seventeen-year Locust (illustrated)--The Great Lubber Locust
(illustrated)--The Dog and the Queer Grasshoppers
(illustrated), 712; Introduction--Longfellow's First
Letter--The Water-snake as a Fisherman--More Animal
Weather-Prophets--A Useful Bird with an Aristocratic Name--A
Wise Humming-bird--The Pitcher Plant (illustrated), 792;
Introduction--Poor Lark!--Those Mocking-birds Again--A Living
Island (illustrated)--Wrong Names for Things--Who can Answer
This? 872; Introduction--A Perfectly Quiet Day--How He Proved
It--Walking Without Legs--A Queer Sunshade (illustrated)--A
Queer Jumble--That Dear Little Lord, 952.
THE AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION. (Illustrated) 557, 636, 717, 794, 874, 957
THE LETTER-BOX. (Illustrated) 554, 634, 714, 796, 876, 954
THE RIDDLE-BOX. (Illustrated) 559, 639, 719, 799, 879, 959
EDITORIAL NOTES 554, 634
FRONTISPIECES.
"In Spring-time--When Shakspere was a Boy," by Léon Moran,
facing Title-page of Volume--"A June Morning," by E. C. Held,
facing page 563--"La Fayette and the British Ambassador," by
F. H. Lungren, facing page 643--"The Captain and the
Captain's Mate," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 723--"The
Connoisseurs," after a painting by Sir Edwin Landseer, facing
page 803--"Martha Washington," from an unfinished portrait by
Gilbert Stuart, facing page 883.
[Illustration: IN SPRING-TIME--WHEN SHAKSPERE WAS A BOY.
(SEE PAGE 490.)]
ST. NICHOLAS.
VOL. XIII. MAY, 1886. NO. 7.
[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]
When Shakspere was a Boy
BY ROSE KINGSLEY.
On Henley street, in quiet Stratford town, there stands an old
half-timbered house. The panels between the dark beams are of
soft-colored yellow plaster. The windows are filled with little diamond
panes; and in one of the upper rooms they are guarded with fine wire
outside the old glass, which is misty with innumerable names scratched
all over it. Poets and princes, wise men and foolish, have scrawled
their names after a silly fashion, on windows, wall, and ceiling of that
oak-floored room, because, on the 22d of April, 1564, a baby was born
there--the son of John and Mary Shakspere. And on the following
Wednesday, April 26, the baby was carried down to the old church beside
the sleepy Avon and baptized by the name of William.
Little did John Shakspere and the gossips dream, when the baby William's
name was duly inscribed in the register-book with its corners and clasps
of embossed brass, that he was destined to become England's greatest
poet. Little did they dream, honest folk, that the old market town and
the house on Henley street and the meadows across the river, covered in
that pleasant April month with cowslips and daisies and "lady-smocks all
silver-white," would become sacred ground to hundreds of thousands of
people from all quarters of the globe, who should come, year by year, on
reverent pilgrimage to Shakspere's birthplace.
The baby grew up as most babies do; and when he was two and a half years
old, a little brother Gilbert was born. As we walk through the streets
to-day, we can fancy the little lads toddling about the town together,
while father John was minding his glove and wool trade at the old house.
John Shakspere, in those early days, was a well-to-do man. He was a
chamberlain of the borough when little Gilbert was born; and in 1568 he
was elected High Bailiff, or Mayor, of Stratford, although he, in
common with many of his fellow-burgesses, could not write his own name.
He had land, too, at Snitterfield, where his father had lived; and his
wife, Mary Arden, was the owner of Ashbies, the farm at Wilmcote, hard
by.
[Illustration: MARY ARDEN'S HOUSE AT WILMCOTE.]
But, though the parents were illiterate, they knew the value of a good
education. The Free Grammar School had been refounded a few years before
by Edward VI. And although there is no actual record of his school days,
we may take it as certain that little Will Shakspere was sent to the
Free School when about seven years old, as we know his brother Gilbert
was, a little later. The old Grammar School still stands; and boys still
learn their lessons in the self-same room with the high pitched roof and
oaken beams, where little Will Shakspere studied his "A, B, C-book," and
got his earliest notions of Latin. But during part of Shakspere's school
days the schoolroom was under repair; and boys and master--Walter Roche
by name--migrated for a while to the Guild Chapel next door. And this
was surely in the poet's mind when, in later years, he talked of a
"pedant who keeps a school i' the church."
All boys learned their Latin then from two well-known books--the
"Accidence" and the "Sententiæ Pueriles." And that William was no
exception to the rule we may see by translations from the latter in
several of his plays, and by an account, in one of his plays, of Master
Page's examination in the "Accidence." An old desk which came from the
Grammar School and stood there in Shakspere's time is shown at the
birthplace. And when we look at it we wonder what sort of a boy little
William was--whether his future greatness made a mark in any way during
his school days; whether that conical forehead of his stood him in good
stead as he learned his Latin Grammar; whether he was quiet and
studious, or merry and mischievous; whether he hid dormice and apples
and birds' eggs in his desk, and peeped at them during school hours;
whether he got into scrapes and was whipped. Just think of Shakspere
getting a whipping! No doubt he often did. Masters in those days were
not greater, but rather less, respecters of persons than they are now,
and they believed very firmly in the adage which is going out of
fashion, that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. So we may think of
little Will Shakspere coming out of the Grammar School and passing the
old Guild Chapel and the Falcon Inn with two little red fists crammed
into two little red and streaming eyes, and going home to mother Mary in
Henley street to be comforted and coddled and popped down on the settle
in the wide chimney corner, with some dainty, dear to the heart of small
boys who got into trouble three hundred years ago just as they do now.
Let us hope his cake was not like one he describes as "dough on both
sides."
[Illustration: THE LARGE SCHOOLROOM IN THE OLD GRAMMAR SCHOOL AT
STRATFORD.]
But I fancy that lessons bore a very small part in Will Shakspere's
education. He certainly never knew much Latin; but he knew all about
country things as only a country-bred boy can know about them. He and
Gilbert must have run many a time to Ashbies, their mother's farm at
Wilmcote, and watched the oxen plowing in the heavy clay fields; and
cried, perhaps, as children do now "as the butcher takes away the calf";
and played with the shepherd's "bob-tailed cur"; and gossiped with
Christopher Sly, who could tell them all manner of wonderful tales, for
had he not been peddler, card-maker, bear-herd, "and now by present
profession a tinker"?
They must have listened to their father and their uncle Henry up at the
big farm close to Snitterfield church (where Henry Shakspere lived) as
the two men discussed the price of a yoke of oxen at Stratford or
Warwick fair, or debated whether they should "sow the head-land with
wheat,--with red wheat, Davy,"[A] or grumbled over the "smith's note
for shoeing and plough-irons," or told the latest turn in the quarrel
between "William Visor of Woncot" and "Clement Perkes of the Hill." Very
likely the little hazel-eyed boys took William Visor's part, though they
wisely kept their opinions to themselves, since small boys in that
period were not allowed the liberty of speech they enjoy in these
degenerate times. William Visor was a neighbor of the Ardens, and
possibly a friend of "Marian Hackett, the fat ale-wife of Wincot"; for
Wincot, Woncot, and Wilmcote are all the same place. Or perhaps the
young lads sided with Clement Perkes; for the Hill where he lived at
Weston was known as Cherry Orchard Farm, a name full of tempting
suggestions to little boys. And we know that Shakspere, like many less
wise people, was fond of "ripe red cherries." He mentions them again and
again. He and Gilbert, and their little friends the Sadlers and Harts
and Halls, must have played bob-cherry, as we do now,--drawing up the
stem of the cherry with our tongues, and, with a sudden snap, getting
the round, ripe fruit between our lips,--and then have used the stones
for "cherry-pit"--a child's game that is frequently mentioned by
Shakspere and other old writers, which consisted in pitching
cherry-stones into a small hole.
[Footnote A: 2d Henry IV., Act 5. Scene 1.]
[Illustration: THE SCHOOL AND GUILD CHAPEL.]
Stratford lies just at the beginning of the fruit-growing country, which
stretches right down the Vale of Evesham to Worcester and the Severn;
and little Will Shakspere was well versed in the merits of all kinds of
fruits. There were the plum-trees, that make you think in the
spring-time that a snow-shower has fallen upon a sunny day all over the
Stratford district; while in the autumn the branches are laden with "the
mellow plum." Who can doubt that little Will climbed the damson-tree,
"with danger of my life," as he said later that Simpcox did at his
wife's bidding?[B] In the plays he mentions apples of many sorts--some
of which, though rare or extinct in other parts of England, still grow
about his native place--the bitter-sweetings and leather-coats, the
apple-johns and the pomewaters. Many a time he must have stood with all
the boys of the place watching, as we might do to-day, the cider-making
on some village green, when the heaps of apples, red, green, and yellow,
are brought in barrows and baskets and carts from the orchards, and
ground up into a thick yellow pulp in the crushing-mill turned by a
horse, and that pulp is put into presses from which the clear juice runs
into tubs, while the dry cakes of pulp are carted away to fatten the
pigs.
[Footnote B: 2d Henry VI., Act 2, Scene 1.]
There were grapes, too, growing plentifully in Warwickshire in his day;
and "apricocks," "ripe figs, and mulberries," like those with which the
fairies were told to feed Bottom the weaver. Blackberries and the
handsome purple dewberries grew then as now, by the hedges in the
orchards and in the shade of the Weir-brake just below Stratford mill,
where, so says tradition, the scene of the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was
laid. In the Weir-brake, too, and in all the woods about their home, the
Shakspere boys must have gone nutting--that most delightful harvest of
the year, when you bend down "the hazel twig," so "straight and
slender," and fill baskets and pockets with the sweet nuts in their
rough, green husks, and crack them all the way home like so many happy
squirrels.
[Illustration: THE GUILD COUNCIL-ROOM--NOW THE HEAD-MASTER'S
CLASS-ROOM.]
All the hedge-rows were full then, as they are to this day, of wild
pear-trees, wild apples, and "crabs," as crab-apples are called in
England. Roasted "crabs" served with hot ale were a favorite Christmas
dish in Shakspere's time. And I doubt not that the boys rejoiced at the
house in Henley street as the time of year came round "when roasted
crabs hiss in the bowl."
How snug the "house-place" in the old home must have looked with its
roaring fire of logs, on winter evenings, when the two little boys of
nine and seven, and Joan and Anne, the little sisters, huddled up in the
chimney-corner with baby Richard in his cradle, while the mother
prepared hot ale and "roasted crabs" for her gossips. Will, I warrant,
as with twinkling eyes he watched Mrs. Hart or Mrs. Sadler or Mrs.
Hathaway, from Shottery, thought that it was Puck himself, the very
spirit of mischief, who had got into the bowl "in very likeness of a
roasted crab."
It must have been a recollection of those winter evenings that made
little Will, in later years, write his delightful "Winter Song":
"When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
"When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."
Among the gossips there would be much talk of wonders, appearances,
mysterious occurrences, and charms; and the children listened with all
their ears, you may be sure. Perhaps one of Mistress Shakspere's friends
possessed the power that some people in Warwickshire still are said to
possess, of charming away warts by a touch and some murmured invocation;
or curing toothache and all other aches and pains. There are plenty of
people now who, after your second cup of tea is finished, will take the
cup, twist the grounds around three times, turn it mouth downward in the
saucer, and then, by looking at the tea-leaves which still stick to the
bottom of the cup, will undertake to tell you what is going to
happen--of presents you will receive, or people who are coming to see
you. And many Warwickshire women still believe firmly that
whooping-cough can be charmed away by the patient walking nine times
over running water.
[Illustration: "THE HEDGE-ROWS WERE FULL, AS THEY ARE TO THIS DAY, OF
WILD APPLES, WILD PEARS, AND 'CRABS.'"]
The boys' games of those days were much the same as they are to-day.
Each game then, as now, had its regular season in the year. In the
season for marbles, no one would dream of playing anything else.
"Knuckle-hole" is still the favorite game in Warwickshire. The
standing-up game, pitching the taw from a mark scraped across the
ground, is, I am told by competent authorities, rather going out of
fashion; but it is still played. The marble season lasts through the
late winter, much to the distraction of mothers, who have to clean and
mend their sons' nether garments, which are worn with kneeling and
plastered with mud at that time of year. Then comes the spinning-top,
whip-top, and peg-top time. Later again there is tip-cat for the boys,
and hop-scotch for the girls.
On the corn-bins in the Warwickshire ale-house stables we can still find
the lines rudely cut for "nine men's morris." This, in Shakspere's day,
was a favorite game, and one much in vogue among the shepherd boys in
the summer, who cut a "board" in the short turf and whiled away the long
hours by playing it. Little Will must often have gone to watch his
father play "shovel-board" at the Falcon tavern, in Stratford, on the
board upon which tradition says he himself played, in later life. And at
home, he and his brother must have played "push-pin," an old game which
is still played in remote parts of the country. Two pins are laid on the
table; the players in turn jerk them with their fingers, and he who
throws one pin across the other is allowed to take one of them, while
those who do not succeed have to give a pin. This is the game Shakspere
alludes to in "Love's Labour's Lost," when he says, "And Nestor play at
push-pin with the boys."
Little Will knew a great deal about sport. All his allusions to sporting
or woodcraft are those of a man who had been familiar with such things
from his childhood. He and Gilbert must have set plenty of "springes, to
catch wood-cocks," and dug out the "earth-delving conies" that swarmed
in the commmonland of Welcombe, those dingles that in later years he
fought so hard to preserve from inclosure.
[Illustration: BOYS FISHING IN THE AVON--OPPOSITE THE WEIR-BRAKE.]
They must have fished many a time, as the Stratford boys do to this day,
in the slow waters of the Avon, sitting quietly intent for hours upon
the steep clay bank
"to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait."[C]
[Footnote C: "Much Ado about Nothing," Act 3, Sc. 1.]
Then who can doubt that he often watched the hunting of the hare? Each
line in his wonderful description of the hunted hare is written by a
thorough sportsman and a keen observer of nature. How the purblind hare
runs among a flock of sheep or into a rabbit-warren, or "sorteth with a
herd of deer" to throw out "the hot scent-snuffing hounds." How they
pause silent till they have worked "with much ado the cold fault cleanly
out," and then burst into music again.
Of deer, Shakspere knew much--too much for his own comfort. In his
childhood, there were herds at Fulbrooke,--and when he was older, at
Charlecote, at Grove Park, and at Warwick. And probably there were a few
roe in the wilder parts of the Forest of Arden, which came down within
three miles of Stratford, and covered the whole of the country north of
the Avon, out to Nuneaton and Birmingham. We can fancy how the boys
stole out to watch the Grevilles and Leycesters and Lucys and Verneys on
some great hunting party, and whispered to each other,
"Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,
For through this lawnd anon the deer will come."
But the time of all others in the year that we connect most closely with
Shakspere is the sweet spring-time, when the long cold winter--very long
and very cold among those undrained clay-lands of Warwickshire--had come
to an end. How closely little Will watched for
"daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty";
and for
"violets, cowslips, and pale primroses."
We can fancy the little boys hunting in some sheltered nook in the
Welcombe woods for the first primroses; and climbing up Borden Hill just
beyond Shottery, perhaps with Anne Hathaway from the pretty old house in
the orchards below, to the bank--the only one in the neighborhood,--
"where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows";
or wandering over the flat sunny meadows along the Avon valley, picking
cowslips, and looking into each tiny yellow bell for the spots in their
gold coats,--
"Those be rubies, fairy favors,
In those freckles live their savors,"--
as they brought home baskets of the flower-heads for their mother to
make into cowslip wine.
Spring, in this Stratford country, is exquisite. The woods are carpeted
with primroses and wild hyacinths; while in the "merry month of May" the
nightingale swarms among the hawthorn trees white with blossom.
On every village green there stood a painted May pole--one is still
standing at Weston, near Stratford; and May-Day is still kept in
Warwickshire with a "May feast" upon old May-Day, the 12th of May. Every
one knows how the prettiest girl in the village was chosen Queen o' the
May, and how all joined in the "Whitsun Morris-dance."
[Illustration: A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.]
Long Marston,--"Dancing Marston," as it has been called ever since
Shakspere's time,--a few miles from Stratford, was famous till within
the memory of man for a troop of Morris-dancers, who went about from
village to village, strangely dressed, to dance at all the feasts.
Shakspere probably had the Marston dancers in his mind when he wrote of
the "three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three
swine-herds," that made themselves all "men of hair," and called
themselves "Saltiers," at the sheep-shearing feast which pretty Perdita
presided over, in "The Winter's Tale." The sheep-shearing feast, which
came when roses were out on the hedges and in the gardens, must have
been a merry and important time for the Shakspere boys. John Shakspere
was, of course, specially interested in the price of a tod of wool, for
wool-stapling was part of his trade. Perhaps William himself was sent by
his mother to buy the groceries for the feast, and stood conning the
list as he makes the clown do, in "The Winter's Tale."
In the spring-time, too, came the peddler with all his wonders and
treasures:
"Lawn as white as driven snow;
Cypress black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses."
Those last must have pleased the little boys more than all the rest of
the peddler's goods. And perhaps it was from this very peddler that Will
Shakspere bought the pair of gloves which, after the fashion of the day,
he gave to Anne Hathaway at their betrothal.
But the great event of the year in the quiet country town was Stratford
"Mop" or statute fair, on the 12th of October. The market-place was
filled, as it is to this day, with clowns and mountebanks, wrestlers,
and rope-dancers at their "rope-tricks." Oxen and sheep were roasted
whole. A roaring trade was driven by quack doctors and dentists. All the
servants in the country came and stood around to be hired, as the
farm-hands and the maids for the farm-houses still do--the carters with
a bit of whipcord in their hats; the shepherds with a lock of wool; the
laborers with a straw. And next day, we need not doubt, there were many
candidates for the town stocks, as there are now for the police court.
There were bear-baitings, too, and bull-baitings--those cruel sports
which have only been abolished in Warwickshire within the last hundred
years. But in Shakspere's day bear-baiting was a popular and refined
amusement. During Queen Elizabeth's visit to Kenilworth, in 1575, there
was a great bear-baiting in her honor, of which a curious and most
sickening account still exists. And when Shakspere went to London his
lodgings were close to the bear-garden, or "Bear's College," at
Southwark, whither all London flocked to see the poor beasts tormented
and tortured.
There was, however, one amusement which, from his earliest years, must
have delighted little Will Shakspere above all others--I mean a visit
from the players. That he inherited his love for the drama from his
father is more than probable; for it was during the year of John
Shakspere's High Bailiffship that plays are first mentioned in the
records at Stratford. According to the custom of the day, when the
players belonging to some great nobleman came to a town, they reported
themselves to the mayor to get a license for playing. If the mayor
liked them, or wished to show respect to their master, he would appoint
them to play their first play before himself and the Council. This was
called the Mayor's Play, every one coming in free, and the mayor giving
the players a reward in money. Between the autumns of 1568 and 1569,
"The Queen's and the Earl of Worcester's players visited the
town and gave representations before the Council, the former
company receiving nine shillings and the latter twelve pence
for their first performances."
And there is little reason to doubt that our little Will, then between
five and six years old, was taken to see them by his father, the mayor,
as a little boy named Willis was taken at Gloucester that same year,
being exactly William Shakspere's age; and, standing between his
father's knees, Master Will probably there got his first experience of
the art in which he was to become the master for all ages. We wonder
what that first play was--some quaint, rude drama probably, such as the
one little Willis saw at Gloucester, with plenty of princes and fair
ladies, and demons with painted masks, and the "Herod" in red gloves, of
the "Coventry Mystery" players.
Not only in Stratford, but in most of the towns roundabout, there are
various records of players giving performances. When little Will was
eleven years old, Queen Elizabeth came on her celebrated visit, in 1575,
to Lord Leycester at Kenilworth; and as all the country flocked to see
the great show, it is probable that the boy and his father were among
the crowds of spectators and saw some of the plays given in the Queen's
honor.
A year or two later, troubles began to multiply at the house in Henley
street. John Shakspere got into debt. The farm at Ashbies was mortgaged.
His daughter Anne died in 1579; and two years before her death, young
William, then thirteen, was taken from school and apprenticed--some
accounts say to a butcher--or, as seems more probable, to his own
father, to help him in his failing wool-trade.
For the next five years nothing is known about Will Shakspere. Then we
find him courting Anne Hathaway in the pretty old brick and timbered
cottage at Shottery, its garden all full of roses and rosemary,
"carnations and striped gillyvors." A year or two later, he is stealing
one of Sir Thomas Lucy's deer,--writing a lampoon on the worthy
justice,--and flying to London from his wrath, to hold horses at the
door of the Globe Theater before he joined the Lord Chamberlain's
players, and became known to all posterity as Mr. William Shakspere,
Writer of Plays.
May Song By Laura E. Richards
[Illustration]
Is there anything new to sing about you,
May, my dear?
Any unhackneyed thing about you,
Pray, my dear?
Anything that has not been sung
Long ago when the world was young,
By silver throat and golden tongue?
Say, my dear!
So many have said that your eyes are blue,
May, my dear,
It must be a tiresome fact, though true,
May, my dear,
And if I for one, my gracious Queen,
Should boldly assert that your eyes were green,
'Twould be a relief to you, I ween,
Eh, my dear?
We know of the touch of your garments fold,
May, my dear,
The daisies come starring with white and gold
The way, my dear.
We know that the painted blossoms all
Come starting up at your gentle call,
By dale and meadow and garden-wall,
May, my dear.
We know that your birds have the sweetest tune,
May, my dear:
And lovers love best beneath your moon,
They say, my dear.
And I might add that that your perfumed kiss
Is considered productive of highest bliss;
But you must be so tired of hearing this!
Eh, my dear?
No, I really don't think there's anything fresh,
Or new, my dear.
For the world is small, and available rhymes
Are few, my dear.
So if I say naught about vernal bowers,
And forbear to mention the sunlit showers,
I think I shall make the best use of my powers.
Dont you, my dear?
And yet I cannot help loving you so,
May, my dear,
That the old words, whether I will or no,
I say, my dear,
And how you are fair, and how you are sweet
My loving lips forever repeat.--
And is that the reason you pass so fleet?
Ah! stay, my dear!
THE GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE.
BY E. VINTON BLAKE.
Tricycles had become an every-day affair in Sherridoc, and since the
formation of the Girls' Club, lady tricyclers were not an extraordinary
sight. So Charlotte, or "Charley" Van Rensselaer, as she was called, and
her brother Starrett excited but little comment as they wheeled swiftly
down Haymarket street, moving noiselessly and easily through the throng
of carriages and other vehicles, until, as the houses grew less frequent
and the pavements stopped altogether, they rolled through the suburbs of
the town and so into the open country, without stay or pause.
For they were making time. The club itself, thanks to the failure of the
express company to deliver Charley's new "Columbia" when promised, had
several hours' start on the road; and Starrett, like the obliging
brother that he was, had remained behind in order that Charlotte need
not ride alone nor the club be longer delayed by waiting for her.
Charley Van Rensselaer, her cousin Cornelia, or "Corny" Hadwin, and
their warm friends Mattie Hyde and Arno Cummings, were four bright and
active young girls of from thirteen to sixteen, who composed the Girls'
Tricycle Club. Little by little they had won first the interest and then
the consent of their somewhat conservative parents to this novel but
exhilarating exercise, and having now become expert riders, they were
off for a long run of eighty miles down Cape Cod from Sherridoc City to
Curtin Harbor, where their parents had summer cottages. Faithful and
clever Joe Marston, Mr. Van Rensselaer's colored servant, and an expert
tricycler, had gone ahead with the club as guide and commissary-general,
and Starrett Van Rensselaer, Charley's younger brother, was invited to
accompany them as an escort, on the odd-looking "Royal Mail" he had
borrowed for the trip,--bicycles not being allowed.
And now the door-yards broaden out and the houses become still more
rambling. There are wide-spreading orchard boughs, and cool woody spaces
here and there between the farms. Now a youngster scampers into the
house shrieking, "Ma, Ma! Oh, come here, Ma! Here's a girl a-ridin'
three wheels at once!" and Charley, looking back, perceives the urchin's
sisters and cousins and aunts peering at her from the door. Starrett too
looks back, and laughs.
"You'll have to get used to that," he says.
"I expect to," responds Charley serenely; "but you must remember that
four of these things have gone on before us on this same road and they
must have taken off a little of the novelty."
Over the brow of Haymarket Hill they go, and the long steep sweep into
the valley of the Owassee lies before them. Charley, with her feet on
the "rest," commences to descend. An amazed cow grazing by the roadside
makes a charge on the singular vehicle, but the girl never flinches, and
with one hand on the steering-bar and the other on the brake she avoids
every stone, every rut, every gully in the road. The irate cow, after
nearly plunging on its nose down the first steep incline, pauses to
recover its senses and then returns slowly up the hill. Starrett waves
it a laughing adieu. "Sensible bovine that," he says; "she knows that a
stern chase is a long chase."
"My, though!" exclaims delighted Charley, "we're just flying, Starrett!
Aren't we?"
They are indeed. The bushes whiz past,--the wind sweeps their
faces,--trees, stones, fences flit by like phantoms. Charley feels like
a bird on the wing. Such exhilaration is there in a good tricycle
"coast" downhill!
But it is not all such pleasure; for, a few miles farther on, they
become acquainted with the other side of the story, as they go toiling
up the long ascent of Comstock Hill, a sandy and winding incline that
leads to the highlands of Fisherville.
"If it weren't for the sand," said Charley as she pushes her tricycle
before her, "I would test the new 'power-gear' on my 'Columbia' by
riding up Comstock Hill. But, dear me, I believe there are not three
yards of solid earth on this road!"
"Never mind, we're more than half-way up," said Starrett, consolingly.
"Do you suppose it's sandy like this near Curtin Harbor?" inquired
Charley.
"I haven't the least idea," Starrett replied. "If it is, we can branch
off and take the cars at Minot Station."
"The cars? Why, Starrett Van Rensselaer!" exclaims Charley. "Why, I
wouldn't take the cars--not for anything--unless--well, unless I were
fairly driven to it."
And now they both draw a long breath, for the crest of Comstock Hill is
won.
"Look behind you, Starrett," says Charley. "Did you ever see a prettier
picture?"
Starrett acknowledges he never did. The low-lying valley is green and
fair. The Owassee stretches like a silver ribbon across the picture, and
there is not a human being in sight save these two tricyclers who take
all this summer beauty into their impressible young hearts.
On they go, through Fisherville and into the open country again. Truly
no grass grows underneath those flashing wheels. The new "Columbia" has
the oil well worked in by this time, and the "Royal Mail," with its
queer one-sided "steerer," seems undisturbed by any ordinary roads. The
freshening wind is behind them; the blue sky, cloud-flecked, above; and
all around, bird-song and the rustle of blowing grass and bending
boughs.
"This is grand, Charley!" cries Starrett; "so much better than horseback
riding--and I've tried both."
"You don't tire yourself much more, and you're sure your horse won't run
away with you," Charley assents, whizzing along beside him. "I feel
strong enough for a good long run yet, and we ought to catch up with
them easily, before long."
The winding, woody road brings them suddenly to a hill-top. To the
right, below, lies a wide expanse of velvety marsh meadow, with its
vivid and variegated tints of green, olive, and reddish-brown, and
occasional intersections of tottering, moss-grown fence; there is a
starry glimmer as of lilies in the frequent pools that give back the
glory of the sun. To the left are seen the dark, still reaches of a lake
that winds in and out in the cool shadow of high woody banks. An old
ice-house stands lonesome and gray on its margin.
The brother and sister halt on the brow of the hill, to enjoy a view
that may be one of the memories of a lifetime; then the wheels roll
slowly toward the descent. The slope is steep and winding; they do not
"coast" with feet on the rest above the steering-wheel. It is not
desirable to capsize or collide with any up-coming vehicle. So they
glide warily on, with hands on the brakes, until the bottom is reached.
But here a crazy guide-post at a fork in the road misleads them by
pointing in the wrong direction for the Wareham road. But by great good
luck, they strike a shady wood track, full two miles long, which cuts
off five miles from the road they should have traveled, and which, so
Starrett says when he recognizes it, will bring them just so much nearer
the club. Dismounting at last, a pine-covered knoll, with a brook
bubbling below, attracts them; and, seated on the brown pine-needles,
the brother and sister talk over their adventures, and wonder how far
ahead the others may be. Suddenly Starrett, who faces the road, drops
his hands to his side with an exclamation of surprise.
"What now?" says Charley, looking quickly around, A glance makes her a
partner in Starrett's astonishment; for, over the main road they have
just now regained, come one, two, three, four tricycles, their
glittering spokes flashing in the sun. They see Joe Marston's dusky face
and stalwart figure, and behind him they catch the flutter of garnet and
blue--the colors of the club. Occasionally a head in the procession
turns to look expectantly behind.
Starrett and Charley keep close in the shade of the pines, restraining a
laugh with difficulty.
"Here is a good place to stop, Joe," cries Cornelia Hadwin. "It's cool
and shady, and we can see the road. I think they should have caught up
with us by this time. Can anything have happened,--do you suppose?"
"Dunno, miss," answers Joe with a grave face. But as he dismounts to
wheel his machine up the knoll, he stops short with a sudden smoothing
out of all the perplexed lines from his dark brow. "Hi, dar!" he
exclaims. "Look-a yer, Miss Corney!"
Cornelia does look, and so do all the rest. There is a perfect chorus of
shrieks and laughter, a babel of voices, a torrent of questions.
"Oh, we travel, I assure you!" says Starrett. "We took a flying leap and
came in ahead of you."
"How did it happen? When did you pass us?" These and countless other
questions follow. Then all is explained, and at five o'clock the merry
six are on the road again, rolling along in lively style.
So, in single file, with Joe in advance, and Starrett bringing up the
rear, the club rides through the main street of Wareham, down the long
slant to the bridge over the Wareham river. The evening mist hangs low
along the stream; the bridge seems to stretch across the rushing tide
and end abruptly in mid-air. The soft, grayish opaque cloud hides the
farther shore from sight.
There are heads at doors and windows, and people on the street stop to
gaze. At first the girls feel a little abashed at so much attention. But
nobody is discourteous; Joe rides steadily on, and there is nothing to
do but to follow.
"I suppose we do look queer to them," says Mattie Hyde.
"Oh, well, you are missionaries, you know," says Starrett assuringly.
"Perhaps your club may be the means of introducing tricycles into many
of the places we shall pass through."
"That's one of our objects, of course," observes Charley.
"If girls and women knew what comfort one can take with a tricycle, half
the battle would be won," says Arno Cummings timidly.
[Illustration: "THE BUSHES WHIZ PAST,--TREES, STONES, FENCES FLIT BY
LIKE PHANTOMS."]
"It isn't altogether that, Arno," says Charley, who, as the originator
of the club, has her advanced theories to support. "A good many would
like to, but don't really dare. You know that Shakspere says 'Conscience
doth make cowards of us all.' I think that custom makes us cowards,
too."
"Custom will be on our side, though, by and by," declares Mattie Hyde.
"Doctor Sawyer told Mamma the other day that he would prescribe the
tricycle rather than medicine for many of his patients. He said that the
machines are much used in England, and that they are gaining ground in
this country, though not so rapidly as he could wish."
But even this knowledge of the healthfulness and desirability of the
tricycle does not make a hard piece of road any easier. After a night's
rest at the hospitable house of an aunt of Mattie Hyde's, the club find
themselves, next day, among the "Sandwiches," as Starrett facetiously
dubs the town of that name which is divided into North, East, South, and
West Sandwich. And there they come upon a wooded tract that sorely taxes
their endurance and presents the most formidable obstacle they have yet
encountered. The sand is impassable; it closes completely over the
wheel-tires, and, after a short space of arduous labor, the club come to
a dismayed standstill.
"What on earth are we to do?" queries Corny Hadwin in despair.
No one answers her. The boughs wave softly overhead; the small cloud of
dust their efforts have raised floats slowly away and settles on the
scant herbage underneath the pines. Near at hand sounds the shriek of
the "up" train. They are not far from the railroad.
"Shall we give it up and take to the train?" Starrett asks, as they
catch the sound of the locomotive.
"Dear me, we mustn't do that!" exclaims Charley. "Let's dismount and
push the machines a little way. Perhaps the wheeling is better just
ahead."
But it is not. The ruts are strewn with straw, shavings, and chips;
everything indicates that the woods are extensive, and that others
before them have found the sand a tribulation.
"Oh, this is the worst of all!" groans Corny.
"But we'll not give up, nevertheless," declares little Arno Cummings,
developing unexpected grit in the emergency. "I shouldn't like to tell
them at Curtin Harbor that we had to take to the cars to get around a
difficulty."
Joe mops the perspiration from his dusky brow, and then stops to listen.
A creak, a rumble, and a tramp, tramp are heard behind them. "Dar's
sumfin a-comin!" says Joe.
The "sumfin" soon appears in sight,--a big, empty, four-horse wagon,
making its unwieldy way in their direction. The same idea occurs to
everybody at once.
"There! He'll carry us!"
[Illustration: WITH JOE IN ADVANCE, THE CLUB RIDES THROUGH WAREHAM.]
Carry them! Of course he will--for a consideration. And almost before
the driver has recovered from his evident astonishment at this vision of
six tricycles in the heart of the Sandwich woods, the riders and their
machines are safely in the big cart, and on their way through the sandy
tract, which, they now learn, is several miles in extent.
It is impossible for the horses to go faster than a walk for the whole
distance. The sand is a constant clog, and scarcely a breath of air can
penetrate the close piny ranks on either side the narrow road. It is a
slow and somewhat crowded ride, but the club tells stories, sings and
jokes and answers the curious inquiries of their teamster, to whom a
tricycle is a thing unknown till now. But in due time, the young folk
have bidden him good day, and are speeding on toward Barnstable. The air
grows salty, strong, and bracing.
"It's like a breath of new life," says Starrett; and soon they are
rolling between the long row of grand old trees that line Barnstable's
quiet main street. At the hotel they stop for dinner and a noonday rest.
It is four in the afternoon when they remount. The lady boarders, who
have taken quite an interest in the young tricyclers, bid them farewell
with all manner of good wishes, and one gray-haired society lady
remarks, "Those girls are sensible; and their mothers are sensible too.
Give young people the delights of nature and the freedom of outdoor
sports, and keep them from late parties, and the whirl of folly and
fashion. I've seen too many young lives warped and twisted and weakened
in the endeavor to 'keep up' in fashionable society. Yes, those girls
are sensible."
And, wheeling still, by hill and dale, the "sensible" girls and their
escort roll merrily into old Yarmouth, with its broad, shady streets and
big, substantial, old-fashioned houses. Quaint and picturesque indeed it
is, with quiet nooks and corners, breezy streets, time-stained wharves
where lie battered fishing craft and the smarter boats devoted to the
summer visitors who have found out the beauties of the town. Here, too,
Arno Cummings has an uncle, a bluff and breezy old sea-captain, who
gives the whole party a hearty welcome; and at his house, the club spend
two nights and the day between--a day of shade and shine, with the sea
wind blowing everywhere. They explore the old town from end to end. They
come continually upon pictures,--now a broad grassy lane with its
moss-grown fences flanked by rising pastures of brownish grass; now a
long slope ending in a rocky outlook over the blue sea; now a brown
cottage nestled in among trees and hills. And on the second morning
after their arrival, they bid the hospitable Captain Cummings adieu, and
pass, single file, over the great drawbridge across the inlet that cuts
Yarmouth in two, and so spin along through the succession of little
towns which, leaving Yarmouth, almost join together into one. Such are
the "Dennises"--divided as usual into North, East, South and West,--and
the "Harwiches," where at Harwich proper the tricyclers bid farewell to
the railroad which has kept them company at short intervals all the way
down.
"Six miles to Curtin Harbor." So says the lazy youth at a cross roads
store, and away they spin, while the spires and houses of Harwich
disappear behind the trees.
And now how the wind blows! And all around the horizon the sky has that
watery appearance that betokens the nearness of the sea. There is a
peculiar, bracing freedom in the wild, salt wind; the very sway of the
brown grass, the swing of the odorous wild pinks that nod in the corners
of old mossy fences have a life and freshness that one misses greatly in
tamer, more settled districts. For now they are plunging bravely into
the long stretch of sand barrens and pine woods that, with only an
occasional house, stretch for many a mile between Harwich and Curtin
Harbor.
But here, in the afternoon, a sudden shower overtakes them. They can no
longer pick their dainty way by the roadside, but must keep the middle
track or run the risk of upsetting. There is scarce a quarter of a mile
of level ground to be found. The pine woods close in upon them, and when
at the summit of a hill they anxiously look for some other shelter than
the thronging pines, they can see nothing but the long, winding,
lightish streak of road and the endless outlines of monotonous
pine-trees on either side against the dark sky.
"Six miles to Curtin Harbor!" cries Starrett at last. "That boy's a
fraud. I believe it's sixty."
"Reckon dey're Cape Cod miles, Mas'r Starrett," says Joe. "Dey say down
yer, yo' know, dat one on 'em 's equal to two ob good trav'lin' in any
uthah part ob de worl'."
If it were only clear now, coasting merrily down these hills would be
royal fun, but in this state of the weather caution is necessary. A halt
is called for consultation. The six composedly dismount and sit down on
the clumps of "poverty grass," beneath the doubtful shelter of the
pines.
"Well, now," asks Starrett, "what are we going to do? I know you girls
are tired and drenched; you needn't deny it. And there's no sign of a
house this side of Jericho or Jerusalem."
Suddenly Charley has an idea. "O girls," she says, "let's camp out,
right here! We're not badly off, for we all have our waterproof cloaks;
but you've all been longing for an adventure, and here's one for a
_finale_. We'll at least make a tent and have supper. It'll be just
splendid!"
The club vociferously acquiesce. Joe alone, dubious, shakes his head.
But he is outvoted and overruled.
A quantity of pine boughs are piled, by Joe and Starrett, tent-fashion,
across and around four of the tricycles; a heap of dry leaves, carefully
collected, makes a fragrant couch, whereon the young ladies compose
themselves, wrapped and snugly covered with shawls and capes from the
"luggage-carriers." Lastly Joe spreads the rubber waterproofs securely
over the wheels and boughs, and the young campers are completely
sheltered.
A rummage in the lunch-boxes and "luggage-carriers" of the six machines
brings to light half a dozen soda crackers, two bananas, six pieces of
gingerbread, a slice of dry cheese, three apples, and--this is Joe's
surprise!--a small can of chicken.
A chorus of delight greets this last discovery, and Joe is at once
besieged.
"Now, yo' jes' sot down, ef yo' please, young ladies," says Joe, holding
the can above his head. "I'll 'tend to yo' d'reckly. Yo' jes' gib me de
tings and I'll serve supper in fus'-class style."
When the chicken,--delicately served on the soda crackers,--the apples,
bananas, and gingerbread are distributed, and the cheese toasted--in a
fashion--at one of the lamps, the merry six leave not a crumb to tell
the tale. It is true that a conscious vacancy still exists in the six
hungry stomachs--such appetites have these young wheelers; but they are
refreshed and no one thinks of complaining.
The merry meal finished, weariness and the patter of rain incline the
girls to rest, and soon silence falls upon the camp, broken only by the
sighing of the wind among the dark pine boughs, and the occasional chirp
of some sleepy bird.
Then Starrett, also, wrapped in his waterproof coat, throws himself down
to rest beneath the shelter of a friendly pine close by.
Joe, left alone as the sentinel, falls to thinking over the situation,
wondering where they are and whether they have missed the right road.
He walks about uneasily and then stands looking up and down the stretch
of road. The tricycle lamp, which he has lighted to dispel the gloom,
casts a yellow gleam over the tent and Starrett's shrouded figure, while
beyond and all around are the pines with their swaying branches and the
long black vistas between. Joe walks back and forth, in the rain, vainly
trying to think in which direction they are to proceed.
[Illustration: "DE YOUNG GEMMAN AN' I MAKE DIS TENT TO KEEP DE YOUNG
LADIES DRY."]
He has been wondering thus for perhaps five minutes, when he becomes
aware of a pair of fiery eyes watching him from the shadows. Joe starts.
He does not know what peculiar class of wild beasts inhabits Cape Cod,
but there are the eyes plainly enough. He stops and stands motionless.
The eyes move, come boldly forward, and Joe, now doubly astonished, sees
full in the glare of the tricycle lamp--a big grayish cat!
And the cat has a nickel-plated collar with a ribbon attached. Joe knows
that even on Cape Cod no wild beasts roam about, in summer storms, with
nickeled and be-ribboned collars, but what can a cat be doing away in
the depths of a pine forest? And then he suddenly concludes that the
cat's home can not be far away. The gray cat comes purring about his
knees. Joe is fond of cats, so he takes it in his arms and fondles its
wet fur, and it proves to be company for him and really helps him to
forget the discomfort of the rain.
At about seven o'clock in the evening, however, the rain slackens, the
clouds scatter, and rifts of light appear through the trees. And just as
Joe is thinking of rousing the club for another "spin," he hears a
whistle and a heavy step from across the road. Then an old farmer fellow
of about forty-five, in search of a lost cow, comes to an abrupt and
amazed halt at confronting among the pines Joe, the gray cat, Starrett's
recumbent figure, the tent, and the glimmering tricycle wheels. He
stands speechless until Joe's voice breaks the spell.
"Good-ebenin', sar," says Joe. "Can you tell me if dis is de road to
Curtin Harbor?"
"Curtin Harbor!" exclaims the farmer, with his eyes still full of mute
amazement. "No, it's not. 'T any rate not the direct one. If you've come
over from Harwich, you've gone two miles out of yer way. You should have
taken the other road, back there by the old school-house."
"Dar's whar I missed it!" cries Joe, slapping his knee. "I was suah I
did sumfin' wrong somewhar, but I couldn't locate it, to save me! I'se
much obliged."
"You can cut across to the main road by crossing my field yonder and
going up by the house just beyond----"
"Hi, den dere is a house over yar!" says Joe.
"Why, certainly," says the farmer, "not more than forty rods from here."
And when Joe finds how very near he has been to a comfortable farmhouse
he says he feels "like kickin' hisself."
"But," says the visitor, still eying the camp. "How did it all happen.
Are you traveling on foot?"
"No, sar; on tricycles," explains Joe, proudly; "we are de Girls'
Tricycle Club, all de way from Sherridoc, wid Mas'r Starrett an' me
along to look arter 'em and see 'em safe down to Curtin Harbor. We los'
de track back yondah, an' de young gemman an' I jes' rig up dis tent for
to keep the young ladies dry an' gib 'em a chance to rest till de shower
was ober."
The farmer's surprise grows to interest.
"And so this is a tricycle," he says. "And did the young ladies ride
those things all the way from Sherridoc?"
"All de way, sar," answers Joe, proudly, "'cept when we wus stuck in de
Sandywiches and had to be carted froo wid a team."
After the good man's curiosity has been satisfied, and Starrett has
summoned the girls to appear, the worthy farmer strolls off after his
lost cow, first inviting the club to the farm to another supper. One by
one, the girls emerge from their camp, but when they hear how near to a
house they have been during the rain, great is the laughter.
"I don't care, though," cries Cornelia Hadwin; "we've really had a sort
of a camping-out time, and I'm glad of it."
After hearing Joe's report, the club determines to push on at once to
Curtin Harbor in the early evening, without accepting the hospitable
invitation to supper at the farmhouse.
The two miles to the main road are quickly traversed, and before long
the club wheels around a long curve in the road, and the blue expanse of
Curtin Harbor lies beneath them. The clouds are gone by this time; the
rising moon shoots slantwise through a few thin, dissolving folds, and
brings out ripples of gold and silver on the long seas. There seems to
be a breeze that stirs the water to darker ruffles beyond the head-land,
but where the young folk sit on their tricycles, enjoying the beauty of
the scene and the salty damp of the evening air, not a blade of the
coarse, silvery beach-grass stirs; every spire and blade stands in
sheeny silver in the mellow light.
Below the beach-road branches off a long winding descent to the quiet
cottages which lie in the evening glow, seemingly fast asleep.
"Now, girls, for a good coast!" cries Starrett. "Here goes!"
And away indeed he goes, over the brow of the hill, rolling swiftly, and
removing his feet from the pedals as his machine gathers way. Away also
they all fly after him, merry as larks, waking all the echoes of the
shore with their light-hearted shouts and laughter. The tricycle lamps
flash out upon the seaward road, and soon it comes to pass, that as
Charley's wheels whiz flashing into the wide, grassy dooryard of a
certain pleasant little summer abode, a hand lifts the window curtain,
and a voice, with a ring of irrepressible gladness but a great pretense
of gruffness, calls out:
"Is this my noisy daughter, who has been running wild for a week over
all the roads on Cape Cod?"
"Oh, Papa!" cries Charley, gleefully, "we've had a perfectly charming
trip!"
And so says the entire club. And they pass a vote of thanks to Joe for
taking faithful care of them, and to Starrett for his excellent escort
duty. And now when the story of their eighty-mile ride is told,
everybody votes tricycling a wonderfully health-giving and delightful
exercise, and the first long trip of the Girls' Tricycling Club a grand
success.
MORNING-GLORIES.
BY LAURA LEDYARD POPE.
My neighbor's morning-glories rise
And flutter at her casement;
_My_ morning-glories' lovely eyes
Peep just above the basement.
And both our morning-glories strew
With loveliness the railing,
And thrust their starry faces through
The vines about the paling.
But when at last the thrifty sun
A work-day world arouses,
Hers gather up their dainty skirts
And vanish in their houses.
They draw their silken curtains close,
There's not a soul can find them;
And mine run up the school-house path,
And shut the door behind them!
* * * * *
[Illustration]
It was a fair Artist named May
If you looked at her sketch she would say,
"It's horrid, I know--
If you please _wont_ you go,
I'm not in the humor today."
LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.
BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
[Illustration]