Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 41. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 10, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
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[Illustration: THE MORAL PIRATES ATTACKED BY TRAMPS.--[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
[Begun in No. 31 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, June 1.]
THE MORAL PIRATES.
BY W. L. ALDEN.
CHAPTER XI.
"Boys," said Tom, as he was kindling the fire the next morning, "do you
know what day it is?"
"Saturday, of course," replied the others.
"You're wrong; it's Sunday."
"It can't be," exclaimed Harry.
"But it is," persisted Tom. "Last night was the sixth night that we've
slept out-doors, and we started on a Monday."
Tom was right; but it was some time before his companions could convince
themselves that it was actually Sunday. When they finally admitted that
it was Sunday morning they gave up the idea of proceeding up the canal,
and began to discuss what they had better do.
The boat, which had been drawn out of the water the night before, was
concealed by a clump of bushes from the canal boatmen. The boys decided
to leave it where it was, and to carry the tent and most of their
baggage to a grove a quarter of a mile distant, where they could pass a
quiet Sunday. The locks were not yet opened, and no canal-boats were
stirring, and the boys made their way to the grove at once while their
movements were unobserved. They were afraid that if they attracted the
attention of the boatmen to the clump of bushes, some one would steal
the _Whitewing_ while her crew were absent. They had already seen enough
of the "canalers" to know that they were a wild and lawless set of men,
and they were not anxious to put the temptation of stealing a nice boat
in their way.
The grove was a delightful place; and when they had pitched the tent
under the shadow of the great oak-trees, they were glad of the prospect
of a good day's rest. Tom and Harry walked nearly a mile to church in
the morning, leaving the Sharpe boys to look after the camp, and they
all slept most of the afternoon.
About dusk, as the fire for cooking supper was blazing briskly, Joe
returned from a foraging expedition quite out of breath, and with his
milk-pail half empty. He said that he had met three tramps on the road,
which passed through the grove not very far from the camp, and that they
had snatched a pie from him that he had bought at a farm-house, and had
chased him for some distance.
He had been badly frightened, as he frankly admitted; but the other boys
thought that it was a good joke on him. They told him that the tramps
would track him by the milk that he had spilled, and would probably
attack the camp and scalp him. They soon forgot the adventure, however,
with the exception of Tom, who, although he said nothing at the time,
poured water on the fire as soon as the supper was cooked--an act which
somewhat astonished the rest. Soon afterward he went into the tent for a
few moments, and when he returned he was beginning to advise Joe not to
laugh quite so loud, when the crackling of branches was heard in the
grove, and three very unpleasant-looking men appeared.
It was fast growing dark, but Joe immediately recognized them as the
tramps who had stolen his pie. "We've come to supper," said one of them.
"Let's see what you've got. Give us the bill of fare, sonny, and look
sharp about it."
Tom immediately answered that they had eaten their supper, and that
there was nothing left of it but some coffee. "If you want the coffee,
take it," said he. "There isn't anything else for you."
"That ain't a perlite way to treat three gen'lemen as come a long ways
to call on you," said the tramp. "We'll just have to help ourselves, and
we'll begin by looking into your tent. P'r'aps you've got a crust of
bread there what'll save a poor starvin' workin'-man from dyin' on the
spot."
Tom hastily stepped before the tent. "You can't go into this tent," he
said, very quietly; "and you'd better leave this camp and go about your
business."
"Just hear him," said the tramp, addressing his companions. "As if this
yere identical camp wasn't our business. Now, boys," he continued,
"you've got money with you, and you've got clothes, and one on you's got
a watch; and you're goin' to give 'em to three honest hard-workin' men,
or else you're goin' to have your nice little throats cut."
"Here, boys, quick!" cried Tom, rushing into the tent, where he was
followed by the other boys before the tramps could stop them. "Here,
Harry," he continued, "take the boat-hook. There's a hatchet for you,
Jim, and a stick for Joe. Now we'll see if they can rob us!" So saying,
he stepped outside the tent with the gun in his hand, followed closely
by his little army.
The ruffians hesitated when they saw the cool way in which Tom
confronted them. So they proposed a compromise, as they called it. "Look
a here," said the one who had hitherto been the spokesman; "we ain't
unreasonable, and we'll compromise this yere business. You give us your
money and that chap's watch, and we'll let you alone. That's what I call
a very handsome offer."
"We won't give you a thing," replied Tom; "and I'll shoot the first one
of you that lays a hand on us."
The tramps consulted for a moment, and then the leader, with a frightful
oath, ordered Tom to drop that gun instantly.
Tom never said a word, but he cocked both barrels and waited, with his
eye fixed on the enemy.
Presently the tramps separated a little, the leader remaining where he
had been standing, and the others moving one to the right and the other
to the left of the boys. They evidently intended to rush on Tom from
three directions at once, and so confuse him, and prevent him from
shooting.
"I'll take the leader and the man on the right," whispered Tom to Harry.
"You lay for the other fellow with your boat-hook. I've given you fair
warning," he continued, addressing the ruffians "and I'll fire the
minute you try to attack us."
The boys were standing close together in front of the tent, Tom being a
little in advance of the others. Suddenly the leader of the tramps
called out, "Now, then!" and all three made a rush toward Tom. He fired
at the tramp in front of him, hitting him in the leg, and bringing him
to the ground; but before he could fire again, the other two were upon
him.
The boys gallantly stood by Tom. Harry attacked one of the tramps with
the boat-hook so fiercely that the fellow cried out that he was stabbed,
and ran away. Meanwhile Tom was struggling with the third tramp, who had
thrown him down, and was trying to wrench the gun from him, while Jim
and Joe were hovering around them afraid to strike at the tramp for fear
of hitting Tom. But now Harry, having driven off his antagonist, flew to
the help of Tom, and seizing the tramp by his hair, and bracing one knee
against his back, dragged him backward to the ground, and held him there
until Tom regained his feet, and holding the muzzle of the gun at the
robber's head, called on him to surrender, which the fellow gladly did.
"Get some rope, Jim, and tie him," cried Tom. "Hold on to his hair,
Harry, and I'll blow his brains out if he offers to move."
The tramp was not at all anxious to part with his brains, and he
remained perfectly quiet while Jim and Joe tied his feet together, and
his hands behind his back.
"Now you stand over him with the boat-hook, Harry," said Tom, "and I'll
see to the other fellow."
The other fellow was, of course, the man who had been shot. Tom lighted
the lantern, for it was now quite dark, and found that the ruffian had
been shot in the lower part of his right leg, and had fainted from loss
of blood. Taking a towel, Tom tore it into strips, and bound up the
wound, and by the time he had finished the patient became conscious
again, and begged Tom not to take him to prison.
Now this was precisely what the boys did not want to do, as it would
probably delay them for several days, and perhaps put an end to their
cruise. Tom therefore said to the prisoner whom Harry was guarding, that
if he would promise to help the wounded man away, and take him to see a
doctor, he would be released. The tramp gladly accepted the offer, and
Harry unfastened the rope from his legs and arms, while Tom kept his gun
in readiness to use it at the first sign of treachery. The tramps,
however, had quite enough of fighting, and were only too anxious to get
away. The wounded man was helped to his feet by his companion, and the
two went slowly off, one half carrying the other, and both cursing the
coward who had run away. As they hobbled off, Tom called out, "I'm sorry
I had to hurt you, but I couldn't help it, you know; and if any of you
come back here to-night, you'll find us ready for you."
It was a long time before the boys fell asleep that night, and Tom was
overwhelmed with praise for his coolness and bravery. Though he felt
certain that the tramps would not return, he proposed that a sentinel
should keep guard outside the tent, offering to share that duty with
Harry, since the other boys were not familiar with guns. So all night
long Tom and Harry, relieving one another every two hours, marched up
and down in front of the tent, keeping a sharp watch for robbers, and
prepared for a desperate fight every time they heard the slightest
noise.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
EASY BOTANY.
AUGUST WILD FLOWERS.
The wild flowers of August have their own distinguishing
characteristics. We find the road-sides gleaming and glowing with
brilliant colors, and all the tribes of strong-growing and
strong-scented plants that prefer the later summer months.
Among others the singular desmodium, or bush trefoil, is interesting
from having the leaves and flowers grow on separate plants, quite
unconnected apparently, and often some little distance apart.
The large, spreading leaves grow on a stalk as if they had nothing to do
with anything else; but the young botanist who may grasp this plume of
leaves will find that the root leads along under-ground, till suddenly
up comes _another plant_--a tall stem with panicles of purplish flowers.
All these freaks or peculiarities become delightful to the observant
eye.
The ground-nut, or wild bean, is a very handsome climber, and peculiar
in appearance. The clusters of waxy flowers are rich brown and white,
growing very thick, and having the scent of violets. The tubers are
often eaten.
The wild kidney-bean is found in copses and along road-sides from
Connecticut to Illinois. It climbs high from a perennial root, with
clusters of small bright purple flowers.
In rich woodlands in the Middle States and west the pea-nut is very
interesting to young searchers. The plant bears two kinds of flowers,
the upper ones ripening no fruit, but the lower or under-ground ones
bearing the well-known pea-nuts.
Try to find a remarkable plant belonging to the convolvulus family, the
wild-potato vine, or "man of the earth." It is not very easily
overlooked. Several stems spring from the same root, growing and twining
seven or eight feet high. The leaves are large, and of various
shapes--heart-shaped, pointed, and fiddle-shaped. Three or four large
blossoms, several inches broad, grow in clusters; the flowers are white,
with purple in the tube. This remarkable vine is found in sandy fields
and by road-sides from Connecticut to Illinois and south.
A large plant grows by the end of an old country bridge near Canaan,
Connecticut. The stems are long and stout, and grow from a huge root
that weighs fifteen or twenty pounds.
The beautiful August lilies make the fields and meadows gay; the stately
pale yellow lily spotted with brown or purple, the darker yellow, and
the fiery red lily, contrasted with the white spiranthes, or
ladies-tresses.
Now the radiant heads of countless _composite_ flowers are highest and
most showy, and a walk or drive along any country road reveals such
masses of color as to arrest and enchant the most unobservant eye.
On one woodland road at Orange, New Jersey, the shades of asters, from
the deepest violet-blue and purple to the palest lilac, are
bewilderingly beautiful, while the splendid varieties of liatris, or
button snakeroot, the rose-purple and white ox-eyed daisies and white
asters, golden-rod, and the great open-eyed corn-flowers, or rudbeckias,
are certainly beyond description.
Try to find the elegant golden asters, which are more rare. At Cape Cod,
Massachusetts, at Nantucket, and on the pine barrens of New Jersey, they
may be found.
Look for the compass-plant, if you have the command of prairies. It is
not pretty, is rough and coarse-looking, but is immortalized by
Longfellow. The peculiarity consists in the arrangement of the leaves,
the lower and root leaves, which, being very large, spread out on the
open prairies, and are disposed to present their edges pointing north
and south, thus sometimes guiding the bewildered traveller.
Another beautiful prairie plant, two or three feet high, is found in dry
and sandy soils and in rocky crevices. The flowers are numerous, of a
beautiful bright blue or bluish-white, and what makes it interesting is
that it is supposed to prefer localities where lead ore prevails, and is
called lead-plant.
Now is the time for any so disposed to make a collection of _herbs_, as
they are called. In old-fashioned days these herbs were considered great
treasures, and cures for many of the ills of humanity. They were tied
carefully in bunches, and hung in the garret of the farm-house to dry.
The odor of dried herbs comes to me now as I think of a dear old
garrets--a favorite play-place of early childhood.
No child familiar with the garret of a country home can ever forget its
mysterious charm. But I must remember that I am writing of flowers, and
leave the captivating subject of garrets. Multitudes of potent herbs may
now be found in the woods, by the road-side, _everywhere_: tansy,
camomile, wormwood, everlasting, wild basil, lavender, germander,
pennyroyal, spearmint, balm, peppermint, horehound, hyssop, thyme,
rosemary, sage, wild bergamot, catnip, motherwort, comfrey, boneset,
thoroughwort, fennel, and many other life-giving plants. They are
generally coarse-looking and rough, with strong stems and strong odors,
and no beauty, though in some cases the flowers are a pretty blue or
rose-color. All these things, even to the summer gathering of herbs for
some dear relative, become interesting to the young student, because it
is a real pleasure to become familiar with the _varieties_ which are
presented in nature's domain, and the homely growths are sometimes of
more importance than the ornamental, a consoling thought to such of us
as are possessed of but little physical beauty.
[Illustration: DO YOU KNOW HIM?]
THE BOY EMIGRANT IN RUSSIA.
A True Story.
BY DAVID KER.
Many years ago, when Peter the Great was Czar of Russia, and when the
improvements that he was making all over the country gave foreign
workmen a fine chance of earning high wages, a number of emigrants
landed one cold winter morning at one of the Russian ports on the Gulf
of Finland, to see if they could find work, as so many others had done.
A curious mixture they were--men, women, and children from every country
on either side of the Baltic. Tall, fresh-colored Swedes, in gray frocks
and thick blue stockings; stout, light-haired Germans, and ruddy,
blue-eyed Danes; big-boned Pomeranians, with low foreheads and shaggy
brown beards; and short, squat Finns, whose round puffy faces and thick
yellow hair gave them the look of overboiled apple-dumplings.
But their first taste of Russia was not at all a pleasant one. At the
port where they had landed it was the rule that all emigrants who came
ashore should be kept in one place till the Czar's agents came to
examine them; and the place where they were kept was an old warehouse,
very bare and dismal-looking, with nothing in it but a few old sails and
some heaps of straw. Here they remained for two days, while the snow
fell and the wind roared outside, their food being brought them by the
soldiers of the port. The men smoked their pipes and played cards, the
women knitted stockings or mended the clothes of their husbands and
children, while the little people played hide-and-seek in and out of the
dark corners, and made the gloomy old place quite merry with their
shouts and laughter.
But there was one boy (a bright-eyed little fellow with brown curly
hair) who took no part in the fun, but sat in a corner by himself,
chalking curious figures on the wall, which he seemed to copy from the
book in his other hand. Any one who had looked closely at these figures
would have seen that they were _letters_--Russian letters--and that
sometimes he would write a whole word at once, and then put the meaning
opposite it in German. In fact, he was teaching himself the language of
this new country that he had got into, and seemed to be pretty well on
with it, for every now and then he would leave off writing, and read a
page of his book without meeting a single word that he could not master.
"Look at Karl Osterman yonder, slaving away at that book of his!" said
one of the men. "Much good that'll do him! As if one could saw a plank
or hammer a rivet any better for knowing that crack-jaw lingo!"
"He's going to teach the Russians their own language--that's what he's
at!" grinned another. "A regular professor, ain't he? far too clever for
poor fellows like us!"
"Ay, he'll be a great man one of these days," chimed in a third, with a
hoarse laugh, "and then perhaps he'll be kind enough to give us a job."
Little Karl's eyes sparkled, and he set his lips firmly, as if making up
his mind that he _would_ be a great man yet, somehow or other; but he
said nothing, and went quietly on with his work.
Suddenly the door flew open, and in came a Russian soldier in a shabby
green uniform trimmed with faded gold lace. He was a very tall and
powerful man, with a dark, weather-beaten face framed in close-cropped
hair, and great black eyes that seemed to pierce right through any one
whom they looked at.
"I say, my good fellows," cried he, "here's an order from the Czar,
which I'm to paste up in this room; and I want to have it in German and
Swedish as well as Russian, that every one who comes in may be able to
read it. Perhaps one of you would kindly lend me a hand with the job,
for I'm not very glib at foreign languages myself."
The men glanced meaningly at each other, and the two who had been making
fun of Osterman looked rather sheepish, as if thinking that they had
better have been learning Russian themselves instead of laughing at him.
"I'll do it for you, Mr. Soldier," said little Osterman, stepping boldly
forward, "if there aren't any very big words in it. I've only got as far
as three-syllable words in Russian yet, you know."
The soldier stared at him for a moment, and then began to laugh.
"Well, my boy, I don't think you'll find many big words on this paper;
it's pretty plain sailing so far as it goes. See if you can read it."
Karl took the paper, and read it off easily enough.
"Well done, my fine fellow!" cried the Russian; "you're a smart lad for
your age, I can see that. Now try if you can put it into German."
To work went our hero, with a look as solemn as any professor on his
little round face. Once or twice he stopped as if at a loss for a word;
but he got through at last, and having finished the German, began upon
the Swedish.
"What? do you know Swedish too?" cried his new friend. "Why, man, you're
a perfect dictionary!"
"My mother was a Swede," answered Osterman, "and she taught me her own
language; and my father was a German, and he taught me his."
"You're a lucky fellow!" said the Russian, with a sigh. "I only wish I'd
had some one to teach me when I was your age, I should know a great deal
more than I do."
"What? didn't your father teach you, then?"
"He died when I was a mere child," said the Russian, sadly, "and my
mother, too."
"Oh dear, I'm _so_ sorry! But had you no brothers or sisters?"
"I had a brother, but he was blind, poor fellow, and couldn't help me;
and as for my sister" (here his face darkened fearfully), "instead of
being kind to me, she tried to have me killed!"
"What a shame!" cried the boy, indignantly, clinching a fist about the
size of a large plum. "I only wish _I_'d been your brother!--I wouldn't
have let anybody touch you!"
This valiant promise of protection, made by a tiny boy to a stalwart
soldier of six feet three, tickled the other emigrants so much that they
burst into a roar of laughter which made the old walls ring. But the
soldier did not laugh; he only passed his hand tenderly over the child's
curly head, and then stooped to look at the book which Karl had been
reading.
"Ah! the story of Ilia the Strong. I used to be very fond of it when I
was a boy. How do you like it?"
"Very much indeed. I didn't think I'd have time to finish it, when they
said the Czar was coming to look at us; but I suppose he's too busy
amusing himself to care about us poor fellows."
The soldier gave such a terrible frown that the men nearest him started
back in dismay, and even Osterman himself looked startled. But the next
moment the Russian's face cleared again, though it was still very sad.
"You shouldn't talk like that, my boy," said he; "the Czar would have
come to you directly you landed, if he hadn't been ill. However, he's
well again now, and I shouldn't wonder if you were to see him here
to-day."
Just then the door opened again, and in tramped a dozen grand-looking
officers in splendid uniforms, the foremost of whom, making a low bow to
the shabby soldier, said, very respectfully, "All is ready, your
majesty."
At the word "majesty," all the emigrants started as if they had been
shot; for they now saw that this shabby-looking fellow, whom they had
taken for a common soldier, was no other than the Czar Peter the Great
himself. But little Osterman did not seem frightened in the least. He
slid his soft little hand into the Emperor's huge brown fist, and cried
joyfully:
"I'm so glad you're a good Czar after all, for the Czars that I've read
about were all very bad fellows indeed, and I know I shouldn't have
liked them."
"Well, well, my boy," said Peter, clapping him on the shoulder, with a
hearty laugh, "I hope you'll find me a little better than some of them,
even though I _am_ an Emperor. Come along with me, and I'll find you
something better to do than chalking an old wall."
The boy went with his new friend, and any history of Russia will tell
you how high Osterman rose, and what great things he accomplished. Peter
the Great made him his secretary; the Empress Catherine I. made him her
chamberlain; and the Czar Peter II. gave him a title of honor; and
before the Empress Anne had been many years on the throne, the little
student whom his comrades had laughed at in the old warehouse thirty
years before, had become Count Osterman, Prime Minister of Russia.
[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 37, July 13.]
THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
CHAPTER V.
"We have a right to enter any of your vessels without your leave to seek
for suspected deserters from our navy, and to take them away when
found," said the British government to the Americans again after the war
with the Barbary States.
"By so doing you insult our flag. _Beware!_" replied the Americans.
There was no power in that "Beware!" for our little navy, which had
performed such valiant deeds, had, under the pretext of "public
economy," been transformed into a swarm of gun-boats--a "mosquito
fleet"--that was ridiculed at home and despised abroad. British cruisers
patrolled American waters, and insulted our flag whenever they pleased.
They became legalized plunderers, and no American merchant vessel
leaving port was safe from their depredations.
In 1807 a British squadron lay in a bay on the coast of Virginia. The
American frigate _Chesapeake_ put to sea from Hampton Roads, when the
_Leopard_, one of the English ships, stopped her, and demanded the
delivery of three or four alleged deserters on board of her. When the
demand was refused, the _Leopard_ sent no less than twenty round-shot
through the surprised and unprepared _Chesapeake_, and British officers
boarded her, and carried away the men. This outrage excited a hot war
spirit among the Americans. The government ordered all armed British
vessels to leave American waters immediately. Did they do it? No. There
was no power back of the order to enforce it. The ridiculous gun-boat
fleet was laughed at, and the government was placed in the position of a
weak blusterer. British cruisers continued to patrol American waters.
The people demanded more war ships. The government heeded the demand.
The gun-boats retired, and in 1810 the Americans had four frigates and
eight smaller armed vessels afloat.
In the spring of 1811 a British frigate was seen prowling along our
coasts. Commodore Rodgers went in search of her in the frigate
_President_, and on a pleasant May evening he gave chase to a vessel
which he supposed to be the one he was searching for. As he drew near he
asked, through his trumpet, "What sail is that?" The stranger repeated
the question. Rodgers again asked, "What sail is that?" and was answered
by a cannon-ball, which lodged in the main-mast of the _President_.
Rodgers opened a broadside upon the surly stranger, and after a short
combat silenced her guns. At daylight she was seen several miles away.
She was the British sloop-of-war _Little Belt_.
This affair created great excitement, and from that time until the
summer of 1812 the American war vessels were kept actively cruising
along our coasts. Meanwhile, navy-yards had been built, the moral tone
of the navy had been greatly improved, and its discipline was efficient.
It was almost unconsciously preparing for a great conflict, in which it
was to gain imperishable renown.
Insult after insult caused the Americans to declare war against England
in the summer of 1812. Measures were taken to create an efficient army,
but, strange as it may seem, when war was to be waged against a powerful
maritime nation there was persistent opposition in Congress to a navy.
The Southern members, representing a purely agricultural region, could
not sympathize with New Englanders in desires for a navy to protect
commerce. In vain it was wisely urged that protection to commerce is
protection to agriculture. A South Carolina member declared he would "go
further to see a navy burned than to extinguish the flames," and a
proposition of a Massachusetts member to build thirty frigates was voted
down. And yet, so unprepared for maritime war, the Americans went boldly
out on the ocean with a few public vessels and active privateers to defy
the royal navy of England. The United States had twenty war vessels,
exclusive of one hundred and twenty gun-boats. Great Britain had eight
hundred efficient cruisers.
The British had nothing but sneers at and ribald jokes about the
American Navy. They laughed in derision at our declaration of war. They
spoke of the _Constitution_ frigate, which had performed such gallant
deeds in the Mediterranean, as "a bundle of pine boards sailing under a
bit of striped bunting," and they declared that "a few broadsides from
England's wooden walls" would, "drive the paltry striped bunting from
the ocean." They did not heed the injunction, "Let not him that girdeth
on his harness boast himself as he that putteth it off."
When war was declared, there was a small American squadron in the harbor
of New York under Commodore Rodgers. It immediately went to sea in
search of a large fleet of Jamaica merchantmen known to be off the
coast. The _President_ frigate was Rodgers's flag-ship. She soon
encountered the British frigate _Belvidera_, which, after a sharp
combat, was lightened, and, outsailing the _President_, escaped. This
was the first battle on sea or land of the war of 1812-15, which is
properly called the "Second War for Independence." The _Belvidera_
carried the news of the declaration of war to the British at Halifax.
Captain Broke was sent from Halifax with a squadron to meet the
Americans. His flag-ship was the frigate _Shannon_. He soon captured the
little brig _Nautilus_, the _first_ vessel taken in that war. She was
retaken in the East Indies in 1815, and was the _last_ vessel captured
in the war.
The frigate _Constitution_, Captain Isaac Hull, had just returned from
Europe. She shipped a new crew, and cruised along the New England
coasts. In the middle of July she fell in with Broke's squadron.
Perceiving his peril, Hull sought safety in flight; and then began one
of the most remarkable naval retreats ever recorded, in which skillful
seamanship won the race. There was almost a dead calm. Down went the
boats of the _Constitution_, with long lines attached to them, and
strong sweeps were used with desperate energy in towing her. A long
cannon was placed at the stern on her spar-deck, and two others were
pointed out of her cabin windows.
[Illustration: ESCAPE OF THE UNITED STATES FRIGATE
"CONSTITUTION."--DRAWN BY J. O. DAVIDSON.]
A gentle breeze now sprang up, and the _Shannon_ approached and attacked
the _Constitution_ with her bow guns. The breeze died away. The water
was shallow, and Hull sent a kedge anchor with ropes attached, in a
boat, half a mile ahead. It was cast, and the crew pulled the ship
rapidly ahead. For a while Broke was puzzled by her mysterious movement,
but discovering the secret he used the same means. Through breezes and
calms, and a fierce thunder-storm that swept over the sea, the chase
continued sixty-four hours, when Broke gave it up, and the
_Constitution_ escaped. A rhymer of the day wrote:
"'Neath Hull's command and a tough band,
And naught beside to back her,
Upon a day, as log-books say,
A fleet bore down to thwack her.
A fleet, you know, is odds or so
Against a single ship, sirs;
So 'cross the tide her legs she tried,
And gave the rogues the slip, sirs."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE "BOSS" FISH.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
[Illustration: JEFF AND CHARLEY FISHING BEFORE BREAKFAST.]
"No use, Charley. We might as well go home to breakfast."
"We got here early enough."
"I don't believe there's a trout in the brook."
"If there are any, they don't bite worms early in the morning any more'n
they do any other time."
Charley looked mournfully down at his float, as it lopped wearily over
on one side. The water of the little pool below the foot-bridge over the
trout brook was as smooth as a looking-glass, and the float had not so
much as wiggled since he dropped it in.
"I don't care much for trout, Jeff."
"I'd rather have some breakfast."
"And after that we'll take the boat, and go out on the pond. We've dug a
pile of worms."
Slowly and grudgingly the line was pulled in, but the faces of both the
boys brightened the moment they were turned in the direction of
breakfast.
Half an hour later they were stopping for a moment to look at a stout,
middle-aged man who was standing on the steps of the little village
hotel, talking with the landlord. A strap over one shoulder held up a
fishing-basket that swung behind his left hip, and in his right hand he
carried, all ready for use, the lightest fishing-rod Charley Morris had
ever seen. Even Jeff, who was from the city himself, and had looked at
such things in the show windows of the shops, had an idea the stranger
must have made a mistake in bringing that plaything into the country.
"It's a trout rod, Charley. If we'd had one like it this morning!"
"'Tisn't much bigger'n a horsewhip."
Just then the landlord was saying, "Thar isn't much in the pond 'cept
perch and sunfish, but you may take something in the creek above. Your
best show for trout is to work along the trout brook as far as the hill,
and then cut across to the creek, and fish down. 'Tain't far to cross.
To-morrer you can try the brooks beyond the hill. Some of 'em'll give
you a full baskit."
"Hear that, Jeff," whispered Charley. "Just isn't old Galloway a-fooling
him! Sending him to fish in that brook! Why, if our cows got at it all
at once, they'd drink it dry."
Jeff was looking at the high boots the stranger wore over his trousers,
and was just saying, "They're for wading, so he won't wet his feet,"
when Charley looked right up into the face of the "fancy fisherman" from
the city, and asked,
"Mister, do you want any worms?"
"Angle-worms, my lad?"
"And grubs? I know where you can dig lots of 'em. Where Jeff and I got
ours this morning."
"No, thank you, my little man. I don't care for any worms. Would you
like to see my bait?"
"Guess I would. Look here, Jeff, he's going to show his bait."
The stout stranger chuckled merrily as he drew from one of his great
side pockets a sort of little book, with a leather cover and flap.
"Jeff, he carries his worms in a pocket-book."
"Flies, my little man--flies."
"Our fish won't bite at flies, mister; and they won't hide a hook,
neither."
Charley's eyes were opening wide, a moment later, as the little book was
opened before them.
"Flies? Why, mister, there's pretty much every kind of bug, except
bumblebees. All sorts of hooks, too. If you put them pretty things into
the water, you'll get 'em wet, and spoil 'em."
Again the fat man chuckled.
"Will I? Well, now, you and I'll run a race. You two boys go ahead, and
see which of us'll catch the most fish and the biggest."
"Come on, Jeff," shouted Charley; "we'll beat him!"
But then he suddenly turned again to say:
"Now, mister, you've got your scoop-net along. Minners don't count, do
they?"
"No, sonny, minnows won't count. Only fish that are big enough to eat."
Charley had never seen a "landing-net" used in his life, but he knew
what minnows were good for.
"If we had some, Jeff," he said, as they hurried along toward the pond,
"we could try for some pickerel. There's some of them left. Only they've
been fished for so much, they know enough to let a hook alone."
"Big ones?"
"Some of 'em. There's one awful big one. Black Dan--he's the best
fisherman round here, only he's lame of one leg--he says it's the boss
fish, and he's fished for him a whole day at a time."
"Did he ever get him to bite?"
"No; but he says he's seen that pickerel smell of his bait, and then
swim up to the top of the water and wink at him."
"Wish we could catch him."
"If I had that feller's scoop-net, and could get some minners."
But he had no such thing; and in a few minutes more they were in their
boat on the pond, while the stranger was walking fast, for a fat man,
across the meadow toward the trout brook.
This was a very narrow, crooked affair, pretty deep in many places, and
almost hidden by high grass, trees, and bushes.
"We know there are no fish there," said Charley, confidently.
"Not even trout?"
"Well, yes, maybe there's trout. But they won't bite. Not even before
breakfast. Anyhow, they won't go for a bare hook, with a feather on it."
That seemed sensible, and Charley's own hook now had a worm on it, and
so had Jeff's.
"We'll beat him. I know just where to go. We're in the right spot."
Perhaps he did; but before the morning was over he and Jeff had moved
their boat into nearly a dozen more that seemed to be just as good.
The "pond" was a sort of miniature lake, and was nearly half a mile
long, although it was nowhere very wide. It was supplied by what Mr.
Galloway, the landlord, called the "creek"--a pretty stream of water
about ten times as large as the trout brook in the meadow.
There were fish in that pond, and it was a pity the man from the city
had not known it, and tried for some of them with angle-worms, instead
of wasting his time over there in the meadow.
As it was, Jeff and Charley had it all to themselves, and the latter was
half glad his city cousin got the first bite.
"Good for you, Jeff!"
"Bull-head! bull-head!"
"Look out for his horns."
"Ain't he a whopper?"
"I say, Jeff, did you ever read about flying-fish?"
"Course I have."
"Well, shouldn't you think their wings'd get wet under water?"
"Charley! mind your cork; it's gone under."
So it had, and in a moment more he could shout, "I'm even with you. Only
mine's a pumpkin-seed."
It looked as if the luck of that morning had settled upon the two boys.
It was hard to say which of them came in for the largest share of it.
Even before they moved their boat the first time they could count three
bull-heads, six perch, twice as many sunfish, or "pumpkin-seed," two
shiners, and a sucker. To be sure, none of them were very large fish,
but they were all big enough to eat, and would count when they came to
compare with the contents of the fat man's basket.
"That was a pretty big fish-basket," said Charley. "Most of 'em are flat
little things."
"It's bigger'n he'll need for all the fish he'll find in that brook.
Hullo, my bait's off again."
"So's mine. Just a nibble."
"Six prime worms gone hand-running. Jeff, I guess we might as well pull
up. The snappin'-turtles have come for us."
"Do they skin a hook that way?"
"That's just what they do. Black Dan says the fish put 'em up to it.
Particularly that there boss pickerel."
Charley had more than one story to tell about Black Dan, but he pulled
up the big stone that was doing duty as an anchor, and off they went to
another "tip-top spot."
It proved so for a while, and there Jeff pulled in his first eel. Then
he had a good time, as Charley said, getting the eel off the hook, and
untwisting him from the snarl he had got himself into with the
fish-line.
"There he goes," said Charley, "all over the bottom of the boat. Black
Dan says an eel just loves to travel round."
"They're mean things to catch."
"I've got one. Now I'll show you."
Charley knew how to take an eel off a hook, but that one bothered him,
and when he finally got him loose, he said,
"I say, Jeff, this won't do. I'd as lief fish for turtles. Let's move."
"Wait a bit. Maybe there's something else."
So there was, but not for any great length of time; and as the boys were
impatient, they made another move.
They would have given one of their eels to know how the fat man from the
city was getting along.
Toward noon their frequent changes brought them away up to the head of
the pond, near the mouth of the creek; but they had not been anchored
ten minutes before a deep-toned cheery voice from the bank hailed them
with,
"Hey, boys! Having good luck?"
"Pretty good," said Charley. "Have you caught anything?--anything
bigger'n minners?"
"Well, a fish or two. Come ashore and I'll show 'em. Besides, I want you
to give me a lift with your boat."
The boys were ready enough to have a look into that fish-basket, and the
anchor came up in a hurry.
"See," said the fat man, as he lifted the lid of his basket.
"Why, it's more'n half full."
"All trout too, and some of 'em are big ones."
"Mister," said Charley, "did you bring any of them from the city with
you?"
"I guess not," chuckled the fat man. "I got most of 'em in the brook,
but I did fairly well along the creek. Now do you see those bushes at
the foot of the steep bank just below the mouth of the creek?"
"Yes," said Charley; "there's an awful deep hole right there."
"Well, I want to float over, slow and silent, so I can throw a fly right
under those bushes."
"You'll get caught in 'em."
"I'll risk that."
He sat down on the front seat, and Charley rowed him over as if he were
afraid of making a ripple on the water. He and Jeff were almost holding
their breath with excitement over what their fat friend meant to do.
"That's it. Let her float."
The light graceful rod swung back, a remarkable length of very fine line
went floating through the air, and the boys could see something like a
small dragon-fly at the end of it.
"No sinker, Jeff," whispered Charley.
"It's just lit on the water."
It was a beautiful cast, and the fly fell at the very edge of the
bushes, on a dark and shady spot of water with a small eddy in it.
Splash!
What a plunge that was!
"He jumped clean out of the water," exclaimed Jeff.
"You've lost your hook this time, mister, and your bait too. That's a
pickerel, and we call him the boss fish."
"It's a bigger fish than I had reckoned on," said the stranger, "or I'd
have brought a heavier rod and tackle."
"He'll snap any line you've got."
"We'll see."
The pickerel had felt the sharp point of that small hook, and he was now
darting off toward the mouth of the creek.
The fat man took it coolly, holding his rod with one hand, while the
other rested on the large bright brass reel, that was now spinning
around as the fish drew the line out.
The tough little rod was bending, but there was no great strain upon it.
"He won't run far. Here he comes back again."
Not far indeed, but there were a hundred yards of fine line out before
he could begin to reel it in. Then he cried,
"There he goes, down under the bank. Means to sulk. I'll worry him out
of that."
"Why don't you pull him right in?" asked Jeff, excitedly.
"Because he wouldn't come if I did."
It was a good while before there seemed to be any prospect of his
coming, and the boys were almost tired of the fun of sitting still to
see their stout friend let out his line and reel it in again. But at
last the pickerel himself began to get a little tired of pulling and
being pulled, and was reeled in closer and closer to the boat, while the
trout rod bent nearly double.
"He'll break that line!"
"No, sonny; that's what the landing-net is for."
They saw it darted under the gleaming side of the great fish--a lift, a
splash, and the prize was floundering on the bottom of the boat.
"Hurrah, boys! We've got him."
"You've beat us, mister. I'm just going to go home and catch a lot of
flies," muttered Charley.
Half an hour later they were all standing on the hotel steps, and Black
Dan was holding up the pickerel.
"Dat ar's de boss fish, shuah! And you done cotch him wid a fly and dat
ar whipstalk? Was you dar, Charley Morris?"
"I saw him do it, and so did Jeff."
"Well, ef I ain't glad he's done got dat ar pickerel out ob my way. Dat
fish has been a soah trial to me!"
And Jeff and Charley had had their own fun, and their first lesson in
fly-fishing.
[Illustration: CAUGHT IN THE ACT.--DRAWN BY W. T. SMEDLEY.]
WHY PICKLE GAVE THE GERMAN TEACHER A PRESENT.
BY LAURA F. FITCH.
Pickle had waked in high spirits. That was unlucky, in the first place,
for Pickle's high spirits always bubbled over before the day ended into
some deed of mischief. Then, Miss Prim had a headache, and could not
appear in the school-room. That was unlucky, too, for the new German
teacher was to arrive that morning, and she would not be able to
introduce him to the girls, and enjoin upon them attention and
obedience. To be sure, Miss Meek, the assistant-principal, undertook to
perform all necessary ceremonies, but then the girls never minded Miss
Meek. In the third place, the new teacher was queer-looking. That was
the most unfortunate circumstance of all, and was really to blame for
the whole affair.
"What business," Pickle wrathfully demanded of her friend Sally, "has a
man, even if he is a German, to come to a girls' boarding-school looking
like a guy?"
Sally, who was trying to dispose of two thick slices of bread and butter
before recitation, was too much occupied to answer.
But Pickle was not particular about an answer, and continued, nodding
her head in the direction of the hall: "Look at him out there, now. Such
a great broad-shouldered man. And then see how he blushes. And do just
look at that long curly hair, 'way down to his shoulders. Gracious! I
should think he'd be ashamed of it."
Pickle evidently resented the teacher's fine curls, which _were_ too
long for a man, as a personal insult to herself, it being one of the
sorrows of her life that her own thick hair was kept cropped by her
mother's orders.
"I know I sha'n't like him," she added to herself, as the unfortunate
possessor of the obnoxious curls entered the room.
He was not naturally a nervous man, he thought, but he had never taught
girls before, and he found the calm, cool scrutiny to which he was being
subjected by every member of the class something formidable. He would
rather teach fifty boys, he said to himself, than these fifteen girls.
Pickle, from her desk, watched the new teacher's every movement. She
laughed to see him nervously twist his feet around the leg of the chair,
while a smile of scorn played over her lips when he ran his fingers
through his waving locks.
"Sal," she whispered, "ain't he too funny for anything, though? I hope
he speaks English with an accent; that is, if he ever gets the courage
to speak at all."
These disrespectful whispers, though inaudible to Herr Mueller, were
terminated by his speaking at that moment. In the very mildest possible
tones he asked, "Vill some young lady haf ze goodness to acquaint me
eggsactly how far ze class haf read in ze book?"
"Oh, he's as meek as Moses, and speaks worse than Professor Schultz used
to!" was Pickle's murmured comment upon this speech; while Alice Smith
rose to say that the class had read as far as the twenty-fourth page,
fifteenth line.
"No, we haven't, either," immediately exclaimed Pickle. Then, as Herr
Mueller looked inquiringly at her, "We only got to the fourteenth line. I
just mentioned it," she added, as the girls tittered, "because you
wanted to know eggsactly."
Herr Mueller frowned, but judged it best to take no notice of this
speech, merely saying to the speaker, "Vill you haf ze goodness to read
a leetle?"
Pickle knew he was addressing her, but she ignored the request, and
gazed blankly before her. Sally nudged her, whispering, "Pickle, he
means _you_."
"He must address me by my name, then."
"Why, how can he, when he doesn't know what it is?"
"That's his look-out," was the reply.
Herr Mueller, perceiving that every one else in the room knew whom he was
addressing, exclaimed, impatiently, "Vill ze young lady wiz ze _very
short hair_ please to read?"
Unconscious Herr Mueller knew not what mortal offense he had given, as
Pickle quickly arose, glibly read as far as desired, and then sat down,
boiling with indignation.
"'Very short hair!'" she muttered to Sally. "Maybe it is; but it can
grow, I guess; anyway, it's no disgrace. But as for his curls, hair like
that is a disgrace to any man."
"Yes, indeed," assented Sally; "his curls are only fit for a girl.
They'd look nice, now, on _you_, Pickle."
Pickle replied to this apparently innocent speech with a withering
glance. The next moment, however, her face lighted up with an idea.
The door of the class-room opened, and Miss Meek entered to say that
some new German books had arrived, and to request Herr Mueller to come
and look at them. No sooner had the door closed behind the two teachers
than Pickle exclaimed aloud, "I've forgotten my translation book," and
also left the room. Sally was suspicious of this errand. Pickle often
forgot her books, yet seldom took the trouble to go for them, unless
sent. But when she came into the class-room again, with several others
who had also seized this opportunity of walking out, she seemed hardly
to merit her friend's suspicions. She paused a moment by the teacher's
desk, and then took her seat.
In a few minutes Herr Mueller's step outside caused all the girls to
scramble to their seats, so that when he entered they sat as quiet and
demure as though they had not stirred during his absence. He took his
seat, and opened his book again at the lesson, when the girls saw him
suddenly flush up to the roots of his hair, and run his fingers
nervously through his long curls. He next removed a small package that
had evidently been lying in his book, and laid it on the side of the
desk. In so doing, something fell out of the package on to the floor,
and showed itself to the wondering girls to be a _hair-pin_. Thereupon
some of the girls giggled, others smiled, and all involuntarily fastened
their gaze on the teacher's flowing hair.
Sally turned to Pickle. "How could you do it?" she whispered to her
companion, whose face, flushed with the effort to restrain her mirth,
was alarmingly red.
"What do you mean?" returned Pickle, with an unconscious air.
The next minute Miss Meek again entered, this time with an inkstand for
the teacher's desk. In placing it she evidently saw the bundle of
hair-pins, for she looked indignantly around the class before leaving
the room, while Herr Mueller once more flushed a rosy red.
"She'll tell that to Miss Prim, Pickle--see if she don't," whispered
Sally, anxiously, to her friend.
"Do you think so?" queried Pickle, hastily; then, with marked
indifference, "Yes, I suppose she will. I wonder if she'll find out who
did it?"
"Oh, you needn't try to deceive me; as if I didn't know who did it!"
returned the other.
"Do you?" was the only reply she got to her attempt at confidence.