[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 96. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, August 30, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
THE OLD GUN.
'Mid the smoke and the heat of battle,
Where men fought for wrong or right,
'Mid the clash and the roar and the rattle,
Where fiercest raged the fight,
Stood the old gun,
Hurling his bolts of thunder
Into the ranks of those
Who dared to brave his anger,
Who dared to be his foes,
Dared face the gun.
'Mid the daisies and clover growing
On that long-ago battle plain,
Kissed by the soft winds, blowing
Over the graves of the slain,
Lies the old gun.
Around him frolic the children,
Noisy with innocent glee,
But silent and still he lies there,
Who helped make a nation free,
Asleep in the sun.
COMPENSATION.
BY GEORGE COOPER.
For every leaf of green,
A golden leaf;
For every fading flower,
A ripened sheaf.
For every parching beam,
A drop of rain;
For every sunny day,
The stars again.
For every warring wave,
A pretty shell;
For every sound of woe,
A joyous bell.
For every passing care,
A mother's kiss:
And what could better be,
Dear child, than this?
AN ANCIENT TRAVELLER.
BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.
The oldest book of travels in Asia that has been preserved was written
by Marco Polo, an Italian, who was born nearly two hundred and fifty
years before his famous countryman Christopher Columbus discovered
America.
The father and uncle of Marco, who were merchants in Venice, had already
been to China, then called Cathay, and spent some years at the court of
the Emperor Khubla Khan, who became their warm friend. On their return
to Venice they had many wonderful stories to tell of the mysterious
country they had explored, and the strange sights and adventures they
had met with; and two years afterward they started again on their
travels, with letters and presents for the Chinese monarch from Pope
Gregory X. Marco, then a young man of twenty, went with them on this
journey.
They travelled over land and water and desert, and had many hardships
and dangers to encounter; but finally they reached the city of Cambalu
(which was discovered in the seventeenth century to be Pekin), after a
journey of _four years_! When the Khan heard that they were coming, he
sent people to meet them a month and a half before they arrived, and
directed that they should be received with every possible honor.
At last they reached the royal city, and were conducted at once to the
Khan, before whom they prostrated themselves, after the fashion of the
country; then they were invited to a magnificent banquet. The throne,
which stood on a platform at the head of the long table, sparkled and
glittered with precious gems; and on this was seated the monarch of
Cathay, sparkling and glittering likewise in his festal robes, with his
four wives around him, and a long string of attendants for each of the
ladies.
Everybody who was considered to be in good society in Cambalu was
present at this feast of welcome to the returned travellers; and jewels,
and plumes, and gold, and precious stones, and brilliant colors, and
beautiful faces were mingled together in bewildering confusion. After
the company had left the table, jugglers and acrobats and musicians were
brought in to entertain them; and very likely the tired strangers were
glad enough when it was all over, and they could retire in peace to the
splendid palace that had been arranged with every imaginable luxury, and
hosts of servants to wait upon them and do their bidding.
The next day they presented the generous monarch with the Pope's letter,
and a small bottle filled with the oil used for the silver lamps in the
chapel of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. The Khan saw, from the
reverent manner of the travellers, that this oil must possess rare
virtues, and he received it with much gratitude. He was an intelligent
man, and he asked many questions about their journey, and about matters
and things in Europe, the Polos having become well acquainted with the
Mongol language during their former stay, so that they could talk
without an interpreter. His Royal Highness was particularly pleased with
Marco, and said that he would give him an important position at once in
his household.
The young man immediately began to study the language, laws, and customs
of this strange country, that he might be able to perform the duties of
his office, and the Khan soon had such confidence in him that he sent
him on affairs of importance all over the empire.
It was in this way that Marco Polo learned so much about Cathay, and the
book of travels which he wrote was read for a long time with the
greatest interest. Now it is looked upon as an ancient relic; and the
pictures are particularly funny. In one of them is a representation of
the Khan in a portable room carried on the backs of four elephants,
which are shaped very much like pigs, and have gorgeous rosettes on
their backs, supposed to be intended for saddles. A crowd of people gaze
with awe upon their sovereign as he is borne triumphantly along in this
very novel manner, the front side of the room being open, so that all
can see him.
Another picture, which is intended for an elephant hunt, represents the
elephants shorter than the horses on which the hunters ride and shoot at
them with bows and arrows--as though elephants would mind _that_!--while
the trees seem to be growing on the elephants' backs.
Khubla Khan was at war with the sovereigns of the provinces south of his
kingdom, and his friends the Polos were of great use to him by showing
him how to make and use the European machines, called catapults, for
hurling immense stones against the walls and towers of besieged cities.
These were highly thought of before the invention of artillery.
The monarch was very much delighted, and as soon as the machines were
ready he sent the learned Venetians to head a fresh attack upon the
important city of Sa-yan-fu. The banner of Khubla Khan was soon waving
above the crushed walls, and the Polos were liberally rewarded with
wealth and honors. Marco, who was the Khan's especial favorite, was made
a noble of the empire, with a more magnificent palace and a larger
retinue than ever.
After spending seventeen years of this exciting life, the Polos longed
to see their native city again; but the monarch, who was now an old man,
would not consent to part with them. Fortunately, however, for the
homesick visitors, the Khan's granddaughter was to marry the King of
Persia, and started on her journey to that country; but after travelling
for eight months, the Princess and her attendants found that many of the
provinces through which they had to pass were at war, and they turned
back to Cambalu.
The Polos, seizing this opportunity of escape, promised to convey the
bridal party safely by sea; and the Khan agreed to let them go, on
condition of their returning to him again after a short visit home.
Among the monarch's parting gifts were caskets of magnificent rubies and
other precious gems.
It was eighteen months before they reached Ormuz, and during that time
two or three of the envoys and six hundred of the Princess's attendants
had died. The Persian bridegroom was dead also, and so was the monarch
of Cathay, Khubla Khan.
The Polos now were freed from their promise to return; and after staying
nine months in Persia--for they liked to explore every place at which
they stopped--they started on their long journey to Venice. They arrived
there in safety, after an absence of twenty-four years; and at first no
one would believe that these outlandish-looking travellers were the real
Polos. But they soon proved their identity, and became known far and
wide as the most wonderful travellers of the time.
Marco was a prisoner in Genoa for four years, after a battle with the
Genoese, and he amused himself during this dreary period by writing an
account of his travels and his life at the court of the Khan.
FROG-CATCHING.
BY A. W. ROBERTS.
When a man dwelling in the Drowned Lands of Canonoque, Canada, is
capable of accumulating a small fortune by catching frogs for the New
York market, surely some of our young people who are now spending their
vacations near the shores of our lakes, rivers, and ponds ought also to
make considerable pocket-money, if not as large a fortune as that of Pat
Bowman, of the Drowned Lands, who follows up the frogs from early spring
until late in the fall.
It is not only the pocket-money that is to be picked up, but while on
the frog-hunts many lessons are to be learned in aquatic natural
history. Then there is the fun of the thing. It's fun to get sunburned,
and have a brand-new skin at the end of a week to attend church in. It's
fun to step into a bumble-bees' nest, and have the bees chase you until
you are only too glad to take refuge in the water, where they can't find
you out. And it's fun to break through a musk-rat or turtle run, and to
have your companions pull you out covered with black peat; then come the
washing out of your clothes, and hanging them in the sun to dry; and
while they are drying, then the sand-flies and mosquitoes come swarming
about you in clouds, until in sheer desperation you conclude to do as
the cows do--stand in the water and splash. And after you have stood in
the water a few minutes, you find the horse-leeches and boat-flies have
discovered you have legs, and are having a feast on them. By this time
your clothing is dry. All this sort of experience was fun to me when I
was a boy, and I often sigh for those happy days to return.
At the age of thirteen I became a frog-catcher. I discovered there was a
demand in Fulton and Washington markets for frogs' legs, and that the
price paid for them, as they ran, large and small (not very, very
small), was one dollar and a half per hundred. But here was the trouble:
how could I manage to keep the frogs alive and healthy until I had one
hundred of them ready for market? At last I hit upon a plan, which was
no less than to construct a pond in our then very large garden, and
plant it with pond-lilies, sweet-flag, and cat-tails; in fact, to make
it as picturesque as possible. To have the pond hold water, the bottom
and sides were lined with clay to the depth of half a foot. To fill the
pond we made a series of wooden gutters that connected with the garden
pump. Every night we pumped and pumped, until we thought the old pump
would surely go dry.
In our house lived a blind sea-captain; he was a bright, kind-hearted,
good-natured old gentleman. He could navigate all over our large garden
without tramping down the smallest radish, and as for thinning out
carrots and beets, he could do it beautifully; he knew every weed by
touch and smell. He was just as good as good could be, and all we boys
thought the world of him, and he thought we were the best boys ever
born. Now the captain liked everything in nature that had a voice, such
as birds, crickets, locusts, katydids, and tree-toads, with which we
kept the garden well supplied, so that at night there was nearly a full
orchestra of nature's musicians. On bass, basso, and basso-profundo we
were short, but knew full well that as soon as the intended inhabitants
for the pond were secured, those voices of the night would be
forthcoming.
The first frogs we captured were taken with a scap-net toward evening,
when they drew near the shore to feed, and to secure them we tied them
by their hind-legs to a string. One evening we discovered a frog by his
voice, which was that of a pure basso-profundo, and in strength that of
three bull-calves in one. His home was in a small ditch of water, which,
the minute approached, he would plunge into, and was lost to sight. By
the great splash he made we knew that he must be a monster of a
bull-frog. Night after night we tried to capture him, but failed. At
last we determined to devote one entire Saturday to his capture.
There was one particular spot on the side of the ditch where he always
sat when taking a sun-bath, but the minute he caught sight of us, in he
would plunge, and disappear for an hour's time. At first we imagined he
dived down into the deep mud bottom, and remained there until he thought
all was quiet, or that we were gone away.
[Illustration: DIGGING OUT THE BIG FROG.]
At last, by mere accident, we discovered his secret hiding-place to be a
musk-rat hole, the entrance of which connected directly with the water
of the ditch, so that all he had to do was to make a strong and long
dive for the musk-rat hole, and he was safe every time. The only way
left was to secure the entrance to the hole with a net, and then to go
after him with spades and shovels and dig him out; which we did, and
wasn't he a beauty? He weighed over a pound, and must have been seven or
eight years old. After being in the pond a week, one bright moonlight
night he condescended to join in with the other musicians.
We greatly increased the power of our orchestra by adding twenty-five
common toads, which in the breeding season frequent the water, and are
very noisy, and also one hundred of the shrill-piping Hylodes, or
tree-toads, and two screech-owls, which were kept in separate cages at
different parts of the garden, so that all night long they were calling
to one another.
At the end of every two weeks one of the four members of the "Great Long
Island Frog Company" took to market from two hundred to two hundred and
fifty live frogs, for which was received a dollar and a half per
hundred. In course of time sufficient capital was accumulated to
purchase four hundred breeding gold-fish with which to stock the pond,
so that on the second year we were marketing live frogs and gold-fish.
All this happened many years ago, but the traffic in bull-frogs and
bull-frogs' legs has been growing steadily, until it has attained
wonderful proportions, as the following statements will show:
It is estimated by good judges that no less than fifteen hundred-weight
of frogs' legs are sent to the New York market every year. New York
State, New Hampshire, Maine, Pennsylvania, and the Canadas are the
principal sources of supply. There is one dealer who has agents catching
and purchasing frogs in all the above-named places.
Frog-catching begins early in the spring, and lasts until late in the
fall. The frogs are caught without bait, all the tackle used being a rod
or pole cut in the woods, to which is fastened a short and stout line.
On the end of the line is fastened a broad stout hook. When a frog is
discovered, the "froggist" drops the hook under the jaw of the frog, and
with a quick jerk Mr. Frog flies up into the air, and is taken from off
the hook, and placed in a bag. The frogs think the hook is alive, and
snatch at it eagerly. Sometimes a frog, when the hook tickles his nose
or passes over one of his ears, will lose his temper, and make a
terrible lunge at it. I have seen old frogs lose their tempers entirely,
so that the minute they caught sight of the end of the pole they would
jump clear out of the water, and bite at it fiercely. A frog will never
bite at anything when under water, as he is afraid to open his large
mouth from fear of drowning. A frog kept entirely in the water, with
nothing to rest on, will in course of time drown. When the hook is
ornamented with a piece of red flannel, the frogs will jump for it
several feet. Frogs bite best on warm, sunny days. When fishing for
frogs at night, a reflector or bull's-eye is fastened at the bow of the
boat. The bright light seems to daze the frogs to an extent that admits
of their easy capture.
The frogs, when caught, are placed in cages made of laths or slats; the
cages are about five feet long by four feet wide, and one foot in
height. These cages are placed half in the water and half on land; the
bottoms of the cages having a slight inclination, to allow the frogs to
leave the water when so disposed. After being caged for a few days, they
will begin to take food. Their favorite food is young frogs, small live
fish, insects, mice, and angle-worms. All of these must have life and
motion, or the frogs will not eat them. Many attempts have been made to
breed frogs artificially, but so far all have failed. The principal
trouble seems to be the difficulty of obtaining natural food in
sufficient quantities to prevent the old frogs from devouring their
young, which they will do on all occasions. Again, the young frog, from
the tadpole stage up to the perfect frog, is surrounded by enemies night
and day--aquatic birds, turtles, lizards, snakes, leeches, insects,
fish, water-rats, and, worst of all, his own relations. A female frog at
five years of age will produce over a thousand eggs every year. Out of
the thousand eggs not more than twenty-five ever attain over two years'
growth, so constant is the warfare of their enemies.
[Illustration]
There are two ways of preparing the frogs' legs for market. One is known
as the Canadian style (see figure), which consists of leaving part of
the back of the frog attached to the legs; this is done to make weight.
The other is the Philadelphia style, wherein the legs are cut off close
to the end of the back, or spine, after the legs have been skinned. In
the figure the dotted line A A shows the Philadelphia style, which
always brings the highest price. The legs are packed in half-barrels
between layers of crushed ice, and will average from fifty to
seventy-five pounds to the half-barrel. The prices paid for frogs' legs
vary from twenty to sixty cents per pound, which is governed by the
season of the year, the demand, and the supply. At the leading
hotels--Delmonico's, for instance--seventy-five cents is the regular
price per plate for cooked frogs' legs all the year round.
The method of cooking the legs is as follows. After the legs have been
thoroughly washed, they are dried in a towel; they are then dipped in
beaten eggs, and rolled in powdered cracker, after which they are fried
in very hot lard or butter until slightly brown, and are served up with
fine herbs and mushrooms stewed in butter.
Now it seems to me, as I said before, that the boys have a chance to
make considerable pocket-money on frogs' legs. If I was still a boy, I
would enter into an agreement with two or three of the largest and
best-paying hotels to supply them with legs, fresh caught (remember,
that's a big advantage you would have over the New York market), at just
a few cents per pound below the prevailing market prices during the
season. There is no reason, when you are out frogging, why you should
not capture a few trout also.
[Illustration: THE BOOT-BLACK'S SHOWER-BATH.]
[Begun in No. 92 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, August 2.]
TIM AND TIP;
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.
CHAPTER V.
LIFE ON BOARD THE "PRIDE OF THE WAVE."
When Tim first went on board the steamer which was to be his home, he
thought, from the beautiful things he saw around, that he should live in
a luxurious manner; but when he was shown the place in which he was to
sleep, he learned that the fine things were for the passengers only, and
that even comfort had been sacrificed in the quarters belonging to the
crew.
He was given a berth in the forecastle, which was anything rather than a
pleasant or even a sweet-smelling place, and had it not been that he had
the satisfaction of having Tip with him when he went to bed, he would
have cried even harder and longer than he did.
Captain Pratt had not made his appearance on the steamer that day; but
the steward had told him that his duties as Captain's boy would begin
next morning at breakfast, when he would be expected to wait upon the
Captain at the table. The last thing Tim thought of that night was how
he should acquit himself in what he felt would be a trying position, and
the first thing which came into his mind when he awoke on the following
morning was whether he should succeed in pleasing his employer or not.
After kissing Tip over and over again, and with many requests to him to
be a good dog and not make a noise, Tim tied his pet in his narrow
quarters, and then made his own toilet. He really made a good appearance
when he presented himself to Mr. Rankin, the steward, that morning. His
cheeks were rosy from a vigorous application of cold water and a brisk
rubbing, and if he could rely upon his personal appearance for pleasing
Captain Pratt, there seemed every chance that he would succeed.
During the time he had been at work the day before, Mr. Rankin took
every opportunity to instruct him in his new duties, and that morning
the steward gave him another lesson.
It was barely finished when Captain Pratt came into the cabin, and one
look at him made Tim so nervous that he forgot nearly everything he had
been told to remember.
The Captain's eyes were red, his hands trembled, while he had every
symptom of a man who had been drinking hard the day before, and was not
perfectly sober then.
Tim had never had any experience with drinking men; but he did not need
any explanation as to the causes of the Captain's appearance, and he
involuntarily ducked his head when his employer passed him.
"Now, then, what are you skulking there for, you young rascal?" shouted
Captain Pratt, as he fell rather than seated himself in his chair.
"I ain't skulkin', sir," replied Tim, meekly.
"Don't you answer me back," cried the Captain, in a rage, seizing the
milk pitcher as if he intended to throw it at the boy. "If you talk back
to me, I'll show you what a rope's end means."
Tim actually trembled with fear, and kept a bright lookout, so that he
might be ready to dodge in case the pitcher should be thrown, but did
not venture to say a word.
"Now bring me my breakfast, and let's see if you amount to anything, or
if I only picked up a bit of waste timber when I got you."
"What will you have, sir?" asked Tim, timidly, as he moved toward the
Captain's chair.
A blow on the side of his head that sent him reeling half way across the
cabin served as a reply, and it was followed by a volley of oaths that
frightened him.'
"What do you mean by asking me what I'll have before you tell me what is
ready? Next time you try to wait upon a gentleman, tell him what there
is. Bring me some soda-water first."
This was an order that had not been provided for in the lessons given by
Mr. Rankin, and Tim stood perfectly still, in frightened ignorance.
"Come, step lively, or I'll get up and show you how," roared the
Captain, his face flushing to a deeper red, as his rage rose to the
point of cruelty.
"Please, sir, I don't know where it is;" and Tim's voice sounded very
timid and piteous.
"Don't know where it is, and been on board since yesterday! What do you
suppose I hired you for? Take that, and that."
[Illustration: CAPTAIN PRATT ORDERS HIS BREAKFAST.]
Suiting the action to the words, the cheerful-tempered man threw first a
knife and then a fork at the shrinking boy, and was about to follow them
with a plate, when Mr. Rankin put into Tim's hand the desired liquid.
Tim would rather have gone almost anywhere else than close to his
employer just then; but the glass was in his hand, the Captain was
waiting for it with a glare in his eye that boded no good if he delayed,
and he placed it on the table.
"Now what kind of a breakfast have you got?" shouted Captain Pratt, as
he swallowed the liquid quickly.
It was a surprise to himself that he could remember anything just then,
but he did manage to repeat the names of the different dishes, and to
take the Captain's order.
Although he ran as swiftly as possible from the table to the kitchen,
and was served there with all haste, he did not succeed in pleasing the
angry man.
"I want you to remember," said that worthy, with a scowl, "that I ain't
in the habit of waiting for my meals. Another time, when you are so
long, I shall give you a lesson you won't forget."
Tim was placing the dishes of food on the table when the Captain spoke,
and he was so startled by the angry words, when he thought he deserved
pleasant ones, that he dropped a plate of potatoes.
He sprang instantly to pick them up, but Captain Pratt was out of his
chair before he could reach them, and with all his strength he kicked
Tim again and again. Then, without taking any heed of the prostrate boy,
who might have been seriously injured, he seated himself at the table in
perfect unconcern.
Mr. Rankin helped Tim on his feet, and finding that no bones were
broken--which was remarkable, considering the force with which the blows
had been given--advised him to go on deck, promising that he would serve
the Captain.
"But I propose that the boy shall stay here," roared the Captain. "Do
you think I'm going to let him sneak off every time I try to teach him
anything?"
Tim struggled manfully to keep back the tears that would come in his
eyes as he stood behind the Captain's chair, but they got the best of
him, as did also the little quick sobs.
The Captain appeared to grow more cheerful as he ate, and although he
called upon Tim for several articles, he managed to get along without
striking any more blows, contenting himself by abusing the poor boy with
his tongue.
It was a great relief to Tim when that meal was ended, and Mr. Rankin
told him he could eat his own breakfast before clearing away the dishes.
Tim had not the slightest desire for food then, but he did want some for
Tip. Hastily gathering up the bones from Captain Pratt's plate, he ran
with them to the bow, where Tip was straining and tugging at his rope as
if he knew his master was having a hard time, and he wanted to be where
he could help him.
Tim placed the bones in front of Tip, and then kneeling down, he put his
arms around the dog's neck as he poured out his woes in his ear, while
Tip tried in every way to get at the tempting feast before him.
"I'm the miserablest boy in the world, Tip, an' I don't know what's
goin' to become of us. You don't know what a bad, ugly man Captain Pratt
is, an' I don't believe I can stay here another day. But you think a
good deal of me, don't you, Tip? an' you'd help me if you could,
wouldn't you?"
The dog had more sympathy with the bones just then than he had with his
almost heart-broken master, and Tim, who dared not stay away too long
from the cabin, was obliged to let him partake of the feast at last.
When Tim returned from feeding the dog, Mr. Rankin said all he could to
prevent him from becoming discouraged on the first day of service; but
he concluded with these words: "I can't advise you to stay here any
longer than you can help, for you ain't stout enough to bear what you'll
have to take from the Captain. It'll be hard work to get off, for he
always looks sharp after new boys, so they sha'n't run away; but when we
get back here again, you'd better make up your mind to show your heels."
These words frightened Tim almost as much as what the Captain had said
to him, for he had never thought but that he could leave whenever he
wanted to. Now he felt doubly wretched, for he realized that he was as
much a captive as he had ever been when he lived with Captain Babbige,
whose blows were not nearly as severe as this new master's.
The _Pride of the Wave_ made but two trips a week, and each one occupied
about two days and a half. This second day after Tim had come on board
was the time of her sailing, and everything was in such a state of
confusion that no one had any time to notice the sad little boy, who ran
forward to pet his dog whenever his work would permit of such loving
act.
Among his duties was that of answering the Captain's bell, and once,
when he returned from a visit to Tip, Mr. Rankin told him, with evident
fear, that it had been nearly five minutes since he was summoned to the
wheel-house.
While the steward was speaking, the bell rang again with an angry peal
that told that the party at the other end was in anything but a pleasant
mood. It did not take Tim many seconds to run to the wheel-house, and
when he arrived there, breathless and in fear, Captain Pratt met him at
the door.
"So the lesson I gave you this morning wasn't enough, eh?" cried the
angry man, as he seized Tim by the collar and actually lifted him from
his feet. "I'll teach you to attend to business, and not try to come any
odds over me."
Captain Pratt had a stout piece of rope in one hand, and as he held Tim
by the other, nearly choking him, he showered heavy blows upon the poor
boy's back and legs, until his arm ached.
"Now see if you will remember that!" he cried, as he released his hold
on Tim's collar, and the poor child rolled upon the deck almost
helpless.
Tim had fallen because the hold on his neck had been so suddenly
released, rather than on account of the beating; and when he struggled
to his feet, smarting from the blows, the Captain said to him, "Now
bring me a pitcher of ice-water, and see that you're back in five
minutes, or you'll get the same dose over again."
Tim limped away, his back and legs feeling as though they were on fire,
and each inch of skin ached and smarted as it never had done from the
worst whipping Captain Babbige or Aunt Betsey had favored him with. He
entered the cabin with eyes swollen from unshed tears, and sobs choking
his breath, but with such a sense of injury in his heart that he made no
other sign of suffering.
Mr. Rankin was too familiar with Captain Pratt's method of dealing with
boys to be obliged to ask Tim any questions; but he said, as the boy got
the water, "Try to keep a stiff upper lip, lad, and you'll come out all
right."
Tim could not trust himself to speak, for he knew he should cry if he
did; and he carried the water to the wheel-house, going directly from
there to Tip.
The dog leaped up on him when his master came where he was, as if he
wanted a frolic; but Tim said, as he threw himself on the deck beside
him: "Don't, Tip--don't play now; I feel more like dyin'. You think it's
awful hard to stay here; but it's twice as hard on me, 'cause the
Captain whips me every chance he gets."
Tip knew from his master's actions that something was wrong, and he
licked the face that was drawn with deep lines of pain so lovingly that
Tim's tears came in spite of his will.
He was lying by Tip's side, moaning and crying, when old black Mose, the
cook, was attracted to the spot by his sounds of suffering.
"Wha-wha-wha's de matter, honey? Wha' yer takin' on so powerful 'bout?"
Tim paid no attention to the question, repeated several times, nor did
he appear to feel the huge black hand laid so tenderly on his head.
"Wha's de matter, honey? Has Cap'en Pratt been eddercatin' of yer?"
Then, without waiting for a reply, he continued: "Now don' take on so,
honey. Come inter de kitchen wid ole Mose, an' let him soothe ye up a
little. Come, honey, come wid me, an' bring de dorg wid yer."
While he spoke the old colored man was untying the rope which fastened
Tip, for he knew the boy would follow wherever the dog was led. And in
that he was right, for when Tip went toward the little box Mose called a
kitchen, he followed almost unconsciously.
Once inside the place where the old negro was chief, Mose took his
jacket off, and bathed the ugly-looking black and blue marks which had
been left by the rope, talking to the boy in his peculiar dialect as he
did so, soothing the wounds on his heart as he treated those on his
body.
"Now don' feel bad, honey; it's only a way Cap'en Pratt has got, an' you
must git used to it, shuah. Don' let him fret yer, but keep right on
about yer work jest as ef yer didn't notice him like."
Mose bathed the wounds, gave Tip such a feast as he had not had for many
a day, and when it was done, Tim said to him: "You're awful good, you
are; but I'm afraid the Captain will make you sorry for it. He don't
seem to like me, an' he may get mad 'cause you've helped me."
"Bress yer, chile, what you s'pose ole Mose keers fur him ef he does git
mad? The Cap'en kin rave an' rave, but dis niggar don' mind him more'n
ef he was de souf wind, what carn't do nobody any harm."
"But--" Tim began to say, earnestly.
"Never mind 'bout any buts, honey. Yer fixed all right now, an' you go
down in de cabin an' go ter work like a man; ole Mose'll keep keer ob de
dorg."
Tim knew he had already been away from his post of duty too long, and
leaving Tip in the negro's kindly care, he went into the cabin, feeling
almost well in mind, although very sore in body.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: NOT UP IN HIS PART.--DRAWN BY SOL EYTINGE, JUN.]
PHIL'S BURGLAR.
BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.
I am Phil Morris, fourteen years old, and the youngest clerk in Covert
Savings-Bank. The cashier is my uncle Jack, and he began at the bottom,
where I am, when _he_ was a boy. He says that a boy had better grow up
with a country bank than go West and grow up with the country. He thinks
there's more money in it.
"If there's anything in you," he said one day, "you'll work your way up
to be bank president some time." And I guess it's better to be president
of a country bank than to be President of the United States. Anyway, you
wouldn't have to be shot before folks began to find out that you were
doing your level best to keep things straight. Uncle Jack says and does
such queer things sometimes that people say he's odd. They tell about
his being so wrapped up in our bank that he never had time to hunt up a
wife. I notice, though, that when father and mother died, and left me a
wee little baby, Uncle Jack found time to bring me up, and give me a
good education to boot. Oh, he's as good as gold or government bonds,
Uncle Jack is.
We live in rooms over the bank, where old Mrs. Halstead keeps house for
us. Underneath, we do the business. There's heaps of money in our two
big vaults.
Last summer--and, mind you, this was while _I_ was away on vacation--two
men broke into the building. They came up stairs, and into Uncle Jack's
room. One had a bull's-eye lantern that he flashed in Uncle Jack's face
as he sat up in bed, and the other pointed a big pistol right at his
head.
"Tell us where the vault keys are, or I'll shoot you," he said.
"Oh, Uncle Jack," I broke in, when he was telling me about it, "what
_did_ you do?"
"What would you have done?" he asked, in his odd way.
"I know what I _wouldn't_ have done," I answered him, straightening up a
bit--"I wouldn't have given 'em the keys."
"Ah!" Uncle Jack says, kind of half doubtful, and then went on: "Well, I
told them to shoot away. And they knew as well as I did that shooting
wouldn't bring them the keys. So when they found they couldn't frighten
me, the scoundrels tied me, and went off in a rage, with my watch and
pocket-book."
That was last summer. One night along in the fall Uncle Jack started off
down town. "It's Lodge night, and I may not be back until late," he
said. "You won't mind staying alone--a great boy like you." And of
course I said "No."
But somehow, after Mrs. Halstead went to bed, I found I _did_ mind it. I
don't know what made me feel so fidgety. Perhaps it was reading about a
bank robbery in Bolton, which is the next town to Covert. It was thought
to be the work of Slippery Jim, a notorious burglar. And while I was
thinking about it, I dozed off in Uncle Jack's easy-chair.
"Ow-w-w!" I sung out all at once. And if you'd woke up of a sudden to
see a rough-looking man, with a slouch hat pulled over his eyes,
standing right in front of you, you'd have done the same. "What--what do
you want here?" I sort of gasped; and I tried to speak so he wouldn't
hear my teeth knock together.
"The vault keys--where are they?" he answers, short and gruff. And then
he kind of motioned with his hand--I suppose to show the revolver he was
holding.
I was pretty badly scared; but all the same, I didn't mean he should
have those vault keys, if he shot the top of my head off.
"Come, hurry up," he said, with a sort of grin. And I noticed then that
he had red whiskers, and some of his upper front teeth were gone, so
that he didn't speak his words plain.
"I should know you anywhere," I thought. "Strategy, Phil Morris," I said
to myself, bracing up inside; for a story I'd read about how a lady
caught a live burglar came across me like a flash. "Please don't shoot,
sir," I began to say, with all sorts of demi-semi-quavers in my
voice--"please don't; indeed I'll show you where they're kept." So
making believe to shake all over, I took the lamp, and led the way into
Uncle Jack's bedroom. "The k-k-k-eys are in th-there, sir," I told him.
You should have seen how my fingers trembled when I pointed to the
little store-room that opened out of the chamber. The keys were there,
true enough, but I'd like to see any one except Uncle Jack or I find
them. I suppose you have heard of such things as secret panels.
The store-room floor is lower than the chamber floor. Many a time, when
I haven't been thinking, I've stepped down with a jar that almost sent
my backbone up through the top of my head.
"In there, eh?" said my bold burglar, quite cheerful like, and pushed by
me to the open door.
I set the lamp down, and my heart began to beat so that I was almost
afraid he could hear it. "Now or never," I whispered.
It was all done quicker than you could say "knife." I put my head down
like a billy-goat, and ran for the small of his back. "Butted" isn't a
nice word, but that's just how I sent him flying headlong into the
closet. I heard him go down with a crash that shook Mrs. Halstead's
biggest jar of raspberry jam off the shelf.
I didn't stop to take breath until I'd locked the door and barricaded it
with Uncle Jack's big mahogany bureau--just as the lady did in the
story. Then I breathed--and listened. What I heard made my eyes stick
out a bit. First I almost felt like crying. Then I laughed until I did
cry. I suppose the excitement made me hystericky. It wasn't ten minutes
before I roused up Mr. Simms the constable, and Jared Peters, who lives
next door. Mr. Simms brought along an old pepperbox revolver and a pair
of handcuffs. Jared Peters had his double-barrel gun, but in his flurry
he forgot to load it.
Up stairs we hurried. The two men pulled away the bureau, and Mr. Simms,
who was in the army, stationed us in our places.
"Look a-here, you feller," Mr. Simms called out, "the strong arm of the
law is a-coverin' of you with deadly weepons. Surrender without
resistance.--Phil, yank open the door."
I flung open the door. Jared Peters covered the prisoner with his gun.
He was covered with something else too--Mrs. Halstead's raspberry jam,
that he'd been wallowing round in. He didn't look proud, though, for all
he was so stuck up.
Before he could open his mouth Mr. Simms had him handcuffed and dragged
out into the chamber.
"There," he said, with a long breath, "I guess _you_ won't burgle no
more right away."
"For goodness' sake, Simms--Peters--don't you know me--Mr. John Morris,
cashier of the savings bank." That was what the prisoner said just as
soon as he could speak.
Well, I didn't wait any longer. I just bolted for my own room, where I
could lie down on the floor. And there I lay laughing until I was purple
clear round to my shoulder-blades. Then I went to bed.
"Philip," said Uncle Jack, solemnly, while we were at breakfast next
morning, "I should beg your pardon for trying to test your courage in
the--the consummately idiotic way I took to do it last night, but"--and
he looked pretty sheepish--"I--I think I got the worst of it."
"I think you did, sir," I answered him, choking a bit.
"The disguise was a good one, though," he went on, with a sort of feeble
chuckle, "and leaving my false teeth out, changed my voice
completely--eh, Phil?"
"Yes, sir--until you hollered out in the closet that it was all a joke,
and wanted me to let you out," I answered him, as I got up and edged
toward the door.
"Why didn't you let me out then?" roared Uncle Jack, who is rather
quick-tempered.
I hope I wasn't impudent. Truly, I didn't intend to be. "Because, Uncle
Jack," I said, as I turned the door knob, "I have heard you say more
than once that he who can not take a joke should not make one." And as I
dodged through the door I heard Uncle Jack groan.
[Illustration: NOT TALL ENOUGH.]
GOOD-NIGHT.
BY W. T. PETERS.
Good-night, happy stars,
With your yellow eyes;
Good-night, lady moon,
In the evening skies;
Good-night, dusky world
And the boundless deep;
I am tired out;
It is time to sleep--
Time, time to sleep.
Good-night! Good-night!
Good-night, weary boy;
It has been decreed
That some mysteries
Only a child can read;
But the sweet child-heart
May you always keep,
And the stars will be yours,
And the boundless deep--
The boundless, boundless deep.
Good-night! Good-night!
SEEING THE BIG WORLD.
BY F. E. FRYATT.
Andrew, the florist, set out one fine day for a trip to the wood that
lay a mile beyond his greenhouses.
He was a grand old man, who loved all the beautiful things God has
scattered over this earth, from the tiny grass blade pushing up through
the brown mould, to the mighty oak spreading its branches like a giant
in the forest. As he entered the wood he marked how the sunshine,
flickering down through the trees, made patches of gold on the green
turf, and turned the pebbles in the brook into pearls. Time had not
dimmed old Andrew's eye nor dulled his ear, nor had he lived his sixty
years without learning to understand the soft voices of nature. As he
strolled thoughtfully along he became aware of a gentle murmuring sound
proceeding from groups of flowers that seemed to nod and smile when he
drew near them. Throwing himself at full length on the turf, he
listened; at first he could make nothing out of all the sweet babble
poured into his ear, until Jack-in-the-pulpit became spokesman for the
occasion.
In a pretty speech Jack told how they had heard of a grand flower show
that was soon to come off in the great city, and confessed to the
annoyance he and his companions felt at always being neglected on such
interesting occasions, closing his long address by praying that the wild
flowers might be treated with as much respect as the Pelargoniums, the
Gladioluses, and all their other fashionable cousins.
Andrew heard Jack's remarks with a smile that was more sad than merry,
marvelling how these innocent creatures, shut up in the heart of the
wood, could have heard anything of the show.
"I have it," said he: "some gadding bee, or perhaps a gossiping sparrow,
fresh from town, has carried the matter. Well, well, they must learn how
profitable is content, and how foolish silly ambitions."
"My pretty dears," sighed the old man, leaning on his spade, and
regarding the blossoms, "you will 'never be sorry but once, and that
will be always.' As well might a fish try to live on land as you in the
stifling city."
So saying, Andrew thrust his spade deep into the rich soil, disengaging
the delicate roots that bound the flowers to their sylvan home.
When he had deposited as many Trilliums, Lilliums, Violets, and Anemones
in his basket as he desired, the good old man proceeded to a boggy spot
in the woods, and brought away with him Lady-slippers, Orchids,
Pitcher-plants, Irises, Sundews, and Sweet-cicely, who wished to see the
big world too.
Andrew now turned to go home, but, dear me! his work was but half done,
for a butterfly, fluttering seaward, carried the news to the
pine-barrens, and straightway Pyxidanthera, the beauty, cried out--and
the soft sound of her crying came pitifully: "Don't leave me all alone
in the pine-barrens; it is too lonely; I too would see the great world
at the flower show."
"It is strange that you've never been lonesome before," thought Andrew,
stooping down where the wee pink beauty sat on her mossy throne, and
lifting her gently into his basket. Nor did his labors end here; for a
troop of Daisies in a field near by heard the tidings, and almost burst
their green jackets in impatience to be going; nor could he resist the
pleadings of a band of young Buttercups, so he kindly added these to the
delicate passengers in the wicker car, and hastened on. But once more
his fine ear caught the sound of complaining.
Looking toward his right hand, he discovered a group of ancient
Dandelions bowing their gray heads to him, and listening, heard them
sighing: "Once we had tresses like the sun. Why come so late, so late?"
"Too late! too late!" chimed another voice.
"Ay, ay, too late," replied the old man, trudging on toward his
greenhouse, for he had much to do to prepare his rustic beauties for
their trip to the city.
"Oh dear," said a young Violet a week after, when they were all
flourishing in the greenhouse, "why am I always to be in the shade, and
that great Japonica towering above me?"
"And I too," murmured a Wind-flower, flushing faintly.
"Who cares for any of them?" chirruped a Daisy. "Here or there matters
not to me."
"_You_ are near the sun, madam," argued an Orchid.
"Be quiet, all of you," roared Jack-in-the-pulpit. "Who'll care for
Japonicas and such common folk when _we_ go to town?"
There was common-sense in that, so the wild flowers settled down in
silence.
The day before the show there was a fine uproar in the greenhouses. The
wild flowers babbled and laughed and danced on their stems for joy. No
one knew it but Andrew, and he said nothing.
Such a snipping and binding and showering was kept up all day that when
evening came they were glad to fall asleep in their packing boxes, nor
did they waken until daybreak, when the men moved them into a large
covered van on wheels.
By-and-by they heard a great trampling of hoofs, and a clatter. The
horses were being harnessed to the van. Presently, with a jerk, they
were off to the wonderful city--the big world they had never seen.
Now began their troubles in true earnest. The ground quaked and trembled
beneath them; it was pitchy dark. Would the sun never shine again? Could
no one speak a word of encouragement or consolation?
On, and on, and on they kept going, until at last, as nothing fearful
happened, they ventured a little conversation.
"What a dash I shall cut at the show!" exclaimed a Turk's Lily.
"And I, in white and pink ribbons!" cried the pine-barren's beauty.
"Be quiet, little vanity," muttered a muffled voice in the corner. "Who
will look at you when I am by?"
Andrew knew the great scarlet Amaryllis had spoken, and he said to
himself, "We'll see, my fair lady."
The beauty cowered in silence, but a Violet whispered, "Shame!"
When the flowers reached the hall, with its long baize-covered tables,
they forgot their troubles, and were greatly pleased. Men were running
to and fro, boxes were being opened, and flowers all muffled from top to
toe were coming in by the dozens. Here stood a regiment of Azaleas in
white hoods and muffs, like a young ladies' boarding-school ready for a
winter walk. There stood a company of Lilies with their night-caps on,
and yonder a tall object swathed in tissue-paper. "Who can she be?--some
grand personage truly," whispered a Daisy.
At that moment came a young man with sharp scissors. He cut off her
cloak, and there stood lovely Miss Clereodendron, in white and scarlet
from head to foot. "How exquisite!" cried all the flowers together.
But soon they found other wonders. On a table near at hand lay the
daintiest sprays of flowering Peach, Almond, and Cherry, bunches of tiny
Jonquils, creamy Magnolias, flaming Pirus, and May-apple.
As soon as all the flowers were comfortably settled in their stands and
vases, they began to look around, and recognized their neighbors.
"Ha! ha!" laughed Jack-in-the-pulpit; "who expected to see _you_ here?"
"Why not, as well as you, Sir Impudence?" retorted May-apple, sharply.
But by-and-by the visitors came pouring in by the dozens. Beautiful
ladies swept by in silks and diamonds and laces; gallant gentlemen came
too, with eye-glasses perched on their noses. They did not even look at
the wild flowers.
The wild flowers grew troubled, and commenced to murmur; but Jack
whispered, "Bide your time."
"_I_ don't envy them," said an Orchid, looking complacently down at her
own yellow slippers.
"Nor I," laughed a Daisy, smoothing her satin petticoat.
"If they didn't hold their heads so high, they would see us," murmured a
Violet.
But the crowd passed on, drawn by the brilliant beauties of the Cacti,
the flames of the Amaryllis Lilies, the purple of the great Pansies.
"They will never come near us," sighed the Violet.
"I faint--I faint!" murmured the Pitcher-plant, dropping her urn.
"Oho! oho! now we shall have a change," cried Jack, as the clock struck
three. And sure enough the bright-eyed school-children came trooping in,
and caught sight of them.
"Oh, my darling little Violets, where did you come from? And oh, you
sweet, sweet Daisies!" cried one yellow-haired lassie.
"And these Buttercups!" screamed another.
"And droll old Jack; who would have thought to see _him_ in town?"
chimed a third.
"Tit for tat, Master Jack," whispered May-apple, tartly.