[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 69. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, February 22, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE RACE ON THE TAPPAN ZEE.]
HOW THE PENNANT WAS WON.
AN ICE-BOAT STORY.
BY J. O. DAVIDSON.
Bump, bang, clatter, clatter.
"Eh! hello, who's there?" and Arthur jumps from his warm bed, and
starts, shivering, to open the window-shutter; but ere he can reach it,
another thump from without, and the rattle of a broken snow-ball on the
tin roof of the veranda greets his ears.
He gets the shutter open just as Joe Henderson is about to throw another
snow-ball, to knock at his door, as it were.
"Hello, Joe! what's up? Phew! ain't it cold!"
"Oh, Art, hurry up and dress, and come down," cries Joe. "I've splendid
news for you. The river is frozen clear to Tarrytown, and the ice-boats
from there are coming over to race with the Nyack boats to-day, and
Uncle Nye is going to enter his new yacht, the _Jack Frost_, in the
regatta, and says you and I may go along to help make up the crew. Won't
it be fun, though? There's an elegant breeze."
"I should say so," chattered Arthur, as he shivered before the window.
"But I'm afraid I can't go. I don't dare miss school, it's so near
examination-day."
"Oh, that's all right," cried Joe. "I stopped with a letter at Dominie
Switchell's on my way up, and he's laid up with another attack of
rheumatism, and can't teach school to-day. Ain't it glorious?"
"Elegant! Hooray! I'm with you!" shouted Arthur, as he disappeared from
the window. Hurrying on his clothes, and scarcely dipping his face in
the icy water, he completed a hasty toilet, bounded down stairs two
steps at a time, and tumbled over a chair that grandma had placed before
her door to trip up burglars.
"Oh dear, what's the matter?" cried a voice from the room, as grandma
opened the door and peeped into the hall.
"Why, Artie dear, how you frightened me! What is the cause of--"
"Ice-boat regatta to-day," shouted Artie, rubbing his ankle; "and
there's no school, and I'm going on the _Jack Frost_. Won't be back till
afternoon; keep my dinner hot, and--" The rest of the sentence was
inaudible to grandma, for the boy was down the back stairs and in the
kitchen, where, joined by Joe, he hurriedly ate the breakfast which
good-natured Julia quickly set before them, for she knew just how to
treat boys, having been a romping country girl herself.
In a few minutes the back door banged to, and our lads ran down the
slippery pathway toward the river, where the bright sails of the
Tarrytown fleet were already gliding toward the hither shore, as if in
challenge to a contest. A minute's steady trot brought the boys to the
steamboat dock where the ferry-boat lay frozen in. A number of graceful
ice-yachts were gliding hither and thither over the glassy surface,
while several near the wharf stood with sails flapping in the crisp,
freshening breeze, as numbers of men and boys hurried about making the
last preparations for the race, while shouts and halloos resounded on
all sides. An animated group was gathered about one large and very
stanch-looking boat.
"Oh, ain't she a beauty?" exclaimed Artie, as they ran and slid over the
ice toward her.
"Why, it's the _Jack Frost_!" replied Joe. "Look at her flag; and here
comes Uncle Nye, and Marc, and Charlie Haines, who built the boat."
"Good-morning, boys; just in time," called Mr. Nye. "It's a fine day for
our sport. Jump aboard now, and let's be off. Haines, you take the
windward runner; Joe, you stand by the peak halyards; Marc, you take the
jib sheets; while Artie minds the main, and I'll tend the helm. Now tuck
in the buffalo-robes. Are you all ready there forward?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Let go; steady now; there she fills;" and as the beautiful craft
gathered headway, and glided over the smooth ice, a cheer went up for
the new yacht. As they gained the open ice, several other racers ranged
alongside to test the speed of the new-comer.
"What boat is that, Charlie?" called Mr. Nye, pointing to a fine boat
close to.
"That's Mr. Snow's boat, the _Icicle_, sir; and here comes Mr.
Voorhees's flyer, the _Avalanche_. There's Mr. Smith's _Snow Squall_,
from Tarrytown. Look out, sir; here comes Mr. Hoff's boat, the _Marie_,
trying to cross our bows. But she can't do it."
In a few minutes the _Jack Frost_ had drawn away slightly from her
rivals; and putting about, Mr. Nye ran back, and brought the boat to a
stand-still near the dock.
"Oh, uncle, do you think we'll win the race?"
"I can not tell, of course, Joe, but Haines says she handles
beautifully, and we stand a good chance if nothing breaks."
"Is Artie there?" called a voice from the dock to Joe.
"Yes, Ed, he's here."
"Tell him that grandma sent him this muffler, and wants him to wrap well
up, and not catch--"
"There goes the signal to get ready!" exclaimed Charlie, as he jumped on
the windward runner; and they ran rapidly down to the starting-point,
where a long line of boats was drawn up like white-winged birds, their
sails trembling in the breeze.
"What is the course, sir?" asked Artie.
"From Hook Mountain to Piermont Dock, two miles out in mid-river, then
back to the Hook, three times--about thirty miles."
"There, Artie, there's the new pennant the young ladies offered as a
prize last year, and Tom Hackett and Jim Burger, from Tarrytown, won it
on the _Eagle_; but the boys say they didn't win it fairly, for they
started ahead of the rest, and crowded one of our boats into an ice
crack, and broke her runner."
"Now, boys, attention," ordered Mr. Nye, sharply. "Let her come into the
wind."
"Are you ready?" came a clear voice down the wind; and a pistol report
cracked on the air.
"Jib sheet--quick, Marc; more main sheet, Art; now sway down on the peak
halyards, Joe; lie close, Haines. That's it--all snug;" and they were
off on the race.
After our boys had attended to their duties, they had time to look about
at the rest of the fleet.
Away on either side stretched a line of swiftly moving yachts, white
sails flat as boards, flags fluttering, the wind humming through the
rigging, while their glittering runners cut feathery flakes of
glistening ice in their tracks.
"Oh, ain't it too bad!" cried Joe. "The _Eagle_ and _Icicle_ are both
ahead of us."
"Never mind, boys; it's early in the race yet. Wait till we get on a
wind," replied Haines. "Now watch the turning-point, sir; don't let the
_Snow Squall_ get inside of us; ready, about," and the three leading
boats turned the stake together.
"Phew! how we fly!" cried Art. "Isn't she a hummer?"
"I wonder why they call a boat _Jack_, and then call it 'she,' as if it
were a girl?" queried Joe.
"Give it up," replied Marc.
"Because they require so much rigging," promptly responded Mr. Nye.
"Oh, uncle, that's not fair," cried Joe; "you knew the answer before."
"Well, I've two daughters, and ought to," replied Mr. Nye; and they all
joined in his jolly laugh.
"Look out for the crack ahead!" shouted Charlie, as they rushed by a
split in the ice. "Ready, about!" away they went on the other tack; and
so the exciting race went on. Now one boat would be ahead, again another
would dart by and take the lead, but some had fallen so hopelessly in
the rear, that only a half-dozen remained in the race, and of these it
was hard to tell which was the swiftest.
"I'm afraid we're going to have a snow-squall, sir," shouted Charlie.
"There's a black cloud coming over the Hook Mountain."
"Let it come; I think the heavier it blows, the better for us," replied
Mr. Nye.
The race was now three-quarters run, and everything must be decided in a
few minutes. The squall had come over the Hook, darkening the heavens,
and the gale made the boats dart along with lightning speed.
"The _Marie_ is ahead of us," exclaimed Charlie Haines, peering into the
flying snow. "Hello, something's the matter with her! Boat ahoy! Sheer
off, or you'll run into us. Steady, boys," and a phantom shape rushed
out of the mist and darted across their wake with peak halyard parted
and the mainsail thundering in the wind.
The snow now hid everything in a wild whirl of mist.
"Here comes the _Eagle_, sir," as another yacht appeared close aboard in
the gloom, with her flag streaming wildly on the gale.
"Keep off! keep off!" roared Charlie Haines to Tom Hackett, who was
steering the rival yacht.
"Clear the track!" came back the answer, in angry tones.
"Keep on your course, Mr. Nye!" yelled Charlie. "You have the right of
way, and he dare not run us down."
Scarcely had he spoken when Hackett altered his boat's course.
"Luff, sir, luff!" shouted Charlie Haines, and with a light touch of the
helm, Mr. Nye avoided the collision. Not entirely, though, for the
_Eagle_ caught her jib-stay under her rival's main-boom; a sharp snap
followed, a heavy lurch, and the _Eagle_, devoid of her jib, whirled
about and upset, throwing her crew along the ice.
"Served them right!" exclaimed Haines. "They tried to crowd us out of
our course, but got upset themselves. Now, boys, hold on tight."
A terrific gust of wind and snow drove them swiftly on; it blew so hard,
that the windward runner, with Charlie clinging to it, was lifted high
in the air, and it seemed as though the boat must capsize.
"Shall we drop the peak?" called Mr. Nye. "I hardly think she'll stand
it."
"Yes, she will, sir," answered Charlie. "Hold hard, _every one_!" and a
moment later he added, "Hurrah! I see the stake ahead," and a burst of
sunshine through the clouds revealed the flag close by.
Several other boats now emerged from the squall, but much of their
canvas was shivering, and most of their peaks had been dropped before
the fury of the gale.
It was no use trying to recover their lost ground, and our friends on
the _Jack Frost_ darted by the flag, winners of the race by several
seconds, and also of the champion pennant of the Tappan Zee.
BITS OF ADVICE.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
GOING TO A PARTY.
I remember that when I was quite young going to a party was nearly as
much a trial to me as a pleasure. Being diffident, I dreaded entering
the room, and encountering the eyes of the people already assembled
there; and once fairly in, I was overshadowed all the evening by the
dreadful necessity of, by-and-by, retiring. Besides, I felt a sense of
responsibility which was very oppressive, and was so afraid of not doing
or saying what was expected of me, that I moved and acted awkwardly, and
no doubt looked perfectly miserable.
Perhaps some of you may have had experiences similar to mine. Now let me
tell you that I have lived to laugh at my foolish shyness, and to be
very sorry for boys and girls who suffer from the same thing. When you
are invited to a company, the first thing in order is to reply to the
invitation. This is _polite_, whether you accept or decline, and it is
_imperative_ if you decline. Send your answer as soon as possible, in
some such simple phrase as this: "Harold," or "Florence, thanks Mrs.
---- for her kind invitation for Thursday evening, and accepts it with
pleasure," or "declines it with real regret," as the case may be.
Arrived at your friend's house, you will be directed to the proper place
for the removal of your wraps, and the arrangement of your toilet, and
then you have only to proceed to the parlor, where your hostess will
relieve you from embarrassment by meeting you at once. She is, of
course, the first person whom you are to greet. Having spoken to her,
you are at liberty to find other friends. Do not think that people are
looking at you, or noticing your dress or your looks. They are doing
nothing of the kind. Engage heartily in whatever amusement is provided
for the occasion, but do not put yourself needlessly forward. If spoken
to, reply modestly but intelligently, even though for the moment there
may be a hush in the room. If you really wish to enjoy yourself, seek
out somebody who seems to be more a stranger than yourself, and try to
do something for his or her pleasure. Forget that you are not acquainted
with everybody, and remember that it is your duty to help your hostess
in making her party a success. Should your greatest enemy be present,
you must of course be perfectly civil and agreeable in your manner to
him, for in your friend's house you are both under a flag of truce.
When you say good-night to your entertainers, be sure to thank them for
the pleasure you have had. Do not stay too late, but avoid being the
first to go; or, if you must leave early, do it as quietly as possible,
lest your withdrawal should be the signal for others to leave, thus
breaking up the party too soon.
POPPING CORN.
BY GEORGE COOPER.
This is the way we drop the corn--
Drop the corn to pop the corn:
Shower the tiny lumps of gold,
All that our heaping hands can hold;
Listen awhile, and blithe and bold,
Pip! pop-corn!
This is the way we shake the corn--
Shake the corn to wake the corn:
Rattle the pan, and then behold!
What are the tiny lumps of gold?
Pretty wee white lambs in the fold!
Tip-top corn!
THE WEEPING-WILLOW.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
You have seen and admired the weeping-willow tree--the _Salix
babylonica_--upon which the captive Hebrews hung their harps when they
sat down "by the rivers of Babylon" and "wept when they remembered
Zion." It is a native of the garden of Eden, and not of America, and I
will tell you how it emigrated to this country.
More than a hundred and fifty years ago a London merchant lost his
fortune. He went to Smyrna, a sea-side city in Asia Minor, to recover
it. Alexander Pope, one of the great poets of England, was the
merchant's warm friend, and sympathized with him in his misfortunes.
Soon after the merchant arrived in Smyrna, he sent to Pope, as a
present, a box of dried figs. At that time the poet had built a
beautiful villa at Twickenham, on the bank of the river Thames, and was
adorning it with trees, shrubbery, and flowering plants.
On opening the box of figs Pope discovered in it a small twig of a tree.
It was a stranger to him. As it came from the East, he planted the twig
in the ground near the edge of the river, close by his villa. The spot
accidentally chosen for the planting was favorable to its growth, for
the twig was from a weeping-willow tree--possibly from the bank of one
of "the rivers of Babylon"--which flourishes best along the borders of
water-courses.
This little twig grew vigorously, and in a few years it became a large
tree, spreading wide its branches and drooping, graceful sprays, and
winning the admiration of the poet's friends as well as of strangers. It
became the ancestor of all the weeping-willows in England.
There was rebellion in the English-American colonies in 1775. British
troops were sent to Boston to put down the insurrection. Their leaders
expected to end it in a few weeks after their arrival. Some young
officers brought fishing-tackle with them, to enable them to enjoy sport
after the brief war. Others came to settle on the confiscated lands of
the "rebels."
Among the latter was a young officer on the staff of General Howe. He
brought with him, wrapped in oiled silk, a twig from Pope's
weeping-willow at Twickenham, which he intended to plant on some stream
watering his American estate.
Washington commanded an army before Boston, which kept the British
imprisoned in that city a long time against their will. On his staff was
his step-son, John Parke Custis, who frequently went to the British
head-quarters, under the protection of a flag, with dispatches for
General Howe. He became acquainted with the young officer who had the
willow twig, and they became friends.
Instead of "crushing the rebellion in six weeks," the British army at
Boston, at the end of an imprisonment of nine months, were glad to fly,
by sea, for life and liberty, to Halifax. Long before that flight, the
British subaltern, satisfied that he should never have an estate in
America to adorn, gave his carefully preserved willow twig to young
Custis, who planted it at Abingdon, his estate in Virginia, where it
grew and flourished, and became the parent of all the weeping-willows in
the United States.
Some time after the war, General Horatio Gates, of the Revolution,
settled on the "Rose Hill Farm," on New York Island, and at the entrance
to a lane which led from a country road to his house he planted a twig
from the vigorous willow at Abingdon, which he had brought with him.
That country road is now the Third Avenue, and the lane is Twenty-second
Street. Gates's mansion, built of wood, and two stories in height, stood
near the corner of Twenty-seventh Street and Second Avenue, where I saw
it consumed by fire in 1845. The tree which grew from the twig planted
at the entrance to Gates's lane remained until comparatively a few years
ago. It stood on the northeast corner of Third Avenue and Twenty-second
Street. It was a direct descendant, in the third generation, of Pope's
willow, planted at Twickenham about 1722.
[Illustration: INDIAN CHILDREN PLAYING "BUFFALO."--DRAWN BY W. M. CARY.]
THE GAME OF "BUFFALO."
In inventing games, and playing them heartily too, the Indian children
of the western plains are fully as active as their little white brothers
and sisters of the east.
One of the favorite games among the boys of the great Sioux nation is
that of "Buffalo," a game that may be played by any number; but while as
many as choose may act as hunters, only two, and they the largest and
strongest, can be buffaloes. These two procure a couple of buffalo-robes
as nearly perfect as possible, and, going a short distance from camp,
put them on, get down on their hands and knees, and pretend to be
feeding. Then the hunters, each armed with a bow and a quiver of
blunt-headed arrows, creep cautiously toward their game, taking pains to
keep on the leeward side of the feeding animals.
Taking advantage of every hummock and tuft of grass to conceal their
approach, the hunters finally get within bow-shot of the make-believe
buffaloes. At a signal a flight of arrows is discharged at the hairy
monsters, and they in turn, apparently maddened by the pain of their
wounds, charge upon the hunters, bellowing with rage, and knocking down
with their heads any whom they happen to overtake.
Finally the buffaloes are supposed to be killed; they roll over and lie
perfectly still, while the hunters, with loud rejoicings, remove their
skins, which they bear in triumph to camp. Then all, hunters and
buffaloes, unite in a wild dance in imitation of their fathers when they
return from a successful hunt, and the game is ended.
[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]
TOBY TYLER;
OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.
BY JAMES OTIS.
CHAPTER XI.
A STORMY NIGHT.
When Toby awoke, it was nearly dark, and the bustle around him told very
plainly that the time for the departure was near at hand. He rubbed his
eyes just enough to make sure that he was thoroughly awake, and then
jumped down from his rather lofty bed, and ran around to the door of the
cage to assure himself that Mr. Stubbs was safe. This done, his
preparations for the journey were made.
Now Toby noticed that each one of the drivers was clad in rubber
clothing, and, after listening for a moment, he learned the cause of
their water-proof garments. It was raining very hard, and Toby thought
with dismay of the long ride that he would have to take on the top of
the monkeys' cage, with no protection whatever save that afforded by his
ordinary clothing.
While he was standing by the side of the wagon, wondering how he should
get along, old Ben came in. The water was pouring from his clothes in
little rivulets, and he afforded most unmistakable evidence of the damp
state of the weather.
"It's a nasty night, my boy," said the old driver, in much the same
cheery tone that he would have used had he been informing Toby that it
was a beautiful moonlight evening.
"I guess I'll get wet," said Toby, ruefully, as he looked up at the
lofty seat which he was to occupy.
"Bless me!" said Ben, as if the thought had just come to him, "it won't
do for you to ride outside on a night like this. You wait here, an' I'll
see what I can do for you."
The old man hurried off to the other end of the tent, and almost before
Toby thought he had time to go as far as the ring, he returned.
"It's all right," he said, and this time in a gruff voice, as if he were
announcing some misfortune; "you're to ride in the women's wagon. Come
with me."
Toby followed without a question, though he was wholly at a loss to
understand what the "women's wagon" was, for he had never seen anything
which looked like one.
He soon learned, however, when old Ben stopped in front--or rather at
the end--of a long covered wagon that looked like an omnibus, except
that it was considerably longer, and the seats inside were divided by
arms, padded to make them comfortable to lean against.
"Here's the boy," said Ben, as he lifted Toby up on the step, gave him a
gentle push to intimate that he was to get inside, and then left him.
As Toby stepped inside he saw that the wagon was nearly full of women
and children, and fearing lest he should take a seat that belonged to
some one else, he stood in the middle of the wagon, not knowing what to
do.
"Why don't you sit down, little boy?" asked one of the ladies, after
Toby had remained standing nearly five minutes, and the wagon was about
to start.
"Well," said Toby, with some hesitation, as he looked around at the two
or three empty seats that remained, "I didn't want to get in anybody
else's place, an' I didn't know where to sit."
"Come right here," said the lady, as she pointed to a seat by the side
of a little girl who did not look any older than Toby; "the lady who
usually occupies that seat will not be here to-night, and you can have
it."
"Thank you, marm," said Toby, as he sat timidly down on the edge of the
seat, hardly daring to sit back comfortably, and feeling very awkward
meanwhile, but congratulating himself on being thus protected from the
pouring rain.
The wagon started, and as each one talked with her neighbor, Toby felt a
most dismal sense of loneliness, and almost wished that he was riding on
the monkey cart with Ben, where he could have some one to talk with. He
gradually pushed himself back into a more comfortable position, and then
had an opportunity of seeing more plainly the young girl who rode by his
side.
She was quite as young as Toby, and small of her age; but there was an
old look on her face, that made the boy think of her as quite an old
woman cut down to fit children's clothes. Toby had looked at her so long
and earnestly, that she observed him, and asked, "What is your name?"
"Toby Tyler."
"What do you do in the circus?"
"Sell candy for Mr. Lord."
"Oh, I thought you was a new member of the company."
Toby knew by the tone of her voice that he had fallen considerably in
her estimation by not being one of the performers, and it was some
little time before he ventured to speak; then he asked, timidly, "What
do you do?"
"I ride one of the horses with mother."
"Are you the little girl that comes out with the lady an' four horses?"
asked Toby, in awe that he should be conversing with so famous a person.
"Yes, I am. Don't I do it nicely?"
"Why, you're a perfect little--little--fairy!" exclaimed Toby, after
hesitating a moment to find some word which would exactly express his
idea.
This praise seemed to please the young lady, and in a short time the two
became very good friends, even if Toby did not occupy a more exalted
position than that of candy-seller. She had learned from him all about
the accident to the monkey cage, and Mr. Stubbs, and in return had told
him that her name was Ella Mason, though on the bills she was called
Mademoiselle Jeannette.
[Illustration: TOBY IN THE "WOMEN'S WAGON."]
For several hours the two children sat talking together, and then
Mademoiselle Jeannette curled herself up on the seat, with her head in
her mother's lap, and went to sleep.
Toby had resolved to keep awake and watch her, for he was quite struck
with admiration at her face, but sleep got the better of him in less
than five minutes after he had made such a resolution, and he sat
bolt-upright, with his little round head nodding and bobbing, until it
seemed almost certain that he would shake it off.
When Toby awoke, the wagon was drawn up by the side of the road, the sun
was shining brightly, preparations were being made for the entrée into
town, and the harsh voice of Mr. Job Lord was shouting his name in a
tone that boded no good for the owner of it when he should make his
appearance.
Toby would have hesitated before meeting his angry employer, but that he
knew it would only make matters worse for him when he did show himself,
and he mentally braced himself for the trouble which he knew was coming.
The little girl whose acquaintance he had made the night previous was
still sleeping, and wishing to say good-by to her in some way without
awakening her, he stooped down and gently kissed the skirt of her dress.
Then he went out to meet his master.
Mr. Lord was thoroughly in a rage when Toby left the wagon, and he saw
the boy just as he stepped to the ground. The angry man gave one quick
glance around, to make sure that none of Toby's friends were in sight,
and then he caught him by the coat collar, and commenced to whip him
severely with the small rubber cane that he usually carried.
Mr. Job Lord lifted the poor boy entirely clear from the ground, and
each blow that he struck could be heard nearly the entire length of the
circus train.
"You've been makin' so many acquaintances here that you hain't willin'
to do any work," he said, savagely, as he redoubled the force of his
blows.
"Oh, please stop! please stop!" shrieked the poor boy in his agony.
"I'll do everything you tell me to, if you won't strike me again."
This piteous appeal seemed to have no effect upon the cruel man, and he
continued to whip the boy, despite his cries and entreaties, until his
arm fairly ached from the exertion, and Toby's body was crossed and
recrossed with the livid marks of the cane.
"Now let's see whether you'll 'tend to your work or not," said the man,
as he flung Toby from him with such force that the boy staggered,
reeled, and nearly fell into the little brook that flowed by the
road-side. "I'll make you understand that all the friends you've whined
around in this show can't save you from a lickin' when I get ready to
give you one. Now go an' do your work that ought to have been done an
hour ago."
Mr. Lord walked away with the proud consciousness of a man who has
achieved some great victory, and Toby was limping painfully along toward
the cart that was used in conveying Mr. Lord's stock in trade, when he
felt a tiny hand slip into his, and heard a childish voice say:
"Don't cry, Toby. Some time, when I get big enough, I'll make Mr. Lord
sorry that he whipped you as he did; and I'm big enough now to tell him
just what kind of a man I think he is."
Looking around, Toby saw his little acquaintance of the evening
previous, and he tried to force back the big tears that were rolling
down his cheeks, as he said, in a voice choked with grief, "You're awful
good, an' I don't mind the lickin' when you say you're sorry for me. I
s'pose I deserve it for runnin' away from Uncle Dan'l."
"Did it hurt you much?" she asked, feelingly.
"It did when he was doin' it," replied Toby, manfully, "but it don't a
bit now that you've come."
"Then I'll go and talk to that Mr. Lord, and I'll come and see you again
after we get into town," said the little miss, as she hurried away to
tell the candy vender what she thought of him.
That day, as on all others since he had been with the circus, Toby went
to his work with a heavy heart, and time and time again did he count the
money which had been given him by kind-hearted strangers, to see whether
he had enough to warrant his attempting to run away. Three dollars and
twenty-five cents was the total amount of his treasure, and large as
that sum appeared to him, he could not satisfy himself that he had
sufficient to enable him to get back to the home which he had so
wickedly left. Whenever he thought of this home, of the Uncle Daniel who
had, in charity, cared for him--a motherless, fatherless boy--and of
returning to it, with not even as much right as the Prodigal Son, of
whom he had heard Uncle Daniel tell, his heart sank within him, and he
doubted whether he would be allowed to remain if he should be so
fortunate as ever to reach Guilford again.
This day passed, so far as Toby was concerned, very much as had the
others; he could not satisfy either of his employers, try as hard as he
might, and, as usual, he met with two or three kindly disposed people,
who added to the fund that he was accumulating for his second venture of
running away, by little gifts of money, each one of which gladdened his
heart, and made his troubles a trifle less hard to bear.
During that entire week one day was very much like another. Each day he
added something to his fund, and each night it seemed to him that he was
one day nearer the freedom for which he so ardently longed.
The skeleton, the fat lady, old Ben, the Albino Children, little Ella,
and even the sword-swallower, each gave him a kindly word as they passed
him while he was at his work, or saw him as the preparations for the
grand entrée were being made.
The time had passed slowly to Toby, and yet Sunday came again, as
Sundays always come; and on this day old Ben hunted him up, made him
wash his face and hands until they fairly shone from very cleanliness,
and then took him with him to church. Toby was surprised to find that it
was really a pleasant thing to be able to go to church after being
deprived of it, and he was more light-hearted than he had been since he
left Guilford when he returned to the tent at noon.
The skeleton had invited him to another dinner party; but Toby had
declined the invitation, agreeing to present himself in time for supper
instead. He hardly cared to go through the ordeal of another state
dinner, and, besides, he wanted to go off to the woods with the old
monkey, where he could enjoy the silence of the forest, which ever
seemed like a friend to him, because it reminded him of home.
Taking the monkey with him as usual, he inquired the nearest way to some
grove, and without waiting for dinner, started off for an afternoon's
quiet enjoyment.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE STORY OF THE DIGITS, AND WHAT THEY REPRESENT.
1 is the lord of the manor,
2 is his swan-like bride,
3 is his gentle daughter,
And 4 is the pony to ride;
5 is young Jack, so nimble,
6 is the careful maid,
7 the priest so humble,
And 8 is the church where he staid;
9 is the palace castle,
And 10 the poor around--
This is the story of Numbers,
While the whirl of Time goes round.
THE TALL PINE.
A STORY FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.
BY KATE UPSON CLARK.
"The tall pine" grew upon the backbone of Bald Mountain, a mighty spur
of the Green Mountain range, and from nearly every point for miles
around the great tree could be seen standing out clear and distinct
against the sky, and towering, like Saul, head and shoulders above its
brethren.
It happened that upon a certain Fourth of July, years ago, the eloquent
orator of the day, in dilating upon the grandeur of his country and her
great men, particularly that greatest of all, George Washington, turned,
in a sudden fit of inspiration, and pointed to the tall pine.
"As yonder magnificent tree, fellow-citizens," said the grandiloquent
speaker, "uplifts itself above all the giants of the surrounding forest,
so, friends and fellow-citizens, does the character of George Washington
uplift itself above all others upon the page of history."
These words were received with great applause, and the tall pine was
ever after known in the neighborhood as "George Washington."
The land upon which "George Washington" stood was owned by a crabbed old
farmer named Hardaker. Mr. Hardaker had a contract for supplying the
Fitchburg Railroad with wood, and, winter by winter, was gradually
stripping his share of Bald Mountain of all its beautiful trees. This
made good places to go blackberrying, but hurt the appearance of the
hill-side very much. People wondered how Mr. Hardaker could be so "mean"
as to cut everything down so, all at once. He did not need the money
particularly, and his motive was just "clear greed"--or so the neighbors
said.
At last he neared the vicinity of the tall pine; and as February
advanced he announced, with a loud laugh at his own wit, that he was
going to "celebrate Washington's Birthday by cutting down 'George
Washington' himself with his little hatchet."
This created no little excitement throughout the town, and everybody
protested.
"Oh, I wouldn't, Mr. Hardaker," said Mr. Prouty, the village minister;
"it has been a landmark here for many years, and it is really, as things
have come to be, an object lesson in history to all the children and
youth around."
"Humph!" said the old farmer, crossly. "I ain't a-settin' up landmarks
for folks, or a-givin' objec' lessons. I pay taxes for all that sort of
thing to be did in the schools--awful big taxes, too. _I_ can't raise
the money to pay 'em without cuttin' timber pretty stiddy. I calc'late
there's--wa'al, a thousan' foot o' lumber in that ar pine, an' I can't
afford to leave it stan' no longer."
The old farmer scowled and shook himself as he walked away. He was
evidently more "sot" than ever on cutting down "George Washington."
There was a bright boy in town, the son of a Mr. Farnsworth, and named,
like so many other bright American boys, after the father of his
country. As might have been expected of a boy with such a name, Master
George Washington Farnsworth had been brought up to think very highly of
his namesake, and all of the Farnsworth family were justly indignant
when the news of Farmer Hardaker's intention reached them.
"I declare," said his sister Grace, "it almost seems like killing a real
person."
"Well," said her mother, thoughtfully, "you can't expect to find much
sentiment in a grasping, narrow-minded man like Mr. Hardaker. There
isn't any use in saying much about it, but it is too bad to do it--on
his birthday, too. I'm really ashamed to be so 'worked up,' but it seems
as if a tree like that might be allowed to stand till it died a natural
death."
"The bolt that strikes the towering cedar dead
Glides harmless o'er the hazel's lowly head.'"
quoted Grace.
"Cedars and hazels alike fall before Farmer Hardaker's rapacious axe,"
said her mother, smiling. "I fancy that he doesn't skip anything,
judging from the looks of the poor, shorn mountain-side. It's too bad!"
But, day by day, Farmer Hardaker's ox-sleds, unheeding the
expostulations of the entire population, climbed the steep, and came
back loaded with the carcasses of "George Washington's" sturdy
neighbors. He was getting very near to "George" himself.
"I say, boys," said George Farnsworth to his school-mates, as they were
sliding at recess, a few days after he had overheard the conversation
between his mother and sister--"I say, ain't it pretty mean of old
Hardaker to cut down 'George Washington'?"
"It is that," said several of the boys, heartily, and they turned and
looked up to the stately tree, which stood in silent grandeur, as ever
since they could remember, and appealed speechlessly to them all.
"He says," continued George, "that he is going to celebrate Washington's
birthday by cutting it down with his little hatchet."
The other boys laughed, but George kept sober.
"It's rather funny," he said, slowly; "but can't we manage to save it
some way?"
The general opinion seemed to be--borrowed from their friends at home,
probably--that it couldn't be done, until at last Tom Dermot said,
speculatively,
"Maybe he'd sell it?"
"Maybe he would," said George, brightening up. "You know my name's
George Washington, boys, and I'm bound to save the dear old gentleman if
I can."
"I don't see why he couldn't sell it standing as well as cut up,"
continued Tom--"only, if he would, it wouldn't do us any good. We
haven't got any money."
"Maybe we could raise some," said George, bravely. "Wonder how he'd sell
it?"
"Dear enough, I presume; but we might ask him."
The upshot of this conversation was that, after school, George
Farnsworth persuaded his father to let him and Tom Dermot, feeling
pretty important, you may be sure, take his horse and sleigh to go over
and talk with Mr. Hardaker upon the subject of selling "George
Washington" standing.
"Thirty dollars," said the gruff old fellow, who was very angry at the
remarks which had been made at his expense, and who had vowed that he
would cut the tree down now, whatever happened.
"I won't leave the plaguey thing up for a cent less than thirty
dollars."
"I'm afraid we can't raise a sum like that between now and day after
to-morrow," said George, looking at Tom in some dismay.
"Then I'll cut it down," roared Mr. Hardaker; and seeing what a rage he
was in, the boys discreetly took their leave. They amused themselves on
the way home by singing, as loud as they possibly could,
"Woodman, spare that tree,
Touch not a single bough."
"Father," said George, when they reached home, "he says thirty
dollars--not a cent less."
Mr. Farnsworth gave a long whistle.
"Pretty dear," he said, smiling, "but I'm glad you have shown so much
interest. I'd almost give five dollars myself to save the old tree."
"Would you, father--would you?"
"But I don't want to encourage Hardaker in such extortion as that."
"But you know he's mad, father--that's why he sets the price so high. He
thinks now that we can't raise the money, and so he can cut the tree
down."
"Yes, I don't see any way to save it."
But George would not give it up, and pleaded his cause so well that his
father finally told him that if he and Tom could raise the other
twenty-five dollars in time, he would really give him five dollars.
The boys started out that evening in fine spirits to "solicit" for
"George Washington." The enthusiasm over the historical "Old South
Church" in Boston never ran higher. Mr. Prouty gave them one dollar, and
Mr. Steele, the school-master, another. Everybody gave them something.
It was astonishing to see how many friends the old tree had.
When school was out the next day, George and Tom started again for
Farmer Hardaker's. They were feeling pretty well, for George had in his
pocket a deed of the tree, drawn up by the village lawyer, and needing
only the signatures of Farmer Hardaker and witnesses to make it valid,
and thirty dollars in good current money.
They managed to catch their man just as he was starting for the station
with a load of chestnut wood for ties.
"Mr. Hardaker," said George, politely, springing from the sleigh, and
approaching the old man, "would you mind stepping into the house a
minute, and signing a deed for me?"
"Signing a deed?" said Farmer Hardaker, opening eyes and mouth very
wide.
"Yes, sir," went on George, courteously. "You said that you would sell
us the tall pine for thirty dollars, and I have brought you the money,
and a deed of the purchase for you to sign."
"The mischief you have!" said the old fellow, crossly, but with his eyes
twinkling a little at the sight of the money, which George judiciously
exposed just then. "Wa'al, I s'pose I'll have to give in."
So the money was handed over, and the rest done in good shape, and the
boys went home feeling better than they had ever felt before in their
lives.
One or two who hadn't had a chance to contribute to the "fund" went up
to the top of the mountain on the 22d of February with their mite. It
was a silver plate, on which were inscribed these words (you may have
seen them before):
GEORGE WASHINGTON:
First in War, first in Peace, and first in the Hearts of his Countrymen.
And that very plate, only tarnished a little by wind and weather, may be
seen upon the mighty trunk of "George Washington" to this day.
[Illustration: COASTING SKETCHES.--DRAWN BY F. S. CHURCH.]
[Illustration: FEEDING THE LOVE-BIRDS.]
"ROMEO AND JULIET."
BY F. W. ROBINSON.
"When my good uncle Benjamin sent home his presents for the children I
am afraid there was less harmony in the family--that is, amongst my
brothers and sisters--than one might have expected. The presents were
many, the choice was embarrassing, and tastes did not agree. Tom was the
bother--Tom always has been the bother, I am sorry to add. Without Tom I
think we could have got along pretty well, and arranged our differences
by degrees, and with the help of mamma and the governess, and perhaps
papa to be called in if wanted very much. But Tom--though he is my own
brother, and I love him dearly, particularly when he is good, which
occurs on his birthday, and sometimes on half-holidays--was very
aggravating. I don't remember when Tom was more aggravating, except when
he was getting over the measles, and bit his nurse in the arm. Tom was
greatly excited over the presents, and said they were all for him--Uncle
Benjamin being his godfather--until papa explained the case, and read
aloud uncle's letter to us.
"Let the dear children take it in turns to choose, according to their
respective ages," wrote uncle.
Maggie was the eldest, and chose the "love-birds," two pretty little
dears like baby paroquets, green balls of wool with red noses--crimson
beaks, papa calls them. We were all anxious about the love-birds: they
were something alive, and to be petted and made much of. It was
discovered, however, that Tom wanted the love-birds; it was his second
choice, and he had set his heart upon them. And having set his heart
upon them, Tom sat down and howled when Maggie had made her selection.
There was no pacifying Tom--there never is, Bella says, and so does
Charlie--and Tom stamped and raved and sobbed, and would not have
anything else but the love-birds "if he died for it," he said. He was
quieter when papa came in, and withdrew his threat of poisoning the
birds if they became Maggie's property, and apologized behind the cuff
of his jacket to his sister, and with his mouth full of cloth. Tom's
apology having been graciously accepted, it remained to be seen if Tom's
grief could be in any way appeased; and after some whispering between
Maggie and mamma, in which I fancied I heard the words "pantomime next
Christmas," it was finally settled that Maggie should be consoled by a
box of paints, and Tom should have the birds. I don't think I could have
agreed to that myself, although I don't quite know what mamma might have
promised me; but I was content with my big doll, and I thought that when
Tom was at school we should all be able to see the love-birds and feed
them just as well as their owner. But we did not tell Tom this, or he
might have sold the birds, or taken them to school in his pocket; for
Tom was a very cross-grained brother when he liked, and was rather a
trouble to mamma and papa. I was never a trouble--I was a good girl, and
they called me "Pet."
Tom did not get tired of his present so soon as we expected. He was the
whole day without getting tired, although a little shaken in the evening
by an offer of his friend Walker--who came from school with
five-and-twenty other friends to see the birds--to "swap" with him for
ten white mice and a Jew's-harp. He was very fond of the birds, and he
christened them Romeo and Juliet, because they were love-birds too, and
we should hear all about them when we were a little older. Well, I hoped
they loved each other better than Tom's birds, for presently Tom saw,
and we all saw, that considering our Romeo and Juliet _were_ love-birds,
their behavior was far from conveying that idea to any one who studied
them. They were quarrelsome in the extreme, which pleased Tom, who
"liked to see them fight," he said; and as they were always fighting, he
got a great deal of pleasure from Uncle Benjamin's present.
No, Romeo and Juliet gave no impression of love and happiness to any of
us. Juliet was very spiteful, and even when huddled against Romeo for
warmth would suddenly jerk her head round and try to peck his eye out.
But Romeo was always on guard, having mistrusted Juliet from the first
hours of his introduction to her; he was a bird who had seen the world,
and thoroughly understood the character of his mate. Juliet was
untrustworthy and malicious, and Romeo always kept his eye on her--the
eye which she wanted to peck out especially. At feeding-time their
conduct was the worst. We took it in turns to feed the birds, Tom, who
loved them very much, having quite forgotten to feed them after the
first four-and-twenty hours, and sister Maggie, who was always
tender-hearted, took great pains over them, and tried hard to teach them
better manners, especially at meal-times. Alone, each bird was as good
as gold, but it was seldom that Juliet would allow Romeo to take any
food out of a spoon without seizing the advantage of his being off guard
to have a savage peck at him somewhere; and I am sorry to say that Romeo
was almost as bad, and there were times when so many feathers of Juliet
were found at the bottom of the cage, that we were afraid that in some
rash moment of revenge he would pluck her like a goose.
This constant quarrelling and fighting, not to mention hours and days of
incessant screaming, was a source of much anxiety to Maggie, and Bella,
and Charlie, and Tottie, and me. Tom, as I have said before, liked it
all very much, which we were sorry to see; but then Tom is a big boy,
and fond of fighting. He is going to boarding-school next term, where
papa says they will take the nonsense out of him, he hopes. I wonder how
they will get it out, for there is a great deal in him, we all think. I
have asked Tom, but he doesn't know. We told papa and mamma about the
unhappy lives of Romeo and Juliet, and they were very much surprised.
They had always understood that love-birds were most engaging and
amiable creatures; and what unhappy difference of opinion could have led
Juliet to regard Romeo with such complete contempt, or to induce Romeo
to despise Juliet and try to hurt her--just as Juliet availed herself of
every chance to do some mortal injury to Romeo--was a mystery which even
our good, wise parents could not solve.
There came a time when there was great grief to us all. Tom had left the
cage door open one day; the window was open, and Romeo, tired of his
cage, of Juliet's hen-pecking, and of us, took advantage of Tom's
carelessness and flew away to the outer world. We were all very sorry;
even Juliet was very sorry, and sat in one corner of the big cage and
moped, oh! so dreadfully, for the loss of her poor mate. Which mamma
told us was a moral to us little ones to be contented and happy in each
other's company; for no one could tell, not even Juliet, how painful it
was to miss somebody forever to whom one had been unkind, or said or
done harsh things, and what a bitter memory it would leave behind!
We thought so too, and we pitied poor Juliet very much, and were
distressed that she lost her appetite, and that even lump-sugar was
hardly to her taste. Yes, she was fretting for Romeo. There was no one
to love now, or no one to peck; we were not quite certain which regret
was uppermost in Juliet's mind. But we were sure that Juliet took
Romeo's desertion of her very much to heart. And where was Romeo, who,
after all, was our favorite? What had become of him? Had he found
another home--another Juliet, perhaps? papa suggested, or was he
wandering about the world, and being badly treated by other birds? or
coming rapidly to ruin in the society of disreputable sparrows?
We offered a reward for him. Even Tom was distressed at the loss of him.
"He was such a plucky little chap," Tom said; and Tom came home full of
grief that afternoon, because John Simmonds had told him that somebody
else had told him that he, the somebody else, had caught the bird and
made a pie of him, to try how he would taste. Which was a wicked story
of John Simmonds, for the very next day a gentleman in a corduroy suit
splashed with whitewash, and smelling very strongly of paint and putty,
called with Romeo in a little bag, and waited in the hall for the reward
that had been offered. We all ran out to welcome back the truant, and
papa was as glad as any of us, I am sure.