long and as hard as you can. By this means you will force air in, until
the expansive force within is increased so much that you cannot any
longer overcome it. Then, before taking the mouth away, stop the upper
part of the tube with the thumb. You will now have so great a quantity
of air within, that it will probably have force enough to raise the
water higher than the top of the tube. If so, on taking away the thumb
the water will spout out at the top, in a jet,--doing no harm, however,
except to sprinkle the spectators. After a few such experiments, you
will find that the water has spouted itself all out, and you will be
sadly puzzled to know how to get more in without taking out the cork.
There is a very easy way, if you only had philosophical knowledge enough
to discover it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE RABBIT.
A STORY FOR LITTLE READERS.
"Henry, dear, do come out to walk, this beautiful afternoon. _I_ am
going, and do not want to go alone; _please_ come, won't you?"
"Supposing I should say, No; I won't go; what would you do, sister?"
"I should say, well, suit yourself, brother Henry, and I'll try to go
alone; but I _do_ wish you would go with me, it is so pleasant to have
_some_ one, and I would rather have you than any one else."
"Well, you are a darling, good little girl, and I _will_ go with you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Henry," said Caroline; and they were
soon in the shady lane which extended from their father's house to their
uncle's, who was their next neighbour.
Caroline and Henry wandered on, admiring the beautiful things which
surrounded them, and now and then stopping to pick a flower. Often
Caroline would leave Henry, examining some plant, (for he was quite a
botanist,) and walk along without him.
"Come, Henry; let us walk as far as the brook, and then we'll go home."
"Just wait till I see what this curious flower is," said Henry. But
Caroline did not mind him, and continued walking slowly along, that he
might catch up with her, when he was ready. Presently she stopped; her
eyes sparkled, and she almost screamed with delight; for, on the ground
before her, was a beautiful white rabbit. She held her breath for fear
of frightening it; but though she drew nearer the dear little creature
did not seem disposed to run away; and she soon perceived that it had
hurt its foot very much, so that it _could_ not walk. Caroline took the
rabbit in her arms, and as she was quite near the brook, she thought she
would give it some water; so she stepped on the little bridge, but when
there, she found that she had no means of getting any, and she called
aloud:
"Henry, come quick; I have found a rabbit almost dead; come quick."
Henry was soon at her side. "Let me see," said he; and he bent forward
to look at it. "Poor little thing, we will take you home and nurse you
till you are well again."
"Don't you think, brother, that it would drink some water?"
"No, no; we had better take it home at once, and _mother_ will tell us
what to do." And the two children hastened home with all speed. Their
kind mother gave them directions for their new-found pet, and in a week
it was quite well, and their parents gave them leave to keep it to play
with, after they had learned their lessons, and as long as they were
kind towards this curious little creature.
[Illustration]
THE SLEIGH RIDE.
"Oh, I'm afraid! I'm afraid!" William Jones cried, shrinking back, as
his father took his hand, in the act of leading him forward to lift him
into a beautiful sleigh, that had just drove up to the door, and in
which his mother and elder sister were already seated; their feet
comfortably wrapped up in a warm buffalo robe.
"Afraid! what are you afraid of?" Mr. Jones asked, in a tone of
surprise.
"Oh, I'm afraid the horses will run away--or that the sleigh will break.
Indeed, I'd rather not go."
"Do you not think that your mother, and sister Ellen, and myself, will
be in just the danger you fear?"
"Yes."
"And is not my son willing to share that danger with those he loves?"
"But why do you go, father, when there is danger?"
"We do not think that we shall be in any more real danger, while riding
with two gentle horses, than we would be if we were sitting in the
house, or walking in the street. But come, William; I cannot stand
talking to you here; and it is quite necessary that you try to overcome
your fears. So jump in, and take your place alongside of sister Ellen."
"But, indeed, I would rather not go, father," William urged, holding
back.
Mr. Jones said no more, but took his boy up gently, though firmly, and
placed him beside his sister. Then he got in himself,--took hold of the
reins,--spoke to his two fine horses, and at once the whole party began
to move off; the sleigh bells jingling a merry tune.
Poor little William clung, frightened, to his sister; and it was a good
while before he could get over the idea that the very next moment they
would all be thrown over and dashed to pieces. After a while, however,
he got used to the motion of the sleigh, and seeing that they passed on
so smoothly, safely, and merrily, the idea of danger gradually faded
from his mind; and long before he reached his uncle's house, he was
enjoying the ride as much as the rest.
William's cousins were all delighted to see him, and he spent with them
one of the happiest days in his life.
And when the time came for Mr. Jones and his family to return, William
parted, with a feeling of reluctance, from his happy playmates. As he
again stood by the sleigh, and looked at the two stout horses that were
harnessed to it, he felt his old fear stealing over his mind. But he was
not only now ashamed of that fear, but felt that to indulge in it was
not right. So, with his best effort, he restrained it--stepping
resolutely into the sleigh.
The last "good-byes" said, Mr. Jones gave the word, and off they went.
When about half of the way home, and at a time when even the lingering
remains of William's timidity had passed away, two wild young men, half
intoxicated, came dashing along in another sleigh, at a most furious
rate. Bent on mischief, and thoughtless of the harm they might occasion,
they appeared determined to frighten the horses attached to other
sleighs, and thereby cause those who were in them to be thrown out into
the snow-banks.
It so happened that the sleigh in which were Mr. Jones and his family,
were passing near a steep declivity, at the time these young men came up
to them, and ran their horses so close upon those of Mr. Jones, that he
was compelled either to be rolled down the bank, or receive the shock of
their sleigh against his own. He chose the latter alternative. As the
two vehicles struck each other, that of Mr. Jones was nearly thrown
over, and it so happened that Ellen, who was much alarmed, lost her
balance, and but for the fact that William, himself dreadfully
frightened, seized hold of, and clung to her with all his strength, she
would have been thrown down a very steep hill, and, perhaps, have been
killed. As it was, however, no one was injured.
"If it hadn't been for me," William said, while they were all talking
over the matter, on arriving at home, "Ellen would have been pitched
head foremost down that steep bank."
"But if you had staid at home," his father remarked, "it would not have
been in your power thus to have saved, perhaps, your sister's life. And
now, an't you glad, my son, you were with us?"
"Yes, father, I am very glad now."
"Suppose, William," Mr. Jones asked, in a serious tone, "that in the
effort to save your sister, you had yourself been thrown out of the
sleigh, and badly hurt, would you then have been sorry that you went
with us?"
William paused for some moments, with a thoughtful countenance. He was
weighing the fear of bodily pain against his love for Ellen. At last he
said, with the moisture dimming his eyes,
"No! I would not have been sorry, father."
"Why not, William?"
"Because, I would only have been badly hurt; while, if I had not been
along with her, sister might have been killed."
"Very true, my dear boy! And now, you remember how often I have talked
to you about selfishness, and what an evil thing this selfishness is?"
"Yes, father."
"Well, this feeling of timidity, which you indulge so much, is a selfish
feeling."
"Selfish, father! How can that be?"
"Because there is nothing in it of self-sacrifice for the happiness or
comfort of others."
"I cannot understand you, father."
"I do not know that it will be in my power to make you understand me
fully, William. But I will try. You knew, this morning, that it would
give your father and mother pleasure to have you with them, and also
that your cousins would be delighted to see you. But your idle fear,
lest some accident should happen, made you unwilling to go. You would
not risk anything for the sake of others. If the great and good General
Washington, when called upon to take command of the American army, had
refused to do so, because there was danger of his being killed; cannot
you see that in that feeling there would have been a strong principle of
selfishness?"
"Oh, yes. If he had done so, he would have been very selfish. He would
have thought more of personal safety than the good of his country."
"Just so, William, will you think, when you grow up to be a man, if you
do not conquer this timid feeling, which you now indulge. You must
learn, for the good of others, to risk personal danger, and to be
willing to bear pain of body as well as mind, if called upon to suffer
while doing your duty to others. Of danger, it is not our place to
think, when fully satisfied we are doing right; knowing that the Lord's
providence is over all, and that He will not suffer any harm to befall
us that is not really for our good. Learn, also, this harder lesson,--a
willingness to encounter bodily pain, and even great danger, for the
good of others."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
STORY OF A GREYHOUND.
Llewellyn, son-in-law to King John, had in his possession one of the
finest greyhounds in England. His name was Gelert. One day Llewellyn,
going out to hunt, called all his dogs together; but his favourite
greyhound was missing, and nowhere to be found. He blew his horn as a
signal of the chase, and still Gelert came not. Llewellyn was much
disturbed at this, but at length pursued the chase without him.
For want of Gelert, the sport was limited; and getting tired, Llewellyn
returned home at an early hour, when the first object that presented
itself to him at his castle gate, was Gelert, who bounded with his usual
transport to meet his master--having his lips besmeared with blood.
Llewellyn gazed with surprise at the strange appearance of his dog. But
on going into the apartment where he had left his infant son asleep, he
found the bedclothes all in confusion, the cover rent, and stained with
blood. He called on his child, but no answer was made: from which he
concluded that the dog must have devoured him, and, without waiting to
reflect, or examine, plunged his sword to the hilt in Gelert's side. The
noble dog fell at his feet, uttering a dying yell which awoke the
infant, who was sleeping beneath a heap of mingled bedclothes; while
under the bed lay a great wolf, covered with gore, which the faithful
and gallant hound had destroyed.
Llewellyn, smitten with sorrow and remorse for the rash and frantic deed
which had deprived him of so faithful an animal, caused an elegant
marble monument, with an appropriate inscription, to be erected over the
spot where Gelert was buried, to commemorate his fidelity and unhappy
fate. The place, to this day, is called Beth-Gelert, or "The grave of
the greyhound."
[Illustration]
THE TRUANT.
I received part of my education at a beautiful town on the banks of the
river Trent. It was here, while a boy, that I first learned the danger
of disobedience. The precept had been instilled in my mind a thousand
times, and I knew it was the command of heaven that we should respect
and obey our parents and teachers; but I had never felt either the
danger or the criminality of a disregard of the Divine command till
after the following event.
It was December; and the river, on whose beautiful banks the academy was
situated, was frozen over, so that people could travel, and sport upon
it in safety. It was a favourite diversion of the students, most of whom
were between ten and fifteen years old, to play ball upon the ice, upon
skates; and many times nearly the whole school, consisting of fifty
youths, was collected in one game on the glassy surface of the frozen
stream. We grew, at length, so fond of this recreation, that we began to
encroach upon the hours of study. The bell rang unheeded, and when we
came into school, we were, as we deserved to be, reprimanded by our good
and indulgent preceptor; and many of our number, ashamed of their
behaviour, refused to offend in like manner again. It was not so with us
all.
One day, a part of our number having staid out upon the river more than
a quarter of an hour after the bell had done ringing, one of the boys
was sent for us; but we soon forgot that we had been called, and
continued our game. Shortly we saw the preceptor, himself, coming down
to the river. We were then alarmed; and all, but myself and Nathaniel
Beecher, ran, by a round-about way, to the shore and to school. _We_
resolved to stay the whole afternoon. The preceptor came out upon the
wharf, and called to us to come to him. Fearing that we should be taken
back to school and punished, we resolved not to answer, and pretended
not to hear him. After repeatedly calling us, and receiving no answer,
he came upon the ice; but when he had walked a short distance from the
shore we saw that we were in no danger of his catching us, as the ice
was very smooth. At length, in an attempt to catch me, the preceptor
slipped and fell heavily upon the ice. I stood still, and dared not go
near, for fear he would punish me; but I was now very sorry for what we
had done. Our preceptor had always been kind to us, and my feelings
were hurt to think I had been so ungrateful. Meantime he had got up,
and with a painful effort walked to the shore. I followed him, and Nat
went off towards the other side of the river. As I approached the
shore, I turned to see where he was going, continuing to skate
backwards as I looked. Suddenly I found myself in the water. I had
fallen into a hole which had been cut for fishing. As I dropped I threw
out my arms, and thus saved myself from going under; but the current
was very strong, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could
hold myself above the water. I felt as though some evil spirit beneath
the water was dragging me under, and my heart sunk within me. At length
I was drawn out of the water by my preceptor. He spoke kindly to me,
and said he would take me home, that I might change my clothes. I was
very much affected. I had prepared myself to bear my well-merited
punishment; but when I heard his kind and gentle tones, and saw that he
was not angry, I burst into a passionate flood of tears, and, dropping
on my knees, begged his pardon for my bad behaviour. He took me up at
once, and told me never to kneel but to the Lord, that he would forgive
me. We had nearly reached the shore, when I looked round for Nat. He
was looking towards us, and skating along with his arms folded, and all
at once dropped beneath the ice and disappeared. He had, while looking
at us, skated into an air-hole. I involuntarily screamed, and started
with all speed for the place. The preceptor followed, having guessed
the cause of my exclamation.
The accident had been seen from the shore, and many persons came
hurrying to the spot, and among them the father of the boy. He was told,
on shore, that it was his oldest son; and rushing to the spot, and
putting his head down in the hole, held it there a long time, looking,
but all was in vain. The rapid tide had borne him far down the river,
and his body was never more seen.
The events of this day taught me the lesson of _obedience_. It stamped
upon my mind the truth, that the first great duty, next to our devotion
to our Maker, is respect and obedience to those who are placed in
authority over us. I never again _played truant_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A SUMMER MORNING RAMBLE.
Oh! the happy summer hours,
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!
All the east was rosy red
When we woke and left our bed,
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silky net,
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.
With their modest eyes of blue,
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.
On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,--
Up and down the rugged bent,--
Through the wicket,--
Where the rock with water drops,--
Through the bushes and the copse,--
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.
We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 'twas thrown,
Like a glory of his own,
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.
All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,--
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.
Dear little brother Will!
He has leapt the hedge and rill,--
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired and dropt asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.
See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
With his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.
He is dreaming of his play--
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.
In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.
While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That, for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.
'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every-day increase
Of a treasure!
[Illustration]
THE HOTTENTOTS.
At the southern part of Africa, a great many years ago, there lived a
simple race of uncivilized people,--to whom the name of Hottentots has
been since given,--who supported themselves in their rude way, and kept
sheep and herds, whose milk served them for food, and whose skins kept
them warm.
The Dutch people, who were very fond of sailing about in their ships,
came to this part of the world, and finding the country pleasant, and a
great many delicious fruits in it, they resolved to make a settlement,
and have a town of their own there.
The Hottentots did not like very much to have a new kind of people
settling down among them, and as they had been used to fighting with
wild beasts, and were quite brave, they did all they could to keep the
people away.
[Illustration]
But the Dutch had so much more skill and knowledge than the poor
Hottentots, that they soon got the better of the savages, and the
natives were obliged to allow them to settle in their country.
The Europeans, when they heard of this pleasant, warm country, came in
great numbers, and each emigrant was allowed to receive for his farm as
much land as an officer appointed for the purpose, could walk across in
an hour. They probably always tried to get a tall man, who could take
pretty long steps. Whether they asked the poor natives' consent to this
arrangement, the history does not say; but at the end of a hundred and
fifty years, the Hottentots had been deprived of all their land, and
were compelled to work for their invaders, except that some of the more
ferocious and bolder tribes retreated to the deserts, and remain in a
savage state to this day.
The colony afterwards fell into the hands of the British, and about
eighteen years ago, the Hottentots of the Cape, about thirty thousand in
number, were made free, and allowed to have all the privileges enjoyed
by the white inhabitants.
Christian missionaries have visited this part of the world, and many of
the native inhabitants are said to have been brought under the gentle
influence of Christianity. The Moravian missionaries, some years ago,
collected a number of the Hottentots into a village, built a church,
and instructed them in many of the arts of civilized life. They were
taught several kinds of manufactures, and travellers speak of their
establishment as being in a very flourishing state.
In the year 1811, this place was visited by a severe earthquake, which
alarmed the people greatly, as nothing of the kind had occurred since
the settlement of the town. It does not appear from the accounts, that
any lives were lost, but many of the buildings were cracked, and in part
thrown down.
The Hottentots are said to be kind and gentle in their natures, and
hospitable to strangers. Those who have been converted to Christianity,
have left off, for the most part, their rude sheepskin dress, and wear a
more civilized attire.
The picture at the beginning of this article represents a native
Hottentot, in his sheepskin cloak, but the rest of his dress appears to
be after the European fashion. The more savage Hottentots, who have
never joined the colony, lead a wandering life, living on wild roots,
locusts, and eggs, toads, lizards, mice, and such other food as can be
obtained in the deserts. They use, as weapons of defence, the javelin,
and bows and arrows. Their arrows are small, but they are tipped with
poison, so that a wound from them is generally fatal.
They teach their children early the use of the bow and arrow; and some
travellers say, that, to do this, they sometimes put a little boy's
breakfast, probably a nice toad, or half a dozen ant's eggs, or some
other of their favourite kinds of food, up into the high branches of a
tree, and then make the boy shoot his arrows at it, until he brings it
down. This gives him a good appetite, and teaches him early the use of
the bow and arrow.
[Illustration]
PHILOSOPHY AT HOME.
THE WHISPERING FIGURE.
ILLUSTRATING THE PROPAGATION OF SOUNDS.
Sound is propagated through a confined channel of air, as for instance,
a long tube, very perfectly. It is not uncommon in large establishments,
where it is necessary to pass many orders to and fro, to have such tubes
laid in the walls, so that words can pass through them from room to
room. The experiment may be tried in a leaden pipe, laid down for an
aqueduct, before the water is admitted, and it will be found that the
slightest whisper can be heard for a distance of half a mile or more.
This tendency of a confined channel of air to increase the distinctness
of the sound passing through it, may be shewn by a tube formed by
rolling up a large sheet of paper and whispering through it. If the tube
is gradually enlarged towards the outer end, it greatly increases the
loudness of the sound transmited through it, as in the case of the
horn, the speaking trumpet, &c.
When the sound of a voice passes in this manner through a tube, the
voice always appears to come from the end of the tube where the sound
issues, and not from the end where the words are really spoken. This has
given rise to an ingenious contrivance called the whispering figure,
which is sometimes fitted up in museums for the entertainment of
visitors. It is as follows:--
[Illustration]
A large dog or other image is placed upon a stand at a little distance
from the side of the room. There is a tin tube within the figure, one
end of which is opposite the mouth, and the other passes down through
the floor, and thence along under the floor, as represented by the
dotted line in the cut. After passing the partition, it is turned up,
and opens in a funnel-shaped extremity in the next room. If now a person
speaks or whispers at the outer end of the tube, the persons who are in
the room with the figure will hear the sound coming through its lips, as
if the figure itself were speaking. The tube being entirely concealed
within the dress of the figure, and under the floor, the spectators, not
suspecting such a communication with the next room, wonder by what
contrivance an image can be made to speak.