Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, April 4, 1882, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, April 4, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: March 4, 2018 [EBook #56677]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, APRIL ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER |
| FLOWERS IN FANCY DRESS. |
| ANIMALS. |
| A LITTLE GENTLEMAN. |
| HOW JAMIE SAILED IN THE "SCUD." |
| THE FINE ART OF COOKING. |
| RACKETS. |
| THE TALKING LEAVES. |
| OUR POST-OFFICE BOX. |
| THE CLOWNS' DUEL. |
| vol. iii.—no. 127. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, April 4, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.
"Why, we could start a circus jest as easy as a wink, Toby, 'cause you know all about one; an' all you'd have to do would be to tell us fellers what to do, an' we'd 'tend to the rest."
"Yes; but you see we hain't got a tent, or hosses, or wagons, or nothin', an' I don't see how you could get a circus up that way;" and the speaker hugged his knees as he rocked himself to and fro in a musing way on the rather sharp point of a large rock, on which he had seated himself in order to hear what his companion had to say that was so important.
"Will you come down with me to Bob Atwood's, an' see what he says about it?"
"Yes, I'll do that if you'll come out afterward for a game of I-spy round the meetin'-house."
"All right; if we can find enough of the other fellers, I will."
Then the boys slipped down from the rocks, found the cows, and drove them home as the preface to their visit to Bob Atwood's.
The boy who was so anxious to start a circus was a little fellow with such a wonderful amount of remarkably red hair that he was seldom called anything but Reddy, although his name was known—by his parents, at least—to be Walter Grant. His companion was Toby Tyler, a boy who, a year before, had thought it would be a very pleasant thing to run away from his uncle Daniel and the town of Guilford in order to be with a circus, and who, in ten weeks, was only too glad to run back home as rapidly as possible.
During the first few months after his return many brilliant offers had been made Toby by his companions to induce him to aid them in starting an amateur circus; but he had refused to have anything to do with the schemes, and for several reasons. During the ten weeks he had been away he had seen quite as much of a circus life as he cared to see, without even such a mild dose as this amateur show would be; and again, whenever he thought of the matter, the remembrance of the death of his monkey, Mr. Stubbs, would come upon him so vividly, and cause him so much sorrow, that he resolutely put the matter from his mind.
Now, however, it had been a year since the monkey was killed; school had closed during the summer season; and he was rather more disposed to listen to the requests of his friends. On this particular night Reddy Grant had offered to go with him for the cows—an act of generosity which Toby accounted for only on the theory that Reddy wanted some of the strawberries which grew so plentifully in Uncle Daniel's pasture. But when they arrived there the strawberries were neglected for the circus question; and Toby then showed he was at least willing to talk about it.
There was no doubt that Bob Atwood knew Reddy was going to try to induce Toby to help start a circus, and Bob knew also that Reddy and Toby would visit him, although he appeared very much surprised when he saw them coming up the hill toward his house. He was at home, evidently waiting for something, at an hour when all the other boys were out playing; and that in itself would have made Toby suspicious if he had paid much attention to the matter.
Bob was perfectly willing to talk about a circus—so willing, that, almost before Toby was aware of it, he was laying plans with the others for such a show as could be given with the material at hand.
"You see, we'd have to get a tent the first thing," said Toby, as he seated himself on the saw-horse as a sort of place of honor, and proceeded to give his companions the benefit of his experience in the circus line. "I s'pose we could get along without a fat woman or a skeleton; but we'd have to have the tent anyway, so's folks couldn't look right in an' see the show for nothin'."
Reddy had decided some time before how that trifling matter could be arranged. In fact, he had spent several sleepless nights thinking it over, and as he went industriously to work making shavings out of a portion of a shingle he said:
"I've got all that settled, Toby; an' when you say you're willin' to go ahead an' fix up the show, I'll be on hand with a tent that'll make your eyes stick out over a foot."
Bob nodded his head to show he was convinced Reddy could do just as he had promised; but Toby was anxious for more particulars, and insisted on knowing where this very necessary portion of a circus was coming from.
"You see, a tent is a big thing," he said, seriously, "an' it would cost more money than the fellers in this town could raise if they should pick all the strawberries in Uncle Dan'l's pasture."
"Oh, I don't say as the tent Reddy's got his eye on is a reg'lar one like a real circus has," said Bob, slowly and candidly, as he began to draw on the side of the wood-shed a picture of what he probably intended should represent a horse; "but he knows how he can rig one up that'll be big enough, an' look stavin'."
With this information Toby was obliged to be satisfied, and with the view of learning more of the details, in case his companions had arranged for them, he asked:
"Where you goin' to get the company—the folks that ride, an' turn hand-springs, an' all them things?"
"Ben Cushing can turn twice as many hand-springs as any feller you ever saw, an' he can walk on his hands twice round the engine-house. I guess you couldn't find many circuses that could beat him, an' he's been practicing in his barn all the chance he could get for more'n a week."
Without intending to do so, Bob had thus let the secret out that the scheme had already been talked up before Toby was consulted, and then there was no longer any reason for concealment.
"You see, we thought we'd kinder get things fixed," said Reddy, quickly, anxious to explain away the seeming deception he had been guilty of, "an' we wouldn't say anything to you till we knew whether we could get one up or not."
"An' we're goin' to ask three cents to come in, an' lots of the fellers have promised to buy tickets if we'll let 'em do some of the ridin', or else lead the hosses."
"But how are you goin' to get any hosses?" asked Toby, thoroughly surprised at the way in which the scheme had already been developed.
"Reddy can get Jack Douglass's blind one, an' we can train him so's he'll go 'round the ring all right, an' your uncle Dan'l will let you have his old white one that's lame, if you ask him. I ain't sure but I can get one of Chandler Merrill's ponies," continued Bob, now so excited by his subject that he left his picture while it was yet a three-legged horse, and stood in front of his friends; "an' if we could sell tickets enough, we could hire one of Rube Rowe's hosses for you to ride."
"An' Bob's goin' to be the clown, an' his mother's goin' to make him a suit of clothes out of one of his grandmother's curtains," added Reddy, as he snapped an imaginary whip with so many unnecessary flourishes that he tumbled over the saw-horse, thereby mixing a large quantity of sawdust in his brilliantly colored hair.
"An' Reddy's goin' to be ring-master," explained Bob, as he assisted his friend to rise, and acted the part of Good Samaritan by trying to get the sawdust from his hair with a curry-comb. "Joe Robinson says he'll sell tickets, an' 'tend the door, an' hold the hoops for you to jump through."
"Leander Leighton's goin' to be the band. He's got a pair of clappers; an' Mrs. Doak's goin' to show him how to play on the accordion with one finger, so's he'll know how to make an awful lot of noise," said Reddy, as he gave up the task of extracting the sawdust, and devoted his entire attention to the scheme.
"An' we can have some animals," said Bob, with the air of one who adds the crowning glory to some brilliant work.
Toby had been surprised at the resources of the town for[Pg 355] a circus, of which he had not even dreamed; and at Bob's last remark he left his saw-horse seat, as if to enable him to hear more distinctly.
"Yes," continued Bob, "we can get a good many of some kinds. Old Mrs. Simpson has got a three-legged cat with four kittens, an' Ben Cushing has got a hen that crows; an' we can take my calf for a grizzly bear, an' Jack Havener's two lambs for white bears. I've caught six mice, an' I'll have more'n a dozen before the show comes off; an' Reddy's goin' to bring his cat that ain't got any tail. Leander Leighton's goin' to bring four of his rabbits, an' make believe they're wolves; an' Joe Robinson's goin' to catch all the squirrels he can—we'll have the largest for foxes, an' the smallest for hyenas; an' Joe'll keep howlin' while he's 'tendin' the door, so's to make 'em sound right."
"Bob's sister's goin' to show him how to sing a couple of songs, an' he's goin' to write 'em out on paper, so's to have a book to sell," added Reddy, delighted at the surprise expressed in Toby's face. "Nahum Baker says if we have any kind of a show, he'll bring up some lemonade an' some pies to sell, an' pass 'em round jest as they do in a reg'lar circus."
This last information was indeed surprising, for inasmuch as Nahum Baker was a man who had an apology for a fruit store near the wharves, it lent an air of realism to the plan, this having a grown man connected with them in the enterprise.
"But he mustn't get any of the boys to help him, an' then treat them as Job Lord did me," said Toby, earnestly, the scheme having grown so in the half-hour that he began to fear it might be too much like the circus with which he had spent ten of the longest and most dreary weeks he had ever known.
"I'll look out for that," said Bob, confidently. "If he tries any of them games, we'll make him leave, no matter how good a trade he's doin'."
"Now where we goin' to have the show?" and from the way Toby asked the question it was easily seen that he had decided to accept the position of manager which had been so delicately offered him.
"That's jest what we ain't fixed about," said Bob, as if he blamed himself severely for not having already attended to this portion of the business. "You see, if your uncle Dan'l would let us have it up by his barn, that would be jest the place, an' I almost know he'd say yes if you asked him."
"Do you s'pose it would be big enough? You know, when there's a circus in town everybody comes from all around to see it, an' it wouldn't do to have a place where they couldn't all get in;" and Toby spoke as if there could be no doubt as to the crowds that would collect to see this wonderful show of theirs.
"It'll have to be big enough, if we use the tent I'm goin' to get," said Reddy, decidedly; "for you see that won't be so awful large, an' it would make it look kinder small if we put it where the other circuses put theirs."
"Well, then, I s'pose we'll have to make that do, an' we can have two or three shows if there are too many to come in at one time," said Toby, in a satisfied way that matters could be arranged so easily; and then, with a big sigh, he added: "If only Mr. Stubbs hadn't got killed, what a show we could have! I never saw him ride, but I know he could have done better than any one else that ever tried it, if he wanted to, an' if we had him we could have a reg'lar circus without anybody else."
Then the boys bewailed the untimely fate of Mr. Stubbs, until they saw that Toby was fast getting into a mood altogether too sad for the proper transaction of circus business, and Bob proposed that a visit be paid Ben Cushing, for the purpose of having him give them a private exhibition of his skill, in order that Toby might see some of the talent which was to help make their circus a glorious success.
I remember as well as though it were yesterday how, years and years ago, when I was a very little girl, I once went roaming through the beautiful woods of Southern Ohio, hunting for a certain wild flower.
The object of my search was a flower not often found, which we children called the Indian moccasin. It did look like a moccasin, indeed, with its round blunt toe and yellow, leathery, shoe-shaped pouch. I wonder if any prospector ever looked for signs of gold with more intense excitement than I felt when searching for my little golden shoe? Everywhere I turned, in my breathless haste, yellow moccasins seemed dancing before my eyes, and I hardly knew, till my eager hands had grasped the stem, whether it was a real flower I had found or not. I hardly think I could have valued it more if I had known what I have since learned about the wonderful ways of the orchids, to which family my moccasin belonged.
Fig. 1.—Lady's-Slipper.
You may never have found this particular plant in your rambles, and yet may know some other of the orchid tribe which grows wild in our woods. The common names are so different in different places that it is hard to tell you how to know them when you see them. The putty-root, and the lady's-slipper like that in Fig. 1, are some of them. Not the touch-me-not, a plant whose seed-pods snap and curl up if you touch them, and which is sometimes called lady's-slipper.
The orchids are an eccentric family. There is scarcely one of them which is not "queer" in some way or other. They seem always to be trying to look or to act like something besides flowers. They imitate all sorts of things besides little Indian shoes. I wish I could take you into an orchid greenhouse and let you look around. You would think you had been invited to a fancy-dress party of the flowers.
There is one that looks for all the world like a swan, with its long curved neck; there is a beautiful butterfly with spotted golden wings; over yonder stands a scarlet flamingo, in a meditative attitude, on one red leg. Bees and spiders, done in brown and yellow, or perhaps more gorgeous colors, are all around. Here is a long spike of waxen flowers, and in the cup of each nestles a pure white dove with outspreading wings. The Spaniards have given it a name which means the flower of the Holy Ghost, from its resemblance to a dove.
These strange likenesses to other things are, however, the least wonderful thing about orchids. They differ[Pg 356] from ordinary plants in many singular ways. Many of them, instead of growing in the ground, and drawing from it their food and drink, grow in the air, and take nourishment from it by means of their naked dangling roots. It seems sometimes as if living as they do high up on the bark of trees had put the notion into their heads of trying to look like birds and butterflies and bees.
The air manages to supply them with food, but they have to depend upon getting drink in some other way. Plants are a good deal like people in that respect; they can manage to get along somehow with very little food, but they soon die of thirst if deprived of water.
Fig. 2.—Young Plant growing on Flower Stem.
In a wild state, the air-plants grow on the bark of trees or on other substances, but they send their little roots into the moist bark or moss to get water. They do not feed on the juices of the trees, as parasites like the mistletoe do; they only want a standing-place, something to push against as they grow, and water. In the greenhouse they are usually planted in pots filled with bits of stone and damp moss, or they grow attached to the parent plant, as you may see in Fig. 2, and send their roots out into the air for food. A few of them—the Indian moccasin, for instance—grow like common plants in the ground.
It would almost seem as if the orchids had an eye to business in their imitation of insects. At any rate, there seems to be a very good understanding between them, and constant business relations are kept up. The flowers always have a little pouch somewhere about them in which they keep a stock of honey on hand. Their beautiful colors and delicious smell attract, by day and night, bees, butterflies, and moths. In return for the "treat" which the flowers give, the insects render a valuable service to the plants.
Fig. 3.—Honey Pouch and Pollen Pods.
I must remind you of something we have looked into before in "Picciola" (February 14, 1882), and that is that every perfect seed is the result of a partnership entered into by the pollen grains and the ovules of a flower. The pollen is the yellow dust which it is so easy to see on lilies and some other flowers; the ovules are little round bodies lying in the swollen part of a flower where it joins the stem. Above the ovules, and connected with them, is the pistil, sometimes standing up like the lily pistil of the geranium, sometimes only a sticky little pad, as it is in the orchids. Some plants get along perfectly well if this partnership is entirely a family affair, and the pollen of a flower falls on its own pistil, and makes a union with its own ovules, but this is not always the case. Certain plants require that the pollen shall be from another plant if the seed is to be sound and healthy. Orchids require this cross-fertilization, as it is called, and without the help of insects it could not be effected.
Bees and butterflies, it has been found out, always go in a single excursion from one flower of a kind to another of the same kind. They do not mix their drinks. This instinct not only serves to keep the honey stored by the bees pure, but it enables the insects to carry the pollen just where it will be useful. The pollen of a morning-glory would die if put on the rose pistil. It must be placed on a flower of the same family as the one it came from, or very nearly related to it, or it will do no good.
Fig. 4.—Pencil and Needle, with Pollen.
Now look at Fig. 2, and you will see that the flowers have a hollow tube in the centre, with a projecting lower lip. This tube is a single flower leaf curled over to make a tunnel, and through this tunnel is the only path to the honey pouch. When a butterfly feels like taking a drink, and one of these orchids is near, he lights on the lower lip of the tube, and pushing his long proboscis or trunk through it into the pouch, sucks up the honey. Now look at Fig. 3. This is a picture of the tube with its near wall cut away so that you can see the inside arrangement. As he works his proboscis down into the honey pouch, N, it is pressed against r, and touches a spring there; the little cap at r snaps open, and leaves a sticky ball resting on the proboscis. As the butterfly goes on sucking, this ball dries as if it were glued to his trunk. When he draws his head out, this proboscis is ornamented with one or two little tufts which look like the trees in a child's toy village, as you will see in the illustration.
Fig. 5.—Butterfly's Proboscis, with Pollen.
Now look at the fragment of a flower in the lower part of the same illustration. Suppose the pollen tuft to stay just where it is when the butterfly comes out of the flower. You can see by looking at the figure that it would strike r in the next flower it entered, and that would do no good; s is the place it should strike; s is the pistil. Now take an orchid flower, if you can get one; if not, look at Fig. 4, and see what will happen. I push into it a sharpened lead-pencil, and it comes out with the pollen tuft standing up as it does on the butterfly's trunk. Watch it a minute. As it dries, the stem of the tuft bends down, toward the point of the pencil. Now push it into another flower. Wait a little while—a minute perhaps—and take the pencil out. You will see that the pollen has been pulled out of its little case. If you tear open the flower, you will find the pollen sticking so tight on the pistil, s, that you can[Pg 357] scarcely brush it off. In this upper flower the drawing is from Mr. Darwin's book; but the lower one is one of the flowers in Fig. 2, which I picked off the plant after drawing it, and tried with a pencil myself. r in the lower drawing looks like a little purple velvet pouch swung lightly on its stalk. The pencil came out, leaving the little bag empty, and the pollen glued fast to its side. But they were not glued so fast that they were not pulled off by the next flower that the pencil entered.
Some of the orchids have two pistils, one on each side. In these, if you push into the tube a bristle or needle, the two pollen cases come out as in Fig. 4; as they dry, they spread apart, and bend forward so that both pistils are struck at once as it is pushed into the next blossom. The contrivances by which each orchid receives on just the right spot exactly the right pollen are perfectly marvellous. I have only told you a very few of the simplest facts in regard to the help the insects give to the flowers. Many a poor butterfly goes through life having its proboscis loaded down with the glued-on pollen cases (Fig. 5). It is one of those business arrangements which does not work equally well for both parties. All this is beautiful for the flowers, but it seems rather hard on the butterflies.
I should like to be an animal. Not an insect, of course, nor a snake, but a nice kind of animal, like an elephant or a dog with a good master.
Animals are awfully intelligent, but they haven't any souls. There was once an elephant in a circus, and one day a boy said to him, "Want a lump of sugar, old fellow?" The elephant he nodded, and felt real grateful, for elephants are very fond of lump-sugar, which is what they live on in their native forests. But the boy put a cigar instead of a lump of sugar in his mouth.
The sagacious animal, instead of eating up the cigar or trying to smoke it and making himself dreadfully sick, took it and carried it across the circus to a man who kept a candy and cigar stand, and made signs that he'd sell the cigar for twelve lumps of sugar. The man gave the elephant the sugar and took the cigar, and then the intelligent animal sat down on his hind-legs and laughed at the boy who had tried to play a joke on him, until the boy felt that much ashamed that he went right home and went to bed.
In the days when there were fairies—only I don't believe there ever were any fairies, and Mr. Travers says they were rubbish—boys were frequently changed into animals. There was once a boy who did something that made a wicked fairy angry, and she changed him into a cat, and thought she had punished him dreadfully. But the boy after he was a cat used to come and get on her back fence and yowl as if he was ten or twelve cats all night long, and she couldn't get a wink of sleep, and fell into a fever, and had to take lots of castor-oil and dreadful medicines.
So she sent for the boy who was a cat, you understand, and said she'd change him back again. But he said, "Oh no; I'd much rather be a cat, for I'm so fond of singing on the back fence." And the end of it was that she had to give him a tremendous pile of money before he'd consent to be changed back into a boy again.
Boys can play being animals, and it's great fun, only the other boys who don't play they are animals get punished for it, and I say it's unjust, especially as I never meant any harm at all, and was doing my very best to amuse the children.
This is the way it happened. Aunt Sarah came to see us the other day, and brought her three boys with her. I don't think you ever heard of Aunt Sarah, and I wish I never had. She's one of father's sisters, and he thinks a great deal more of her than I would if she was my sister, and I don't think it's much credit to anybody to be a sister anyway. The boys are twins, that is, two of them are, and they are all about three or four years old.
Well, one day just before Christmas, when it was almost as warm out-doors as it is in summer, Aunt Sarah said:
"Jimmy, I want you to take the dear children out and amuse them a few hours. I know you're so fond of your dear little cousins and what a fine manly boy you are!" So I took them out, though I didn't want to waste my time with little children, for we are responsible for wasting time, and ought to use every minute to improve ourselves.
The boys wanted to see the pigs that belong to Mr. Taylor, who lives next door, so I took them through a hole in the fence, and they looked at the pigs, and one of them said,
"Oh my how sweet they are and how I would like to be a little pig and never be washed and have lots of swill!"
So I said, "Why don't you play you are pigs, and crawl round and grunt? It's just as easy, and I'll look at you."
You see, I thought I ought to amuse them, and that this would be a nice way to teach them to amuse themselves.
"'WE'VE BEEN PLAYING PIGS, MA.'"
Well, they got down on all fours and ran round and grunted, until they began to get tired of it, and then wanted to know what else pigs could do; so I told them that pigs generally rolled in the mud, and the more mud a pig could get on himself the happier he would be, and that there was a mud puddle in our back yard that would make a pig cry like a child with delight.
The boys went straight to that mud puddle, and they rolled in the mud until there wasn't an inch of them that wasn't covered with mud so thick that you would have to get a crowbar to pry it off.
Just then Aunt Sarah came to the door and called them, and when she saw them she said, "Good gracious what on earth have you been doing?" and Tommy, that's the oldest boy, said,
"We've been playing we were pigs ma and it's real fun and wasn't Jimmy good to show us how?"
I think they had to boil the boys in hot water before they could get the mud off, and their clothes have all got to be sent to the poor people out West whose things were all lost in the great floods. If you'll believe it, I never got the least bit of thanks for showing the boys how to amuse themselves, but Aunt Sarah said that I'd get something when father came home, and she wasn't mistaken. I'd rather not mention what it was that I got, but I got it mostly on the legs, and I think bamboo canes ought not to be sold to fathers any more than poison.
I was going to tell why I should like to be an animal; but as it is getting late, I must close.
His cap is old, but his hair is gold,
And his face is clear as the sky;
And whoever he meets, on lanes or streets,
He looks him straight in the eye,
With a fearless pride that has naught to hide,
Though he bows like a little knight,
Quite debonair, to a lady fair,
With a smile that is swift as light.
Does his mother call? Not kite, or ball,
Or the prettiest game, can stay
His eager feet as he hastes to greet
Whatever she means to say.
And the teachers depend on the little friend
At school in his place at nine,
With his lessons learned and his good marks earned,
All ready to toe the line.
I wonder if you have seen him too,
This boy, who is not too big
For a morning kiss from mother and Sis,
Who isn't a bit of a prig,
But gentle and strong, and the whole day long
As merry as boy can be.
A gentleman, dears, in the coming years,
And at present the boy for me.
The Scud was a cat-rigged, clipper-built pleasure-yacht, belonging to Mr. Trenwick, and now for sale. It had never been used very much, and now that Jamie was almost old enough to want to sail himself, and still sufficiently young to run a good chance of being drowned in the attempt, Mrs. Trenwick declared that she would sleep much easier at night if "that boat" were owned by somebody else.
Jamie was nearly eleven, and both he and his twin sister Marian knew how to row, and, in their pretty little boat would paddle about for hours in shallow water, so that it was considered perfectly safe to allow Jamie to pump out the Scud after a rain.
But as time went on and no purchaser appeared, the yacht seemed to feel the neglect with which it was being treated, and by way of attracting more attention to itself, suddenly began to leak.
"Well, pump her out every day if necessary, my son," said Mr. Trenwick, when informed of the fact, for he was very busy at his office in the city just then, and was never at home during the day except on Sundays.
The Scud was moored on the edge of the channel, only a few yards from the outer end of the Trenwicks' dock, and formerly a pretty blue and white buoy had floated above the spot where the anchor lay; but this had been lost by some means, and now the cable was fastened directly to the bow of the boat.
In the course of a week or so the pump, too, gave out, so that the water had to be patiently taken out by means of pail, bailer, and sponge, which Jamie found to be not nearly as interesting an occupation as pumping, which was certainly more "ship-shape."
"I don't wonder that nobody wants to buy her," he remarked to Marian one very hot afternoon, as she rowed him out to the scene of his daily task. "Look out, now, and don't let her bunk," he added, as his sister brought the boat up alongside the Scud with a swoop that threatened to considerably damage the paint of both, had not Jamie skillfully warded off the blow.
At the same moment there was a sound of wheels on the gravelled driveway leading to the house, and a handsome village cart was seen to stop at the front door.
"Oh, it's Mamie Henley!" cried Marian, clapping her hands. "Hurry out, Jamie; here's your pail and things;" and quickly catching up her oars again, the little girl shoved off, and was nearly back at the dock before her brother could shout after her:
"But how am I going to get ashore? Come on out here again and take me in; then I can leave you and keep the boat;" and Jamie beckoned violently with the pail, as if to add emphasis to his words.
"Oh, I can't stop now," Marian screamed in reply, as she nimbly slipped the painter over a post, and scrambled out on the dock. "There's Mamie beckoning to me now. I'll run up and see her first, and when I come back you'll be all through;" and throwing out the last sentence as she ran, Jamie's twin flew on her way to the house. Jamie himself took up his bailer and went to work, hoping that Mamie Henley's call would be a very formal and consequently short one.
As it happened, it was not a call at all, for she had simply come to take Marian out riding with her old pony in his new cart.
"But there's Jamie out there in the Scud," began Marian, when she had been hugged and told that if she could not go at once she couldn't go at all, as the coachman must be at home in time to meet the train.
"Oh, I'll see to your brother," returned Mamie, "and I know your mother will let you go, for we met her on the road, and I asked her if you might. Now hurry and put on your other hat," and as Marian vanished on the instant, her friend walked to the bank and called to Jamie to know how long it would take him to finish his work.
"About ten minutes," he shouted back.
"Well, I'm going to take Marian for a quarter of an hour's drive," screamed Mamie; "so you needn't hurry. I can't wait until she rows the boat out to you. Good-by;" and before Jamie could make her understand that it would be possible for them to let the boat drift out to him on the ebb-tide, Marian appeared in her best hat, both girls hurried into the cart, and with a cry of farewell went rattling off down the avenue.
"Well, this is a pretty fix to be left in!" thought Jamie,[Pg 359] as he stood up on the deck of the Scud and looked out over the river in search of a crab boy, or any other sort of boy with a boat.
But as it was quite early in the afternoon, there was not a single one visible. Then, as it was so very warm, Jamie decided to rest awhile before going on with his work, so he crawled in under the forward deck, where there was shade and a strong smell of damp wood, and pillowing his head on a sand-bag, lay there listening contentedly to the regular lap, lap of the river against the Scud, wondering if each little ripple wasn't a sort of water-sprite in disguise.
Of course it was but a wave's-breadth from thinking about water-sprites to dreaming about them, and as the weather was extremely sultry, and the slight motion of the boat very soothing, Jamie was soon seeing strange sights.
First there were only the tiny water-sprites that seemed to flit before him; then these gradually grew into dwarfs with large heads, which they took off and tossed back and forth like foot-balls, until finally they themselves changed into giants, while the heads were transformed into immense cannon-balls, which crashed into one another, as they whizzed through the air, with a terrible report.
Boom! bang! b-o-o-m! The noise was so loud that it woke Jamie with a start, and even then he heard it, for in truth it was not all a dream, but a fierce thunder-storm which had suddenly swooped down upon the calm afternoon, and churned the peaceful river into a raging sea.
Jamie quickly turned over, and backed out of his retreat, to be at once soaked through by the driving rain.
The Scud was rising and falling on the waves with mighty thuds, tugging at the cable like a spirited horse eager to be off, and even as the boy stood there, transfixed with amazement, the rope parted, and the liberated boat shot swiftly down the river with the wind and tide.
Then Jamie rushed to the stern, thinking he might be able to steer the yacht in such a way that she would speedily be blown ashore; but with a thrill of terror he discovered that there was no tiller on board, nor even an oar or boat-hook to take its place, and thus, the rudder was rendered practically useless. The next instant a zigzag flame lit up the darkened heavens with its awful light, followed by a succession of thunder-claps, which sent Jamie back under the deck with a heart that nearly failed him as he realized how helpless he was.
The river was a broad one, and not particularly deep, except in the channel, although now that the tide had only been falling for about an hour there was not much hope of the Scud running aground anywhere near home. Faster and faster she drifted, or rather sailed along, until Jamie, unable to longer lie there in suspense, came out from his refuge, and, prepared to face the worst, gazed out upon the wild scene about him.
There was not a boat to be seen, with the exception of a schooner running down the river before the gale in the direction of the sea. The sea! Yes, it was only five miles off; and as Jamie recollected the fact, it seemed as if there must be something he could do to check his swift, dashing course toward it.
But he was quite powerless, and the Scud went whirling on, now bow first, now sidewise, yet ever moving on toward the ocean, between which and it there now loomed up the draw-bridge.
With wide-open, anxious eyes Jamie gazed at the latter as the schooner passed safely through, wondering in a dazed sort of way if the keeper would see him before he closed the draw.
"But how can I be sure of not missing it, even if it is open?"
The question was a momentous one, and, alas! how difficult to answer! And still onward sped the Scud, swiftly nearing the spot that now seemed more terrible to Jamie than the ocean itself.
The man had evidently seen him, for the draw remained wide open, but already the course of the boat was tending in such a way that a collision with the bridge appeared to be almost inevitable. Jamie sprang to the stern, and made a desperate effort to turn the rudder-post with his hands, but all in vain.
The bridge-keeper had by this time perceived the full extent of the lad's peril, but he could do nothing to help him—could only stand there on the draw with straining eyes fixed on the Scud.
Yet would the shock really be great enough to harm him? Jamie wondered; and for an instant or two he thought that the bridge might be the means of saving him from a worse fate, for perhaps the boat would remain unhurt, and he could manage to clamber up by the spiles. Then he noticed how rapidly he was passing each landmark on shore, and felt the full force of the gale as he turned to face it.
"The Scud can never stand it," he cried aloud in his excitement. "She's so old and leaky that at the first jar her timbers will give way, and I—"
But he was almost there now, and Jamie closed his eyes for an instant, as he fell to wondering vaguely whether the bridge-keeper would ever find him, or if he would be swept out to sea with the wreck. Then there came a sudden shock, which threw him from his feet, and caused him to put up his hands as if to ward off the mast, which he felt must now crash down upon him.
But nothing of the kind occurred, and venturing to raise his head, Jamie saw that the boat had not yet reached the bridge, and what was stranger still, remained stationary, with the spray dashing over its decks in great sheets. And now he understood it all: the Scud had run aground, and just in time too, for the bridge was less than ten feet distant.
All was safe, then, for as the tide was falling, the boat would undoubtedly remain where it was until the gale should subside, and Jamie could be taken off. Meantime, after shouting to the bridge-keeper to send some one out to him as soon as it was possible to do so, he crept under the deck and awaited the end of the storm. This was not long in coming, and soon the stout arms of a hardy fisherman lifted Jamie's chilled and dripping form from the Scud, in which he had sailed in spite of all, and he was rowed over to the beach in time to take the same train back in which his father was returning from the city.
"An' am dat you or yer ghost, Mas'r Jamie?" exclaimed the colored coachman, as they got into the carriage at the station. "There's yer pore ma at home lookin' up an' down de ribber as white as yerself, an' Miss Marian, she am dat scared 'bout yer dat—"
"But where was she all the time?" eagerly interrupted the boy, as his father took the reins from Pomp, and started the horses at their liveliest pace. "Why didn't she or somebody come out after me?"
"Why," replied Pomp, as he feasted his eyes on Jamie, sitting there in flesh and blood between himself and Mr. Trenwick, "yer see she went on dat ride wid Miss Mamie, an' dey was jist goin' to turn roun' an' come home, when de storm broke ober 'em. An' Miss Mamie's pony he am powerful 'fraid o' thunder, so dey couldn't jist do nothin' at all wid him,' cept drive into a barn 'long de road an' wait for clar weather. An' Miss Marian, she say she wur a-frettin' 'bout yer all de time, although she tink of course you had seen de storm a-comin' an' hollered to de gardener or somebody roun' dar (yer ma an' me bein' out wid de kerridge). An' when she come home an' find dat de Scud wur gone an' you in it, yer should hab seen her an' yer ma take on, like— But yer can see 'em now, tank de Lord!" added the good soul, as the team dashed up to the piazza, and Jamie sprang into his mother's arms, with Marian sobbing for joy on his damp jacket.
A fine art, like painting, music, embroidery or sculpture? Yes, my dears, and an art which involves as much industry, skill, and taste as any of the others. Good cooking is an important element in home life and happiness. Health depends upon it, for nobody can be well and strong who suffers from indigestion, and nothing causes indigestion sooner than ill-cooked food.
Many people think that while a girl must go to school for years to acquire a knowledge of her own and foreign languages, and must have masters for this and that accomplishment, she may be safely left to pick up an acquaintance with cooking after she has a household of her own. This is a great mistake, as hundreds of ladies who remember the trouble they have had through want of experience can tell you. I myself once had a dreadful time trying to prepare a dinner, in the absence of my faithful Bridget, and I would have given up Latin, Greek, and French that day to have known when the potatoes were done, and to have discovered how to get the pease and beans out of the water in which they were floating.
To be a good cook, girls, one needs a light, firm hand, an accurate eye, and a patient temper. One needs, too, a few rules and a trustworthy receipt-book. We have all seen the easy way in which a good cook makes a cake. She tosses three or four things together, gives a flirt of the spice box, and a feathery touch or two to her foamy eggs, pops the pan into the oven, and presto! there appears the perfect loaf. And if you ask her why and how she did this or the other part of her work, she will very likely smile and say, "Oh, I used my judgment."
This judgment is the quality which no novice in cooking can expect to possess, just as no novice on the piano can perform the "Moonlight Sonata" after learning two or three scales, and no beginner with the pencil can paint such sea-pieces as those of De Haas.
But if you are watchful and persevering, the judgment will surely come, and by-and-by you will be as independent as a dear old colored aunty who once cooked for me. One day when I had asked some friends, and wanted a very nice dinner indeed, I asked Aunt Hannah how she intended to prepare the turkey. She raised herself to her full height, and looking like a queen, said, "Now, honey, you jest go 'long and sit by de fire. It's my business to cook de dinner, an' it'll be yours to eat it, chile."
Have your receipt-books, at least until you know certain rules by heart, and minutely follow their directions. Still, as no receipt-book can tell you just when bread is light or precisely when meat is done, you must watch whatever you are cooking very carefully, and you will gradually acquire a sort of sense which will not fail you.
One of the things you must learn if you wish to cook successfully is the management of your fire. A range is a splendid servant if under proper control; but unless you understand dampers and draughts, you will probably have no end of trouble with your ovens. The skillful cook keeps her fire raked clear of ashes from beneath. She never heaps coals up so high that they over-brim the fire-chamber and rattle against the lids, and she does not let her heat go up the chimney when it ought to be baking her biscuits.
Try your oven with the thermometer. Miss Juliet Corson says that a good temperature for baking meat is from 320° to 400° Fahr. Beef and mutton require about twenty minutes to the pound, and you may tell when they are done, and how much, by pressing the surface with the finger. Rare or little-cooked meat will spring back from the touch. There will be little resistance if it is quite well done, and none at all if it is baked thoroughly.
In baking bread, which is, I think, the real test of a cook's merits, a great deal depends on the kneading. You can not knead bread too long or too often, and the more it is kneaded, by which I mean rolled over and pounded with the clinched fist, the finer and closer-grained it will be.
If you have never made bread, ask mamma to let you try, and then, if once or twice she will stand by, and show you how to sift the flour, how to heap the right quantity into a deep pan, and make a hollow in the middle, into which you shall pour your lukewarm water, your yeast, your wee bit of sugar, and your spoonful of salt, following this by enough tepid water to make a soft dough, you will not require her instructions often. The art of making bread once learned is never forgotten. And how proud papa will be the first time he eats a slice of his daughter's home-made bread!
Whatever else you omit, girls, do not omit to learn to prepare food properly; for
"You may live without friends, you may live without books,
But civilized man can not live without cooks."
THE SPRING CONCERT.
Did you ever play rackets? If not, come and have a game with me. But first we must understand the court and the implements.
Here we have a picture of the racket-court on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Sixth Avenue, New York city. The figures are those of the two markers, whose business it is to keep the score. The court is eighty feet long by forty feet wide. The front wall is thirty feet high, and the back twelve. Over this wall there are galleries for the spectators. These you can not see in the picture, as they form the point of sight. The floor of the court is divided by a line from side to side, and where this line meets the side walls there are quarter-circles marked. These are called the service courts; there is also another line dividing the nearer half of the court. The spaces on either side of this line are called the right and left courts. The front wall to the height of twenty-six inches is covered by a wooden board. And seven feet from the floor there runs a line, over which every served ball must be struck. The walls and sides of the court are of brick and plaster, hard and smooth.
The rackets, or bats, have handles about two feet long, and their frames are strung with catgut. They are much smaller than tennis bats. The balls are of white leather, very hard, and tightly sewn, and little more than an inch in diameter. The game is played by either two or four persons. If by four, two play on a side. Let us have a single-handed game, you and I, so that we may understand it more easily. I will begin.
I go to the right-hand service court, and throwing up the ball, I strike it with the racket so that it bounds back into the left-hand court, in which you stand ready to receive it. If I fail to strike over the line, or play the ball so that it does not bound back into the left court, it is a fault. Two faults would put me out. But now, see, I give my racket a sweep, cutting the ball rather than striking it. The effect of this is that when the ball strikes the wall it does not rise, but returns at a low angle. Now it has bounded, and you strike it back, before its second bound, on to the front wall. After the service you are not bound to strike any higher than the twenty-six inches of wood. If you strike the wood, the ace counts to me, or if you fail to return the ball on to the front wall, it counts to me, and I score one. Then I go over to the other service court, and serve again, so that the ball returns into the right-hand court, and so on, until one of us fails. If you fail to return the ball properly, it counts another ace to me; but if I fail, it does not count one to you, but simply puts me out, and you go in and serve. Only the server can add to his score. The one who first scores fifteen aces, or points, wins the game.
This seems very easy, does it not? But if you take the racket you will find it is not so easy as it looks. There are several tricks in the game, the object of which is to make your opponent's return difficult if not impossible. Thus, sometimes a player will volley a ball—that is, strike it before it has bounded—and, playing it downward just a few inches above the wood, it will bound downward, and touch the floor where it can not be reached, or a player will strike very low, so as to produce the same effect. I should have mentioned that you are not bound to strike the front wall first. You may play off the side walls, and sometimes by this play make it very difficult indeed for your adversary to return the ball. Thus, if you play on to the side wall at an angle of anything like forty-five degrees, the ball will take a similar angle off the front and side walls, and never come down to the end of the court where the players stand at all.
There is another point to be learned—the science of twist. If you strike the ball very low, cutting it with the racket held with the face slanting, it will give a twisting movement to the ball, so that the return will not come off at the usual angle, but in a very unexpected manner. This makes it very difficult for the other player to know where to place himself to receive the stroke. The French, who are great racket-players, have a saying, "La balle cherche le bon joueur" (the ball seeks the good player). In point of fact, the really good player, the moment a ball is struck, places himself so that the ball comes to him. Nothing marks more clearly the difference between good and bad players than ability in this respect.
When four players play together, they play, as I have said, two on a side. Each side goes in alternately. One player on one side serves until he is put out, and then his partner serves until he is put out. Then the other side goes in, and so on. The non-strikers are bound to get out of the way. If they in any way embarrass a striker, it is called a "let," and counts for nothing.
The Spring Handicap Championship games were lately held at the Racket Club. There were thirty-eight entries, divided into first and second class, with a prize for each class. In order to make the chances of the good and the bad players as nearly equal as possible, the good ones gave odds to the bad ones. Thus Mr. Allen, who is one of the best players in the club, was put down as "scratch," that is, he received no odds. Mr. Leavitt and another gentleman were in the same position. After these, all the other players received odds—one or more aces, for instance, or an "extra hand."
There is scarcely any game in which difference of skill is so apparent as in rackets. Luck or chance has but little to do with it. The great art is, the moment a ball is struck on to the front wall, to judge exactly where it will return, and to get in that particular spot.
Quickness in getting over the court is another great point. Short, quick steps are better than a run, as they are more easily checked. With good players in the court, the game is almost as exciting to witness as to play. The constant movement, the volleys, the rallies, the drops, twists, and cuts, succeeding one another rapidly, require all the observer's attention. For affording the greatest amount of exercise in the shortest time there is no game like rackets.
uring the time spent by Murray with Rita in the lodge, Steve Harrison found his position a little awkward. The chiefs had by far too much dignity to consult with so young a brave, especially as he had not even one of the "Talking Leaves" to listen to. He knew that not only Dolores and Ni-ha-be, but half a dozen other squaws, old and young, were staring at him, and he could not understand a word of the low-voiced remarks they made. He was very glad, therefore, when his friend once more appeared, and he saw by the light on his face that he had no unpleasant news to bring.
"What find?" asked Many Bears. "Send Warning and Rita hear anything?"
"Hear a little. Send Warning will take the Leaves to his own lodge and hear more."
"What say now? Hear about big talk with blue-coat pale-faces?"
"Tell you what I think."
"The chief is listening."
"Break up village. Move west right away. More news come soon. Hear about treaty when you see the lodges of your own people. No time to lose."
That advice agreed so exactly with the notions of Many Bears that he was ready to accept it at once. He turned to his two councillors triumphantly.
"What did I tell you? It is wisdom. We will go. Tell the braves to get ready. Tell all the squaws to pack up. Send on hunting braves. Good many. Kill plenty meat."
There was no opposition.
The only objection that could reasonably be raised was that so sudden a departure gave no opportunity for a grand celebration of their victory over the Lipans. They could attend to that, however, some other time.
"Come, Steve," said Murray. "We want an hour by ourselves."
They were quickly inside their own lodge, and were sure there were no listeners.
"Steve!"
"What is it, Murray?"
"That little girl is my own daughter!"
"I've suspected it. And this was the very band of Apaches that broke up your home and your mine."
"Yes, and it is a wonder they have not recognized me. If Apaches of some other band were to join them, some of them might remember me. They have seen me in more than one of their fights with the Lipans."
"It would be all over with us then."
"Of course it would. I am dressed differently, to be sure. I can change a little more. Must crop my hair and beard closer. They know me for a long-bearded old man; I must turn myself into a short-haired young one."
"Can't you dye your hair?"
"Not until we get to the settlements. There are no barbers among the Apaches."
"How will we ever get her away, Murray?"
"Oh, my girl! my poor, dear little girl! I dare not think about my wife. No wonder my hair is white. Steve, I must not let her live and die among these wild people. They have been kind to her, she says, and I do not hate them so much, now I know that; but she shall not be an Indian."
He was getting feverishly excited, and Steve replied:
"Now, Murray, of course we will get her away. Haven't you some plan?"
"Only to draw the whole band nearer the frontier or nearer to some fort or other."
"That's good. We would have a shorter distance to run if we should escape."
"Now, Steve, I'm all upset and unstrung. That's the reason I came in here. I've got to get my wits about me again, or I can't plan anything."
"Sit down and read."
"Read? Do you suppose I could do that just now? Why, Steve, I've found my little daughter."
"So you have. I don't wonder you're excited. I am myself. Here, give me a magazine. I'd like to find out how much of my reading will come back."
Murray handed him one and Steve sat down. He had been fond of books in the days before he was captured by the Lipans. He had not forgotten his reading at all, and it came back to him in a way that made his heart jump. But that was after he had made a great effort, and driven away the faces of Rita and Ni-ha-be.
Both of them would somehow come between his eyes and the paper of those printed pages at first. Both of them were such nice, pretty, well-behaved girls, and yet one of them was white, the daughter of his friend Murray, and the other was only a poor little squaw of the Apaches.
Murray picked up a magazine and sat down. "It will do for a sort of medicine," he muttered. "I may learn something from it, too. The world has changed a great deal since I have had newspapers or magazines to read. There may be some new nations in it for all I know, and there surely must be a new lot of Kings and Queens and Presidents, and all that sort of thing."
It was that thought which made him turn over a little carelessly all the illustrated articles and the stories until he came to the "news of the month" among the Leaves at the end.
There he began actually to read and read closely, for it was all new to him, although the magazine in question was several months old. There was a good deal told in a short space, for the editor had condensed everything into the fewest words possible.
At the same time, it must have been a remarkable news item that could make a man of steady nerve bound suddenly to his feet, and hold that magazine out at arm's-length.
"Why, Murray!" said Steve, "what can be the matter?"
"Matter? My dear boy, read that! Rita is an heiress."
"What?"
Steve certainly had good reason for thinking that his friend had lost his wits, but he took the "Talking Leaves" held out to him, and read the few lines to which Murray's finger pointed.
"The great English estate of Cranston Hall, with a baronetcy, is waiting for an heir. The late baronet left no children, and his only brother, to whom the title and all descend, was last heard of in America. He is believed to have been interested in mining in the far West, and the lawyers are hunting for him."
"Well," said Murray, when Steve ceased reading, "what do you think of that?"
"I don't know exactly what to think. Your name is Murray."
"Robert Cranston Murray, as my father's was before[Pg 364] me. It was because he left me only my name that I left England to seek my fortune. Oh, Steve, I must find my way back now! Rita will be the lady of Cranston Hall."
"Instead of the squaw of some Apache horse-stealer."
Steve felt a little like dancing and a good deal like tossing up his hat and venting his feelings by a good hurrah, but the next thought was a sober one.
"How are we ever to get them to give up Rita?"
Murray was thinking the same thought just then, and it seemed to him as if he must go out to the door of the lodge for a little breath of fresh air. The chief and his councillors were nowhere to be seen, but there was Mother Dolores by the camp fire. Murray tried hard to assume a calm and steady face and voice as he strode forward and stood beside her. He spoke to her in Spanish.
"Well, Dolores, which do you like best, cooking for Mexican miners or for the great chief?"
"SHE DROPPED HER STEW-PAN AND STOOD LOOKING AT HIM."
She dropped her stew-pan, and stood looking at him for a moment, drawing her breath hard, and then she exclaimed:
"I was right. It is Seņor Murray. Ah, seņor, it is so long ago! The poor seņora—"
"Don't speak of her. I know. We found her. My Rita?"
"Yes, she is your Rita. But they will kill you if you tell them. I will keep your secret, seņor. I have kept it until now."
She had dimly recognized him, then, and she too had been in doubt what to do or say. In answer to a few more questions she told him, very truly, that she had been better off among the Apaches than before she was captured. Less hard work, better treatment, better food, better position, just about as much real civilization. Poor Dolores had never known anything much better than the hard lot of a Mexican woman of the lower class among the rough miners. It was better, she said, to be the wife of a chief, and have plenty to eat and little hard work to do.
"But about Rita?"
"If you had your mine, now, and your great droves of horses—"
"What could I do?"
"Do, Seņor Murray? Why, you could buy half the young squaws in the village if you had husbands for them. But you are poor now. I suppose it can not be done."
It was no wonder he had not thought of it before. It was so strange a thing to propose. That a father should buy his daughter!
He turned from her and strode back to his own lodge to see what Steve would say.
"He's a mere boy, but he seems to have a great deal of sense."
Steve's remark, after he had heard about Dolores and her idea, was simply: "That's nothing new, is it? If we can't run away with her, we can ransom her."
"Ransom? Well, now, that's a great deal better word than buy. But our gold coin won't do. They won't take the whole pile for her. They don't really understand the value of it."
"They want ponies and blankets and all that?"
"That's it. Why, Steve, it's the queerest thing. I'm so excited I can't think. If we can make a bargain with them, they'll be glad enough to go with us to the nearest trading post. We can buy all we want when we get there. You've helped me out of my scrape."
"Seems to me it was easy enough to think of that."
It may have been, but Murray felt very grateful to Steve.
The latter now put down his magazine, and went to the door in his turn, for he too had a large amount of thinking to do.
"Murray, they are taking down the lodges again."
"Going forward to-night, eh? I'm glad of that. I must spur old Many Bears up to it. Don't want him to lose a day on the road."
"Nor I, either. They'll move slowly enough anyhow."
"Oh, they'll find a good place to leave the village, while the chiefs and warriors go on to be present at the treaty talk."
"Suppose there isn't any?"
"There's pretty sure to be something of the kind at this season of the year. Anyhow, we will get them to a place where we can buy ponies and blankets, and we will have Rita with us."
Murray felt it very hard that he could not send for her at once, and tell her all about his plans for her release. Yes, and about the beautiful English home to which he meant to take her, away beyond the great salt sea she had never seen.
SPRING AND FALL STYLES FOR BOYS.
Come, dears, gather around the Postmistress, while she has a moment to look at you, and let her see how many merry faces she can count in the throng. There are some which are paler than they should be—little Gustave's, for instance; but no wonder, for he has been very, very ill, so that the house was all hushed on his account, and papa and mamma were afraid they would have to say good-by to their darling boy. But God answered their prayers, and now he is getting well fast, and soon will be as strong as ever. Here is Phœbe, who sends her love, but does not know how to write a letter. Never mind, dear; the love is the best part of any letter, and you will learn all about the rest when you are older. There are Kitty, Molly, Ted, Margaret, Frank, Bobby, and Jack, and ever so many more. The Postmistress knows your names by heart, and is sure she would know you if she happened to meet you on the way to school some bright spring morning.
She wonders if you would be willing to share your luncheon with her, and let her peep into your school-books. She doesn't wear spectacles, and she hasn't seven-league boots, but her eyes are pretty sharp, and she thinks she could walk as fast on her feet as Robin A. says he can on stilts, and she would not need more than one glance at a girl's exercise to know whether the little lady did her best,
Or did not work,
And tried to shirk.
And now for our letters, children.
Wayne, Illinois.
I am a little girl seven years old. I have a doll; her name is Amy. My papa bought me some calico, and I am making her a dress, and mamma says it is done nicely for the first one. Papa went to St. Charles yesterday, and bought me some card-board and worsted, and I think it will keep me busy for some time. I can work my name. I hope my letter will be printed.
Alice M. K.
We thank Miss L. C. for her kindness in sending us the nice little budget of letters from her pupils. They were all of nearly equal merit, and those children whose letters are not printed may be sure that we liked them just as well as we did that of Allie D., which follows:
State Centre, Iowa.
Our reading class have been reading out of Harper's Young People instead of our Readers this term, and I like it very much. In No. 114 was a very interesting article on the sponge, and for our examination last month we had to write a composition on it. In No. 117 was a very interesting article on the cigarette. I think if boys and men knew what is in cigars and cigarettes, they would not smoke them. Just think of men and boys smoking cigars that are made up of stubs that are found in gutters in large cities! I think some of your puzzles are very interesting. I like the monogram puzzle very much. You have had some very pretty illustrations in your papers, especially the "Little Dreamer," which is pretty enough for an oil-painting. I have not been very much interested in the "Talking Leaves," because we did not have the first numbers; but we are waiting very patiently for the next story by Mr. Otis.
Allie D.
Pictou, Nova Scotia.
I am a little boy living in Pictou, Nova Scotia, in the Dominion of Canada. Papa takes your paper for me and sister Eliza, and we like it immensely, as we hear some people say about anything they like very much. It is now winter with us; we have a heavy fall of snow on the ground, and it is banked up as high as the windows at our house. The harbor is frozen over altogether down as far as the light-house, about three miles from town, outside of which it hardly ever freezes, but is open all winter. Some parts of our harbor are three miles wide, other places one mile. The ice is now about one foot thick, and carries horses and sleds with large loads of coal. It is marked in many directions with long rows of trees not very far apart, which were put into holes in the ice when it was about four inches thick, and having frozen there, they stand quite firmly. They are for guiding people on stormy days and nights, when they can not see from shore to shore.
There are extensive coal mines about eight miles from us. Some of them are very deep under-ground, but others are not, but the coal is brought up a slope in wagons on wheels. I was up last winter, and saw the men and boys that work in the mines. They were terribly black with coal dust. Each of them carries a safety-lamp, which gives but a feeble light in such dark places. I was up two winters ago, and saw one of the places for myself. At one of the largest mines, about two years ago, there was an explosion, which killed forty men, and ruined the mine. It has never been worked since. For days and days you could see great clouds of smoke rising toward the skies from where we live. Our town is not large; there are only 4000 people in it. But we have some fine houses and public buildings. We have a $20,000 brick and stone academy, with 200 students. We have a railway connecting us with other places in the Dominion and the United States. My papa has travelled a good deal; he has been in Boston several times, and in New York and Philadelphia. He was at the Exhibition there in 1876. He thinks it was a bigger show than Barnum's Circus, which was here some years ago. I wish I could visit your great city, and see the East River Bridge, and the elevated railway, and Broadway, and all the other great sights.
Willie M. H.
Brooklyn, New York.
I don't believe that any of the subscribers of Harper's Young People enjoy reading it more than I do, though I can not read much for fear of hurting my eyes, so I read a little every day. When I was sick papa read it to me, as I could not read it then. I wish Mr. Otis would hurry, and give us the story he promised. I like Jenny Wren, or "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker," the best of any story in a long while. I have no little pets. Like a great many, I go to school, and have to study my lessons quite hard to know them. I received a very handsome album for advertisement cards Christmas. I hope my letter will be printed. Mamma says it will not, and I said it would; so please put it in the paper. I never wrote before.
Camille P.
No doubt the girls will all laugh with pleasure, and the boys throw up their caps with delight, when they see that Mr. Stubbs's Brother makes his bow in this very number. We expect he will be rather more popular than poor Mr. Stubbs, and that is saying a great deal. The story is very bright and entertaining, and Mr. Otis could not write a dull one if he tried, could he, children?
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
I am eight years old, and papa writes for me what I say in this letter. I have a doll, dressed in baby clothes, called Daisy. Mamma knit a pretty afghan for her of pink and white. She goes to sleep under it in her carriage. Mamma knit her a hammock. I have a larger doll, who is Daisy's mamma; her name is Violet. She has a muff and hat and shawl; the muff is made of cotton flannel, trimmed with silk. My boy doll Ray is the baby's papa. The baby doll's aunt, Doll Elsie, gave me Harper's Young People for a Christmas present.
Edna.
Shrewsbury, New Jersey.
I am a little girl eight years old, and have taken your nice paper for two years, and like it very much. This morning a dog came into our shed, and we let him into our house; he was a beautiful dog, with great long white silky hair, and great black spots over him; his ears were just as black and silky as could be. You said to tell about our pets and dolls, so I will. I have no pets except an old puss, which I love dearly—his name is Jack—but I have a lovely waxen doll with flaxen hair; her dress is of light blue satin and plum-color mixed; it is trimmed with lace. My papa is a traveller, and is away eight months a year; Please put this in the Post-office Box.
Annie L. P.
One night we all were at the supper table. We were in a very bad humor, and did not know what to do with ourselves, and in a minute or two Aunt Sue said, "When we get up stairs we will have a growling party." We thought that would be a very good plan, as our aunts and grandma and mamma did not like noise at the table. So after supper we went up to the little sitting-room, and mamma told me to begin. I told them my collar was very stiff (to tell the truth, when Aunt Sue said a "growling party," I thought we were going to howl all the time). They all thought that was very funny, and asked me what else. I said that was all. Then they asked my sister Lucy what was the matter with her. She said she had the toothache and ear-ache and headache. Then mamma said she had a pain, and she might have something else. Then Aunt Sue said her head hurt, and Aunt Nell said her feet hurt, and Aunt Bessie said she had a sick headache. At last we began to laugh at so much misery, and that put us in a good humor right away. Now, whenever we are in a bad humor, we have a growling-party, for this is all a true story.
Helen D. F. (nine years old).
Please read Aunt Edna's letter, children. You will find it worth thinking about, and we slip it in like a sandwich between your own letters, instead of printing it in the column with the treasurer's report about the Cot, because we want you to pay attention to what this kind lady has to say.
To my dear little "Cot" Friends,—I want to write and tell you something very funny about the "mite chest" in our ward. You remember I told you I put one there; and last Ash-Wednesday—the first day of Lent, as many of you know—I thought I would take out what money was in it, so as to empty it again at Easter, when it would all be Lenten offerings. Sister Catherine told me when I went into the hospital that measles had broken out in our ward, and the little children had all been taken out. Those with the measles were put in a large room at the top of the house, so that they would be away from the rest, and the others were taken to a ward across the hall, and there I found Robert McGee, the little boy I told you of, who was to be in our Cot that is to be. He was just as merry as ever, and put his fat little legs out of the covers to show me how nice and straight they looked. As the mite chest had not taken the measles, I went into our ward to see how it was getting on. The room was very still, windows wide open at either end, the little beds unmade, with the mattresses turned over to air, and little red flannel socks or wrappers hanging on the posts of each crib. The only occupants of the ward were several large dolls, sitting quietly in their chairs, and to judge from their pale faces, they had not taken the measles. However, they did not seem to feel like talking—perhaps they were lonely without their little companions—so I left them, and went to our mite chest. As I took it up, a few pennies rattled, but that was all. But still it seemed to be full of something; so, looking closely, I found it was filled with little scraps of worsted. Some little hand, I imagine, thought the opening at the top looked inviting, so put in the worsted, and no doubt thought it fine fun; but we who are older, and know more, know very well that scraps of worsted won't endow our Cot. So while we will not trouble these little ones who put them there and enjoyed it, no doubt, as it helped to amuse and keep them from fretting while sick, we will work all the harder; we who can run, jump, and play heartily out-of-doors will try and think more of these little ones, ill and suffering, many of whom will never again be able to run, or play, but may have to suffer pain as long as they live.
Now, my dear little friends, I want to ask you all—those who have done so well thus far (and many of you have worked bravely)—not to stop yet; and those who have not yet begun to help us, to do so at once; for, remember we will have to do our share, and also the share of the little ones who give us only scraps of worsted.
Hoping all will do their best; I must say good-by, with love from
Aunt Edna.
New York, March, 1882.
My father has a dog named Jeff. Harry, our little brother, will say, "Come, Jeff, take a ride." Jeff will jump into the wagon, Harry will pin a shawl around him, and he will sit and ride until Harry tires of drawing him. It is a comical sight to see those two going about the garden, Jeff sitting straight up with a shawl on, looking so patient.
Not long since Jeff had a sore foot. The first we knew of it he would keep coming in to us and holding one foot up. Sister got a pail of quite hot water, and put his foot in. He looked thankful for having it done. After soaking it long enough, we put some liniment on it, and bandaged it up. Thinking he was all right, we went up to our rooms; but as soon as Jeff found we had gone, he began to cry and whine dreadfully, so we came down and made him a new bed, and covered him. After leaving him, we heard no more from him that night.
For a week or more it was a comical sight to see him limp about the house on three legs, but out-of-doors he would run on all fours well enough. The very instant he entered the door, up would go one foot, not always the same that had been sore—he seemed to forget which one had been. We would say, "Jeff, that is not your lame foot." He would look ashamed, and walk off, only to return and look up at us; he would whine[Pg 367] until spoken kindly to. Sometimes we would shake his paw, when he would walk away perfectly satisfied.
One of Jeff's Friends.
Custer City, Pennsylvania.
Glad to see my other letter in a book—the print not so big as mine, though. I sent it to Uncle Joe 'way off in California. He wrote me a poetry postal when I was a little fellow only a month old. That was ever so long 'go, but I have it yet; and some gold sand and lumps and stones that came to me from him.
I got a valentine of two gooses; one has a eye-glass on.
They torpedo oil wells here to break the oil loose from the stones. It flies more'n a hundred feet high, and sprinkles in the air, and looks like wet sunshine.
The girls and boys that send letters have dolls and cats to put in. Well, I have a dog, too, only it is brown cloth sewed 'round a lot of cotton. It looks 'zactly like a true dog, but its legs is so straight it can't run and bark.
Papa says you won't print two times 'bout me. Won't you 'bout Uncle Joe and the woollen dog anyway? It's nearly seven years old too, but I can read in the First Reader, and make letters like the ones here.
Joe A. V.
We think we would like your woolly dog much better, Joe, than we do a woolly one which belongs to a young lady we know, and keeps us awake at night by howling while his mistress is absent at a party or concert. Yours, we presume, is very well behaved.
Little friends who send us puzzles will please remember that they must always send the answers at the same time they inclose puzzles. Little folks who find our puzzles out must not omit their names, as we like to give them credit for their clever wits.
My Lady's Toilet.—This is a pretty game for a number of children to play some rainy day at recess when they can not go out of doors. To each of the performers is given the name of an article of dress. Chairs are placed for all the party except one, so as to leave one chair too few. All seat themselves but one, who is called the lady's-maid, and who stands in the centre. When the maid calls for any article of dress, the one who has that name instantly rises, repeats the word, and seats herself again directly. For instance, the maid says:
"My lady's up, and wants her dress."
"Dress!" says the one who hears that name, rising as she speaks, and sitting down again very quickly.
"My lady's up, and wants her brush."
"Brush!" says Brush, jumping up in a hurry, and sitting down again.
"My lady's up, and wants her handkerchief, watch, and chain."
Handkerchief, Watch, and Chain spring up together, and repeat their names.
"My lady's up, and wants her whole toilet."
At this every one must rise and change chairs. This makes necessary a general scramble, in which some little player is left standing without any chair. This person must take the place of lady's-maid.
Paul.—"Red tape" is used to tie official documents, and as there is often considerable delay in obtaining decisions from courts and public offices, people have come to speak of "too much red tape" as a convenient way of saying that things are not going on as fast as they would like.
Annie M.—School-girls make a great mistake, dear, in wishing to be young ladies too soon. If they could see how perfectly charming their lives look to older persons, and if they realized what delightful times they are having, they would not be in such haste to grow up. The Postmistress advises you to wear your hair in simple braids, to be contented with the pretty dresses your mother provides for you, and to wait until you shall have left school before you assume jewelry and gay ornaments.
We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to an interesting article on botany, by Mrs. Herrick, entitled "Flowers in Fancy Dress." The girls—many of whom, we know, are anxious to master all the secrets of housekeeping—will be glad to read what Aunt Marjorie Precept has to say on the "Fine Art of Cooking." The boys will be interested in Mr. Hardwick's description of the game of "Rackets."
Once more we have pleasure in presenting the monthly report of the treasurer of the fund for Young People's Cot. We trust our little readers will remember our hint about devoting an Easter offering to this beautiful charity.
We print a selection from the letters received by Miss E. Augusta Fanshawe, to whom contributions for the Cot should always be sent.
Dayton, Ohio.
I am a little boy only nine years old. Papa has taken Harper's Young People for us ever since the first number. We have two volumes bound. I have two sisters and one brother. I thought I would like to send something for the Cot, so here is a dollar. I earned it myself by doing errands.
Percy W. Hyers.
Madison, New Jersey.
Inclosed you will find a check for three dollars, which is a contribution from my little girl, Mary Louise Anderson, for the Young People's Cot. She has earned this money herself within a few weeks by drinking her milk and taking her medicine. For nine weeks she has been in bed. Before Christmas she was taken ill with typhoid fever, from which in four weeks she had recovered sufficiently to sit up a few hours every day. Then she had a relapse, followed by what seemed at first to be neuralgia, but which has proved to be a slight inflammation of the hip-joint. She has been a great sufferer, but is more comfortable now. She has not been out of bed for nearly four weeks, and has an extension on her limb and a weight of three pounds. We hope she will be quite well in a month or perhaps longer, but still it is all a matter of hope. During her illness she was once so near death that it seemed but a matter of moments when she would go. I fear I have trespassed upon your time in thus writing, but you will understand that this money is a real offering of love and peculiar sympathy. My little girl was eight years old on the first day of January.
Mary's Mother.
It was very sweet in little Mary to forget her own great pain in trying to provide for the comfort of some other little sufferers in days to come. We hope she will very soon indeed be perfectly well again.
Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
We inclose $1.50 for the Young People's Cot. We have been saving this money for a long time. We could have sent it sooner, only every now and then we see something that we want, and we take a few pennies to buy it. When we do take any money for ourselves, though, we are 'most always sorry. We feel very sorry for the little ones who are sick and have no pleasant homes. We are much interested in all the letters about the Cot. We hope you will soon have enough money to put a little boy or girl in the Cot. We will try to save some more money to send. We have a pet bird; he is very tame. Good-by.
Charlotte C.
Eleanor B. C.
Fort Union, New Mexico.
My papa gave me a dollar to buy a pair of slippers, and I thought I would do without them, and send the money to Young People's Cot.
Margaret R. McNamara.
Brooklyn, New York.
I send you twenty-five cents, which I have earned myself, for the Young People's Cot. I will send more by-and-by, as I earn it, for mamma says little people should earn the money they send. I want to help reach the "clump of elms." I feel so sorry for the little sick children. I like Young People so much!
Bessie W.
Contributions received for Young People's Cot, in Holy Innocent's Ward, St. Mary's Free Hospital for Children, 407 West Thirty-fourth Street:
Isabel Ross and Ethelwynne Kate Maclean, Winnipeg, Manitoba, $3; Laura May and Albert C. Davies, Marion, Iowa, $1; M. Fannie and Thomas B. Peck, Jun., New York, $5; Mrs. S. Lawrence, New York, $5; Margaret R. McNamara, Fort Union, New Mexico, $1; Bessie W., Brooklyn, 25c.; Mary Louise Anderson, Madison, $3' Eddie N. and Arthur M. Anketell, New Haven, 28c.; Rev. G. G. Carter, New York, $5; Percy W. Hyers, Dayton, Ohio, $1; Josephine W. Kingsland, New York, 50c.; Wallace Morgan, New York, 50c.; Mrs. G. G. Carter's Sunday-school Class, Church of the Transfiguration, $4; Charlotte and Eleanor B. Campbell, Milwaukee, $1.50; M. J. C., 25c.; from "Mamma and Willie," New York, $5.10; A Little Boy and Girl from Cuba, $2; Anna M. Buzzell, Barrington, Vt., 10c.; Worthington S. Tilford, St. Albans, Vt., $1; total, $39.48. Previously acknowledged, $258.04; grand total, March 15, $297.52.
Received from Samuel Lee Ingram, Missouri, two pictures; and from Florence R. Hall, Woodbury, N. J., one doll.
E. Augusta Fanshawe, Treasurer, 43 New St.
1. Hidden Trees.—1. Will you help Amy? 2. That is a high crib. 3. Even I prefer the other. 4. I am less studious than you are.
2. Hidden Places.—1. It is strange no abler advocate could be found to plead this cause. 2. Was that a knock? It Is papa, then, surely. 3. At a barbecue they have roasted ox for dinner. 4. O ma, haven't I been good to-day? The teacher marked me only once.
B. J. L.
1. A famous African tree. 2. A great white water-lily. 3. To recede. 4. A small fort. 5. Shining with shifting color. 6. The American ostrich. 7. A young unfledged hawk. Primals and finals are two favorite spring flowers.
Mother Bunch.
| 1. I am a rascal. Behead me, I am soldiers' quarters. |
| 2. I am a garment. Behead me, I am a grain. |
| 3. I am a tiny spot. Behead me, I am a measure. |
| 4. I am an instrument of punishment. Behead me, I am an inclosure. |
| 5. I grow in every garden. Behead me, I threaten. |
| 6. I am a medicine. Behead me, I am an instrument necessary to civilization. |
| 7. I am essential to beauty. Behead me, I am a contest. |
| 8. I am an expression of scorn. Behead me, I am a relative. |
| 9. I am a spice. Behead me, I am a unit. |
| 10. I am something girls do. Behead me, I am used for skating. |
| 11. I keep out the weather. Behead me, I produce. |
| 12. I express greediness. Behead me, I am a testament. |
M. V. M. and I. V. M.
| I am composed of 11 letters. |
| My 1, 2, 3 is an article. |
| My 4, 5, 6 is a girl's name. |
| My 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 is a fortunate lady. |
| My whole is a poem by Tennyson. |
Bright Eyes.
| My first is in Philip, but is not in James. |
| My second in Arthur, but is not in Joe. |
| My third is in Robert, but not in Eugene. |
| My fourth is in Rosa, but is not in Flo. |
| My fifth is in Oscar, but not in Katrine. |
| My sixth is in Thomas, but is not in Clo. |
| And I am a bird you would all like to know. |
James Eugene M.
1.—1. A letter. 2. A utensil. 3. An elevation. 4. Conclusion. 5. A letter.
2.—1. A letter. 2. To permit. 3. One of the United States. 4. To knock. 5. A letter.
Sam Weller, Jun.
"Wealth gotten by vanity shall be diminished, but he that gathereth by labor shall increase."
Bath. Thyme. Hearth. Sabbath. Bullion. Heather. Battledore. Coleridge. Gymnasium. Lawn tennis. Honesty. Vigilance.
Box. Brush. Hand. Limp. Sweep. Bracket. Clove. Pill. Chair. Brook. Blot.
| H | A | N | D | H | E | A | R | |||
| A | R | E | A | E | A | S | E | |||
| N | E | A | R | A | S | I | A | |||
| D | A | R | E | R | E | A | R |
Snowball.
Penmanship.
| R | H | ||||||||||
| R | O | E | S | I | P | ||||||
| R | O | U | G | H | H | I | V | E | S | ||
| E | G | G | P | E | N | ||||||
| H | S |
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Dimple Darling," Ezra Burt, Blanche P. Hayward, "Fill Buster," Charles F. Wagner, Belle Van Buskirk, Charlie Jones, Max Frost, Susie Passmore, Earle Jessup, "Ben Bolt," Alice Chisholm, Kenneth McGovern, E. C. A., Henry Berlan, Jun.
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
When Jack and Jerry, both of them merry,
Met at the circus one day,
Over Jerry's crown leaped Jack the clown.
And knocked off his hat in play.
Jerry's rage was great, and from the ground straight
He leaped ten feet in the air,
And as he came down, he said, with a frown,
"Replace it, sir, or beware!"
Jack would not comply; the ring-master sly
Handed them "pistols for two."
They both knew 'twas cruel to fight a real duel—
What could they possibly do?
But the duel was fought, and a lesson taught
Of sorrow, remorse, and woe.
Jack lay like one dead, as heavy as lead,
While Jerry with grief bent low.
Jerry, faint with fright, and in a bad plight,
Straight to the ring-master ran;
But he was afraid; to Jerry he said,
"Get him home quick as you can."
To get a long plank was an easy prank,
And back did poor Jerry fly.
Stiff as a poker lay one young joker;
The other with grief did cry;
"He's dead, that's a fact; now how shall I act?
I think I'll tip him up so.
Now across my back I'll take poor Jack,
And then home with him I'll go."
"He's light as a song! what can have gone wrong?
O gracious, just look at that!
He's straight up and down, like a cast-iron clown
Or a clumsy base-ball bat."
"Ho! ho! here's a cask; 'twill be no hard task
To put him snugly inside.
Again he is straight; but now he's too late,
For home in the cask he'll ride.
Now, there! isn't he snug—a bug in a rug—
Yet I feel awfully bad."
"I can not tell why my poor Jack should die,
And leave me lonely and sad.
Why, just look you here! If this isn't Jack dear!
A joke on me he has played.
I'll love Jack, the merry, forever," said Jerry;
"Right here shall anger be laid."
[1] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.
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