Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, March 14, 1882, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
Title: Harper's Young People, March 14, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: December 4, 2017 [EBook #56122]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MARCH 14, 1882 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| vol. iii.—no. 124. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, March 14, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | 1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
"TEASING TOM."
Polly Gardner had been spending her vacation with Aunt Mary in the country. She would have been "perfectly happy" but that her father and mother were obliged to remain in the city. It was five weeks since she had seen them, and it seemed to Polly like five months.
One lovely afternoon Polly sat on the horse-block idly kicking one foot backward and forward, watching Aunt Mary as she drove off on a visit to a sick neighbor. Birds were singing, bees were humming, and the slender branches of the great gray-green willows that shadowed the road moved softly with every light puff of wind. Away off in the field over the hills Polly could hear the ring of the mowers' scythes. Everything was so pleasant and peaceful that she wished her parents were there to enjoy it with her.
Just as Aunt Mary was hidden from sight by a bend in the road, she heard the crunching of wheels in the opposite direction, and, on looking up, found it was another wagon, driven by Mr. Ward, the grocer and postman of Willow Grove. He checked his horse at the gate, and began fumbling slowly in his coat pocket for something.
After considerable searching, he drew out a white envelope, and turned it first one way and then another, shook his head, and began feeling in his pockets again, brought forth his spectacles, adjusted them carefully upon his nose, and once more began examining the letter. At last he read in a loud voice:
"'Miss Polly Gardner, in care of Mrs. Mary West, Willow Grove. In haste.'" Then he peeped over his glasses severely at Polly, and asked, sharply, "Who's Miss Polly Gardner? Do you know, little girl?"
"Oh, that's me!" cried Polly, jumping from the horse-block, "and Mrs. Mary West is aunty. Please give me my letter. It's from mamma. I am so glad!"
"Can you read?" asked Mr. Ward, still holding the letter far above Polly's reach.
"Yes, of course," cried Polly, indignantly. "I'm nine years old next week."
"Wery well, Miss Polly Gardner, here's your letter. But if your mar hadn't put 'In haste' on the outside of it, you would have had to come and fetch it yourself," said Mr. Ward, as he handed the letter down to Polly.
"Thank you ever so much," said Polly, tearing her letter open nervously. After reading it once, she said "Oh!" in a delighted voice.
"Nothing the matter?" inquired Mr. Ward, who still sat looking at Polly.
"No; but mother and father are coming to-day, if this is the 24th of August."
"Yes, it's the 24th. But let's see your letter, and I can tell you what they mean."
Polly handed her letter back to Mr. Ward, who read it aloud slowly:
"'Dearest Polly,—Papa finds he can leave his business for a short time, so we have concluded to spend the remainder of your vacation with you and Aunt Mary. We shall take the train that reaches Willow Grove at 4.30 p. m. on the 24th. Tell Aunt Mary to meet us if she has time.
"'Love to all, and a thousand kisses from
"'Mamma and Papa.'
"Well," said Mr. Ward, as he gave Polly back her letter, "they'll be here in about a half-hour, for it's almost four now. I guess I'll be moving; it's time I was back to the store." So he chirped to his horse, turned the wagon, and was soon out of sight.
As Aunt Mary would not return before five o'clock, Polly determined to walk down to the railroad station, and meet her father and mother alone. She had often been there with Aunt Mary to watch the trains come and go. It was a small station, and very few people stopped there.
Just before reaching the station the railroad crossed a draw-bridge. Polly liked to watch the man open and shut the draw as the boats in the river passed through. There was a foot-path over this bridge, and Polly had once crossed it with Aunt Mary. They had stopped to speak to the flagman, who was pleasant and good-natured. He told Polly where she could find some beautiful white lilies in a pond not far away. That was more than a week ago, and the flowers were not then open, and now as Polly ran down the road she thought she would have time to gather some for her parents before the train arrived.
When Polly reached the station she found no one there, and on looking at the clock, saw that it was only ten minutes past four, so she had twenty minutes to wait. Then she ran on quickly.
The flagman stood by the draw, and Polly saw, some distance down the river, a small vessel coming toward the bridge. She ran along rapidly, and as she passed the flagman he called out:
"Going for the lilies? The pond was all white with them when I went by this morning."
"Yes, sir; I want to pick some for mamma and papa. They wrote me a letter and said they were coming in the next train."
"You don't say so! Well, I guess you're glad. Look out for the locomotive, and don't take too long picking your flowers, and you'll have plenty of time to get back before the train comes in."
Polly thanked him and ran on. In about five minutes she reached the pond. How lovely the lilies looked, with their snowy cups resting upon the dark water! But their stems were long and tough, and most of them grew far beyond her reach. She contrived to secure four. Polly was sorry to leave so many behind, but was afraid if she lingered too long she would miss the train. So, gathering up the blossoms, she pinned them into her belt, and scampered back toward the bridge.
The boat had just sailed through the draw, and the man stood ready to close the bridge, when Polly came up. He looked over at her from the centre of the bridge, and called out with a smile:
"Couldn't you get any more flowers than those? If I had time to go to the pond, you should have as many as you could carry."
Polly smiled back at him, and then began to watch him as he made ready to turn the great bridge back into place for the train to pass over. His hand was already on the crank, when a rope dangling over the railing of the bridge attracted his attention. As he tried to pull it in, it seemed to be caught underneath. Polly watched him lean over to get a better hold, when, to her great horror, the piece of railing to which he held gave way.
There was a sudden scream, and a great splash in the water. But before the waves of the swiftly flowing river closed over him, Polly heard the cry,
"The train!—the flag!"
Poor little Polly! She was so alarmed for the poor man's safety that for some moments she could think of nothing else, and ran backward and forward wringing her hands in despair. As he arose to the surface she saw that he made frantic gestures to her, and pointed up the road from which the train was to come. He seemed to be able to keep himself above water with very little effort, and Polly saw with joy that the accident had been observed by the occupants of the vessel. The man in the water struck out toward the boat, and Polly could hear shouts and cheers from the men on board.
All at once she was startled by the far-off whistle of the approaching locomotive. In a moment she understood the[Pg 307] meaning of the flagman's gestures. She looked at the open space and then at the bridge. In five minutes or less the train would come dashing into that terrible chasm. Polly's hair almost rose on her head with horror. It was as much as she could do to keep her senses.
There must be some way to avert the awful calamity. She ran swiftly along toward the rapidly approaching train. Lying on the ground just by the small wooden house where the flagman generally sat, Polly saw a red flag. She remembered having heard that this flag was used in case of danger, or when there was any reason for stopping the cars. She did not know whether there was yet time, but she seized the flag and flew wildly up the track.
"Oh, my papa! oh, my mamma!" she cried; "they will fall into the river and be drowned! What shall I do?" and Polly waved the flag backward and forward as she ran.
Then came the train around the curve. She could see the white steam puffing from the pipe, and could hear the panting of the engine.
"I know they'll run over me, but if mamma and papa are killed, I don't care to live," she said to herself, as she approached the great black noisy engine.
When it was about three hundred feet away from her, she saw a head thrust out of the little window by the locomotive, and then, with a great puffing, snorting, and whistling, it began to move slower and slower, until at last, when it was almost upon Polly, it stopped entirely.
All the windows were alive with heads and hands. The passengers screamed and waved her off the track. She stepped off and ran close up to the side of the engine and gasped out, "The bridge is open, and the man has fallen into the river. Please stop the train or you'll be drowned."
The engineer stared in amazement, as well he might, to see a small girl with a flushed face, hair blown wildly about, and four lilies pinned in her belt, waving the red flag as though she had been used to flagging trains all her life.
At that moment another remarkable figure presented itself to the astonished eyes of the passengers. A man, dripping wet, bruised and scratched as though he had been drawn through briers, came tearing toward the cars, stumbling and almost falling at every step. As he reached little Polly, he snatched her up and covered her face with kisses.
"You little darling," he cried, "do you know what you've done? You've saved the lives of more than a hundred people."
Polly, nervous and excited, began to cry. One after another the passengers came hurrying out of the train and crowded around her, praising and kissing her, until she was quite ashamed, and hid her head upon the kind flagman's shoulder, whispering, "Please take me away and find mamma and papa."
Almost the last to alight were Polly's parents. "Why, it's our Polly!" they both exclaimed at once.
The draw was now being closed again, and the conductor cried, "All aboard!" The passengers scrambled back to their seats again. Polly's father took her into the car with him, and now she looked calmly at the people as they gathered around, and answered politely all questions put to her, but refused the rings, chains, bracelets, and watches that the grateful passengers pressed her to accept as tokens of their gratitude for saving their lives.
At last Polly grew tired of so much praise, and spoke out: "Really I don't deserve your thanks, for I never once thought of any one but papa and mamma. So keep your presents for your own little girls. Thank you all the same."
Those that heard her laughed, seeing they could do nothing better for her than to let her remain unnoticed for the short distance she had to go.
When Polly was lifted out of the car, and stood upon the steps of the station while her father looked after the luggage, the passengers threw kisses and waved their handkerchiefs to her until they were out of sight.
A few days afterward Polly was astonished at receiving a beautiful ivory box containing an exquisitely enamelled medal, with these words engraved on it:
"Presented to Polly Gardner, whose courage and presence of mind saved a hundred lives."
A blustering fellow goes prowling about;
He tosses the snow with a scuffle and shout,
And pinches the toes,
The ears, and the nose
Of each little darling, wherever he goes.
The timid birds hear him and hide their wee heads,
The mooly-cows shiver in barns and in sheds,
And sweet flowers say,
"At home we will stay
Until this noisy fellow gets out of the way."
A bright little maiden is soon on his track,
And gently, though firmly, she orders him back.
Oh, fair she appears,
In smiles and in tears;
She calls to the flowers, "Come up, pretty dears."
The birds hear her voice, and they twitter with glee,
And pink little buds peep the bright sky to see;
The grass twinkles out,
And lambs skip about,
And, oh, the glad children so merrily shout!
And who is this blustering chap, can you tell?
And who is this maiden who robes hill and dell,
Whose whisper so arch
Wakes oak-tree and larch?—
Why, she is Miss April, and he Mister March.
Let us now examine some odd-looking animals called hydroids, or sea-firs, which grow in the ocean, firmly rooted upon the bottom, or attached to shells and stones.
Fig. 1.—Hydroids growing on a Shell.
The tall branches in Fig. 1 are hydroids growing upon the shell of a dead mussel. A barnacle, too, has lived and died on this pretty shell, and little sea-weeds cluster around its remains.
We can scarcely imagine animals that are more unlike jelly-fish than these slender branches are; and yet the wonderful story I have to tell you will show them to be so closely related that we could not study the life of one without the other.
Long graceful sprays of hydroids are often thrown on shore by the tide, and as they resemble plants much more than animals, they are generally mistaken for sea-weeds. Many persons gather them for decorating brackets and hanging baskets. We frequently see bunches of them arranged in sea-shells, and offered for sale in our shops. The shop-keeper would probably not know them by any other name than sea-weed. Still, they are animals, and we can mostly recognize them by their yellow, horny appearance, and by the numerous joints on their stems.
In looking at one of these sprays with a microscope you will find each little point on the stem to be in reality a dainty cup, which when alive contained a hungry animal. Should you find a piece freshly washed up from the ocean, it would be well to place it in a glass jar filled with sea-water, and after allowing it to remain perfectly still for a while, it may perhaps show you, if it is yet alive, how it[Pg 308] has been accustomed to pass the quiet hours in its native home.
You will find each cup occupied by a soft animal, with a mouth in the centre opening directly into the stomach. Hydroids, you see, are higher in the scale of life than sponges, for they possess mouths and stomachs. As we watch, the body of the animal will rise up in the cup, and from around the mouth will gradually creep out slender thread-like feelers, which may be extended quite a distance, or drawn up at will entirely within the body of the animal. You will, of course, wish to use the proper name for these feelers. They are called tentacles, and they evidently serve to produce currents of water toward the mouth, and to bring the required food. In this way the little animals live, day after day and year after year, patiently waving their tentacles, and waiting for the food that is sure to come.
Do you still ask what connection there is between these demure little animals and the jolly jelly-fish? We shall soon see.
The hydroids have grown by budding and branching somewhat as plants do. Occasionally pear-shaped cups much larger than those we have looked at are formed on the stem. These large cups are called spore-sacs. They contain the substances which, later, will grow into eggs; and at the proper time they fall off. After resting awhile, and throwing out cilia and tentacles, these spore-sacs swim gayly away, and, strange to relate, they are hence-forth known by the name of jelly-fish!
Fig. 2.—Hydroid magnified, showing Spore-Sacs.
In Fig. 2 you will see a spray of hydroid magnified which shows two spore-sacs. In the species which is represented here (the Sertularia) the spore-sacs do not fall off, but they burst and discharge the eggs which they contain.
These jelly-fish now lead active lives, and as they dart and swim about in the water no one would suspect that they had any relation to the plant-like animals with which we started, yet it is supposed that most hydroids have this wonderful history.
Forgive us, jelly-fish, forgive us, hydroids, if in our ignorance we have ever cast an indifferent glance upon you. We did not know your charming secret, and we should never have guessed it, for the lives we lead are so different from yours. Now that we have learned your secret, we shall certainly tell it to the boys and girls, that they may help us enjoy it.
Jelly-fish produce eggs, from which are born little floating bodies. These after a time fasten themselves to some stick or stone, and grow by budding until they become the elegant feathery branches which we must now call hydroids. The young of nearly all animals resemble their parents, but the children of jelly-fish, you see, are very different from the jelly-fish itself. In the next generation, however, we shall find jelly-fish again.
Most of the plant-like objects which we are accustomed to see growing near the shore are in reality hydroids. Has it ever puzzled you to know the difference between plants and these low forms of animal life? One very important difference is that most plants can procure their food directly from the soil, whereas animals are obliged to feed upon living substances, or those which have at some time been alive, as vegetables and animals.
Hydroids grow in all parts of the ocean, in deep water as well as near the coast. Some of them are three feet high. One branch may contain a hundred thousand distinct animals, the only communication between them being a circulation of fluid through the hollow stems. In this way each branch constitutes a family which has sprung originally from the same little egg. Some varieties never grow tall, and as they occur in patches over rocks and shells, they resemble thick beds of moss.
Fig. 3.—Jelly-Fish (Aurelia Aurita), with Young in
various Stages.
The little hydroids which we see hanging from the under side of a rock in Fig. 3 produce jelly-fish in a different manner from the one I have described, although it is equally remarkable. This hydroid has no buds or branches, but the main tube of the body divides itself into a number of rings or plates, until the whole animal looks somewhat like a pile of tiny saucers with scalloped edges. Finally the upper plate begins to twist and squirm until it loosens itself from the pile, and floats off to lead the gay and independent life of a jelly-fish. It is followed by the other plates in their turn, each making a separate animal. These new jelly-fish eat greedily and grow fast, forming some of our largest varieties.
We can form but little idea of the immense numbers of animals thus leading quiet contented lives, and drawing from the surrounding water all that is needed for their support. They can not go in search of food, and they take only such as floats toward them. Still, they seem to have some choice in the matter, as they reject from their mouths any food they are not suited with. Many of these curious animals are glowing with bright colors, and surrounded as they are with a great variety of plants, they give to the bottom of the ocean a marvellous beauty.
Does it not seem strange that the slender, delicate sprays of which we have been speaking are really animals; and more than that, the children of jelly-fish? A little girl once exclaimed, on hearing of these wonderful changes that happen in the life of hydroids, "Why, it seems almost like a fairy tale!"
very one of the ordinary rules and regulations for the government of an Indian village was knocked in pieces by the victory over the Lipans. Even Mother Dolores could not reasonably have forbidden Ni-ha-be and Rita from hurrying out of their lodge to join in the general rejoicings.
"Rita, there is Knotted Cord."
"I see him."
"If he could understand me, I would speak to him."
"Oh, Ni-ha-be! that would be a dreadful thing to do."
Ni-ha-be would not have done any such thing, and Rita knew it; but the chief's daughter saw no reason why she should not lead her sister pretty near the young pale-face brave as they passed him. They could see that he was smiling at them, and it was an act of politeness to smile back. Ni-ha-be laughed. It was that, perhaps, which led Steve into a mistake. He wanted to say something, and in his haste he forgot to speak Mexican-Spanish, as he ought to have done if he expected to be understood by an Apache young lady.
"There has been a great fight. Your father has taken some prisoners."
"We know it," answered Rita; and she was almost as much startled as was Steve himself.
"'WHAT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ENGLISH?'"
"What! do you understand English?"
Ni-ha-be turned, and looked at her in astonishment.
"Only some. Not any more talk now. Come, Ni-ha-be."
"Talk Apache, so I can hear. You shall not say any more words to him. Tell me his words."
Ni-ha-be's jealous pride was touched to the quick at finding that Rita possessed still another accomplishment that she had not.
Rita quickly explained all that had been said, but she did it in a way that told both her sister and Steve Harrison that she was a good deal excited about something.
"Come, Ni-ha-be, come."
"I will. There is Red Wolf. We must hurry."
Poor Rita! The terrible whooping and clamor and tumult all around her confused her more than ever. She was glad there was enough of it to keep Ni-ha-be from asking her any questions; but it seemed as if she would be willing to give her favorite pony to hear a few words more in that strange tongue—the tongue she had known once, and forgotten, till the talking leaves began to speak it to her.
Pretty soon the girls were mingling with their friends and relatives, and crowding as closely as they dared upon the line of warriors in their eagerness to get a glimpse of the prisoners by the light of the camp fires.
It was getting late, but Many Bears had work to do before he could think of calling for a luncheon, or going to his lodge. He had seen his captives safely bound and put away under guard, and he now summoned his old men for a brief but very important "talk."
Murray had guessed right when he said he would be sent for, but he had not waited for the arrival of any messenger. The words were hardly out of the mouth of Many Bears before a brave in the crowd responded,
"Send Warning is here."
"Where is the Knotted Cord?"
"In lodge. Wait there."
That explanation came from Red Wolf, and the Apaches knew exactly where their pale-face friends were at that particular moment, which was the precise thing Murray wanted them to feel sure of, considering what he knew was about to be found out.
All the rest of the village was full of noise, but the dignity of the older men enforced silence upon the circle now gathering closely around the chief.
Many Bears turned to Murray.
"Send Warning gave good counsel. His head is white. He is wise. Tell Apaches now where all pale-face gone. No come."
"Send Warning can guess. The pale-faces don't like to be killed. Find too many Apaches. Run away and save scalp."
"Ugh! Good. Nobody know where they go. No use follow. Apaches take Lipan prisoners. What Send Warning say about them?"
"Keep them till to-morrow. No hurry. Something else to think of now. More fight maybe."
The chief nodded his head, but a chorus of "ughs" expressed[Pg 310] the dissent of his council. They meant to decide the fate of old Two Knives without delay. Three of the older braves still insisted upon arguing the case one after the other, and by the time the last of them ceased speaking, Murray felt pretty safe about To-la-go-to-de. He said to himself: "The old fox has half an hour the start of them now. He is miles and miles away."
Just then Many Bears turned to him with: "What say now? Any words?"
"No. Never speak twice. Apaches do what think best."
"Ugh! Good. Young braves, bring out Lipans. No wait. Kill them all right away."
Prisoners such as these were likely to be a troublesome burden to a party on the march, like that of Many Bears, and the only real question before the council was, after all, in what precise manner the killing should be done.
But while they were talking a great cry arose from the vicinity of the lodge where the Lipans had been shut up—a cry of surprise, anger, and disappointment. And then the word spread over the whole camp like wild-fire, "The Lipans are gone!"
It was almost beyond belief, and there was a general rush toward the row of lodges and beyond them, into the bushes and through the corral. It came very near stampeding every pony there, and every trace of anything like a "trail" left by the feet of Two Knives and his warriors was quickly trampled out. The only "sign" found by anybody was in the shape of more than a dozen thongs of buckskin lying on the ground in the lodge, all clean cut through with a sharp knife. That told plainly how the prisoners had escaped. The braves who had searched and tied them were positive that not one of them retained a knife, or was left in a condition to make any use of one. They must have had help from somebody, but it was a great mystery who that somebody could be. Suspicion might have fallen upon Murray and Steve, but it was well known that the latter had remained in his lodge, refusing even to look at the prisoners, while Send Warning had been in council with the chiefs. They believed they knew where he had been all the while, and none of them imagined that Two Knives had been set free before he had lain in that "prison lodge" three minutes. It was a terrible mortification; but something must be done, and again Murray was asked for advice.
"What do I think? Let me ask you a question. Did the Lipans go away on foot?"
"Ugh! No. Take good horse."
"Did they have any arms? Gun? lance? bow?"
"Ugh! No. Think not."
"They are cunning warriors. Did they ride out among your young men? Send Warning says they would do just what great Apache chief would do."
"Ugh! Good. Pale-face chief very wise. Lipans go all way round. Like snake. Only one thing for us to do. Catch 'em when they come to pass."
"Better ride now," said Murray. "Send Warning and Knotted Cord will ride with Apache braves. No time lose. Want fresh horse."
He afterward explained to Steve that a little seeming activity on their part was needful at that moment of excitement, lest anything unpleasant should be said about them. Besides, he had no fear of any further collision with the Lipans. The night was too far gone for that, and he had great confidence in the courage and skill of old Two Knives.
In less than twenty minutes after he had given his advice, he and Steve Harrison, mounted on fresh mustangs chosen for them from the corral by Red Wolf himself, were riding across the ford at the head of a strong squad of Apache warriors, commanded by a chief of well-known skill and prowess.
"They will pick up plenty more on the way, Steve, but they won't have much to do."
"No danger of their catching old Two Knives?"
"Not a bit. I'll tell you all about it some other time."
"I've something to tell you, Murray; I can't keep it."
"Out with it, my boy."
"That white daughter of old Many Bears can speak English. She understood what I said, and answered me."
It was dark, or Steve would have seen that the face of his friend grew as white as his hair, and then flushed and brightened with a great and sudden light.
For a moment he was silent, and then he said, in a deep, husky voice,
"Don't say any more about it to me, Steve. Not till I speak to you again. I'm in an awful state of mind to-night."
Steve had somehow made up his mind to that already, but he was saved the necessity of saying anything in reply.
Red Wolf rode closer to him at the moment, and said,
"Knotted Cord is young. Been on war-path before?"
"Say yes, Steve," muttered Murray.
"Yes, I'm young. Seen a good deal, though. Many war-paths."
"What tribe strike?"
"Lipans, Comanches, Mexicans. Followed some Pawnees once. They got away."
Red Wolf's whole manner told of the respect he felt for a young brave who had already been out against the fiercest warriors of the Indian country. He would have given a good many ponies to have been able to say as much for himself.
The position chosen by the Lipans was a strong one, and the scattered shots which now and then came from the mouth of the pass told that the beaten warriors of To-la-go-to-de were wide awake and ready to defend themselves.
But for one thing that end of the pass would have been already vacant. The pride of the Lipans forbade their running further without at least an effort to learn what had become of their chief. They felt that they could never look their squaws in the face again unless they could explain that point.
To be sure, it was almost a hopeless case, and the Apaches would be upon them in the morning, but they waited.
Everything seemed to be growing darker, and the outlying Lipan sentinels were not in any fault that four men on horseback should get so near them undiscovered. It was very near, and the new-comers must have known there was danger in it, for one of them suddenly put his hand to his mouth and uttered a fierce, half-triumphant war-whoop. It was the well-known battle cry of To-la-go-to-de himself, and it was answered by a storm of exulting shouts from the warriors among the rocks. Their chief had escaped!
That was true, and it was a grand thing, but he had brought back with him only three men of his "front rank."
The Apaches could hear the whooping, and the foremost of them deemed it wise to fall back a little. Whatever their enemies might be up to, they were men to be watched with prudence as well as courage.
The words of To-la-go-to-de when he joined his friends were few. There was no further account to be made of Captain Skinner and his miners, he told them. They were cunning, and they had taken care of themselves. It had been well to plunder their camp. He himself owed his safety to their old friend No Tongue, and the Lipans must never forget him. The Yellow Head had probably been killed, and they would not see him again. They must now gather all their horses and other plunder, and push[Pg 311] their retreat as far as possible before morning. Some other time they would come and strike the Apaches, but it was "bad medicine" for them just now.
Whatever else that may have meant, according to Indian superstition, every warrior could understand that their losses had weakened them too much to think of fighting another hard battle. It was no disgrace to make a great deal of haste under such circumstances, and so, if Red Wolf and the rest had been near enough at that hour, they would have seen Two Knives and what was left of his band riding steadily on, deeper and deeper in among the mountains.
I had been hunting from break of day, and although I had seen a number of antelopes and other animals interesting to a sportsman, they were so wild that it was impossible to come within fair shooting range. Moreover, I had the misfortune to be mounted on a very slow horse, which had only sufficient speed to be useful in the chase of elephants. It was, nevertheless, very steady, and stanch as a rock, making it invaluable in pursuit of the latter game.
After I had been quiet for a few hours during the heat of the day, a Bushman came to me with the information that there was a large herd of buffalo close at hand.
As meat was much wanted, I hastened the saddling, and hurriedly departed for the scene of action, with the Bushman as guide, leaving word for the rest of my followers to come after me as soon as possible.
The country was beautiful in this locality. There was a large flat expanse covered with grass, in parts extremely rank, and dotted over here and there with scattered trees, while at intervals of half a mile or more kopjies—an immense jumble of rocks—would crop up to the height of several hundred feet. These masses of rock deserve a word of notice, for they are a peculiar feature of tropical South Africa. Invariably they are composed of a brilliant red sandstone, or of a rusty brown metallic-looking formation, and from their detached and broken positions induce the beholder to think that some powerful volcanic force had shoved them up to their present elevated position.
Strange as it may appear, they are ever covered with a considerable amount of vegetation, particularly wild fig, some varieties of palms, and numerous descriptions of creepers, although it is utterly impossible that there can be any soil or moisture about their roots.
To see the setting or rising sun glinting off these masses of rock is a sight never to be forgotten, for every corner or cranny seems to be possessed of jewels of most wonderful brilliancy that reflect every shade of light possessed by the rainbow.
The buffaloes were soon found, and with a due amount of caution I succeeded in approaching within thirty paces of a very fine young but full-grown bull. The better to make sure of my aim, I dismounted, and gave the game both barrels from my eight-bore. The thud, thud, in response told me that they had hit, while a stagger forward and attempt to lie down said that they had been well placed.
My horse, which was behind an ant-hill, on which grew numerous bushes, I now left, and walked up to the buffalo, which I did not for a moment doubt would never regain its legs. But in this I was mistaken, for no sooner did the wounded beast see me than it recovered its legs, and without hesitation dashed at me. Both barrels I again delivered, at less than fifteen paces.
Still the foe came on; so at last I was compelled to resort to the undignified course of turning on my heels and beating a most rapid retreat. I felt convinced that my pursuer had his speed impeded by the wounds he had received, for I gained the ant-hill and clambered up it, but not before his horns were in unpleasant nearness to my person. But here I was safe, for although the buffalo again and again attempted to climb its steep sides, he utterly failed. At length the horse caught his eye, and on him he now sought to vent his wrath, but the old steed simply cantered or trotted, as occasion demanded, round my asylum.
I think it could scarcely have been possible to have witnessed a more ridiculous scene, for my mount would not be driven off, nor would the bull give up the chase. I had now time to load, and, waiting for a clear broadside shot, I tumbled Mr. Buff over in his tracks. Immediately the shot was fired, the old horse actually turned round to see the result, then walked up to the fallen foe, and examined him, as if with the eye of an experienced judge in shooting matters.
I have killed a great many buffalo with one bullet; seldom have I required more than two. But, from some unexplainable cause, you will occasionally come across an animal that it appears impossible to deprive of life, although your shooting looks, when inspecting the body, to have been perfectly correct.
The greatest English statesman of the time is by descent a Scotchman, his father having removed from Scotland to Liverpool, in England, where he became a wealthy merchant, and where in 1809 his second son, William, was born.
At his first school the young Gladstones (as the name then was) was considered very stupid at arithmetic; but he must soon have overcome this failing, for at the University of Oxford he took the highest honors in mathematics as well as in classical studies, and as a statesman he has handled the enormous revenues of the British Empire with wonderful skill.
At twenty-three years of age Mr. Gladstone became a member of Parliament, and during the half-century that has elapsed since that time he has only been without a seat in the House of Commons for a few months. At thirty-four he became a member of the cabinet, and in every succeeding cabinet, when the Liberal party has been in power, he has had a seat.
He has twice been Prime Minister—an office which can be held only so long as the Minister is supported by a majority of the members of the House. This office he still holds; and though he is said to be anxious to retire from public life, he is so far superior to any other statesman in the Liberal party that he must remain at its head as long as health and strength will permit.
Although he is now seventy-two years of age, Mr. Gladstone is still a young man so far as work is concerned. It is said that he does the work of two men, and as if to prove the fact, he holds two offices in the government of which he is the head.
He is a powerful speaker, and has frequently spoken in Parliament, and[Pg 312] once in the open air, for four hours without a break. The fact that he held the attention of his listeners for so long a time is the highest tribute to his powers as an orator.
When Mr. Gladstone wants rest, he reads Homer in the original Greek or writes a book, and for recreation he cuts down trees in his beautiful park at Hawarden, in Wales. Abraham Lincoln in his youth was a rail-splitter; Mr. Gladstone in the fullness of his years is an expert lumberer.
THE NEW LOVE.
"Well, Jack, my boy, d'ye see anythin'? Keep a bright lookout, you know, for we all looks to you!"
"Come, don't make fun o' me, Bob! P'raps I'll have as sharp eyes as yourn afore I'm half your size."
Anybody might well have wondered to hear a child's voice speaking from the mast-head of a North Sea whaler, and still more surprised would he have been at sight of the figure from which that voice proceeded.
There were two persons in the "crow's-nest," as the lookout post of a whaler is called. This is simply a big cask firmly lashed to the mast with small ropes, and supported by two pieces of stout planking.
One of the two watchers on this occasion was a grim old sailor, with a voice as harsh as his face, which, roughened by the storms of fifty years, and framed in short iron-gray hair and whiskers, looked very much like the battered figure-head of some weather-worn old ship. His companion was a little boy of ten, whose fair hair and round ruddy face appeared quite babyish beside the granite-hewn visage of the "old salt."
But young as he looked, Jack Raikes was no baby. Those blue eyes of his were as sharp as any on board; and to run up the weather-rigging in a stiff breeze, climb to the mast-head and hang his cap on it, was mere play to "little Jack," as the sailors affectionately called him.
"So, my lad," said Bob Watson, laughing, "you thinks your eyes'll be as good as mine afore long. Well, you're a sharp-sighted 'un for your age, you are, but I don't know as how you're quite up to me yet. Come, s'pose we tries which'll sight a whale fust?"
But the smile suddenly vanished from the old sea-man's face, as a gleam of sunshine fades into a rising cloud. He arched his hand over his eyes, and gazed fixedly to the northward, his look becoming graver and graver with every moment, until Jack was quite startled.
"What's up, Bob? Anything wrong?"
"Can't say yet, lad, but I'm afeard so. Let's have another look. Yes, it's just as I thought. God help us!"
And putting both hands to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his voice:
"Deck, ahoy! Look out for ice!"
The men, who were lying idly about the deck, sprang to their feet at once, and there was a sudden bustle which showed that the warning had been heard and understood.
"Where away?" hallooed the Captain.
"Right ahead—two on 'em—bearin' down upon us!"
The Captain's hard mouth set itself a little tighter, but that was all. He threw a quick glance to windward, and then shouted to the steersman, "Keep her away a point or two!"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
There was no sign of fear in either Captain or crew—only a grave, subdued look on every face, which showed that they fully understood their danger, although it could not terrify them. And yet the peril was one which might well have dismayed the bravest man alive. Once caught between the two approaching mountains of ice, the vessel would be crushed like an egg-shell, and she and all her crew sent to the bottom together. Nor did there seem to be much chance of escape. The wind was light, and what little there was of it was driving the ship straight toward the icebergs as they drifted with the current. Unless they should change their course, or the wind shift suddenly, the doom of both ship and crew appeared certain.
Little Jack had caught sight of the advancing masses almost as soon as his old friend, and the sudden paling of his ruddy cheeks showed how fully he understood the situation. He looked wistfully up in Bob's face, as if to ask whether there was any hope for them, and the old sailor, mindful of his little pet even in the teeth of that deadly peril, answered, as cheerily as ever: "Well, Jack, my son, them two lubbers is a-tryin' hard to outmanoover us, ain't they? But you jist see if we don't git the weather-gauge on 'em yet!"
By this time the icebergs were near enough to be plainly visible from the deck, and the sudden chilling of the air by their approach, like the coldness of coming death, was felt by every man on board. Onward they came, those great cathedrals of frost, slowly, steadily, mercilessly, like the march of a destroying army.
And all the while the sea around them was blue and bright, and the sun shone brilliantly in a cloudless sky, and the great battlements of ice glowed like living rainbows with every variety of gorgeous coloring—blue, red, green, and gold. And so, with all the beauty and splendor of life around them, the doomed men stood silently awaiting death.
Old Bob set his teeth hard, and pressed his hand firmly upon little Jack's shoulder.
"'Tain't for myself as I minds it," he muttered, "for my time's pretty nigh up; but it do seem hard for this little chap to be cut off in his fust blossomin' like. If my life could go for hisn, God knows I'd give it gladly."
And now, as if to destroy the last chance of escape, her terrible assailants parted suddenly, the one bearing down upon her port and the other upon her starboard quarter, as if to shut her in between them. Even the iron-nerved Captain changed color, and flung down his speaking-trumpet in despair. But just as all hope seemed gone, the long-hoped-for shift of the wind came.
"Starboard your helm!—starboard!" roared the Captain, instantly.
"Starboard it is."
One quick turn of the helm, and the vessel glided past the nearest berg, so close that one of the projecting ice points scraped her taffrail. Even that slight contact with the mighty mass made her whole frame quiver from stem to stern; but the danger was past, and the crew breathed freely once more.
"Now, my boys," shouted the youngest of the men, "stand by and see them two have it out by theirselves."
It was even so. The two destroyers, balked of their prey, were rushing straight upon each other. The wind had lulled again as if holding its breath for the coming battle, and all was as still as death, when the two moving mountains clashed together.
There came a crash to which the loudest thunder would have been as nothing, and the smooth sea boiled up into huge waves, dashing the vessel about like a toy, while the very air was darkened with flying splinters of ice. When the rush passed, the contending icebergs were seen to be at some distance, swaying dizzily to and fro like two living combatants reeling under a heavy stroke.
"At it again, old fellers!" cried young Simmonds; "that first bout don't count neither way."
Again came the terrible shock, followed by a fierce, grinding crash, as a huge pinnacle of ice, heavy enough to sink a hundred-gun ship, fell thundering into the sea.
"Port your helm!—port!" shouted the Captain.
"Port it is," answered the steersman, coolly, and the vessel sheered off.
She was not a moment too soon. Hardly had she got clear when the nearest iceberg was seen to lurch heavily forward. For an instant it rocked violently to and fro, and then plunged down into the sea, with a noise that might have been heard for miles.[2] The billows cast up by its fall tossed the strong ship aloft like a feather, flinging all the crew upon their faces; and for a moment sea and sky were all one blinding whirl of foam.
There was a moment of awful silence, when nothing[Pg 315] could be heard but the groaning of the ship's timbers and the awful roar of the waves.
Then, as the frightened men rose to their feet, Bill Simmonds cried out, "We ain't dead this time, anyway."
But old Bob Watson drew little Jack to his side, and whispered to him:
"Jack, lad, when ye say yer prayers to-night, don't forget to thank God for savin' us, for if 'twasn't for that shift o' wind, all our lives warn't worth that."
In by-gone days it was quite the fashion for learned and clever people to amuse themselves by forming anagrams on the names of their acquaintances or on those of the celebrated public men. Isaac Disraeli, father of the late Lord Beaconsfield, mentions the custom in his book about the Curiosities of Literature.
It was considered a delicate compliment to send an anagram to your friend. One polite Frenchman, a poet, as it happened, sent his lady-love, whose name was Magdelaine, a budget containing no less than three dozen quaint and witty anagrams.
And now perhaps you would like me to tell you what an anagram is, and how it is made. It is a simple playing with letters. You take any word or sentence, and you make other words and sentences from it, using all the letters in the original, and changing them about as you please, so long as you make sense, but not using any others. You may not omit an a or an o which chances to be in your way, and you may not borrow a t or an s from the rest of the alphabet to help you out of a puzzle. You must use only the letters in the name you have selected.
Galenus transposed becomes Angelus. I ought to tell you here that there are exceptions to the rule requiring you to use only the letters given in any name. In old times i, j, u, v, w, and sometimes c and k, were changed around by people to suit their own convenience, and so, rather than lose the making of a very good anagram, you may take some liberties with those particular letters.
On a rainy spring evening, when you are all at home together, it would be charming to try this antiquated game of wit. Get out the sheets of note-paper and the pens, and let everybody help. I would not be astonished if even grandpa were to take a share in the fun.
Let me give you some illustrations. Queen Elizabeth was noted during her long reign for her wise government at home, and her courage in defying her enemies of other lands. She was always surrounded by courtiers who liked to please her, and in her day it was thought more elegant to write in Latin than in plain English. One of the noblemen made this anagram one day after dinner:
Elizabetha Regina Angliæ—
Anglis Agna, Hiberiæ Lea.
Of course this Latin does not bother the big boys, but for the benefit of little Puss in the Corner, I'll translate it. It means that Elizabeth, the Queen, was a lamb to the English and a lion to the Spanish, which the latter no doubt thought was true when the great ships that composed their wonderful "Armada" went to pieces on her coast.
In very, very old times there was an idea that an anagram really possessed the power to tell a person's character. But that was mere nonsense. It is only a dainty trifle, like a cross-word, an acrostic, or any other puzzle.
There was once a Lady Eleanor Davies, who annoyed the community by preaching in the streets of London. She was very likely insane, but she thought herself a prophetess. The police arrested her, and she was taken before the English Court of High Commission to answer for her misbehavior.
She said she knew God wished her to preach, because she had found in her name this anagram:
Eleanor Davies—.
Reveal, O Daniel.
Now she ought to have had here an s, and she had an l to which she had no right, so her anagram was not correct. It rather impressed the by-standers, though, and the judges would have found it hard to persuade the poor lady to promise to keep still in future, if she had not been crushed by another anagram which somebody made up on the spot,
Dame Eleanor Davies—
Never so mad a ladie!
From that moment she yielded to her fate.
Nobody was ever more hated than Napoleon Bonaparte in England in the beginning of this century. Therefore he was a popular man who was the author of this:
Napoleon Bonaparte—
Bona rapta leno pone.
"Rascal, yield up your stolen possessions."
There are two very good anagrams on two of Napoleon's conquerors, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and Horatio Nelson. The first is, "Let well-foiled Gaul secure thy renown." Gaul is the ancient name of France. The second is in Latin:
Horatio Nelson—
Honor est a Nilo.
"There is honor from the Nile." The battle of the Nile was the first in which Lord Nelson won a great victory, when he was highest in command.
Many of you have read in history, and in the novels of Sir Walter Scott, about that unfortunate Prince, Charles James Stuart, who was called the Pretender. The brave Highlanders rallied around him, and gave their lives and fortunes in the attempt to restore him to his father's throne, partly because they had great faith in two anagrams. One was:
Charles James Stuart—
He asserts a true claim.
The other,
James Stuart—
A just master.
Alas, for "bonnie Prince Chairlie!" the charm was in vain. He never sat on England's throne. He died without a kingdom, a broken-hearted man.
The question asked by the Roman Governor, Pilate, of our Saviour, who stood before him a prisoner, "What is truth?" is, in Latin, "Quid est Veritas?" It has been rendered, "Vir est qui adest," the Man who is before you.
You remember Florence Nightingale, who went with a band of nurses to take care of the poor soldiers wounded in the Crimea, or sick with fever in the wretched camps of the allied armies. They called her "the lady with the lamp," and all England—yes, all the world—loves her. Is not this a pretty anagram on her sweet name:
Florence Nightingale—
Flit on, cheering angel?
It is curious what pat anagrams you may make on certain words which relate to things. For instance, Presbyterian, by a shake like a turn of the kaleidoscope, is "best in prayer," and Penitentiary, "nay, I repent it." Old England easily becomes "Golden Land," and what could better describe the state of busy editors than "so tired" of reading and writing? Astronomers are "moon-starers," of course; and is not the telegraph "a great help"?
We wonder who will succeed best in this anagram building, father and mother or the young folks? If some of the latter succeed in making very happy anagrams, they will not regret their revival of this old-fashioned amusement.
Every one of you little folks who has been to Naples knows Punchinello, and those who have not extended their travels as far as that beautiful city are well acquainted, I am sure, with "Punch and Judy."
Well, Punchinello, which, after all, only means "Little Punch," and who is the same Punch that we all know and like so well, was born on the shore of the Bay of Naples, and this is his wonderful history:
There was once upon a time a boatman named Pulci, who lived in a little white house with his wife quite near the shore where his boat was moored. Now these two good people always longed for a little child, and were quite unhappy because they did not have any.
But one day when they were sitting quite alone a big cat, black as soot, appeared to jump from under the bed, and ran between Pulci's legs, completely upsetting him. After which it rushed out at the half-open door. At the same time there came an odd cry from the cradle.
"Wife, go and see what it is," said the trembling Pulci.
Accordingly the poor woman approached the cradle, and nearly cried with joy when she saw a little human being inside.
"Husband! husband!" she cried, "what a pretty child!"
A mother's eyes are indulgent, and in a deformity more or less they never find anything to complain of. However, this pretty child only had two defects—one in front, his stomach being shaped like a comma, and the other on his back, which was like a note of exclamation. As far as his face went, there was nothing to object to, unless it might be that his nose was rather like a parrot's beak, the point of which very nearly joined his turned-up chin.
At the end of six weeks one would have certainly said that Punchinello was sixteen years old, so quickly did he grow, and so extraordinary was his intelligence. His father, seeing how advanced he was, resolved to make a street porter of him.
"Oh, dear me, no!" said Punchinello, with all due respect. "I have quite another idea in my head."
"Well, what is it?" said his father.
"I want to go to Court."
"What next?" cried the good man, laughing.
"The reason is," replied Punchinello, "that being deformed, and having a hump in front and a hump behind, I had better learn to read and write. I will be a scholar. You are too poor to attend to my education, and that is why the King ought to look after it. I am sure to succeed in making him do so, but for that I must have a donkey."
"A donkey!" cried father and mother; "but where are we to look for a donkey? Don't you know, my dear Punchinello, it is no easy matter to pick up a donkey?"
"Oh! never mind that. Sell your cottage. I will undertake to provide you with a much bigger one."
After arguing for an hour, Pulci was persuaded by Punchinello. He sold his house and bought the donkey.
Punchinello was no sooner master of a donkey than he was on its back, riding straight to the King's palace, and followed by a crowd of people and a dozen dogs.
"Sire," said Punchinello, with his funny, hoarse voice—"sire, my lords and ladies, and you good people all, I have the honor to announce to you that, with the permission of your Majesty, my donkey here will dance upon a tight-rope before your Highnesses. Your humble servant Punchinello will remain on the donkey's back during this marvellous performance."
The King was astonished. "But when is this to be, my funny fellow? I confess I am curious to witness this feat."
"Sire," replied Punchinello, "it will take place this very evening at seven o'clock, if your Majesty will be good enough to order your major-domo to provide me with all that I may require."
"Certainly," replied the King.
I must tell you, my friends, that this major-domo, who was named Bugolin, was universally hated throughout the kingdom for his wickedness and cruelty. For example, shortly before, he had ordered Punchinello's father to be beaten, giving as a reason that the poor old man had been seen treading on one of his Highness's horse's feet.
"Lord Bugolin," said the King, "I charge you to supply all that is necessary for this little man's performance. If by any chance we should be disappointed of this entertainment through your neglect, I will have you hanged upon the spot; but if Punchinello has undertaken a thing that he can't perform, he shall suffer the punishment instead."
"Sire, I agree," said Punchinello.
Evening came at last. Thanks to the efforts of the major-domo, two poles fifty-one feet high were erected in the court-yard of the palace, and a rope was stretched from one to the other. The whole Court was stationed on platforms, and the King was seated on his throne in the middle of the centre pavilion. Punchinello arrived on his donkey, mounted the ladder which was placed against one of the posts, and began to bow and wave his hat.
"Now then, friend Punchinello," cried the King, "that's quite enough bowing. Begin your performance, for I am tired of waiting."
"Sire," replied Punchinello, "I am quite ready. I am waiting for the donkey."
"What, waiting for the donkey!" replied the King, getting furious. "Are you making fun of me? Didn't you promise me to make him dance upon the tight-rope?"
"And I still promise to make him do it, sire," replied Punchinello, "only I request that he may be brought to me here where I am now, for although I know exactly how to make my donkey dance on the rope, I haven't the least idea how to make him come up the ladder. That is your major-domo's business. He promised that everything should be on the spot ready, and now he won't let me have my donkey."
At these words the whole Court began to laugh, for every one was pleased at Lord Bugolin's embarrassment.
"But, sire—" said the major-domo, who could hardly contain his rage.
"No arguing," interrupted the King. "Make the donkey climb the ladder."
Lord Bugolin accordingly pulled the donkey to the foot of the ladder, and tried to get him to mount it, but the donkey wouldn't hear of such a thing.
"Come along! Get up, you obstinate animal!" cried my lord.
"Hi-haw! hi-haw! hi-haw!" answered the donkey, beginning to bray with all his might and main.
"You wretched beast," cried the major-domo, "will you go up or not?"
"Hi-haw! hi-haw! hi-haw!" answered the donkey, who stood firm as a rock.
"Get along, will you?" cried Lord Bugolin, showering blows on the donkey's back. But the donkey, out of patience, escaped all further indignity by kicking the grand major-domo so that he lay sprawling on the ground.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the people, and the courtiers could not contain their delight.
However, Punchinello came down the ladder, and went to assist Lord Bugolin, who had not been seriously hurt. He then ran at once to the royal pavilion, and throwing himself on his knees, asked the King's pardon with such a droll air of penitence that his Majesty said to him:
"Well, my little fellow, I grant it, but only on condition that you help me out of the difficulty I am in about my daughter's marriage."
The difficulty of which the King spoke was this: Some years before, the King being threatened in his capital with an invasion of the Turks, had begged the King of the Negroes for assistance. The latter had complied, on condition that he should be given the hand of the Princess of Naples. The bargain was made, and the Turks had been driven out by the troops of the two sovereigns. But now there was great lamentation, for the Princess was beautiful and amiable, and the Negro King was known to be ugly, ill-shapen, and of a nature to correspond. But what was to be done, as the King had given his word and pledged his honor?
"What!" replied Punchinello, "does the treaty only mention your promises, sire? and hasn't the King of the Negroes promised anything on his side?"
"Nothing, alas!" Then he added: "In order to amuse himself at my expense, my future son-in-law added a clause to the treaty, namely, that he would give a pair of slippers to the Princess for a wedding present, made of the most costly materials that she may feel disposed to select."
"Hurrah!" cried Punchinello. "Dry your eyes, Princess. The King of the Negroes shall not even touch the tip of your little finger. Sire, let me speak with the Ambassador, whom they say has just arrived."
The King at once caused the Ambassador to be summoned. As soon as he arrived, Punchinello said to him:
"Now, my Lord Ambassador, are not you bound, according to the treaty, to present a pair of slippers, of whatever kind she may choose, to the Princess?"
"Yes," said the Ambassador, "provided that the material is to be found under the sun."
"And if you refuse the slippers, no wedding, of course?"
"Certainly not," was the reply, with great insolence.
"Very good, my Lord Ambassador. The Princess has the good taste to be of opinion that nothing as beautiful as the skin of your fat cheeks is to be found on earth, as its blackness is only to be equalled by its lustre. Will you therefore have the goodness to see that a pair of slippers is made of this precious material? If you prefer keeping your skin for personal use, go home and tell your master so."
The Ambassador, who doubtless had his reasons for not wishing to have his cheeks skinned, replied by getting away as quickly as he could, followed by his five hundred negroes, and sailed from Naples without further delay.
Punchinello was the object of innumerable demonstrations of friendship from the King, who charged him to make any request he chose in return for what he had done.
"Sire," said Punchinello, "I desire to be allowed to kiss the hand of the Princess."
Every one marvelled at the tact of Punchinello. The Princess, smiling joyfully, held out her hand to the happy little hunchback, who kissed her four fingers, and then coming to the thumb, the ceremony was over.
There was once a little girl who had a garden of her own, in which she planted a great many seeds. But somehow her seeds did not grow into flowers very fast. Do you know why?
It was because she kept digging them up every day, to make them show her the new leaves and buds. She vexed Mother Nature so by her worry and hurry that the wise old lady frowned until her cap ruffles shook, and said:
"That child shall have no flowers this year. When she plants her seeds, she must trust me to make them grow, and not peep into my work-shop so often."
The little girl who owns the flower-pot we give you this week will not put the good old mother in a pet. She knows that Nature is very busy waking up the sleeping flowers, and making their new spring dresses. And of course when the rain comes pit-a-pat on the roofs, and the wind goes racing along, driving the surf on the shore, that little girl knows that Dame Nature is full of her annual house-cleaning. When she is done, how everything will shine! The world will look as bright as a new penny. So let us all say,
"Little old woman, whither so high?"
Hark! What was that voice which came down the chimney?
"To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky."
To be sure! Now whose is this pretty flower-pot?
"Mine," says Dot. "Mine," says Fanny. "Yours," says Lulu to her little sick brother.
Somehow Lulu seems to deserve it most, but the Postmistress thinks we will all share the flowers together.
Ann Arbor, Michigan.
I am a little boy almost seven years old. My papa gave me Harper's Young People for a present last Christmas. I enjoy hearing my grandmamma read it very much. I live in Ann Arbor, where the Michigan University is located. I go to school every day, and I expect, if I live, to go by-and-by to the university. Would it not be strange and pleasant if I should there meet some of the little friends that write such interesting letters for the Post-office Box? I live with my grandpapa and grandmamma, for my dear mamma died when I was four months old. I have not many pets, but I love to play marbles. Do not some of the little boys I read about like to play with them too? I had a large bag of the most beautiful marbles ever seen sent me from my uncle living in California.
Wicker J. M.
Playing marbles is delightful if you will only return the marbles you win to their former owners when your game is over. Playing marbles for fair makes some little fellows so unhappy that the Postmistress does not approve of it, unless both parties agree on playing "for fun" only. What does Wicker's grandmamma say on the subject?
Strasburg, Alsace.
I don't believe that any of the American subscribers of Harper's Young People enjoy reading it more than I do, though I am not an American girl, but an Alsatian, like my father. Mamma was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, but I have never been to America, though I would much like to see for myself what are the customs and habits of the American people. It is mamma's sister, who dwells in Galveston, Texas, who has the kindness to send me this nice paper. I like especially to read the stories about French people, like the one of King Louis XVI. of France and Queen Marie Antoinette, which appeared in one of your numbers, and the beautiful story of Charlotte Corday, who was one of my countrywomen too; for the Alsacians are French, and though the Germans took our poor land and separated us from our dear country, they never can take our hearts, which will always remain French.
I hope this letter will be published, for it would be a pity that, coming from so far away, it should be put into that doleful pigeon-hole, which must surely be the terror of every one who contributes to swell the number of the Post-office Box letters.
As I saw that many of the correspondents tell about their pets, I too will write about my nice canary-birds. One of them papa gave me for my birthday, and the other— Why, one cold winter day, as we were at dinner, we heard a little noise at the window, and there was the poor little thing. Of course we made it come in, and it just flew into the opened cage and ate some seeds, for it was nearly starved to death and frozen. Since then it lives with us, and we call it "Bienvenu," which means in English "welcome." Last spring it laid five eggs in a basket I gave it as a nest, and I rejoiced at the thought of having little birds, but Bienvenu was cruel enough to eat all her eggs before they were hatched.
Eliza T.
It pleases us very much when our far-away little readers send us letters to tell us what they have most enjoyed. It was too bad that little Bienvenu behaved so strangely. But another time she may consent to sit upon the tiny eggs instead of making her dinner of them.
Dear little Rosa had bright golden hair,
And she sang so sweetly to Dolly;
But "Little Bo-peep, little Bo-peep,"
Was re-echoed incessant from Polly,
Who swung in his cage, as happy as she,
And free from all care as Miss Dolly;
He seemed to enjoy her innocent glee.
But Rosa grew angry with Polly:
"You have no right at all thus to mock me," she said;
"Besides, you're disturbing my Dolly;"
And then she threw over the bird's scarlet head
Her apron, and silent was Polly.
Gayly the lullaby music she trilled,
Triumphantly swaying her rocker,
While poor disgraced Poll, in his dark cage stilled,
Did nothing but think of his cracker.
At last little Rosa, with soft pinky cheek,
Slept, twining her arms around Dolly,
Forgetting in dreams that real naughty freak
She had just had with poor banished Polly.
While he, growing tired of the dark cloistered cell,
And missing the sound of the rocker,
Concluded the world was under a spell,
Because no one had brought him a cracker.
Then screeched he in loud and parroty voice.
Rosa started, and down went her Dolly,
All broken—her beautiful holiday choice!
Still she blamed not the bird, but her folly.
Shut up in the dark, so gloomy, while she
Sang "Little Bo-peep" blithe and jolly.
"How I wish I had let you sing too, pretty bird!
Then I would not have broken my Dolly."
A. E. T.
Elkmont, Alabama.
I live in a little railroad town in the northern part of Alabama. I have a black rabbit and a white one. Their names are Jesse and Bessie. They are very cunning. I keep them in a little paled yard. They have a little house in the centre of the yard. I have a cat named Ed. When he wants to come in, he will shake the door until some one lets him in. When I roll a rock on the ground, he will run after it. I have seventeen chickens. I went fishing to-day, and caught fifty-one, but they were little fellows.
Ernest W.
Baltimore, Maryland.
Last year mamma gave me Harper's Young People for a birthday present, and this year my papa gave it to me. I am so happy to see it every week. Papa always reads "Talking Leaves" to me; I am delighted with it. Mamma or one of my aunties reads the other stories and letters. We are all pleased with "The Dolls' Dressmaker" (little Jenny Wren), but I did love "Toby Tyler" best of all, and wish Mr. Otis would hurry up the new story he has promised us.
So many of the children tell you of their pets! I have two; both of them are cats—one a big Maltese named Cann, the other a little gray and white kitten named Pocahontas. She does not love old Cann, and fights him every time she finds a chance. He never fights her back. My little gray cat comes to my room every morning, and cries until I let her in, and then we have fine fun for awhile.
I am too small a boy to write, so mamma is writing this letter for me. I am the only pet mamma and papa have. I can read a little, and hope soon to be able to write.
Carlton R. B.
Just a little patience, dear! The Postmistress saw Mr. Otis yesterday. Keep a bright lookout until April comes, and then when the showers are falling, and the buds are springing, "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," with his queer little eyes, flat nose, and funny long tail, will make his appearance in Young People.
Sacramento, California.
I have been wanting to write to this dear little paper for a long time, but did not know that you published the letters of those who did not subscribe. My papa brings me a paper regularly every week.
I have no little pets, like most children, and even if I had, I would not have time to play with them, as I go to school, take lessons in chenille embroidery, and practice on the piano.
I spent three months in the Eastern States last summer, and visited a great many places in New York State, Connecticut, Ohio, and Illinois. I saw many wonderful beauties of nature, among which was the Devil's Slide, which was two perpendicular walls one hundred feet high, and twenty feet apart, coming down the steep side of a mountain. The Devil's Gate is a stream of water flowing under a mountain. Witches' Rocks are five rocks that look like ladies. Pulpit Rock is the place where Brigham Young preached his first sermon in Utah. They are both in Echo Canon, which is a canon that throws the echo back when you speak very loud. Cape Horn is in California, and is a mountain rising up from the American River about 2500 feet, and has a railroad cut around the side of it. I wish all the readers of the Young People could see all the beautiful things I did last summer.
I will exchange some pretty shells, stones, advertising cards, unpressed sea-moss, or a small piece of petrified wood, for fossils, minerals, stalactites, stalagmites, foreign stamps, old coins, or flint. Please write before sending.
I hope my letter is not too long.
Alida Lewis, 726 O St., Sacramento, Cal.
Ilchester, Maryland.
I am going to Europe in April, in the great steamer City of Rome, and mamma says I may have Harper's Young People sent over to me. It would be too much for me to give it up, as my brother Tom and I read it, and it gives us so much pleasure. I have been to Europe before. We staid two years, but now I am ten, and I will enjoy it much more. Tom is eight years old, and we are reading Young Folks Abroad, so we can know about London and Paris and the other cities. We have read Abbott's Histories, and the death of Charles I. and Marie Antoinette almost made me cry. Would you like me to write you what I see when I am across the great "ditch"? We expect to be in Germany this summer, and in the winter in Nice, but I don't want to leave you behind.
Katie R.
You will enjoy yourself very much more if you study and read before going to the Old World, in order to understand what you see. Write to the Postmistress, and describe some of your adventures, and tell her what pleases you most in London and Paris and in other places where you may stop awhile.
Beauclerc, Florida.
I saw in No. 111 a picture of seven oranges on one branch. We had two bunches on this place with twelve on, and one with sixteen. They were just as close together as could be. Some of them were flattened, they pressed each other so hard. We had a curiosity of an orange—a large one with a smaller one growing out of it. It did look too funny, but it dropped from the tree before ripening.
I would like to exchange nice fresh moss, with blossom on, for unused postage stamps, foreign and domestic—no revenue. Do not send less than five at once; and no two alike. I will send the moss according to the value of the stamps. Cancelled ones will not be accepted.
It will not be necessary to write beforehand, as I will send the moss without fail to any one sending the stamps. I would like to exchange with foreign correspondents, and this offer will remain open four months for that reason.
Can you tell me which is the best stamp album, or, rather, where to get a good one?
F. C. Sawyer.
Bridgeport, Kansas.
We moved to Kansas from Indiana more than a year since, and witnessed our first large prairie fire on the afternoon and evening of February 9. We first noticed the reflection on the sky in the southeast on the night of the 8th, and by the afternoon of the next day the fire had come so near[Pg 319] that we began to make preparations to protect our property by burning a "fire guard" around the house, etc. After that we had leisure to watch the progress of the fire, and as it grew dark the grandeur of the sight increased. We mounted a hill which commanded a view for miles in every direction, and turn in whatever direction we would there was fire. It looked like a grand torch-light procession of men in single file marching and countermarching, forming circles, squares, and all conceivable shapes, ever widening their circuit, until there were miles on miles of lines of flame. The wind freshened about 9 p.m., and then the sight was grand beyond my powers to describe. No doubt much damage to property was done. Many families in this vicinity have related to us damage inflicted by former prairie fires.
Mrs. E.
P.S.—We walk three miles to Sunday-school.
We never hear of people who walk miles to day or Sunday school without feeling ashamed of ourselves, because, sometimes we think it hard to have to walk a few blocks on some such errand. A prairie fire must be a magnificent sight.
I want to tell you about my Polly. We bought him in New Orleans, and not knowing his birthday, we set it at the 1st of May. At first he would not talk at all; he was very cross, and would not let us touch him. One night my sister began to play on the piano and sing; Polly began to sing also, in a little low voice. Papa threw a newspaper at him, and said, "You old humbug, you could sing all the time."
I will tell you some of the things he says. Of course he can say, "Polly wants a cracker," and "Pretty Poll." He can say "Hurrah, Polly!" My name is Estelle, and when I come into the dining-room in the morning he will say "Stella" just as plain. There was a crowd of children standing at our gate one day, and they said, "Polly, can we come in?" and he said, "Come along."
Our Polly's name is Jack, but we never call him that. He had a fight with a dog once. The dog was coming up to him, and he just put up his wings and flew screaming to the dog. The dog did not stop to fight, but ran for his life.
Polly is very tame now, and will get on my hand and talk to me.
That is all I have to say about Polly at present.
E. M.
Palmyra, Missouri.
As I like so much to read the letters from the little girls in Young People, I thought I would write one. I have been sick, and not able to walk for a year, but my pa, who is a doctor, thinks by the time the leaves and flowers come out I will be able to go out too. I study at home, so that I may keep up with my class at school; and that keeps me so busy that the time does not seem long. I always look forward to Thursday, which brings Young People, as we live in the country, and think more of getting the papers than the little girls in the city. We have had lots of ice and sleet, and it makes me wish, when I see my little brother on his sled going down the hill, that I could go too; but maybe I will be able to when another winter comes. We have a good many pets, but the best one is our dog. To close, I will tell the readers what my ma tells me, always to sew the paper before reading it. I am eleven years old.
Ellen McC.
The "time of the singing of birds," as the Bible says, is coming nearer every day, and we hope little Ellen will be able to walk out-doors and enjoy the spring, with its many delights.
The letters from East Northport, Long Island, which came in a bundle the other day, were all so very good that the Postmistress could not make up her mind to publish any of them, when there was not room for every one of the bright little missives. She hopes to hear from the school again.
Do mothers ever peep into the Post-office Box? The Postmistress feels sure they do, and so she tells this little story as much for them as for their children. Perhaps some loving mother will gather her boys closer to her and pet them more tenderly when she reads about this dear little fellow, who was taken from a charitable institution to be "bound out" to a farmer in New Jersey. The agent noticed that the boy kept placing his right hand inside of his jacket on the left side, and occasionally would peep within with a tender look. At last he said,
"What have you got in there, my little friend?"
"Oh, nothing, sir," he replied, "only a bit of my mother's dress, which I've sewed in my coat; it was the dress she had on when she died, and now it kind o' comforts me to touch it."
I am glad to print this composition of a school-girl of thirteen, first, because it does her credit, and next, because it may give some people an idea which will be useful, especially if they have careless children or servants to vex them:
The "Pound" as a Means of Education.—Neatness and order are two of the most praiseworthy and necessary habits to be formed. Without them we can not be good-natured or happy; for if we are continually fretting and fuming about something that we are "sure we put on the table yesterday, and now it has disappeared, and who has taken it?" etc., etc., we can not be as contented and pleasant as though each thing were in its proper place, and we could go right there and get it without any trouble.
Our mother had discovered this. Her family was growing up with disorderly habits, which grew worse every day, and she now determined to put a stop to it. A school in the neighborhood had had a great deal of trouble on account of the disorder in which the recitation-rooms were left by the pupils after dismissal in the afternoon.
Since the lady principal has had a "pound"—which, I can assure you, was filled to overflowing each day—the pupils recognized the fact that it was, to use their own words, a "cure."
So, one Saturday morning, mother decided to set up a "pound" in our last summer's picnicking basket. At breakfast she declared to father that her patience with us had "given out," and that she resorted to this as the last hope of reforming her careless young people.
Accordingly, after father had gone down town, mother told us to ransack every nook and cranny in the house, and gather together all our things that were not in their proper places.
Jack's umbrella, which had evidently seen better days, was soon hauled from the depths of the wood-box, where "it just fell in—hadn't time to pull out—sorry," as he explained. The remains of a pair of Harry's arctics and my skates, besides countless numbers of mufflers, fur gloves with no mates, torn books, jackknives, marbles, and—what do you think?—Bridget's switch, that, "begorra, she'd missed sence the new gurrul came." That finished the wood-box, which we left for Harry's closet.
Dozens and dozens of half-worn shoes, foot-balls, several packs of cards, and last year's school-books in fragments, with several of his new neck-ties, and his best white kids, all "sort of thrown together, you know," with a quart or so of Excelsior taffy, which we had manufactured on Halloween. As one would imagine, it took an hour or two to dig through this mixture; but as "perseverance will conquer," it was accomplished by dinner-time.
But do not think this was the last of the wonders of neatness we routed out that day. Little Julie too was thoroughly "up" in the art of disorder. Even her tiny play-house was nothing short of a show. Why, Timothy Todkins, her paterfamilias, had lost both his legs and an eye, and the poor fellow's nose was in a shockingly damaged condition. And Mrs. Zenobia Franklin Todkins! Well, she was altogether unmentionable. To see mother's face when we piled all the things in a heap before her? She did not say a word, but just placed them in the basket, and put it on a shelf in the library closet.
I think that Harry did look a little bit glum while mother sat there; but don't tell me it was his conscience pricking him. More likely 'twas because he wouldn't be able to wear his white kids at Puss Pringle's party on Wednesday. Jack and I went out, but we met father in the hall, with little Julie hanging on his arm, and begging him to "det Dulie's Toddie for her; poor Toddie was pounded all up from Dulie." Mother showed to our astonished papa the contents of that pound, and after having a hearty roar over them, he closed operations by administering a sound scolding to us, of which this was the moral:
Little girls and little boys
Should aspire to be neat,
And not destroy their pretty toys,
But them in order keep.
Sue Bradley.
We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the interesting article by Miss Sarah Cooper entitled "Some Odd Relations of the Jelly-Fish," in which we learn more about the curious creatures that seem to us simply plants, but which that magical instrument the microscope shows to be living animals eating and drinking, and leading strange, mysterious lives way down in the depths of blue sea. You all know well the name of England's great Prime Minister, Mr. W. E. Gladstone, and you will be glad to read the little sketch of his noble and laborious life. The boys will not need to have their attention called to the story of "A Buffalo Hunt in South Africa," told by an adventurous English sportsman; nor will it be necessary to repeat the suggestion made by the author of "An Old-fashioned Amusement," that all our readers, young and old, spend an occasional leisure hour trying what they can do in the way of forming new and entertaining "Anagrams."
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Willard S. M., Philip Ruxton, Victor C. Thorne, Jesse Godine, Georgie Wardell, E. Cressingham, Louis and Frank Clark, Florence A. Nickerson, May Barklie, Bernard W. Spilman, Clara K., Ella Chirney, Kittie Lewis, Harper Richardson, "Mamma, Robbie, and Papa," J. Ames, Fannie D. Posey, Willie Layton, "Bob," Everett Fay, Edith M. Wetmore, Jerome Bouton, "Lodestar," Fred H. Lanneker, Ashley H. Thorndike, "Queen Bess," "Fill Buster," William A. Lewis, "King Charles," "Helen of Troy," "Francis," S. Whitlock, I. C. Tomes, Carrie D. B. Brisbin, Rosa M. Benedict, R. Louis Lloyd, and Ernest D. Elam.
| A proverb of Solomon. I am composed of 76 letters. |
| My 13, 3, 49, 44 is an English watering-place. |
| My 40, 50, 57, 30, 76 is an aromatic plant. |
| My 41, 27, 48, 52, 19, 65 is part of the fire-place. |
| My 34, 66, 38, 60, 74, 10, 35 is a season of rest. |
| My 56, 62, 58, 67, 69, 8, 70 is uncurrent coin. |
| My 6, 36, 59, 5, 55, 42, 63 is a shrub. |
| My 26, 16, 9, 43, 68, 76, 28, 8, 72, 11 is a racket. |
| My 71, 61, 25, 2, 52, 31, 37, 7, 51 is an author. |
| My 47, 20, 30, 70, 3, 75, 18, 39, 30 is a school. |
| My 24, 45, 1, 32, 54, 73, 17, 12, 29, 21 is a game. |
| My 22, 8, 12, 53, 64, 46, 14 is a flowering herb. |
| My 15, 69, 7, 33, 4, 23, 70, 71, 42 is wakefulness. |
Busy B.'s.
| 1. I am a chest; behead me, and I am an animal. |
| 2. I am a useful article to every one; behead me, and I have been used as a carpet. |
| 3. I am a part of the body; behead me, and I am a conjunction. |
| 4. I am without stiffness; behead me, and I am mischievous. |
| 5. I am a housemaid's duty; behead me, and I am a mark of sorrow. |
| 6. I am an ornamental article to put on the wall; behead me, and I am a nuisance. |
| 7. I am a spice: behead me, and I am a passion. |
| 8. I am a medicine; behead me, and I am a discomfort to every one. |
| 9. I am an article of furniture; behead me, and you have no use for me; behead me again, and you can not live without me. |
| 10. I am a stream; behead me, and I am a bird. |
| 11. I am a spot liked by none; behead me, and I am a spot desired by all. |
C. F. H.
1.—1. Part of the body. 2. A space. 3. Close by. 4. To venture.
2.—1. What can not be done by the deaf. 2. Comfort. 3. A continent. 4. Behind.
Annie J. B.
| My first is in silver, but not in gold. |
| My second is in young, but not in old. |
| My third is in whole, but not in half. |
| My fourth is in cow, but not in calf. |
| My fifth is in boy, but not in girl. |
| My sixth is in hair, but not in curl. |
| My seventh is in apple, but not in peach. |
| My eighth is in land, but not in beach. |
| My whole is made by every boy, |
| But still it can't be called a toy. |
Alice C.
1.—1. A letter. 2. An animal. 3. Harsh. 4. An eatable. 5. A letter.
2.—1. An aspirate. 2. A taste. 3. Homes without hands. 4. An inclosure. 5. A sibilant.
John S. P.
| G | ||||||
| S | E | E | ||||
| S | C | O | L | D | ||
| G | E | O | R | G | I | A |
| E | L | G | I | N | ||
| D | I | N | ||||
| A |
| M | A | R | S | H | ||||||
| A | R | E | N | A | ||||||
| R | E | G | A | L | ||||||
| S | N | A | I | L | ||||||
| H | A | L | L | S | ||||||
| G | I | F | T | M | E | A | L | |||
| I | D | L | E | E | L | L | A | |||
| F | L | E | E | A | L | A | S | |||
| T | E | E | L | L | A | S | T | |||
| F | I | V | E | |||||||
| I | R | O | N | |||||||
| V | O | I | D | |||||||
| E | N | D | S |
Adirondacks.
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
A great many useful and ornamental articles can be made from old fruit cans with the exercise of a little ingenuity and patience. I have made glue-pots, water-bailers, bread-graters, etc., etc.
Fig. 1.
Fig. 1 represents a flower-pot holder made from an empty tomato can. The can is held over a fire until the soldering that fastens the opened or top end of the can melts, when it will be found that by giving the joint a sharp blow with a chisel or a table-knife it will drop off. After a little practice, all danger of unsoldering the side joint of the can is overcome. Strips of bark must now be cut about two inches in width, and the can dipped in hot asphalt. Apply the bark to the outside, filling the joints with moss, lichen, or other products of the woods. You will now have a pretty toy, which will hold a flower-pot; or, if you like, the earth itself may be put directly in the can. In the latter case you must, of course, punch holes in the bottom of your can, as in other flower-pots, so that there may be a circulation of air and water.
Fig. 2.
Fig. 2 is a fruit-can bird-house, with a roof of thatched straw. In this case the bark must be nailed on to the can, and the nails clinched on the inside, or it can be secured by means of fine wires. On the side of the can the tin is cut away in the form of a half-circle, this being bent down so as to form a standing-place in front of the entrance for the birds that are to occupy the house. Over the entrance, ornamentation in rustic-work is nailed on to the bark, as shown in the illustration.
Fig. 3.
The bark that covers the can is one inch less in height than the can, so as to allow the upper rim to remain bare. Into this circle of projecting tin holes are punched one inch apart all around the rim. These holes are made use of when stitching the straw roof to the rim of the can, as shown at A A. To give greater strength and stiffness to the roof, a second circle of stitches is taken at C C, and a third at D, and a fourth at B, to prevent the straws from spreading. The bird-house is now ready for fastening in position on the platform either with screws or nails.
Fig. 4.
Fig. 3 is a more complicated bird-house, and built to accommodate a large number of families. The manner in which it is constructed will be easily understood, however, from the foregoing description and a glance at the engraving.
The weather-vane (Fig. 4) may be made by flattening the side of one of the cans, when, if the figure of the fish is drawn with the point of a knife, any tinman will cut it out for a few cents.
A WINTER NIGHTMARE—A WARNING TO GREEDY BOYS.
[1] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.
[2] This is a common occurrence in the Northern seas, and usually attributed to the melting away of the iceberg from below.
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, March 14, 1882, by Various
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MARCH 14, 1882 ***
***** This file should be named 56122-h.htm or 56122-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/2/56122/
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive
specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook
for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks
not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the
trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country outside the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you
are located before using this ebook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that
* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation."
* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
works.
* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to
date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and
official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.