The Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's Young People, May 2, 1882, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, May 2, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: August 14, 2018 [EBook #57692]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MAY 2, 1882 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| vol. iii.—no. 131. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, May 2, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
A sky darkened by clouds hurrying before driving winds, a sea gray-faced and wrinkled tossing restlessly beneath a mass of barren rocks upon which stood a tall light-house, made up the dreary picture Huldah Deane was gazing upon with such wistful intentness. Her gray eyes presently followed the swoop of an osprey, and his after-flight upward with his prey in his talons.
"I would rather be that fish-hawk than Huldah Deane," she said, giving expression to her gloomy thoughts. "I must stay here day in, year out—here, where nothing happens, where the sea frets, and I fret with it. So I light the Captain's pipe, scrub the tower, and do chores for the dame. Who cares what else I do, or what becomes of me? Yes, old sea, I'd rather be a fish-hawk, and snatch fish from you, than be Huldah Deane. Oh dear! If something would only happen! If I could do something great or wonderful—go out in a life-boat, maybe, to save drowning folks, or—"
"Huldy! Huldy Deane!" The quick, impatient call reached her, even above the roaring of the surf. It was Captain Dutton's voice. "Come right on, quick; mother's taken in a spell, an' I can't make it out."
Huldah obeyed in awed silence. A spell the Captain couldn't make out must be very bad, she thought. What if neither she nor anybody else could make it out? And, alas! who could understand the fixed stare of the dame's kind eyes, or the pinched shrinking of the features so suddenly grown unfamiliar to the two who dwelt under the same roof with her?
"She's got to hev the doctor as soon as he can be fetched, Huldy."
"The doctor from shore?" questioned the girl.
"Certain. There's none closer as I know. Do you?"
"No," she gravely answered; "but the mainland's a long ways off, and a storm's rising."
"It makes no difference," said Captain Dutton, stubbornly. "She's been a good mother to me, an' she's in a bad fix. The doctor's got to be fetched, that's all."
In his rough, good-hearted way the Captain loved his mother as he loved nothing else.
"Ef she should die, I want her to know somehow as I tried to do my duty by her last of all. And, Huldy"—laying his hand on the girl's shoulder—"I ain't concerned but what she'll be took care on as fur as you can do it, child. It's hard lines to leave a young one like you here with such terrible trouble, but there's no help for it. I'll fetch the doctor soon as I kin—leastways 'fore the sun drops. No sailor kin say as ever Kyle Dutton missed lightin' the beacon wi' the last ray o' sunshine, or turnin' off lamps as the sun stepped 'crost the horizon. Livin', I'll be here in time for that, Huldy."
He nodded and went away.
Huldah shivered as she glanced down at the motionless figure on the couch below. Maybe she would be left thus utterly alone for hours—for days. Her breath came hurriedly. It seemed to her more than she could bear. Frantically she forced open the window, and, thrusting her head through, shouted herself hoarse in a vain effort to make Captain Dutton hear her above the roaring of the sea. The boat, tossed from wave to wave, plunged further and further away.
And it was but a few hours ago that Huldah had wished she might have an opportunity to do some great heroic deed. Now she said to herself: "You were a pitiful coward then, Huldah Deane. You brave enough to go in a life-boat to save drowning folks! You deserve to be nothing better than a fish-hawk. Because Dame Dutton lies ill yonder, and the Captain puts off to fetch a doctor, is that any reason why you should go into spasms of fright? For shame! Remember what father told you that day he sailed away never to come back any more: 'Do your duty always, Huldah.' Isn't it your duty now, foolish girl, to get right down from here and see to poor Mrs. Dutton?"
Closing the window, she descended from her perch to renew her exertions for the relief of the poor dame. But toil as she might, nothing she could do would change the fixed attitude, or calm the quick-drawn breath that told of bitter suffering.
Presently the day began to wane. The clouds ranged themselves in solid masses, and darkness and storm besieged the sea-girt tower. Crossing to the clock in the corner, she scanned its face. "Five o'clock! So late? Why, the sun is down in less than half an hour, and the Captain will lose his place if the beacon is not lighted by sundown. But what can I do? It's the order, he says, that women and children sha'n't have anything to do with the lights."
One moment she stood with tightly compressed lips. Then a brave, resolute smile parted her lips.
"Well, I'm hardly a child, I suppose, but neither am I a woman. Ships may be lost if the beacon is not lit." Then lighting the lantern the Captain always used, she hung it on her arm, and after one more look at the sick woman, left the chamber.
Almost at the threshold began the seemingly endless stairway, winding up into regions of height and loneliness. She did not allow herself to hesitate now, but began the ascent hurriedly. A fearful journey it seemed, through the darkness, broken only by fitful glimmerings of her lantern, and now and then cross rays of light from the slits of windows in the thick walls. Clasping the iron rail, she toiled on, her limbs failing, her heart thumping, and her brain in a whirl. Not until she had reached the top step did she drop down to rest. Exhausted by fatigue and nervous excitement, she had to recover strength before she could even open the door into the lantern-room.
Fortunately the great lamps were trimmed and supplied with oil. Every part of the machinery was also in working order. Captain Dutton was one of the most careful of the light-house keepers.
"And he shall see that I do not mean him to lose his place for one night's failure to light the tower," Huldah said, her heart warming for the first time to the silent man who had, in his way, done his duty by her as well as by the place of trust he filled. "Who knows, though, this light may fall upon the very spot where he has gone down to the bottom of the sea."
Again a shiver crept over the slender figure, and only the blazing forth of the beacon dispelled her vivid fancy. One by one the lamps flared up, and were turned into place. The reflectors, polished to their utmost, caught the cheerful rays, and sent them in a far-reaching circle of radiance, out through the darkness and the storm, to give warning to those who were "gone down to the sea in ships."
But this was only the beginning of Huldah's work. It was a chief part of the keeper's duty, she knew, to see that the lights burned undimmed throughout the night. Now, however, she must return to attend to the dame awhile. But as she turned to go there was a sudden crashing of the glass above her, a whirring swoop of some swift-winged creature overhead, a gust of wind, a flaring of the circle of lights, and then darkness, rayless, absolute. The storm moaned and shrieked in her ears, and Huldah shrieked too, hiding her face in her shawl.
What had happened? Again the winged intruder whirred by, beating the air with wearied and dripping plumage. Ah! now she understood. Once Captain Dutton had told her of a storm-bird breaking one of his transparencies. Attracted by the light, doubtless, this wanderer had dashed against the glass.
There was but one thing to be done. She could not hope to relight the lamps until those blasts were shut out. She must find another frame and transparency.
How the descent was accomplished Huldah could never think without a shudder. At the very outset, when she had groped her way to the landing, and had succeeded in relighting her little lantern, the door she had latched behind her flew open, giving outlet to those terrible winds, which tore at her clothing savagely, extinguishing her light, and leaving her again in darkness. Of necessity she stood still until the currents had strangled each other, and sunk down into the depths of gloom below her. Then, shutting her eyes tightly, she went on her perilous journey.
From the basement stores she procured the frame and fixtures, and returning with them by the same winding route upward, found it not such a difficult thing to unhinge and replace the shattered transparency, the tempest having lulled slightly, and the force of the wind being broken. Yet by the time her task was complete, and the lamps relit, her strength failed her. Vaguely thinking that maybe she was going to die, she fell upon the floor, and with a deep-drawn sigh her eyes closed.
Four hours later an Inspector from the mainland passing to the island light-house was hailed by the Captain of a brig which had weathered the storm, and come to anchor for repairs.
"What ails the tower light, sir?" he asked of the officer, nodding toward the beacon, through the transparencies of which a steady stream of light was still pouring, though the sun was doing his best to dim its glory.
The Inspector frowned. "I only know that the keeper's neglecting his duty."
The sailor shook his head. "Something more's amiss, I'm thinking. The light come near playing us a jack-o'-lantern trick just before day. She put on her night-cap all of a sudden, and 'twas like the pole-star had let loose o' the compass needle. A little more'n we'd 'a dashed upon the reefs, only she waked up and showed us her shiners. And not a wink has she took since. Somewhat's wrong. Cap'n Dutton's been prompt as the sun this twenty year."
"Captain Dutton? Is't Captain Kyle Dutton that's keeper of the light-house yonder?" asked one of the brig's passengers, starting forward, excitedly.
"Yes, Kyle Dutton. He's a queer chap, but he ain't the fellow to shirk duty."
In a moment the stranger had asked to be put ashore.
The landing was effected with little risk, but those of the boat's crew who ascended the cliff and sought entrance to the tower found themselves baffled. The ladder was gone, the iron door barred, and all their pounding awoke no response other than muffled echoes from the interior.
"We may get in through a window," said the Inspector. "Hodges, fetch the boat-hook."
The hook was brought, and at the second throw caught over the iron balcony under Dame Dutton's window.
The Inspector climbed the rope, followed by the others, and soon admission was gained to the room beneath.
"Here's one of the Seven Sleepers," said Dick Trail, going up to the couch. He started back. "Why, it's the Cap'n's mother, and she looks as if she were dying."
Two of the men gathered closer to see what they could do for the poor woman, and the others began to search the tower. No clew to the mystery, if mystery it contained, was found below. Together in silence they mounted the winding stairway.
A flood of mellow light poured upon the group as the officer opened the door into the lantern-room. There upon the floor, bathed in the glory, lay Huldah Deane. To her locked senses, lulled into unconsciousness by the roar of the storm-lashed ocean, the tumult in the tower had never reached.
She was only awakened now by feeling herself lifted in a pair of strong arms, and strained to the breast of the stranger seaman.
"Huldah! Huldah! My little one! my daughter!" she heard a tender voice murmuring, and in her glimmer of consciousness felt hot tears dropping on her face.
After the first wild emotion of joy, what a sense of rest the child had, feeling the protecting arms of her father about her! For the stranger, who had endured shipwreck and danger, was none other than Huldah's father.
With only the name of Kyle Dutton, who had taken Huldah from the orphanage where he had placed her before sailing on his last fated voyage, to furnish him a clew, Captain Deane, after a vain search of months, had been guided into the presence of his child by the beacon her little hands had lighted.
There were honest tears in the eyes looking upon this reunion; neither did one of those strong hearts fail to respond with a thrill of admiration as the daughter recounted to her father the trials to which her fortitude and courage had been subjected during the past night of tempest and awful solitude.
It was several hours later that Kyle Dutton returned from the mainland. His boat had been washed ashore, and only after a terrible struggle had he succeeded in reaching a place where there were kindly hands to succor him. With him came the physician he had gone to seek. The shadow of death that had hung over the light-house during that terrible night was lifted, and before many days the good dame was able to join in the rejoicing over the happiness that had come to Huldah Deane.
The Pyramid of Cheops is the largest and tallest of the buildings on the earth. It was raised upon a broad platform of stone, and towered four hundred and fifty or sixty feet above the plain. It is a mass of stone, inclosing several sepulchral chambers, and entered by a long, narrow passage.
Each of the Kings of Egypt built his own Pyramid; every year that he lived he added to its height and grandeur. A small one marks a short reign, that of Cheops a long and prosperous period. It is said that the mere building of the causeway for the conveyance of the stone occupied the labor of 100,000 men for three months; they were then relieved, and a fresh body of 100,000 brought in. The work went on for ten years, until 4,000,000 laborers had been employed upon the preparation of the site and the gathering of the materials. Twenty years were then given to the building of the monstrous tomb; 7,000,000 men aided in its completion. The Nile swarmed with boats bearing food and subsistence to the motley company; 360,000 persons were employed annually upon the Pyramid.
Cheops must have had the satisfaction of seeing his tomb overshadow the temples of Memphis and grow in greatness as the period approached when it would be used. But like many another famous projector, he fell at last into difficulties. His tomb may well be called "Cheops' folly." His treasures were exhausted; he became a bankrupt. After his death the size of the Pyramids was reduced by his more prudent but less renowned successors. If placed in the City Hall Park, the Pyramid of Cheops would have covered nearly all its surface; its top would have risen two hundred feet above the spire of Trinity Church; the first object seen by the voyager entering the Narrows would have been this immense and useless structure. The folly of man was never better shown than in the building of the Pyramids. The Egyptians were houseless, naked, starved, that the Pharaohs might rest in their indestructible tombs.
The Egyptians lived, in general, at ease. They were shut out from the world, and few strangers were suffered to pass up the Nile. The people were dark-colored, wore long white linen dresses, and were adorned with bracelets and ear-rings, gold and jewels. The priests of Isis drank no wine, took no animal food; lived upon dates, nuts, and barley cakes. The families of the early Egyptians were brought up in obedience and good order. But they fell into slavery, and little is left of them but their tombs.
There was an immense temple on a lake, devoted to the worship of the crocodile. But it would be quite impossible to enumerate all the dreamy wonders of Egypt. It had its libraries, pictures, astronomers, magicians. Four thousand years ago the Nile was lined with beautiful gardens and villas; the great cities like New York and Philadelphia were filled with busy artisans and merchants; the Broadway of Thebes or Memphis ran down, no doubt, to the river, lined with shops and public buildings. The Egyptian women were clad in gold and fine linen, the gardens glowed with the rarest flowers, and the furniture of a Memphian home showed finer glass-work and more delicate tissues than can be found in modern Paris.
The festivals on the Nile were celebrated in the night with wonderful magnificence. The placid stream, lit by an unclouded moon, was covered with countless boats with painted sails and silvery oars; ten thousand lights glittered over the sparkling waters, and the shores were lined with dusky and innumerable throngs. On one occasion the procession of boats followed the body of a sacred cat to its last resting-place on one of the islands. All was superstition and solemn awe. The multitude watched from the shore the imposing scene. Another procession on the Nile was a military one of triumph and victory. No river in the world has witnessed so many splendid spectacles.
Doubtless many of the readers of Young People who love dogs, and like to compare their own pets with other people's, attended the great Bench Show, as it is called, recently held in the American Institute Building, New York city. That great hall resounded with yelpings and barkings and whinings in every key. On either side of the passageways where the ladies and gentlemen elbowed about, examining and praising, were groups of stately Newfoundland dogs or dignified mastiffs, splendid St. Bernards, proud of the silver collars and chains adorning some of them, surly-looking English bull-dogs, or curious foreign hounds. Here a dozen ladies bent toward a row of little padlocked cages lined with satin or silk, where reposed daintily some tiny terrier, sleepy little pug, or graceful Italian greyhound. Somebody once called a greyhound a "parenthesis on four legs."
My own stroll through this tail-wagging assembly set me to remembering some dogs with whose acquaintance I have been honored. For are there not dogs whom, like people, it is an honor to know? First of all came to my mind Nero, whose picture you see above. Nero was a Berlin dog—is still, I hope. Strange to say, he spoke German no better than English, yet we became capital friends, and many a long romp have we had together on his master's lawn in —— Strasse. Nero is not merely a clever but a very rare dog. His wonderfully odd black coat gave him the first prize at a Berlin dog show as the most perfect specimen of a German "corded-coated" poodle there. Moreover, that same long hair curls naturally, and neither Nero nor his master spends any morning hours with the curling-stick.
Bruno is another dog of my acquaintance. He is a superb St. Bernard, and lives in New Jersey. In spite of his great size and strength, Bruno has the most lovely of dispositions. Here is an example. He has two other St. Bernards as playmates in his kennel, much younger dogs, but very lively, and huge romps the three have. Not long since, Gretchen, the smallest of this trio, misbehaved. Punishment was necessary. Poor Gretchen, trembling all over, was held down by her master, who leaned over her with whip upraised. Just at that instant he felt a gentle pressure from behind upon his shoulder, and turned to behold Bruno balancing himself on three legs, and holding out the fourth paw entreatingly, while with a most beseeching expression in his brown eyes he thus was trying to "beg off" his playmate from the whipping. Don't you think that you would have thrown the whip to the other end of the yard after that, and given Bruno a hug? That is what his master did, at any rate.
An English friend of mine told me lately of a dog with whom I should be proud to "shake hands," and whom I hope some day to meet. His name is Captain, and he is a young bull-terrier, very thickset and active. He is accustomed to drive every afternoon with the groom to the railroad station to meet his master. Not long since this groom happened to take out a very freakish horse, which, left alone at the dépôt with only Captain in the trap, took fright and ran furiously down the road. Captain boldly leaped from the vehicle, rolled over in the dust, dashed up again, and darted after the horse. The reins were dragging on the ground. Seizing them in his mouth, Captain hung on, in spite of all further bouncings and draggings, until he had actually stopped the horse, and that before any serious mischief had been done. Was not that a courageous act for even a plucky little English bull-dog?
This same Captain, when he was much younger, and required some whippings in course of his training, used to hide the whip wherewith the stable-man switched him. One day, while it was being hunted for, somebody suggested, "Look in Captain's kennel." Away ran the gardener's boy, just in time to overtake Captain jumping out of his kennel with the lost whip in his jaws. He must have heard and quite understood the direction given to search his quarters, and thus tried to spoil the result. On being discovered, he made no attempt to hide his clever trick, but dropped the whip guiltily, and took to his heels.
It is not unusual to meet with dogs who can tell Sunday from any other day of the week. A relative of mine, a clergyman, owned a beautiful Newfoundland who insisted upon going to church with the family, and was regularly prepared to join them at the gate without being warned. Although his guardians decidedly objected to this performance, all tying up, sending back, or any other convenient means of keeping Pluto at home did no good, and finally he was permitted to sit quietly through the sermon. Toward the last years of his long life he insisted upon rising during those portions of the service, such as the hymns or concluding prayer, with the rest of the congregation, who became perfectly accustomed to his presence.
Pampo was a small terrier whom I knew very well long ago. "Go get your collar, Pampo;" "Pampo, I feel a door open somewhere up stairs; go find it, and shut it," were commands he entirely understood and obeyed. At nine o'clock every evening his master, an old gentleman with snow-white hair, would turn to his wife across the hearth, and say, very gently, and without looking at all in Pampo's direction as the little dog lay dozing beside them, "Wife, I think it is high time for dogs to go to bed."[Pg 421] Pampo would, without further orders, meekly rise and slink off to his box in the hallway.
One of the handsomest and best-behaved mastiffs that ever I met was Æneas, a Massachusetts gentleman's particular pet. Æneas was, in spite of his size, as frolicsome as a kitten, very faithful and intelligent, but also a great lover of good cheer. The number of dinners that he could digest in the day, and the size of those dinners, were something marvellous. Small wonder indeed that he grew fat.
One day the cook, with his breakfast, also gave him a sound lecture on his besetting weakness. "Do you think this house can afford to keep such a great greedy beast as you?" I heard her saying. "You do nothing but eat, eat, eat the whole day long. What do you do for it?"
Imagine cook's astonishment when, later on in that very morning, Æneas marched up to her, holding tenderly in his jaws a poor duck, alive but squawking vigorously, which he had encountered in a neighbor's yard, captured, and now brought to his friend, as much as to say, "See, I can do something for my own support, after all. I have caught this duck to be cooked for my next meal."
A French peasant whom Dr. Morris, in his delightful book of dog stories, speaks about, came home from market with a well-filled pocket-book in his knapsack, and his poodle at his heels. Imagine the poor fellow's grief when, on reaching his house, he discovered a hole in the knapsack, through which his purse must have fallen to the ground! But also picture his delight, an instant later, on seeing his faithful little companion enter the room, carrying the lost treasure in his mouth! He had seen it fall, quietly picked it up, and followed the whole distance with it.
Did you ever think how many queer old proverbs there are concerning dogs? "Love me, love my dog;" "Give a dog a bad name, and hang him;" "A living dog is better than a dead lion;" "A dog's life;" "Going to the dogs;" these are phrases we often hear. Uncomplimentary as many such are, they can not alter the truth that the dog is the most faithful, loving, and pleasant of all man's four-footed friends, and one who, if he can not talk, must in some sense think, reason, and—just not talk.
The smallest naval battle ever fought in the world, perhaps, was fought on the Alabama River on the 13th of November, 1813, between two canoes, and this is the way in which it happened.
The United States were at war with Great Britain at that time, and a war with Spain was also threatened. The British had stirred up the Indians in the Northwest to make war upon the whites, and in 1813 they persuaded the Creek Indians of Alabama and Mississippi to begin a war there.
The government troops were so busy with the British in other quarters of the country that very little could be done for the protection of the white settlers in the Southwest, and for a good while they had to take care of themselves in the best way they could. Leaving their homes, they gathered together here and there and built rude stockade forts, in which they lived, with all their women and children. All the men, including all the boys who were old enough to pull a trigger—and frontier boys learn to use a gun very early in life—were organized into companies of volunteer soldiers.
At Fort Madison, one of the smallest of the forts, there was a very daring frontiersman, named Samuel (or Sam) Dale—a man who had lived much with the Indians, and was like them in many respects, even in his dress and manners. Hearing that the Indians were in force on the southeastern bank of the Alabama River, the people in Fort Madison were greatly alarmed, fearing that all the crops in that region—which were ripe in the fields—would be destroyed. If that should occur, they knew they must starve during the coming winter, and so they made up their minds to drive the savages away, at least until they could gather the corn.
Captain Dale at once made up a party, consisting of seventy-two men, all volunteers. With this force Dale set out on the 11th of November, taking Tandy Walker, a celebrated scout, for his guide. The column marched to[Pg 422] the Alabama River, and crossed it at a point about twenty miles below the present town of Claiborne.
Once across the river, Dale knew that he was among the Indians, and knowing their ways, he was as watchful as if he had been one of them himself. He forbade his men to sleep at all during the night after crossing the river, and kept them under arms, in expectation of an attack.
No attack being made, he moved up the river the next morning, marching most of the men, but ordering Jerry Austill, with six men, to paddle up in two canoes that had been found. This Jerry Austill—who afterward became a merchant in Mobile and a State Senator—was a boy only nineteen years of age at the time, but he had already distinguished himself in the war by his courage.
At a point called Peggy Bailey's Bluff, Dale, who was marching with one man several hundreds of yards ahead of his men, came upon a party of Indians at breakfast. He shot one of them, and the rest ran away, leaving their provisions behind them. Securing the provisions, Dale marched on for a mile or two, but finding no further trace of Indians, he concluded that the country on that side of the river was now pretty clear of them, and so he set to work to cross to the other side, meaning to look for enemies there.
The river at that point is about a quarter of a mile wide, and as there were only two small canoes at hand, the work of taking the men across was very slow. When all were over except Dale and about a dozen others, the little remnant of the force was suddenly attacked.
The situation was a very dangerous one. With the main body of his command on the other side of the river, where it could give him no help, Dale had to face a large body of Indians with only a dozen men, and as only one canoe remained on his side of the river, it was impossible for the whole of the little party to escape by flight, as the canoe would not hold them all.
Concealing his men in the bushes, behind trees, and under the river-bank, he replied to the fire of the Indians, and kept them at bay. But it was certain that this could not last long. The Indians must soon find out from the firing how small the number of their adversaries was; and Dale knew that as soon as the discovery was made, they would rush upon him, and put the whole party to death.
He called to the men on the other side of the river to come over and help him, but they were panic-stricken, probably because they could see, as Dale could not, how large a body of Indians was pressing their commander. The men on the other bank did indeed make one or two slight attempts to cross, but these came to nothing, and the little party seemed doomed to destruction.
Bad as matters were with Dale, they soon became worse. An immense canoe, more than thirty feet long and four feet deep, came down the river, bearing eleven warriors, who undertook to land and attack Dale in the rear. This compelled the party to fight in two directions at once. Dale and his companions kept up the battle in front, while Jerry Austill, James Smith, and one other man fought the warriors in the canoe to keep them from landing. One of the eleven was killed, and another swam ashore, and succeeded in joining the Indians on the bank.
Seeing how desperate the case was, Dale resolved upon a desperate remedy. He called for volunteers for a dangerous piece of work, and was at once joined by Jerry Austill, James Smith, and a negro man whose name was Cæsar. With these men, he leaped into the little canoe, and paddled toward the big Indian boat, meaning to fight the nine Indians who remained in it, although he and his canoe party numbered only four men all told.
"WITH A SINGLE BLOW HE KNOCKED OVER THE INDIAN WITH WHOM AUSTILL WAS STRUGGLING."
As the two canoes approached each other, both parties tried to fire, but their gunpowder was wet, and so they grappled for a hand-to-hand battle. Jerry Austill received the first attack, being in front. No sooner did the two canoes touch than an Indian sprang forward, and dealt the youth a terrible blow with a war club, knocking him down, and making a dent in his skull which he carried through life. Once down, he would have been killed, but for the quickness of Smith, who, seeing the danger his companion was in, raised his rifle. With a single blow he knocked over the Indian with whom Austill was struggling.
Then Austill rose, and the fierce contest went on. Dale and his men rained their blows upon their foes, and received blows quite as lusty in return, but Cæsar managed the boat so skillfully that, in spite of the superior numbers of the Indians, the fight was not very unequal. He held the little boat against the big one, but kept it at the end, so that the Indians in the other end of the big canoe could not reach Dale's men.
In this way those that were actually fighting Dale, Austill, and Smith never numbered more than three or four at any one time, and so the three could not be borne down by mere force of numbers. Dale stood for a time with one foot in each boat; then he stepped over into the Indian canoe, giving his comrades more room, and crowding the Indians toward the end of their boat.
One by one the savages fell, until only one was left facing Dale, who held Cæsar's gun, with bayonet attached, in his hand. This sole survivor was Tar-cha-chee, an Indian with whom Dale had hunted and lived, one whom he regarded as a friend, and whom he now wished to spare. But the savage was strong within the Indian's breast, and he refused to accept mercy even from a man who had been his comrade and friend. Standing erect in the bow of the canoe, he shook himself, and said, in the Muscogee tongue, "Big Sam, you are a man, I am another; now for it."
With that he rushed forward, only to meet death at the hands of the friend who would gladly have spared him.
The canoe fight was ended, but Dale's work was not yet done. His party on the bank were every minute more closely pressed, and if they were to be saved, it must be done quickly. For this purpose he and his companions at once began clearing the big canoe of its load of dead Indians. Now that only the white men were there, the Indians upon the bank directed a galling fire upon the canoe, but by careening it to one side Dale made a sort of breastwork of its thick gunwale, and thus succeeded in clearing it. When this was done, he went ashore and quickly carried off the party there, landing all of them in safety on the other side.
The hero of this singular battle lived until the year 1841. The whole story of his life is a romance of hardship, daring, and wonderful achievement. When he died, General John F. H. Claiborne, who knew him intimately, wrote a sketch of his career for a Natchez newspaper, in which he described him as follows:
"In person General Dale was tall, erect, raw-boned, and muscular. In many respects, physical and moral, he resembled his antagonists of the woods. He had the square forehead, the high cheek-bones, the compressed lips, and in fact the physiognomy of an Indian, relieved, however, by a firm, benevolent Saxon eye. Like the red men, too, his foot fell lightly upon the ground, and turned neither to the right nor left. He was habitually taciturn, his face grave, he spoke slowly, and in low tones, and he seldom laughed. I observed of him, what I have often noted as peculiar to border men of high attributes, he entertained the strongest attachment for the Indians, extolled their courage, their love of country, and many of their domestic qualities; and I have often seen the wretched remnant of the Choctaws camped around his plantation and subsisting on his crops."
It is a curious fact that after the war ended, when Weatherford (Red Eagle), who commanded the Indians on the shore in this battle with Dale, was about to marry, he asked Dale to act as his best man, and the two who had fought each other so desperately stood side by side, as devoted friends, at the altar.
They were Methodists twain, of the ancient school,
Who always followed the wholesome rule
That whenever the preacher in meeting said
Aught that was good for the heart or head,
His hearers should pour their feelings out
In a loud "Amen" or a godly shout.
Three children had they, all honest boys,
Whose youthful sorrows and youthful joys
They shared, as your loving parents will,
While tending them ever through good and ill.
One day—'twas a bleak, cold Sabbath morn,
When the sky was dark and the earth forlorn—
These boys, with a caution not to roam,
Were left by the elder folk at home.
But scarce had they gone when the wooded frame
Was seen by the tall stove-pipe aflame;
And out of their reach, high, high, and higher,
Rose the red coils of the serpent fire.
With startled sight for a while they gazed,
As the pipe grew hot and the wood-work blazed;
Then up, though his heart beat wild with dread,
The eldest climbed to a shelf o'erhead,
And soon, with a sputter and hiss of steam,
The flame died out like an angry dream.
When the father and mother came back that day—
They had gone to a neighboring church to pray—
Each looked, but with half-averted eye,
On the awful doom which had just passed by.
And then the father began to praise
His boys with a tender and sweet amaze.
"Why, how did you manage, Tom, to climb
And quench the threatening flames in time
To save your brothers, and save yourself?"
"Well, father, I mounted the strong oak shelf
By help of the table standing nigh."
"And what," quoth the father, suddenly,
Turning to Jemmy, the next in age,
"Did you to quiet the fiery rage?"
"I brought the pail, and the dipper too,
And so it was that the water flew
All over the flames, and quenched them quite."
A mist came over the father's sight,
A mist of pride and of righteous joy,
As he turned at last to his youngest boy—
A gleeful urchin scarce three years old,
With his dimpling cheeks and his hair of gold.
"Come, Artie, I'm sure you weren't afraid;
Now tell in what way you tried to aid
This fight with the fire." "Too small am I,"
Artie replied, with a half-drawn sigh,
"To fetch like Jemmy, and work like Tom;
So I stood just here for a minute dumb,
Because, papa, I was frightened some;
But I prayed, 'Our Father'; and then—and then
I shouted as loud as I could, 'Amen.'"
After considerable preparation in the way of polishing his clappers on the cuff of his jacket, and fingering the keys of his accordion to make sure they were in proper working order, Leander extracted with one finger a few bars of "Yankee Doodle" from the last-named instrument, and gave an imitation of a drum with the clappers in a manner that won for him no small amount of applause.
THE MANAGERS OF THE CIRCUS LOOKING AT THE POSTERS OF THEIR RIVAL.
"Now we'll go home," said Toby, "'cause Uncle Dan'l will be waitin' for me an' the cows, an' to-morrow I'll meet you down town where the circus pictures be."
Then he helped Abner on to his crutches, and walked beside him all the way, wishing, oh, so much! that he could save the poor boy from having to go out to the poor-farm to sleep.
"You come in just as early as you can in the mornin', Abner, an' you shall eat dinner with me," he said, as he parted with the boy at Uncle Daniel's gate, "an' perhaps you'll make so much money at our circus that you won't ever have to go out to the poor-farm again."
Abner tried to thank his friend for the kindness he had shown him; but the sobs of gratitude came into his throat so fast that it was impossible, and he hobbled away toward his dreary home, while Toby ran into the house to tell the astounding news of the coming of the circus.
"So all the people who were so kind to you will be here next week, will they?" said, rather than asked, Aunt Olive. "Well, Toby, we'll kill one of the lambs, an' you shall invite them up here to dinner, which will kind of encourage them to be good to any other little boy who may be as foolish as you were."
Toby lay awake a long time that night, thinking of the pleasure he was to have in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Treat, old Ben, and little Ella eating dinner in Uncle Daniel's home, and of how good a boy he ought to be to repay his uncle and aunt for their loving-kindness to him.
Operations were almost entirely suspended by the would-be circus managers in view of the coming of the real show. It would have been commercial folly to attempt to enter into competition with it; the real circus would, without a doubt, prove too strong a rival for them to contend against; and by waiting until after it had come and gone they might be able to pick up some useful ideas regarding the show they proposed to give.
This delay would be to their advantage in a great many other ways. The band would have so much time for practice that he might learn another tune, or even be able to play with more than one finger; their acrobat would have so many rehearsals that he could, perhaps, double his present allowance of hand-springs, and Joe would be able to bring his horses to a more perfect state of training.
Mr. Douglass, having no use for his horse, was perfectly willing he should remain under Joe's tuition, providing it was done in Uncle Daniel's pasture; but matters were not in so good a condition regarding the pony.
Chandler Merrill was anxious to have his property returned to him, and not willing to go after it. Besides, Mr. Douglass's horse was in great danger of being kicked to death so long as the vicious little animal remained in the same pasture.
Very many were the discussions the boys had on the subject; but nothing could be suggested which promised any relief, after Bob's brilliant idea of driving the pony out, and letting him find his way home as best he might, was tried without success. The pony not only refused to go out, but he actually drove the boys away by the liberal use he made of his heels.
Slowly the time passed until the day before the one on which the circus was to arrive. Toby had almost been counting the hours, and Abner, who was to see the interior of a circus tent for the first time in his life, was quite as excited as he.
The lamb had been killed, as Aunt Olive had promised, and a rare store of good things in the way of apple pies, cake, doughnuts, and custards had been prepared, until the pantry looked like a large-sized baker's shop just opened for inspection.
Everything was ready for the guests who were to be invited[Pg 424] to dinner next day; and when Toby went to bed that night, it seemed as if he would never get to sleep for thinking of all the friends he was to see.
Abner was in quite as sleepless a condition as Toby. Aunt Olive had invited him to remain overnight, so that he might see everything that was going on, and as he lay in the soft geranium-scented bed, his eyes were kept wide open by his delight with what seemed to him the magnificence of the room.
It seemed as though each boy in the village considered himself Toby's particular and intimate friend during the week that preceded the coming of the circus, and the marbles, balls, and boats that were showered upon him in the way of gifts would almost have stocked a small shop.
Then, on this day before the circus, all the boys in town were most anxious to know just where Toby proposed meeting the cavalcade, at what time he was to start, and other details, which showed quite plainly it was their intention to accompany him if possible.
When Toby went to bed, it was with the express understanding with Uncle Daniel that he was to be called at daylight, in order that he might start out to meet the circus when it stopped to prepare for its entrance into the town. The place where the procession was usually formed, was fully two miles from town, and as Abner could hardly walk that distance, and certainly could not walk so fast as Toby would want to go, he had agreed to drive the cows to pasture, after which he was to go to the tenting ground, where his friend would introduce him to all the celebrities.
Uncle Daniel seemed quite as anxious as Toby that he should leave the house in time to meet his circus friends before the entrée was made, and Aunt Olive afterward said, he didn't sleep a wink after two o'clock for fear he might not waken in time to rouse the anxious boy.
It was fully an hour before sunrise when Uncle Daniel awakened Toby, and cautioned him to eat as much of the lunch Aunt Olive had set out as possible, insisting that what he could not eat he should put into his pocket, as it would be a long while before he would get his dinner.
The two miles Toby was obliged to walk seemed very short ones, and at nearly every house on the road one or more boys were watching for him quite as eagerly as for the show itself, so that by the time he arrived at the place where two or three of the wagons had drawn up by the side of the road he had as many as a hundred boys for an escort, all of whom were urging him to get the manager to take out a few lions and tigers for their inspection before starting for the village.
Toby could hold out no promise to them; on the contrary, he insisted that he hardly knew the manager, save by sight, and explained to them that they were unwise to come with him on any such errand, since none of the curiosities could be seen there, and if old Ben were still with the company, he should ride back with him.
But the boys put very little faith in what he said, seeming to have the idea that he simply wanted to get rid of them, and instead of going away, they surrounded him more closely.
Once upon a time, so many days ago that it really makes no difference as to exactly when it did happen, a very respectable and industrious couple by the name of Sparrow lived a short distance in the country. They had a cozy little home in a tree so stout that there was no need of insuring it against damage by wind, and they were not only contented with their lot in life, but were very happy.
They were by no means ignorant of the city, which could be seen from the topmost branches of their home, for they had lived there in their younger days, moving into the country only when they felt it absolutely necessary to their comfort to get away from the bustle and confusion that almost distracted them.
Their friends and acquaintances all said they were very foolish to hide themselves in such a quiet place, even if it was cozy, and tried to persuade them to move back to town; but they paid very little attention to such talk, hardly even making any answer, and when they had two little fluffy children, Mrs. Sparrow declared that nothing could tempt her to leave their country home. You see, she thought it would be better to keep the children at that place, where she could be sure that they would not be out late at night, or get into mischief, than to take them where they might make bad acquaintances, for she loved these two boys of hers very dearly, even though they had got only about half as many wing and tail feathers as they would have when they were older.
But the strangest portion of the story is that these two young Sparrows not only thought they knew quite as much as their parents did, but they had an idea that the only place for Sparrows with any degree of spirit to live in was the city, and almost from the time their noses were poked out of the shell they coaxed their father and mother to move into town, where there was more to be seen and enjoyed. Whenever the children teased, old father Sparrow would shake his head knowingly, as if he did not even dare to tell how wicked the great city was, and mother Sparrow would offer to show them a nice fat worm if they would try and be contented at home, instead of wanting to go where they had no business, and where they would not be nearly so comfortable.
The Sparrow boys always took the worm their mother offered, and they winked at each other while they were eating it, as if to say that their father was getting entirely too old to know what was best for boys, while they were very certain they knew exactly what they should or should not do.
They thought so much about the city, and how nice it would be to live there, that they talked of very little else, and on several occasions even neglected to oil their feathers as they had been taught, which caused them to look anything rather than neat.
One morning, after they had teased their father, and been given a feast by their mother, which saved them the labor of hunting for breakfast, they accidentally came upon a pretty little stream whose waters were as clear as crystal, and along the banks of which was a rail fence that made a capital roosting place. Here, of course, they began to talk over the city life they were so anxious to lead, when one of them chanced to see his reflection in the water.
The image he saw was that of two rather ragged, untidy-looking birds; but he knew it was a reflection of himself and his brother, and he thought it was about as beautiful as anything that could be imagined.
"There! that is what I call a good-looking bird; not too young, nor yet too old; a good-shaped head, delicate feet, and a coat that will be just about perfect after I get through moulting."
Then the two looked at the reflections very critically, seeing points of beauty in each that had never even been suspected by their mother, and praising themselves and each other until the flowers almost hung their heads in shame that their cousins the birds could be so vain. If they had thought they saw the image of any one but themselves, they would very soon have discovered that the tails were not as long or broad as they should have been, that the wings were ragged-looking because of the pin-feathers, that they were untidy, and a dozen other glaring faults; but as it was, they thought it was not possible any other birds could be so beautiful.
"I'll tell you what we can do," said the elder, after he had satisfied himself that what made him look cross-eyed was the rippling of the water rather than a personal defect; "we can go over to the city for one day without letting father or mother know anything about it. We will start early, and if we don't create a sensation, I am very much mistaken in my ideas of the world."
Both these young Sparrows knew that it was very wrong for them to go away without their parents' permission; but the desire to show their beautiful figures to the city birds, and see a bit of the world at the same time, caused them to put such an idea out of their minds as far as possible. It was not such a very long journey, and there seemed to be hardly a chance that they would be missed; but even if they were, it was quite certain no one would mistrust where they had gone.
While they were making preparations for the journey—and they had considerable to do in the way of consulting some friends as to the best course to fly, laying by a store of food in order not to be delayed in the start, and attending to their toilets—they said nothing to their parents relative to their desire to live in the city. This pleased their mother greatly, for she hoped they had given up such a foolish idea.
At last everything was in readiness, and making some excuse to their parents, such as that they were going out for berries or on a butterfly-hunt, they started toward the city. It was a much longer journey than they had supposed, for from their home it seemed as if the city was close at hand; but neither of them thought of turning back, even though they were terribly tired.
The younger was in favor of alighting on Broadway, where they could be seen by every one, but the elder was much wiser.
"We will fly to the top of the City Hall, and we shall not have been there many moments before half the Sparrows in town will know of our arrival, and after that I do not fancy we shall have much trouble in making the acquaintance of the most distinguished birds in town."
Therefore they did not stop in their flight until the building in question was reached, although they saw many strange and curious things that they were anxious to investigate.
"Now get right on the edge of the roof, and see how quickly people will find out we are here," said the elder, as he gave a little shake of his tail to make sure each feather was in sight.
In one particular he was correct: they were noticed very quickly, although hardly in the way he had supposed. In less than five minutes from the time they first took possession of their lofty perch a party of young city Sparrows came up to arrange their feathers in the latest fashion after having taken their noonday bath.
"Will you look at those birds?" cried one, with a laugh and a twitter, as he shook his wings in the direction of the new-comers. "They must have worn those same feathers since last spring, they are so out of style."
Then another spoke of the wretched taste displayed in the cut of the strangers' tails, while the third actually crowded against the country Sparrows until he nearly pushed them from the roof.
The visitors were very angry, but they did not dare to say anything; for as many as a dozen other city fellows had joined the first party, all of whom made all possible[Pg 427] sport of these two who had thought themselves so beautiful, until an old gray-headed Sparrow, who was carrying a large bug to his wife, stopped to see what the matter was.
He very soon obliged the pert young city fellows to stop their nonsense, and then asked the strangers where they came from, and how they chanced to be there. It was some time before the two vain birds would tell their story; but they did so at last, and when they had finished, the old bird said:
"In the first place, you deserve very much harsher treatment than you have received, because of having come here against your parents' wishes. Go home at once, and remember that it is much safer to trust to what your father says than to try to find out for yourselves. As to your beauty, of that you should allow others to judge. There is an old maxim which comes very near the truth, and that is, 'Handsome is who handsome does,' the true meaning of which I think you can now readily understand."
The birds were ashamed of themselves almost before the old gentleman had finished speaking, and just as soon as it was possible for them to leave him they started for home, where they have ever since remained, studying the maxim, and trying to profit by it.
Dainty little Daisy
Sits waiting for the sun—
Says she's almost crazy
To take a little run
On the hill to show her frill,
Or by the road to stray;
But she's kept in-doors till
Spring says she may.
Dandy little Buttercup,
Waiting for June weather,
In his earthy bed tucked up,
Wakes, and wonders whether
He will sprout and soon shine out
In his gold array,
Or in doubt be left to pout
Till Spring says he may.
Pussy-Willow, soon astir,
Makes an early start,
Thickens all her silver fur
Just to look smart;
Longs to break the spell, and take
Her own sweet way
Before the rest are wide awake;
And Spring says she may.
There are two ways of taking trout—one at the top of the water, and the other beneath it. The latter is commonly known as bait-fishing, while the former is called fly-fishing.
Fly-fishing is undoubtedly the greater sport, and requires more delicacy and skill of handling than the other; but it is also much more expensive by reason of the cost of the rod, the line, the flies, and the various small matters that a fly-fisher always wants. Then, again, it happens that there are days when a trout will not rise at a fly, but when if you whisk a ripe red angle-worm or a fat grasshopper under his nose he will promptly take in either; and after such remonstrance as it may be in him to offer, he will get into your basket, or find himself strung on your willow twig. There are also streams wherein the water is at times thick and murky, and where the fish lurk about the bottom of the deep holes and eddies, and can not see the fly when it is thrown. In such places the bait has to be brought very close to their notice, and it must also be fresh, or frequently they will have none of it.
A fly rod for trout should be about fourteen feet long, seven ounces or thereabouts in weight, and should be fitted with a good reel that will let the light line, which is of silk or of linen fibre, run out freely, and then wind it again as quickly. Such a rod may cost a good deal of money—seventy-five dollars, for instance, if you prefer a split bamboo rod of a certain maker's work. There are fly rods which you can bend until you take the tip and butt into one hand, but which will fly out straight again on being released. A rod of this sort is a very pretty affair, but quite as many trout are likely to be taken with a much cheaper one.
In the days, however, when I fished more than, I am sorry to say, I do now, I had a rod which was not worth much more than fifty cents, the line and lead, sink and hook, included; and yet with that rod I have outdone many a fisherman who possessed the most expensive kind of an outfit. I thought that had I had their costly outfits, their books of flies for all seasons, weathers, and hours, their taper rods, their silk lines and whirring reels, their prodigal lengths of gut, their trim baskets, and their luxury of small fixings, I should have cleaned out our river at will. But I learned later that in trout-fishing a vast deal more depends upon the fisherman than upon any apparatus he may be supplied with.
To begin with, any flexible light rod will do. You should have a reel, so that you may be able to fish at varying distances from where you stand, and also in order that if you do strike a large fish, he may not get away from you by simply starting off suddenly and snapping off your line or tearing out the hook. You should have about thirty yards of line. Then you want, if you mean to fish with the fly, a few gut casting-lines and some flies; or if you intend bait-fishing, some hooks, and a sinker heavy enough to keep your bait from being swept along too fast by the current.
If you can, provide yourself with a fish basket. It will keep your fish from being dried up by the sun, and visited by the flies, which latter like fresh trout quite as much as you do yourself. It will also leave you your hands free to attend to your fishing with; and if the fish bite at all, you will need both to manage them. When you are fishing, keep this same basket lid fastened. I remember on one occasion being very much annoyed to see my fine trout, that I had caught all swept away by the rushing current, when I had, with no intention thereof, sat down in the water by reason of a slippery rock, or, out of pure anxiety, walked into some deep hole.
If you intend to use bait for your fishing, tie your sinker at the end of your line in such a way that you can attach the loop in the gut of your hook below it. Your hook ought to be at least a foot below your sinker, and it ought not to vary greatly in size from the hooks shown in the illustration on this page. You know how to get worms, just as well as I do; only choose those that are neither[Pg 428] small nor great, and that are about twice the length of your hook. Such a worm looks best and most inviting to a trout when he is properly disposed on the hook. This you should do in the simplest way possible, putting the hook crosswise two or three times through the worm, tucking him together on it, and being chiefly careful that the point and barb are covered. If you can not get worms, there is a variety of old stumps of trees that will yield you a fat white grub that the trout esteem highly. These grubs are borers, and an axe easily lays bare their long sawdust galleries in the decaying timber. Failing worms and grubs, you can use grasshoppers or minnows. For handsome as the trout is, he is a voracious fellow, and will eat all manner of small fish, snails, frogs, and the like, being nothing short of a cannibal, and devouring things until he can hold nothing more.
Fish with your line as nearly of the length of your rod as you can, and put your bait as far from your standpoint as is possible without losing your ready observation and command of it. Never be too prodigal of your line because you have plenty of it on your reel, but use only so much of it as may be needed to put your bait where the fish lies, and keep yourself and your rod out of his sight. The trout is bold in one way, and timid in another. He is as brave as a lion about what he eats, and the quantity of it, but he is as swift-flying as a shadow if he catches a glimpse of you. Keep out of his view, and drop your line noiselessly into the stream above the eddy in the current. It will drift quietly down, and if the fish are there, you will know it very soon. When you feel him bite, strike by sharply raising the tip of your rod. Do it firmly and quickly, but with such control that if you miss him you will not send your bait flying back over your head, among the trees, perhaps, or into any place but where it ought to be. If you have him, and he be a fish of any strength and weight, your sport begins. Let him run with it, but keep your rod well up so that you can maintain a steady strain on him. If you slacken your line, the chances are he will spit out the hook, or shake it out of the hole it has made for itself in his jaw, and then you are done with him. Keep a steady hand on him; bring him up sharp and quick if he jumps out, for that is a dangerous trick, and guide him at a favorable turn, and when you have a good head of speed on him, to his landing-place.
For fly-fishing, which is the finest after all, you want a gut casting-line, and some more in reserve in your pocket-book or about your hat, and an assortment of flies suited to the season. Flies are imitations of the various insects that trout feed upon, and are of great variety. You may learn to make them yourself with a few simple materials, such as small feathers and bits of silk or woollen goods.
To your casting-line attach your flies as you see them in the engraving, and then you are ready. You have at least eight feet of gut between your end fly and your line. Fish with as much length of line as you can easily and surely throw. Use your rod like a long delicate whip, and let the three flies that form its taper lash settle down on the water as lightly as thistle-down. This can not have too much care; it is the great thing in the art of fly-fishing, and should be practiced in an open space. When you can drop your flies, every time, on a handkerchief fifty feet away, you can consider yourself an expert. For the rest of it, when you see your fish rise with a swift bright flash of red and white, and a sparkle of breaking water, strike just as before advised, and hold him after in the spirit of firmness and coolness until you land him and have him safe in your basket.
Let your tackle be of the lightest and the strongest; don't neglect it, for a real fisherman is as careful of his things as if they were so many live pets; and beyond everything else, when you go a-fishing, keep a good temper and an open eye.
It's queer that girls are so dreadfully afraid of rats and mice. Men are never afraid of them, and I shouldn't mind if there were morenamillion mice in my bedroom every night.
Mr. Travers told Sue and me a terrible story one day about a woman that was walking through a lonely field, when she suddenly saw a field-mouse right in front of her. She was a brave woman; so after she had said, "Oh my! save me, somebody!" she determined to save herself if she could, for there was nobody within miles of her. There was a tree not very far off, and she had just time to climb up the tree and seat herself in the branches, when the mouse reached its foot. There that animal staid for six days and nights, squeaking in a way that made the woman's blood run cold, and waiting for her to come down. On the seventh day, when she was nearly exhausted, a man with a gun came along, and shot the mouse, and saved her life. I don't believe this story, and I told. Mr. Travers so; for a woman couldn't climb a tree, and even if she could, what would hinder the mouse from climbing after her?
Sue has a new young man, who comes every Tuesday and Thursday night. One day he said, "Jimmy, if you'll get me a lock of your sister's hair, I'll give you a nice dog." I told him he was awfully kind, but I didn't think[Pg 429] it would be honest for me to take Sue's best hair, but that I'd try to get him some of her every-day hair. And he said, "What on earth do you mean, Jimmy?" And I said that Sue had got some new back hair a little while ago, for I was with her when she bought it, and I knew she wouldn't like me to take any of that. So he said it was no matter, and he'd give me the dog anyway.
I told Sue afterward all about it, just to show her how honest I was, and instead of telling me I was a good boy, she said, "Oh you little torment g'way and never let me see you again," and threw herself down on the sofa and howled dreadfully, and mother came and said, "Jimmy, if you want to kill your dear sister, you can just keep on doing as you do." Such is the gratitude of grown-up folks.
"SUE HAD OPENED THE BOX."
Mr. Withers—that's the new young man—brought the dog, as he said he would. He's a beautiful Scotch terrier, and he said he would kill rats like anything, and was two years old, and had had the distemper; that is, Mr. Withers said the dog would kill rats, and of course Mr. Withers himself never had the distemper.
Of course I wanted to see the dog kill rats, so I took him to a rat-hole in the kitchen, but he barked at it so loud that no rat would think of coming out. If you want to catch rats, you mustn't begin by barking and scratching at rat-holes, but you must sit down and kind of wink with one eye and lay for them, just as cats do. I told Mr. Withers that the dog couldn't catch any rats, and he said he would bring me some in a box, and I could let them out, and the dog would kill every single one of them.
The next evening Sue sent me down to the milliner's to bring her new bonnet home, and don't you be long about it either you idle worthless boy. Well, I went to the milliner's shop, but the bonnet wasn't done yet; and as I passed Mr. Withers's office, he said, "Come here, Jimmy; I've got those rats for you." He gave me a wooden box like a tea-chest, and told me there were a dozen rats in it, and I'd better have the dog kill them at once, or else they'd gnaw out before morning.
When I got home, Sue met me at the door, and said, "Give me that bandbox this instant you've been mornanour about it." I tried to tell her that it wasn't her box; but she wouldn't listen, and just snatched it and went into the parlor, where there were three other young ladies who had come to see her, and slammed the door; but the dog slipped in with her.
In about a minute I heard the most awful yells that anybody ever heard. It sounded as if all the furniture in the parlor was being gnashed into kindling wood, and the dog kept barking like mad. The next minute a girl came flying out of the front window, and another girl jumped right on her before she had time to get out of the way, and they never stopped crying, "Help murder let me out oh my!"
I knew, of course, that Sue had opened the box and let the rats out, and though I wanted ever so much to know if the dog had killed them all, I thought she would like it better if I went back to the milliner's and waited a few hours for the bonnet.
I brought it home about nine o'clock: but Sue had gone to bed, and the servant had just swept up the parlor, and piled the pieces of furniture on the piazza. Father won't be home till next week, and perhaps by that time Sue will get over it. I wish I did know if the dog killed all those rats, and how long it took him.
Mother has gone to breakfast,
And left the baby alone,
But he's seated among the pillows
Like a dear little king on a throne.
If mother don't come to the baby,
Why, then he has only to cry,
And you may be sure she will hurry,
Catch him, and sing lullaby.
Who wants to help clean house? Elsie, with her sweeping-cap on and her new broom in her hand, says, "I." Susie, with her dancing eyes and her dimpled cheeks, flies for the duster, and declares that she means to be mamma's chief assistant. Jack and Tom, who are very strong, and like to show what splendid muscles they have, are on the spot, ready to lift and carry and do all they can to aid in the spring campaign.
House-cleaning is not the quietest work in the world, but it is work that pays in the end; and good-natured people often find plenty of fun in it.
Lost things often come to light in the May days, when everything is brushed and beaten, pounded and shaken, washed and rubbed, polished and painted, until the world puts on a new face. There was once a little girl who said to a gentleman, in reply to his remark that it was a very bright morning, "Yes, sir; mother washed the windows yesterday."
To return to the lost things, is it not pleasant to find them when they have been out of sight for ever so long? For instance, the Postmistress has a favorite paper-knife which came all the way from Japan. Some time ago it mysteriously disappeared, and though hunted for in every imaginable place, it could not be found. The other day, in house-cleaning, it turned up suddenly. It had cozily tucked itself in between the back of a sofa and the seat, and no doubt had laughed many a time—that is, if a paper-knife can laugh—when it had heard its owner wondering where it could possibly be. It would be a good plan for us all, Postmistress and children, to adopt this old-fashioned rule: "A place for everything, and everything in its place."
Yonkers, New York.
I receive my paper every Tuesday afternoon. I think it is the nicest paper that was ever published for little folks, and big folks too. I have taken it ever since 1879, and now I have one hundred and twenty-seven numbers.
I must tell you about a little black-and-tan dog we had. His name was Dot, and he seemed to know everything that was said to him. When I went to school, he would follow me, and if I went to my recitation, he would come and stand at the head of the class. When he was thirsty, he would go to the water-cooler, and bark for a drink. After a while a cruel dog bit him in the neck, and soon after he died. I have a goat that I trained myself.
Belle H.
What a cunning little dog, to stand at the head of the class! He did not wish, like a dunce, to go to the foot, did he? And what a pity he died!
Cayuga, Canada.
I am a little girl who was eight years old last August. My auntie in Lockport sends Young People to me. I thought a great deal of "Toby Tyler," and now that "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" has come, I enjoy it immensely. I have a little kittie called Pugo. She is gray and white, and is afraid of our parrot. The spring has come, and I am so glad, for we will soon be able to go to the woods and gather wild flowers.
Maggie L. A.
Floyd, Louisiana.
I have been wanting to write to you for some time, and tell you about my pets, but was afraid my letter would not be published.
I have the sweetest little squirrel you ever saw. His name is Zeke, but we do not call him anything but Funny. Papa gave me a nice large cage for him. Mamma takes him out sometimes, and he plays with her just like a kitten. I am afraid of him, although I like to watch him play. I have a bird that sings from morning until night. I have a cat and two dogs. I have also three horses. I can ride one of them. My grandpa gave me such a nice little saddle and bridle! Don't you think I have a good many pets? I am eleven years old.
Irene N.
New York City.
I wrote to Harper's Young People once last summer, but that was while I was in Europe, so I thought I would write from my own home.
My grandpa and grandma had their golden wedding a short time ago, and I expected to have a great deal of fun, but I was sick, so I could not go to it, after all.
We are going to have a fair at our school soon, and so we are all hard at work making fancy-work for it.
Jessie C. S.
East Norwich, New York.
I am not a girl; I am a boy, nine years old. My name is Uel. It is a name which you can find in the Bible—Ezra, x. 34. If you want to know how to pronounce it rightly, you may know by its rhyme with jewel, fuel, and cruel. My father is a minister. I have three sisters. I have a cat named Tommy. I have a velocipede and a sled. I like Harper's Young People very much; I hope you will print my letter in it.
Uel G.
"Little robin singing
From the cherry-tree,
Won't you leave your bower,
Come and play with me?"
"No, no, no," the little robin said;
"I must sing, and you must work."
And so the May day sped.
"Little streamlet dancing
Onward to the sea,
Won't you stop your leaping,
Come and play with me?"
"No, no, no," the merry brooklet said;
"I must play, and you must work,
You pretty curly-head."
"Little flower growing
Oh, so wild and free,
Won't you leave the meadow,
Come and play with me?"
"No, no, no," the sweet spring beauty said;
"I must grow, and so must you."
And thus the May day fled.
Belleville, Illinois.
I am a little girl twelve years old. I read Harper's Young People, and enjoy it very much. We all read it in school. Our teacher gets it for us. Is he not kind? I have been sick ever since Christmas. But I have taken my medicine patiently, and hope soon to be well. My brother and I have a little pet rabbit; it eats blue grass and drinks milk very readily. I have a pet calf; her name is Daisy; and a cow whose name is Lily. I have three sisters and two brothers. We had nice times on Easter. We live in the country, and everything is so beautiful now. I love the Post-office Box very much, and read it first every time.
This is my first letter to Harper's Young People. Please put it in the Post-office Box.
Mary A. K.
Utica, New York.
When we came from England, about two years ago, we brought our Persian cat with us. Her name was Sooty, because her fur was so dark. We taught her to carry meat to a paper on the floor, so as not to soil the carpet. We lost her about a year after, so we kept her kitten, and named her Pansy. She carries her food to the paper, and we have also taught her to ring the bell for her meals. We turn the large dinner-bell on its side, and then she knocks the tongue about with her paw. She was very good-tempered until this summer, when mamma brought another little Persian kitten from England, and then she became so jealous that it spoiled her temper completely. The kitten's name is Gypsy, and she is such a little pet! She was born in Scotland, then went to England, and was "highly commended" at an exhibition of cats there, and at last she crossed the Atlantic to America; so she has seen a good deal of the world, has she not? We have taken Harper's Young People a long time now. I do like to read some of the letters, and I hope this one will add to the pleasure of some other reader.
Janie P. G.
Mayfield, Ohio.
I am a little girl, and I live on a farm with my grandpa and grandma. I went to school six months last winter. I had two miles and a quarter to go. I went to a graded school, and there were thirty scholars in my room. I have no brother nor sister to play with. I have two pet lambs and ten chickens. I also have a piano. I took nineteen lessons last summer, and I am going to take more this summer. I liked the story of "Talking Leaves" very much. Good-night.
M. G.
Elder Sister.—Certainly the younger children should mind what you say when your father and mother are away from home. They will do this more pleasantly if you ask than if you order them, however. Try the plan of speaking gently without raising your voice.
Mary P.—The best time to answer a letter is, if possible, the day on which you receive it. Just after reading your friend's words you feel as if you had been brought very near to her, and there is a freshness and glow in answering her at once which will be gone by the next week. Still, some friends prefer to be kept waiting a little while. If Carrie D. is of that opinion, and prefers not to be answered for a few days or weeks, you might write her a journal letter. Every evening you might set down some of the incidents of your home life, tell her whom you have seen, what books you are reading, what new receipts you have tried, and what flowers are in bloom in the woods and garden. Such a letter would be very much better worth your sending than a hasty scrawl dashed off without care or pains. Above all, my dear, never apologize for a careless letter. If it needs an excuse, it should not be sent.
Robert.—The battle of Lutzen was fought on the 6th of November, 1632. It was in this battle that the great Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden was killed. Gustavus was a leader of wonderful courage and many resources. Dressed in gray with a green plume, he would always be seen in the thickest of the fight, and often before a battle began he would be seen to kneel down and pray in the presence of the soldiers. I am very glad that you find history so captivating.
The Care of Pets.—Children who are unwilling to care for their pets should not keep them. A little bird in its cage can not provide its own seed and water, nor fill its bath, and if its mistress neglects to give it food and drink regularly, it will suffer, and very likely die. In taking care of pet animals it is very necessary to attend to their wants at a regular time every day, and their houses, boxes, and cages should be kept very clean.
Juliet L. T.—The Postmistress will return your graceful little sketch, if you send her word that you would like her to do so. In exchanging, you need simply to state what you have to offer and what you wish to receive. Do this as briefly as possible. Your living abroad does not at all interfere with your being a very welcome exchanger.
We think our readers will enjoy this pretty and poetical legend from the Russian:
It was late, late, one evening, and little Oscar had not yet gone to sleep. His mamma stood beside his tiny white bed, and told him ever so many[Pg 431] stories, but still Oscar would not go to sleep. He looked and looked toward the window, at which a lovely moonbeam was entering, and which, gliding along the carpet, mounted up to his tiny bed.
"Mamma," said he, after having listened to the wonders of the "Little Golden Fish" and the "White Fairy," "tell me why the moon shines at night."
Mamma thought a little, and then replied:
"One day, thousands of years ago, the sun was tired after his long walk, and unable to go any further, so the Lord said to him, 'Go now, lie down and sleep; and when thou sleepest all things shall sleep with thee—men and birds and beasts.' And the sun was going away to sleep when he met the moon. 'O lovely golden moon,' he said, 'sweet sister mine, will you do me a favor? Light your lantern, and while I sleep, go softly and with noiseless steps all over the earth. Peep in at every window, and see if the children within are good and say their prayers, or if they cry and keep others from sleeping, but, above all, if they are quiet, and go to sleep betimes. Then come to me to-morrow morning, and tell me everything.' And so every evening, when the sun goes to sleep, the moon walks about, and looks in at the windows everywhere with wide-open eyes. Then when day is about to dawn, she goes and knocks at the gates of the sun: 'Tap! tap! tap! Open, dear brother mine; the cranes are flying through the air, the cocks are crowing, and the bells down below are ringing in the morning.' Then the sun gets up quickly, and says to the moon, 'Dear sister, tell me all that has been happening during the night.' Then the moon tells him everything she has seen in her travels. If all has been quiet, if no one has been weeping, and especially if the little children have gone quietly to sleep, the sun will come gayly out of his palace, all shining with gold and precious stones. But if they have not been good, he will wrap himself in clouds and mist, make a cold wind blow, and send down great showers of rain and sleet, and then the nurses can not take the children out into the gardens to chase the butterflies."
"Ah," said Oscar, who was a good little boy; and then he closed his eyes, and went to sleep.
The days are very soon coming when boys and girls will scorn fireside amusements, and think no game worth playing that does not take them out among the green fields and flower-strewn hedges. But in the mean time, May is sure to bring us many raw, unpleasant days and rainy evenings to be disposed of somehow. Here is a game called "The Spanish Nobleman," that may help pass a leisure hour.
The company arrange themselves in a long straight line at one end of the room, excepting one person, who is to be the nobleman, and he must take his place at the other end of the room. Advancing to his friends, the nobleman must then sing the following lines:
"I am a nobleman from Spain,
Coming to court your daughter Jane."
To which the rest reply:
"Our daughter Jane is yet too young.
She has not learned her mother's tongue."
The nobleman replies:
"Be she young or be she old,
For her beauty she must be sold;
So fare you well, my ladies gay.
I'll call again another day."
The company then advance, singing:
"Turn back, turn back, you noble lord,
And brush your boots and spurs so bright."
Whereupon the Spanish nobleman replies, with something of rebuke in his tone:
"My boots and spurs gave you no thought,
For in this land they were not bought,
Neither for silver nor for gold.
So fare you well, my ladies gay,
I'll call again another day."
All then advance, saying:
"Turn back, turn back, you noble lord,
And choose the fairest in your sight."
The nobleman, fixing upon—supposing we say Kitty—then says:
"The fairest one that I can see
Is pretty Kitty: come to me."
The couple go back hand in hand rejoicing. The whole performance is then recommenced; but the second time, instead of only one nobleman, two noblemen advance, and the rhyme is gone through again, ending at last in another companion being induced to join the little band of noblemen. Thus the game is carried on, until in the end all have gradually been won over to the opposite side.
Sister.—A girl of fifteen might make many pretty things for a boy of seventeen. A band for the inside of his hat, embroidered with his initials, a pair of worked suspenders, a pincushion for his pocket, a little case for his letters, or a watch case shaped like a horseshoe, to hang over his bureau, would each or all please him, we are sure.
We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to "The Pyramids of Egypt" and to "The Canoe Fight." Then, for the benefit of the boys, there is an article on "Trout-Fishing," in which they will find full directions as to the best methods of capturing the speckled beauties that inhabit our babbling brooks and shady forest streams.
Contributions received for Young People's Cot, in Holy Innocent's Ward, St. Mary's Free Hospital for Children, 407 West Thirty-fourth Street:
Ethel Franklin, Chicago, $1; Carla E. D., Stuttgart, Germany, $1; Robin Hood Archery Club, Yorkville, $25; Florence Edith Belcher, Shawangunk, N. Y., 20c.; Annie M. Miller, Charleston, S. C., $1; Herbert Boyer, Delaware, Ohio, $1.50; Mary L. Deeming, Lockport, Ill., $1; Sarah Phelp's Easter Offering, 18c.; "From one whose boy has gone home," $1; Willie T. Lent's Easter Offering, Jersey City, 50c.; Anna M. and Mary L. Smith, Columbus, Ohio, $1; Easter Offering from a Friend, $1; Easter Offering from Flory and Earle Stone, earned by them during Lent, Earlville, N. Y., 35c.; Easter Offering earned by Allen P. Gilbert, Detroit, Mich., $1; Anonymous, Philadelphia, $1; Earned by Jessie Thomas, N. Y., $2; Dora and Janet Gilmour, Stanbridge, Can., 50c.; Easter Offering, S. G. C., East Orange, $2; Easter Offering from Burial Guild ($3.50), Sewing-School ($3), and Girls' Friendly Society ($1) of Transfiguration Chapel, New York, $7.50: "Cheerful Givers," from Sunday-school of Church of the Transfiguration, New York, $3.10; John Peterson, Frank Jackson, Charlie Weeks, Vincent Peterson, Willie Napoleon, Edward Johnson, and Willie Thomas, New York (savings through Lent), $7; Mattie M. Heartt, Wahjamega, Mich., $1; Easter Offering from Bessie Winans, Brooklyn, $1.10; Easter Offering from the Sunday-school of the Church of the Transfiguration, New York—Miss Lena Fanshawe's, Miss Agnes Kain's, Miss Dod's, Miss Struthers's, Miss Whitlock's, Miss M. R. Chauncey's, Miss E. G. Shreve's, Miss M. S. Shreeves's, Mrs. Elton's, and Mrs. Martin's classes—$48.39; total, $109.32. Previously reported, $297.52; April 15, grand total, $406.84.
E. Augusta Fanshawe, Treasurer, 43 New St.
Columbus, Ohio.
We saved our pennies and put them in our little bank, and now we send $1 for the Cot. We are glad the poor little sick children have such nice little beds to lie on when they are sick, and we wish we had lots of dollars to send to them.
We are little girls. I am 'most six, and Mary is four, and mamma is writing this for us.
Anna Mabel Smith.
Mary L. Smith.
Delaware, Ohio.
I am a little boy seven years old. Mamma has read to me about the Young People's Cot. Last winter I was very sick, but God made me well. I send a thank-offering for the Cot, $1.50; I earned it myself.
Herbert B.
Charleston, South Carolina.
I inclose in this letter $1 that I have saved out of my spending money for the Young People's Cot in St. Mary's Hospital. I hope that it won't be very long before the cot is really ours, and some dear little child made well and happy in it. I am only nine years old, but I hope that you will let me help you all I can.
Annie Maxwell Miller.
New York City.
We had a fair at our church last month, and mamma taught me how to make some flag pen-wipers for the Sunday-school table. They were sold for 25 cents each. I wanted to send some money to Young People's Cot, and mamma said I might send what I could earn; then it would be truly mine. I made five more pen-wipers and sold them, and one gentleman gave me 50 cents for his, which made $1.50. Then I sold some papers, and grandma gave me some money for hanging up my cloak when I came in from school, as I was in the habit of throwing it on the lounge. These altogether made $2. I have two little brothers who are going to try and earn something soon. I am eight years old, and go to a Kindergarten.
H. Jessie Thomas.
1.—1. A city in Germany. 2. A part of the Russian Empire. 3. A town in Massachusetts. 4. A river in the Russian Empire. 5. A letter. 6. A river in Russia. 7. Small islands in the Atlantic. 8. A river in North Carolina. 9. One of the United States. Centrals read downward—A city in Australia.
2.—1. A portion of the Negro River in South America. 2. A city in Hadramant, Asia. 3. A river in Ireland. 4. A letter. 5. A river in Scotland. 6. A river in Lower Guinea. 7. A city in South America. Centrals read downward—An island in the far North.
A. E. F.
| My first is in bird, but not in hen. |
| My second in owl, but not in wren. |
| My third in snipe, but not in quail. |
| My fourth in boat, but not in sail. |
| My fifth in olive, but not in fig. |
| My sixth in branch, but not in twig. |
| My whole is a city famed far and wide, |
| Whose shores are washed by the Atlantic tide. |
Roger Derby.
| First in rap, but not in knock. |
| Second in wharf, but not in dock. |
| Third in hot, but not in warm. |
| Fourth in road, but not in path. |
| Fifth in hour, but not in time. |
| Sixth in needle, not in pin. |
| Seventh in flower, not in plant. |
| Eighth in snow, but not in hail. |
| Ninth in deed, but not in act. |
| Tenth in dream, but not in fact. |
| Eleventh in otter, not in seal. |
| Twelfth in zinc, but not in steel. |
| My whole a lovely blushing flower |
| Which makes the grove a splendid bower. |
Mary E. D. W.
| First in knot, but not in rope. |
| Second in fight, but not in cope. |
| Third in gong, but not in bell. |
| Fourth in height, but not in dell. |
| Fifth in shout, but not in sigh. |
| Sixth in thirsty, not in dry. |
| Seventh in ant, but not in bee. |
| Eighth in mortgage, not in fee. |
| Ninth in gale, but not in wind. |
| Tenth in Bundelkund, not in Scinde. |
| Eleventh in oyster, not in clam. |
| A bird of rarest charms I am. |
J. W. (aged 9).
1.—1. In cowslip. 2. Skill. 3. Something very nice. 4. A sailor. 5. In mouse-trap.
Benny Fishel.
2.—1. A letter. 2. A month. 3. A city officer. 4. A pronoun. 5. A letter.
Milton W.
| M | O | R | A | L | ||||
| R | O | Y | A | L | ||||
| B | A | C | O | N | ||||
| H | E | R | A | T | ||||
| D | E | P | O | T |
| M | E | T | A | L | A | L | T | E | R | |||
| E | V | E | R | Y | L | E | A | V | E | |||
| T | E | N | O | R | T | A | K | E | N | |||
| A | R | O | S | E | E | V | E | N | T | |||
| L | Y | R | E | S | R | E | N | T | S |
| C | aricature | S |
| A | lt | O |
| P | ne | L |
| T | orri | D |
| A | lta | I |
| I | r | E |
| N | ea | R |
| H | A | R | P | E | R | S |
| A | L | E | R | T | ||
| A | N | T | ||||
| N | ||||||
| M | A | M | ||||
| B | E | N | C | H | ||
| M | A | T | T | I | N | G |
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Lulu Kirtland, Gracie Norris, Walter Morill, Minnie E. Rosenfeld, Anne J. Thomas, Benny Fisher, "Icicle," Cora Crutchers, B. I., J. Combs, Robba Miller, R. B. B., Elsie O., H. R. G., May Sherman, Samuel Bronson, Arthur Cary, Reginald Bayliss, John Bentley, Amy Hilton, Rosa Snyder, Allie Lamb, "Gus," George Gale, "Robin Hood," John C. Myers, William H. Shine.
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
THE MERRY BLOCKHEADS.
This game is known by so many names that to give them all would occupy a great deal of unnecessary space, while just as much fun can be had from it if only one is given.
A base is marked off at either end of the play-ground, leaving a space in the middle. One of the players is chosen catcher, or "wolf," and takes up his position in the middle, between the two bases; the others run across from base to base while he endeavors to catch and hold them. If he can hold one while he can count ten, it is considered a fair catch, and the prisoner becomes wolf too, and assists in the capture of more, all of whom, as soon as caught, go to swell the number of wolves. Of course each passage across is more dangerous than the preceding one, since there are more wolves to avoid. At the same time a great part of the fun consists in "dodging." The boy that can change his course the quickest and turn and double has the best chance. Sometimes hats and jackets are left in the hands of the wolves, the owners having expertly wriggled out of them, and arrived safe at the base with these articles missing.
When a player has started from his base, he can not turn back, but must continue to the opposite base. The fun, of course, increases as the wolves become more numerous. Sometimes jackets even suffer in the fray. This, however, should not be allowed. A strict rule should forbid too much strength being used by the wolves or their captives. Anything else only produces mischief, and spoils the fun.
A small-sized spider had made his web on the under side of a table. Early one morning a small grasshopper was noticed on the floor, directly under the web, and on approaching to take it away, it was found that the spider had thrown a line round one of its legs. While the observer was looking at it, the spider came down and lassoed the opposite leg of the grasshopper, and continued for several minutes darting up and down, and fastening lines to different parts of the body of his victim. The struggles of the grasshopper, though a full-grown one, were unavailing to effect his escape.
As his struggles became more and more feeble, the spider threw his lines round him; and when he had become nearly exhausted, his captor proceeded to raise him from the floor. This he did by raising one end at a time. He at first raised the head and part of the body nearly half an inch, then raised the other end, and continued so to work until the grasshopper was elevated five or six inches. Thus hung in chains, the victim was left to die.
The "trap-door spider" is indeed most interesting. Erber tells us in Life and Her Children, by A. B. Buckley, that he once sat for hours on a moonlight night watching the doings of these insects. He saw two of the spiders come out each from its hole, and pushing open their doors, fasten them back by fine threads to blades of grass. They then spun a web round the open hole, and went back into their tunnels. By-and-by two beetles were caught, one in each web. In an instant the spiders darted out, and pierced their victims with their poisoned fangs, sucked out their soft flesh, and carried the empty bodies away some distance from their holes. Erber left them; but on returning in the morning, he found the spiders had cleared away all trace of the webs, and were shut down snugly in their hidden homes.
Who among us works more cleverly or with more industry for daily bread than these little spiders? They do it, too, under many difficulties and dangers; for birds and lizards are watching above-ground to make a meal of them, whilst crawling insects creep into their holes to attack them.
Some of these spiders have learned a means of escaping even this danger, for they make a second tunnel branching out of the first, and build a doorway between the two, so that they can retreat into the second passage in case of attack, and, by setting their backs against the door, baffle the intruder.
Should you wish to bind music, an atlas, or any wide volume which should lie flat on the table when opened, a "flexible" or elastic back should be made, instead of a "spring" or open one.
In this case, a few appliances will be needed, such as a "baker's rasp," some unbleached calico, and a solution of India rubber. This solution is sold in tins. Three coats of it should be applied to the back of the music-book, and two to a strip of the calico, which latter should lap over half an inch on each side. In preparing the back for the solution, rub up and indent the folded edges composing the back with the baker's rasp, so as to leave crevices for the reception of as much of the solution as possible. The head-band is secured by gluing a piece of fine calico all down the back.
REBUS.
[1] Begun in No. 127, Harper's Young People.
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, May 2, 1882, by Various
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