Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, May 16, 1882, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, May 16, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: September 4, 2018 [EBook #57842]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MAY 16, 1882 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| vol. iii.—no. 133. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, May 16, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
PUSSY'S MUSIC LESSON.
"I wish I could take you both with me," said Mr. Hanway, as he kissed his children good-by, and stepped into the carriage that was to bear him up among the mountains on a visit to an old friend; "but Fletcher here will take good care of you, Amy, and I am sure neither of you will forget what I've told you about keeping away from the boats."
Fletcher was ten and Amy eight, and the two, with their father, who was a widower, were stopping at a cozy little hotel on the shores of a lovely lake in Switzerland.
It was only on very rare occasions that Mr. Hanway permitted himself to be separated from his children during their travels abroad, but as the hotel where they had now been staying for nearly a week was a very home-like one, and as he expected to be back in time for supper, he felt that he could safely leave them to amuse themselves for a few hours.
Thus cast upon their own resources, the brother and sister read story-books and played in-door games until dinner-time. At the table were some American tourists just from the summit of the highest mountain in the place, and to their lively descriptions of the views to be had therefrom, and of the pretty nooks scattered all over it, both children listened with eager ears, and when one of the young ladies held up a bunch of "just the loveliest wild flowers" which she had gathered by the road-side, Amy whispered to her brother that she really must go a little way up that very afternoon.
"But papa isn't here to take us," objected Fletcher, who longed to go as much as his sister, although he was old enough to understand that his father would not like to have them leave the hotel in his absence.
"Papa didn't tell us we mustn't climb mountains—only boats," returned Amy, cunningly. "And, besides, didn't he say you could take care of me? and don't you think you can?" and the artful little tease looked up at her stout young brother with a most confiding air.
Under these circumstances, what could Fletcher reply but that he was most certainly able to protect her, and that he would do so for a little way, a very little way, up the mountain, as they must be sure to be at the hotel when father came back.
Greatly delighted at having gained her point, Amy ran off for her hat as soon as dessert was over, and having stuffed a paper of candy into her pretty little arm-basket, announced herself ready. And then the two set out, Fletcher, with his alpenstock, leading the way up through the town, on by the winding path through the woods, up, up, until the beautiful lake came into view below them.
"Let's rest here a minute," proposed Fletcher. "This flat rock'll make a nice seat; and while we eat some candy, I'll teach you the names of the snow mountains over yonder."
So the expedition halted while the captain pointed out what he thought was Mont Blanc, the king of all the peaks; the beautiful Jungfrau, with its silver horn, and—But turning to see if Amy was looking in the right direction, Fletcher found her eyes closed, and her head just sinking to his shoulder.
"Poor little thing, she's tired out. I'll let her have a short nap before we start down again." So, while Amy slept, her brother ate chocolate drops and studied the Alps.
Now it would have been quite romantic and Babes-in-the-Woodsy if he too had been overcome with drowsiness, thus leaving them both lying there asleep on the mountain-side until an elf, giant, or some other rarely seen creature, came to wake them up and conduct them to a wonderful grotto, studded with diamonds and paved with pearls. But as this is not a fairy tale, nothing of the sort occurred, for Amy presently woke up of her own accord, and finding the basket empty, recollected what she had come for, upon which the two began searching for wild flowers.
At first Fletcher rather affected to despise the occupation, but after they had gathered a few, he found them so pretty, and it grew to be so exciting to wonder where they would chance upon some more, that he speedily became as absorbed in the hunt as Amy herself, and both wandered over the mountain in every direction.
At last the pretty little basket was filled to the top with still prettier contents, and at the same time Fletcher noticed that the sun was very near the tip of one of the snow mountains.
"Come, Amy," he exclaimed, "we must hurry back, or papa'll be there before us;" and taking her by the hand, he set out for the path by which they had ascended.
"But why can't we go down right here?" asked Amy. "It'll be such fun to go sort o' sliding down hill."
"I guess we needn't slide," returned Fletcher, "for here's a kind of path we can take; so now hold on to me tight, and be careful not to slip;" and down the two started over the rough way, for the mountain-side was covered with stones, little and big, which the feet of the children sent rolling and crashing on ahead of them in quite a noisy fashion.
With each advancing step the path grew fainter and fainter, until it finally disappeared entirely, and nothing was to be seen but trees and rocks and stones.
"Shall we go back, Amy?" asked Fletcher, as they both came to a halt; and then he added: "But no, we haven't time; so we must keep on."
"All right; but you don't think there are any snakes under these stones, do you, Flet?"
Then they went on down again, but the way grew ever rougher and rougher, and the stones slipped from under their tired feet more and more frequently.
"Oh dear! ain't we 'most there?" half sobbed Amy, as she stubbed her toe against a rock in front of her, while a stone rolled down on her heel from behind.
"I guess so. Shall I try to lift you over this place? See, there must have been a brook here in the spring;" and Fletcher pointed out a shallow ravine that crossed their path obliquely, and which was choked with stones and brush-wood.
Without waiting for an answer, the kind-hearted boy threw his alpenstock across, and then picking Amy up in his arms, started over himself. He reached the opposite side in safety, and was about to step up to level ground again when his foot caught under a stone, and in trying to keep his sister from being harmed by his fall, he left no hand free with which to save himself.
"Oh, Flet, are you hurt?" cried Amy, as she quickly scrambled to her feet.
"Not much; only my ankle." But the "not much" proved to be a sprain serious enough to prevent his walking a step, and after attempting to do so once or twice, the brave little fellow was forced to fall back upon the rocks, with an expression of pain which he could not repress.
And now the children's situation became quite a grave one. They were as yet, as well as they could judge, a mile or more above the town, the sun had already vanished behind the snowy peaks opposite, the autumn twilight was rapidly closing in, and, worse than all, Fletcher could not and Amy would not move.
"How can I go away and leave you here?" she would say when urged to hurry back, so that father should not worry.
"But I'm all right as long as I sit still," her brother would reply. "Besides, the sooner you go and tell them[Pg 451] at the hotel, the quicker they can send somebody up for me."
At length, convinced that under the circumstances this was the wisest thing to do, Amy set bravely out, but had not proceeded more than twenty feet before she came screaming back, declaring she had seen a snake, and that she could never, never go on through the dreadful woods alone.
"Let me stay with you, Flet," she begged. "I'm sure when papa misses us he'll come right up here;" and her brother, seeing she had no doubts on this point, thought it best not to remind her that it was just as natural to suppose that he would look in a dozen other directions for them first.
So the two sat together there on the mountain-side, watching the stars come out, and wondering if this was their punishment for being naughty.
But presently Amy's eyelids grew heavy again, and leaning her head against Fletcher, she asked him to wake her "as soon as papa comes," when suddenly a reddish glare flashed forth out of the darkness beneath them; portions of mountain and lake appeared distinctly as by day, while trees and rocks and bushes stood revealed in startling vividness.
"Oh, what is it, Flet?" cried Amy, hiding her face in terror.
"Don't be afraid," he answered. "I guess it can't hurt us, whatever it is."
Still the boy had dreadful visions of earthquakes and volcanoes, which he somehow imagined were much more common in Europe than in America.
And now the red light had changed to green, this in turn to blue, then back to red again, and so on, until the brother and sister became completely mystified.
On a sudden, while the red glare lit up everything around, there was a sound of rolling stones, a man's voice exclaimed, "Thank God for St. Jacques!" The next instant Mr. Hanway's strong arms were about both his children.
"Oh, papa, I knew you'd come!" cried Amy, joyously. "But now you must put me down, and carry Flet, 'cause I was naughty, and he's hurt, and all from 'sisting me."
Then the situation was explained. Two young gentlemen from the hotel tenderly raised the helpless boy and carried him between them, and thus, the happy father still retaining his little girl, they started down the hill again, guided by the strange lights safely to the town.
Fletcher soon recognized in his bearers two members of the party from the mountain-top that had been so enthusiastic at dinner, and they furthermore told him that it was at their suggestion that Mr. Hanway had first directed his steps to the hill-side, "for," said one, "we noticed how eagerly your little sister listened to my cousin's description of the wild flowers."
"And did you have those funny lights lit so's you could see us?" asked the boy.
"Not exactly," was the laughing response. "That is the illumination in honor of St. Jacques, whose several-hundred-and-something-or-other birthday it is to-day, I believe."
"But how do they make the lights, and who is St. Jacques?" pursued Fletcher.
"They have different colored 'fires,' as the preparations are called, which are touched off at the same instant at various points about the lake; and as for St. Jacques, that is the same as St. James in English."
"That's what papa's queer speech meant, then, when he found us."
"And I say 'Amen' to it," returned the young man, huskily, "for I believe we'd have gone right on past you both if it had not been for that scarlet glow from the fête of St. Jacques."
With the exception of the elephant, the rhinoceros is the largest of all land animals, and in point of ugliness he is quite unequalled. In appearance he is something like an enormous pig, with a horn on the end of his nose, and a skin so thick that a leaden rifle-ball will not ordinarily pierce it.
But in spite of his ill-temper, of which hunters are never tired of speaking, the rhinoceros certainly has a love of fun. An English hunter in South Africa had gone to bed in his travelling wagon one night, leaving his native servants feasting around the camp fire. Suddenly he heard a terrible uproar, and looking out, discovered that a rhinoceros was having a little fun in the camp. The air seemed to be full of tin pans, and natives, and blankets, and fire-wood, which the rhinoceros was tossing, and the natives, whenever they could get breath enough to express their views of the situation, were calling for help. The hunter did not interfere with the animal's amusement, and presently the rhinoceros buried his horn in a red blanket, which covered his eyes and blinded him. In this condition the beast started to run away, and as he vanished, the hunter could hear him stumbling and knocking his head against all the trees and nearly all the rocks in that particular part of Africa.
On another occasion the same hunter saw a rhinoceros lying down with its fore-legs stretched out, sleeping in the sun. Almost at the same moment the animal awoke and looked around, as if he suspected that there might perhaps be a man with a gun somewhere about. The hunter instantly fired, aiming just forward of the beast's shoulder. The rifle was a very large one, and it nearly kicked the hunter over on his back; but the rhinoceros, without paying the least attention to the shot, sank down again in his former position, apparently determined to renew his nap. The hunter loaded and fired again, but the rhinoceros did not even wink. Then two native servants crept cautiously up to see what was the matter with the drowsy beast. He did not stir, and when they had approached quite close to him they found that the first shot had killed him instantly.
Less fortunate was another hunter in South Africa, who shot a rhinoceros, and fancying that he had wounded the animal mortally, left him to die. In the course of the afternoon he unexpectedly came upon the place where the wounded beast had concealed himself. The rhinoceros rushed upon him, and knocked him down just as his rifle was discharged. The hunter was not much hurt, and hastened to creep out between the beast's hind-legs, hoping to conceal himself in the high grass; but the rhinoceros was too quick for him. He was knocked down again; his leg from the knee to the hip was cut open by the animal's horn, and he was trampled upon so heavily that he felt his ribs bend under the weight. He of course expected to be killed, but the rhinoceros, satisfied with what he had done, did not again attack the man, who managed to drag himself to his camp. His servant seized a gun and went in search of the rhinoceros, and in a few moments the hunter heard a dreadful yell. Weak as he was, he took his rifle and went to help the servant. He fired half a dozen times at the rhinoceros, and finally saw him fall. Wishing to make sure that the animal would do no more mischief, he walked up to the beast, and was about to fire in his ear, when he scrambled to his feet, and rushed after the hunter, who ran as fast as he could in his terribly crippled condition. The rhinoceros overtook him, and just as he thought that his last moment had come, the beast stopped and fell dead in his tracks.
As the rhinoceros does not seem to be of any use while alive, and as he is good for food when dead, and his horn furnishes excellent ivory, the hunters who kill him are engaged in a useful work, which is more than can be said for all sportsmen.
"MY LITTLE SWEETHEART."
One day a lonely prisoner sat meditating in his cell in the Tower of London. He was a Marquis of Worcester, a nobleman of high rank and large fortune, who had been imprisoned for a political offense. But he had always been a mechanic, and had passed the happiest hours of his life in his workshop. As he watched, sad and almost hopeless in his prison, he noticed that the cover of a kettle that was boiling on the fire was raised up, and that a cloud of vapor escaped.
He examined the curious fact, and at last asked himself, What is it that lifts the cover?—what power is there hidden in the boiling kettle? It was evidently the white vapor; it was steam. The Marquis of Worcester had made a wonderful discovery, and when he was liberated he gave much of his time to the study of the new power. He felt the great value of steam to mankind; and in his work, A Century of Inventions, thanked God that he had been permitted to discover one of the "secrets of nature."
No one before him seems ever to have thought of making steam useful. The white vapor had risen from every boiling vessel since the first use of fire. It was familiar to the Jew, Assyrian, Greek, and Roman. A Greek man of science was even acquainted with some of its powers, and employed it to frighten one of his neighbors for whom he had no good-will. He placed a boiler in his cellar, and drove the steam through pipes around his neighbor's house, shaking it with a loud noise.
But no one had thought of confining the vapor in a pipe, and making it labor. No one in Shakspeare's time had fancied that there was a giant strength in boiling water; no one foresaw in 1660 that all the chief labors of the future would be carried on by the aid of a boiling kettle. But soon the idea suggested by the Marquis of Worcester seems to have excited the curiosity of other intelligent men. He left no machine behind him, if he had ever made one. His only object was to force up water. He wrote an account of his machine in 1663, and soon after died. In 1681, Morland used steam to raise water. Its power began to be discovered; it would burst, it was said, a gun, and inflict serious injuries.
Next, about 1687, Papin, a French Huguenot exiled to London, almost invented a real steam-engine. He filled a pipe or cylinder half full of water; a piston or rod of iron rested on the water. A fire was kindled underneath, the water boiled, the steam drove the piston to the top of the cylinder, where it was secured by a peg or latch. The fire was then taken away, the cold once more condensed the steam into water, the latch was let loose, and the piston descended to its former position. Papin in this way raised a weight of sixty pounds. He was full of ardor, believed that he could raise ten thousand pounds, and even suggested a steamboat.
But as yet the rude machine consisted only of a pipe, a piston, and a latch that was moved by an attendant. Soon after, in 1696, Savery invented the first real steam-engine. It consisted of two boilers, a cylinder, a stream of cold water to condense the steam, and was intended to pump water into cities, houses, and ships. Savery addressed his pamphlet describing his engine to King William, who had examined his machine with interest at Hampton Court. In the year 1700 the steam-engine was in its infancy.
It grew slowly. Savery's engine was improved, but was still for nearly a century imperfect and almost useless. It could only move a piston or rod up and down. No one had yet discovered a way to make it turn a wheel. Until the American Revolution, and the age of Washington and Franklin, the imperfect machine seemed of little real value.
James Watt, a young Scotch mechanic, almost made it what it is. He is the author of the modern steam-engine. He was the son of a maker of mathematical instruments. He was sickly, studious, and always fond of mechanical contrivances; at six years old he is said to have worked out problems in geometry in the sand; at fourteen he made an electrical machine; and at fifteen, Arago tells us, studied the steam that came from a tea-kettle, and planned some of his future labors. He was born in 1736.
His chief discovery was how to make the piston turn a wheel, and this he did by using the crank. His machines became capable of turning mills, moving spindles, and pumping out mines. He founded a great factory of steam-engines that were sold all over the world; he grew wealthy, famous, and was always benevolent. He never ceased to invent, write, and labor, even in extreme old age, and at eighty-three produced a new copying machine that imitated any piece of sculpture. Soon after he died. No one has done more to add to the comfort and ease of his fellow-men than Watt by his rare inventions.
The steam-engine is the finest example of the mechanical art. A thousand parts make up the whole, all of which move together in harmony. The most violent storm never disorders them. The piston moves, the crank turns, the steam rises, and is condensed. It is nothing but the Marquis of Worcester's kettle boiling over, Papin's rod or piston, Watt's crank, improved by later inventors. Yet what a wonderful creature it is! how beautiful and complete!
While he stood there, the wagon in which the skeleton and his wife travelled rolled past; but Toby knew they were still sleeping, and would continue to do so until their tent was ready for them to go into.
The carriage in which the women of the company rode also passed him, and he almost fancied he could see Ella sitting in one of the seats, sleeping, with her head on her mother's shoulder, as she had slept on the stormy night when his head was nearly jerked from his body as he tried to sleep while sitting upright.
There were but three of the drivers who had been with the circus the year before, and after speaking with them, he stood by the side of the road, and watched the preparations for the entrée with feelings far different from those with which he had observed such preparations in that dreary time when he expected each moment to hear Job Lord order him to attend to his work.
The other boys crowded quite as close to him as they could get, as if by this means they allied themselves in some way with the show; and when a number of ponies were led past, Joe Robinson said, longingly:
"There, Toby, if we had one or two of them to train, it would be different work from what it is to make the Douglass hoss remember his way round the ring."
"You wouldn't have to train them any," began Toby; and then he had no time to say anything more, for Ben, who had been talking with the manager, called to him.
"Has your uncle Dan'l got plenty of pasturage?" asked Ben, when the boy approached him.
"Well, he's got twenty acres up by the stone quarry, an' he keeps three cows on it, and Jack Douglass's hoss. He don't count, for he's only there till we boys have our circus," said Toby, never for a moment dreaming of the good fortune that was in store for him.
"So you're goin' to have a circus of your own, eh?" asked Ben, with a smile that alarmed Toby, because he feared it was a signal for one of those terrible laughing spells.
"We're only goin' to have a little three-cent one," replied Toby, modestly, noting with satisfaction that Ben's mirth had gone no further than the smile.
"Two of our ponies are about used up," said the manager, "and we've got to leave them somewhere. Ben tells me he is going to see your uncle Dan'l this noon; so suppose you and one of these boys ride them up to the pasture now. Ben will make a bargain with your uncle for their keeping, and you can use them in your circus if you want to."
Joe Robinson actually jumped for joy as he heard this, and Toby's delight spread itself all over his face, while Bob Atwood and Ben Cushing went near the fence, where they stood on their heads as a way of expressing their elation at thus being able to have real live ponies in their circus.
A black pony and a red one were then pointed out for Toby to take away, and they were not more than twice as large as Newfoundland dogs; they were, in fact, just exactly what was wanted for a little circus such as the boys were about to start.
Joe was so puffed up with pride at being allowed to ride one of these ponies through the village that if his mind could have affected his body, he would not have weighed more than a pound, and he held his head so high that it seemed a matter of impossibility for him to see his feet.
Very much surprised were Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive at seeing Toby and Joe dash into the yard astride of these miniature horses, just as they were sitting down to breakfast; and when the matter had been explained, Abner appeared quite as much pleased that the boys would have this attraction in their circus as if he were the sole proprietor of it.
It was with the greatest reluctance that either of the boys left his pony in the stable-yard and sat down to breakfast, so eager was Joe to get back to the tenting ground to see what was going on, and so anxious was Toby to see the skeleton and his wife as soon as possible. But they ate because Uncle Daniel insisted that they should do so; and when breakfast was over, he advised that the ponies be left in the stable until Chandler Merrill's pony could be removed from the pasture.
When they started down town again, Abner went with them, and it was so late in the morning that Toby was sure the skeleton and his wife would be prepared to receive visitors.
When Toby, Abner, and Joe reached the tenting ground, everything was in that delightful state of bustle and confusion which is attendant upon the exhibition of a circus in a country town, where the company do not expect that the tent will be more than half filled, and where, in consequence, the programme will be considerably shortened.
It did not require much search on Toby's part to find[Pg 454] the tent wherein the skeleton and his wife exhibited their contrasting figures, for the pictures which hung outside were so gaudy, and of such an unusually large size, that they commanded the attention of every visitor.
"Now I'm goin' in to see 'em," said Toby, first making sure that the exhibition had not begun; "an', Joe, you take Abner over so's he can see how Nahum Baker keeps a stand, an' then he'll know what to do when we have our circus. I'll come back here for you pretty soon."
Then Toby ran around to the rear of the tent, where he knew he would find a private entrance, and thus less risk of receiving a blow on the head from some watchful attendant. In a few moments he stood before Mr. and Mrs. Treat, who, having just completed their preparations, were about to announce that the exhibition could be opened.
"Why, Toby Tyler, you dear little thing!" cried the enormous lady, in a joyful tone, after she had looked at the boy intently for a moment, to make sure he was really the one whom she had rescued several times from Job Lord's brutality; and then she took him in her fat arms, hugging him much as if he were a lemon and she an unusually large squeezer. "Where did you come from? How have you been? Did you find your uncle Daniel?"
Her embrace was so vigorous that it was some seconds after she had released him before he could make any reply; and while he was trying to get his breath, the fleshless Mr. Treat took him solemnly by the hand, and cleared his throat as if he were determined to take advantage of the occasion to make one of his famous speeches.
"My dear Mr. Tyler," he said, squeezing Toby's hand until it ached, "it is almost impossible for me to express the joy I feel at meeting you once more. We—Lilly and I—have looked forward to such a moment as this with a great deal of impatience, and even during our most prosperous exhibitions we have found time to speak of you."
"There, there, Samuel, don't take up so much time with your long-winded talk, but let me see the dear little fellow myself;" and Mrs. Treat lifted her slim husband into a chair, where he was out of her way, and again greeted Toby by kissing him on both cheeks with a resounding smack that rivalled anything Reddy Grant had yet been able to do in the way of cracking his whip.
Then she fairly overwhelmed him with questions, nor would she allow her husband to say a word until Toby had answered them all. He was again obliged to tell the story of Mr. Stubbs's death; of his return home, and everything connected with his running away from the circus; while all the time the fat lady alternately kissed and hugged him, until it seemed as if he would never be able to finish his story.
"And now that you are home again, don't ever think of running away, even though I must admit that you made a wonderful success in the ring;" and Mr. Treat crossed one leg over the other in a triumphant way, pleased that he had at last succeeded in getting a chance to speak.
Toby was very emphatic in his assurances that he should never run away again, for he had had quite as much experience in that way as he wanted. After he had finished, Mrs. Treat, by way of further showing her joy at meeting him once more, brought out from a large black trunk fully half a dozen doughnuts, each quite as large among their kind as she was among women.
"Now eat every one of them," she said, as she handed them to Toby, "an' it will do me good to see you, for you always used to be such a hungry little fellow."
Toby had already had two breakfasts that morning, but he did not wish to refuse the kindly proffered gift, and he made every effort to do as she had requested, though one of the cakes would have been quite a feast for him at his hungriest moment.
The food reminded him of the invitation he was to deliver, and as he forced down the rather heavy cake he said:
"Aunt Olive's killed a lamb, an' made an awful lot of things for dinner to-day, an' Uncle Dan'l says he'd be glad to have you come up. Ben's comin', an' I'm goin' to find Ella, so's to have her come, an' we'll have a good time."
"Lilly an' I will be pleased to see your aunt's lamb, and we shall be delighted to meet your uncle Daniel," replied the skeleton, before his wife could speak; and then a "far-away" look came into his eyes, as if he could already taste—or at least smell—the feast in which he was certain he should take so much pleasure.
"That's just the way with Samuel," said Mrs. Treat, as if she would offer some apology for the almost greedy way in which her husband accepted the invitation; "he's always thinking so much about eating that I'm afraid he'll begin to fat up, and then I shall have to support both of us."
"Now, my dear"—and Mr. Treat used a tone of mild reproof—"why should you have such ideas, and why express them before our friend Mr. Tyler? I've eaten considerable, perhaps, at times; but during ten years you have never seen me grow an ounce the fatter, and surely I have grown some leaner in that time."
"Yes, yes, Sammy, I know it, and you shall eat all you can get: only try not to show that you think so much about it." Then, turning to Toby: "He's such a trial, Sam is. We'll go to see your uncle, Toby, and we should be very glad to do so even if we wasn't going for dinner."
"Ben an' me will come 'round when it's time to go," said Toby; and then, in a hesitating way, he added: "Abner's out here—he's a cripple that lives out to the poor-farm—an' he never saw a circus or anything. Can't I bring him in here a minute before you open the show?"
MR. AND MRS. TREAT EXHIBIT PRIVATELY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE BOYS.
"Of course you can, Toby, my dear, and you may bring all your friends. We'll give an exhibition especially for them. We haven't got a sword-swallower this year, and the albino children that you used to know have had to leave the business, because albinos got so plenty they couldn't earn their salt; but we've got a new snake-charmer, and a man without legs, and a bearded lady, so—"
"So that our entertainment is as morally effective and instructively entertaining as ever," said Mr. Treat, interrupting his wife to speak a good word for the exhibition.
Toby ran out quickly, that he might not delay the regular business any longer than was absolutely necessary.
"Come right in quick, fellers," he cried, "an' you can see the whole show before it commences."
The invitation was no sooner given than accepted, and in a twinkling every one of those boys was inside the tent.
Toby had told Mr. and Mrs. Treat of the little circus they were intending to have, and he introduced to them his partners in the enterprise.
The fleshy Lilly smiled encouragingly upon them, and the skeleton, moving his chair slightly to prevent his wife from interrupting him, said:
"I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen, principally, and I might almost say wholly, because you are the friends of my old friend Mr. Tyler. Whatever business relations you may have with him, whether in the great profession of the circus or in the humbler walks of life, I am sure he will honor the connection."
From appearances Mr. Treat would have continued to talk for some time, but his wife passed around more doughnuts, and the attention of the visitors was so distracted that he was obliged to stop.
"And this is Abner," said Toby, taking advantage of the break in the skeleton's speech to lead forward his crippled friend.
Abner limped blushingly toward the gigantic lady, and when both she and her thin husband spoke to him kindly, he was so covered with confusion at the honor thus showered upon him that he was hardly able to say a word.
Little Hans was helping mother
Carry home the lady's basket;
Chubby hands of course were lifting
One great handle—can you ask it?
As he tugged away beside her,
Feeling oh! so brave and strong,
Little Hans was softly singing
To himself a little song.
"Some time I'll be tall as father,
Though I think it's very funny,
And I'll work and build big houses,
And give mother all the money.
For," and little Hans stopped singing,
Feeling, oh! so strong and grand,
"I have got the sweetest mother
You can find in all the land."
Look on your map for the Sierra Nevada, the range of mountains between California and Nevada. On the east side of them you will find Owen's River, running south through a beautiful valley of the same name. On each side of this valley rises a lofty mountain range. The White Mountains at the north end of the valley end somewhat suddenly in what is called White Mountain Peak, more than thirteen thousand feet high.
It was in the valley at the foot of this grand mountain that I saw the curious scene which I wish to describe to you, and which makes me think that birds do know their old homes, and that they are ready to fight for their rights.
In July, 1874, I stopped for a few hours at the house of Mr. Mack, who owned a quartz mine in the neighboring mountain. As I sat on the veranda I noticed on one of the posts a singular nest, or rather it seemed to be a pile of nests. On examination I found that it was really made up of eight nests, built one upon the other; and that they were of two kinds: first one of soft materials (grass and hair, etc.), then one of mud, then the soft nest again, then the mud, and then in the upper nest (which was of mud) the bird which had built it was sitting on her eggs. In answer to my questions, Mrs. Mack gave me the following account.
In the spring of 1871 a pair of linnets began building a nest in the place which I saw. In this there was nothing uncommon. The linnets love to be about houses, and very frequently make their nests on any exposed beams which they can find in verandas or porches, rather than in trees or bushes. I have seen hundreds of them in such places. This pair of linnets quietly completed their nest, and it already held one or two eggs, when a pair of barn-swallows arrived, and after looking at the place, and evidently talking the matter over in their own fashion, decided to take possession of it for themselves by driving out the linnets, and forthwith a violent battle commenced.
CALIFORNIA LINNET.
But before going further, I must stop a minute to tell you a little about the two kinds of birds. The linnets you have probably never seen, unless you have been in California. There they are extremely abundant: east of the Rocky Mountains they are not found. The females, and all the young birds until they are at least a year old, have much the look of several species of our brown sparrows. The English sparrow, which has become so very common in our cities and villages, gives you quite a good idea of their size and color. The male bird, however, when in full plumage, is very different. His head and shoulders and breast are richly marked with crimson of a purplish hue, giving him a lively and elegant look, decidedly different from his plainly dressed wife and children. He is a fine singer, and it is not an unusual thing to see him in a cage, and hear him called a California canary.
The linnets in California are not migratory; they remain through the winter as well as the summer. The barn-swallows, on the contrary, are migratory, just as they are here, for, unlike the linnets, they inhabit the whole breadth of the continent. In the fall they go south, as far as Mexico and Central America, and return in the spring all along the Pacific coast of the United States.
Thus our pair of linnets had had time to begin their housekeeping before the swallows arrived from the south. As I said, the swallows appeared to hold a consultation, and then very deliberately began the fight. The attack was resisted as stoutly as it was made, and for the whole of the first day no material advantage was gained by either party. There was a great amount of violent chattering, and many severe blows struck, causing some loss of feathers; but the linnets held their ground, or rather their nest, and when night came, the swallows retired, leaving them in possession.
Early the next morning the contest was renewed, and all through the forenoon it raged fiercely, with short intervals for rest, but noon had come without any apparent results. A little after noon the swallows suddenly, as if by agreement, flew away to the roof of an adjacent building, as though acknowledging a defeat, and the linnets were left once more in peace. They testified their enjoyment of the release by a constant happy twittering; but this was not to last. After about half an hour, the swallows, having sat without stirring all this time on the one spot where they alighted, sprang together from the roof, and darted like an arrow straight at the nest. The linnets were apparently taken by surprise, and in less than two minutes they were driven out of the nest, down upon the floor of the veranda, then upon the ground outside, and finally, with a loss of many feathers, entirely away from the house, and the swallows, with every demonstration of joy, took possession of the nest.
Their conversation seemed to be very earnest, and at the same time very cheerful, for they doubtless thought the victory was won. But what were the linnets doing all this time? At first, for a few minutes, they were apparently quite downcast. They hopped about restlessly and uneasily on the bush to which they had fled, and were entirely still. After a little while they evidently began to confer with one another, and it was plain that the female was more energetic than the male, and was urging him to do something which he disliked. But as might have been expected, she carried her point. Mrs. Mack was watching them, when the conversation came to an end.
They sat perfectly quiet for a few minutes, and then, with a dash as savage as that of their adversaries had been before, they charged full upon the nest, and, to their credit be it said, they won the victory. The swallows were routed, without having time for scarcely a blow in their own defense. They fled for their lives, and were chased off, not only from the veranda and the house, but even from the neighborhood, and the linnets returned in such a frame of mind that they continued the celebration of their triumph for the remainder of the day, the male maintaining a steady song until evening.
But alas! Though their cause was just, and they were only fighting in defense of their home, they were defeated after all. The next morning about ten o'clock the swallows dashed in again, and the battle raged as fiercely as ever, and before noon the poor linnets were driven off, not to return. They were completely quelled, and for a day or two hung about the place disconsolately, but at the[Pg 456] end of that time they recovered their spirits, selected a place on the other side of the house, where they built a new nest, and went on with their housekeeping with as much contentment apparently as though no evil had happened.
BARN-SWALLOWS' NEST.
The swallows had won their house-lot, and they speedily began to build. The linnets' nest was beautifully made of soft grasses and hair and other fibrous materials, and the first thing which the swallows did was to plaster that across the top solidly with mud, so as to make a foundation on which they could work. The barn-swallows always construct their nests of mud, mixing with it a small number of pieces of straw or grass. They heap up the mud until often the nest weighs as much as two pounds, and then the hollow top is beautifully lined with soft materials, grasses, feathers, etc., on which the eggs are laid.
These swallows went on as usual, and just as though they had not obtained their home by robbery and violence. They reared their brood of young ones, and in the fall all flew away to the south with the others of their kind.
In the spring of 1872 the scene was repeated. A pair of linnets—probably the same pair—built their nest on the same post, but it was necessarily placed on the top of the swallows' nest of the last year. Their work was completed just before the swallows arrived. One pair of the latter appeared to understand that the place belonged to them, for without any delay or hesitation they attacked the linnets furiously, and after a conflict lasting until the second day, drove them away, buried the soft nest in mud as before, and occupied the spot as their home for the summer.
The same thing transpired in 1873, and when I saw the structure in 1874 it had occurred for the fourth time. The linnets had built and been driven away, the swallows had occupied the field, and I saw the female bird sitting quietly on her eggs in a nest which was in the summit of a strange-looking pillar. The pillar was a rough mass, four or five inches in diameter, and more than a foot high, composed of eight layers. The layer at the bottom was very thin, of hair and grass, the one above it being a solid heap of mud more than three inches thick, then a thin one again, and so on until the swallows' nest at the top made the eighth.
You can easily see that the linnets' soft nest would be crushed down by the great weight of mud heaped on it, and would thus make only the thin layers as stated. It was plain that no such scene could be witnessed the next year, for the successive building of the nests had heaped up the mass until it almost touched the roof above it. In fact, the swallow had barely room to creep into her nest and out of it. I saw her come and go, and each time her back rubbed against the shingles. When she had settled down on her eggs, she had, of course, a little more free space.
Now what do you say? Did not both the linnets and the swallows know the old nest, and did not they consider that it belonged to them individually, and that they were determined to occupy it because it belonged to them, and then to fight for the possession of it if necessary? Otherwise why should the linnets in 1872 have persisted in building on the top of the swallows'[Pg 457] nest? There were other posts all around the veranda, each one of them just as good as that, so far as I could judge, and then, too, that one was spoiled by having the nest already there, for the linnets are not in the habit of building where another nest has occupied the place. But no: that spot was theirs, and they had been unjustly driven from it the year before, and they seemed to consider that, though it was not so convenient as a dozen other places close at hand, justice to themselves required that they should assert their ownership. No birds with spirit could allow themselves to be despoiled of their rightful possession in any such manner. Then presently came the swallows, with just the same feelings, and the battle followed.
But this brings in another question. Do birds choose their mates for life? We have always thought that it was not so—that their partnership lasted for but a single year. We see, however, that when the swallows returned, they plunged into the conflict as though they both understood it, and were interested in the ownership. It may be, however, that the female came alone, and when she found that her house was occupied, she said nothing until she had selected a mate, and then she informed him that before any housekeeping could be commenced he must be prepared to fight for his "altars and his fires," for his "hearth and home," and so, like a dutiful husband, he toed the mark at once, and the battle commenced.
In whatever light you look at it, it is a remarkable example of the intelligence of birds, and of their power of communicating ideas to one another. I give you my assurance that the story is absolutely true, just as I have written it.
"ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP."
Shortly after my call upon the young noblemen, father and mother returned, but only to start off at once with Thad and me for Paris. Remembering my experiences in Germany, and finding that the Frenchmen were even harder to understand than the Germans, as they seemed to speak a whole sentence just as if it were one word, I determined to be extra careful whenever I went out.
But as I was taking my very first walk on the boulevard in front of the hotel, a young fellow with a wild sort of expression in his eye stopped me and began "parlez-vooing" away, with his arms flopping about like water-wheels. Of course I thought I ought to say something, and as I didn't know anything else in the language I replied, "Oui," which made the young man look at me so queerly as to convince me that I must have given my consent to do some horrible deed.
In my confusion I cried out, "Oh no, I don't mean that!" upon which the fellow began to laugh awfully, and then it turned out that he was English and had taken me for French. He had asked what line of omnibuses ran nearest to the Champ de Mars, and when I answered "Yes," you can imagine why he stared at me.
This affair having ended all right, I was thrown a little off my guard; so when mother, who was suffering from loss of appetite, asked me to go out to one of the suburbs and bring in a basket of fresh eggs a friend had promised to send her, I felt no fears of any unpleasant consequences.
As I started she placed in my hands the pretty little basket with, "Now, Max, above all things, don't drop this, and be very careful to allow no one to touch it but yourself."
I declared I would stand by the eggs to the last, and promising to return with them as speedily as possible, set out for Neu— But there! as I never could pronounce the name of the place, there's no use in my attempting to spell it.
It was a long distance from the hotel, but as a line of street-cars ran right past the house, and mother told me that the number was painted in big figures on the gate post, I was not afraid of losing my way.
On reaching the car I saw that there was a crowd of people on both the front and back platforms, and was wondering if there was any room for me, when I suddenly discovered to my amazement that there was nobody at all inside. I squeezed through the crowd, and presently the car started, with six or seven persons standing on each platform, and not a soul sitting down but myself.
I puzzled over the reason for this during the whole ride, and never found it out until mother's lady friend, at the end of it, told me that only half-fare was charged outside.
On hearing this, I affirmed that in my opinion the pleasure of standing next the driver was worth double the money, and hinted that I would much prefer returning home in that exalted locality. However, Mrs. Freemack begged that I would not think of doing so with a basket of eggs to guard; and after she had put on her hat and gone out to the gate with me, to make sure the car would stop, I stepped carefully aboard and took a seat inside. The basket I established safely on my knees, with both arms encircling it by way of protection.
Just as we reached the city gates a man came up and got into the car. He did not sit down, but glanced at the lady, the girl, and the soldier, and then at—the basket on my lap. With a quick stride he placed himself in front of me, and put out his hand to catch up the treasure in my charge, calling upon me at the same time to vous-vous something or other, in very stern tones.
Of course no American boy was going to stand being robbed in this daring daylight fashion without making an attempt at defending himself; so I grasped the basket with a firmer grip, and pressed it closer to my heart, as I cried out, "Don't touch this, if you please!"
You see, I never could remember that nobody would understand my English; and besides, it comes a great deal more natural to stand up for your rights in an easy language like your own.
Well, the man stood and looked at me a minute when I said that, while the old lady, the little girl, and the soldier all moved toward me, staring as hard as if I had suddenly been transformed into a three-legged chicken.
"What's the matter? what do you want?" I continued, still tightly hugging the basket.
Another outburst of French followed, in which the other three passengers, and also the driver and conductor, joined, and I began to grow somewhat alarmed.
Still, there were the eggs I had promised to guard, and I was determined not to give up that basket; so I planted my arms firmly on the cover, and sat there confronting "my man" like a dragon—at least I hope he thought so. By this time two other men had entered the car, and my persecutor left me for an instant to speak with them.
This was my opportunity, and with the basket still pressed close to my breast, I sprang up and made a dash for the door. But alas! that soldier saw me just in time to put out his foot and seek to stay my course. And this he did most effectually; for I tripped, and fell full length to the floor, and might have been badly hurt had not the basket acted as a sort of cushion to receive me, for of course it went down under me.
And the eggs! There were two dozen of them, and they and I and the bottom of the car were all "scrambled" together with a vengeance before I got up. Oh, how I wished I was young enough to cry, as I heard the roars of laughter!
But I had one consolation: nobody wanted to touch either me or the basket after that, and I was left in peace to wipe off my jacket with my pocket-handkerchief as the car rolled on its way again into Paris.
I took the basket and a few of the egg-shells home with me, where I learned from father that there is a sort of custom-house at every gate of the city, and that if I had only shown the man what I was carrying, it would probably have been all right. It seems Mrs. Freemack forgot to tell me about it.
Somehow I am not as fond of omelet as I used to be.
Perhaps the reason why rabbits are so popular with boys is that they are something which they can attend to and care for entirely alone.
A rabbit-hutch is a simple affair, but if the animals are worth caring for, they are worth something better than an old packing case for a house. One of these, if water-tight, does well enough for the shell of the hutch, but it will require some fixing up before it is ready to be the abode of a rabbit that "knows what's what."
In the first place, as regards the floor. If this is not kept sweet and clean, the inhabitants will be liable to disease. Let the floor slope gently to the back of the hutch, and let it be double, so that the upper one can be drawn out to be cleaned. This upper board should be painted with two or three coats of paint, and every day it should be drawn out to be washed and brushed. The advantage of the slope is that the floor may be easily drained, and to carry off the drainage a gutter should be placed along it. When the board is cleaned it should have a layer of sand sprinkled over it after it has been put back in its place.
The hutch should be from thirty to thirty-six inches long, eighteen inches wide, and about as many high. As a rabbit should not be expected to eat in its sleeping-room any more than a human being should, the hutch should[Pg 459] be partitioned off by a board, leaving the sleeping-room about twelve inches long. In this board should be a round hole large enough for a rabbit to pass through, and protected by a door sliding up and down in a groove.
The simplest way to make the front of the hutch is to nail strips of wood down it, but this is not the best way. Galvanized (white) wire netting is perhaps the best thing, and it can be bought very cheap at any hardware store. The mesh should not be more than three-quarters of an inch wide, or some prowling cat may get her paw into the house and do mischief. The writer lost his first young rabbits by allowing too large a space between the bars of his hutch. The open front of the hutch should extend as far as the end of the living-room. The sleeping-room should be inclosed by a solid door, opening in the ordinary way; and inside this should be a shutter about six inches high, sliding in a groove up and down. The advantage of this is that when the doe has young ones you may open the door and look at them without danger of their falling out.
The bedding should be of straw, well broken and bruised. It need be used only in the sleeping-room, except in very cold weather, and it should be changed at least once a week. It should always be put in dry. The hutch should be raised about a foot from the ground.
It used to be thought that cabbage and bran were all that were necessary for rabbits, but modern fanciers have learned better. The principal thing in rabbit-feeding is variety, and as rabbits will eat almost every kind of vegetable, this is easily managed.
A little book called The Practical Rabbit-Keeper gives a table of diet for a week. This is printed here, not because it need be strictly followed, but to show what is meant by variety of feeding:
Sunday.—Morning, roots and dry oats; afternoon, green food and hay; evening, mash of potatoes and meal.
Monday.—Morning, roots, crushed oats, and tea leaves; afternoon, small quantity of green food and hay; evening, bread and meal mash.
Tuesday.—Morning, soaked oats; afternoon, roots and green food; evening, crusts of bread (dry).
Wednesday.—Morning, barley or wheat (dry); afternoon, roots and green food; evening, mash of meal and pollard.
Thursday.—Morning, roots and dry oats; afternoon, green stuff and hay; evening, soaked pease or lentils.
Friday.—Morning, hay and roots; afternoon, green food; evening, meal and potato mash.
Saturday.—Morning, dry oats and chaff; afternoon, green stuff and roots; evening, bread.
The diet given above provides for three meals a day, which makes the rabbit appear to be a very greedy animal. But, on the contrary, it is very dainty in its feeding, and will neither eat much at a time nor return to that which it has left. Hence it is best to give but little at a time, and to feed regularly. Food should be given in a trough like a gutter, and to prevent the rabbits getting into it, it is well to fasten wires from end to end of the trough, just far enough from the sides to allow the rabbits to get their heads into it.
When a doe has "babies," she will eat nearly twice as much as at other times, and she should be separated from the little ones at her meal-times, so that she may eat in peace. The young ones may stay with their mother for seven or eight weeks, but should then be taken away, one at a time, and put with other young rabbits, if there are any, the bucks and does being kept separate. The father buck will often kill the little ones, so he should be kept apart from them.
If good care is taken of the rabbits, they will probably escape disease, but in a long spell of wet weather, or in a sudden cold snap, "snuffles" may make its appearance. The symptoms are like those of a severe cold with us—running at the eyes and nose, etc. A good authority recommends sponging the eyes and nose with warm tea, and a few drops of camphorated spirit given twice a day.
For the first ten minutes our drive was enchanting. But presently the chatter of the others became more personal, and on subjects of which I knew nothing. Before we reached the academy, they had begun to whisper now and then, and I felt a little embarrassed; but this feeling wore off under the excitement of entering the noisy lecture-room, where we took our places with a great deal of flourish, and where a circle of Mattie's boy friends was soon around us. Kate Rivers sat on one side of me, and Mattie on the other, and the two leaned across me, continually chatting on things I did not understand, while the boys now and then spoke to me with an easy tone, half jest, half, as it seemed to me, rude familiarity.
Slowly it began to come upon me that these fine friends of Mattie's never would be ladies and gentlemen. Fine as they were, much as they talked of "fun" they had had and were going to have, I knew they were unlike the simple-minded, refined young people I had been among in my quiet country home; and then I began to wish I had not come.
I was ashamed of sitting there in Mattie's finery—of being teased about "running away," of being asked if it wasn't "too jolly to escape the dragon," as Bob and Mattie called our dear Miss Harding, and last, but worst of all, glancing across the crowded hall, I saw in the distance Philip and Laura Sydney. Then they had come! The voices of my new friends buzzed in my ears, their loud laughter was dreadful for that moment.
I shrank back, afraid to meet Laura's gentle gaze, ashamed to have either her or Philip see me in my borrowed plumes, and with such a company.
I heard Kate Rivers's voice in a whisper behind my back.
"Your old muslin, isn't it?"
"Yes," was Mattie's giggling rejoinder. "She hadn't anything of her own."
A contemptuous "Humph!" from Bob's sister followed.
My cheeks flamed. Could I get away? No; the speeches were beginning. How it went on for an hour I do not know. It was a dreadful period for me, and Mattie vainly tried to rouse me. Finally I managed to say:
"Mattie, I see the Sydneys," and to my horror she answered, promptly:
"Oh, what fun! I do want to know them. Come, Cecy, after all I've done for you, you'll have to introduce me."
"But, Mattie," I faltered, "how can I—I—"
"Nonsense!" was the retort. "Here, now, we have an intermission. Come along, Kate, Bob; we're going over to see some friends."
"I STOOD BACK, ASHAMED OF MY POSITION AMONG THEM ALL."
How it was done I never knew, but in a few moments I was following Mattie along a corridor, ashamed of everything about me, the more so when we got into the side room, where she knew the Sydneys were to be found, and I saw Laura's startled recognition of me, and Philip's evident surprise. Mattie pushed me forward. I managed the introductions; and, oh! what a contrast there was between the two girls! Laura's pretty, gentle manner, Mattie's boisterous, dashing one, and Bob and Philip looking at each other with nothing to say, while I stood back, ashamed of my position among them all.
"We went to the school for you," Laura said, presently, "and Miss Harding was out."
Mattie said nothing for an instant; then, with a blush, she said, looking straight into Laura's honest face:
"Miss Harding made an exception in our favor. She refused the general invitation."
In the silence which followed this audacious speech I turned away, not daring to meet the look Philip gave me.[Pg 460] I stood by the window, looking out, and while Mattie chatted on, I tried to see how this day would end. Not that I feared Miss Harding, but that I felt I never should know how to shake myself free of the vulgar associations in which my dear Laura had found me; nor could I ever forget I had so placed myself that a lie was told for my benefit. Benefit! If you could have seen me, a miserable, unhappy little girl in borrowed clothes, standing in that window, with a forlorn expression and tightly clasped hands, you would not have thought there was much "fun" in this escapade, nor much "benefit" in its results; I heard the voices in a dreamy sort of way; I heard Philip and Laura saying they were going to take tea at Professor Patton's—the big brick house next the academy. Then, to my surprise, I heard Mattie say we were to stay all night at the Riverses'. There was to be a sort of party. I felt desperate. Laura and Philip said good-by pleasantly, and I could only look at them with a piteous air of appeal. They were gone; we were again in the lecture-room, and I had not recovered my wits, or at least my sense of what I ought to do, until I found myself, with the same boisterous party, driving to Mrs. Rivers's house, half a mile from the academy.
The Riverses had a large showy house; and on entering I was received by an overdressed stout lady, to whom all the young people talked with the sort of rough freedom which is sometimes called "Young America," and which so completely does away with the sacredness of "Mother."
We went upstairs to lay aside our wraps; and remembering I had left something I needed in the hall, I ran down for it while Mattie and Kate were busy washing their hands in the dressing-closet, chattering all the time. As I passed a hall window I saw it had grown suddenly dark, and that rain-drops were pattering against the pane. It was a sudden summer storm, and I began to think of my particular dread—thunder and lightning.
I found what I wanted, and sped back; but on entering the room, I heard my name spoken by Mattie, and stood still in a sort of nameless wonder or dread.
"I had to bring her," Mattie was saying; "I wanted to put her under an obligation to me, don't you see, so that she wouldn't tell of different things. I can always hold this over her. Doesn't she look horrid in my clothes?"
A laugh from Kate was the answer.
"Little goose," Mattie went on, "I wish we could get rid of her. She'd spoil any fun. I've taken to her at school because all the girls told me she was Miss Harding's favorite, it's a good thing for me, you see."
For a moment the revelation of Mattie's real character overpowered me. I do not remember that at first I thought of anything but that she was not what I had believed her to be. Then mortification, fright, tears—everything—seemed to follow, and then, in a sort of dream, I turned and ran down-stairs and out into the rain, thinking only that I must find Laura and ask her to help me.
I knew the way to Professor Patton's house; but long before I reached it I was drenched through, Mattie's thin muslin being draggled and soaked when I stumbled up against the big doorway, within which lights were shining, and voices sounding of laughter and happy cheer.
I wondered, long afterward, what the servant thought of me, standing there in my soaked finery. Whatever she thought, little was said. In a moment Laura appeared from a side door, coming out with a look that went to my heart. I tried to speak. I began to cry; then I remember moving a little toward her, and darkness seemed to close in about me.
Laura Sydney was—and is—one of those people who always know just what to do on every occasion. So it was no surprise to me to find myself, on coming to consciousness, warm and snug in a comfortable bed, with a tray of tea and toast at my side, and curtains drawn about the windows, on which the rain was beating. It took only a few words to make Laura understand everything. She sent a message to Mattie and one to Miss Harding, and the next day brought that kind lady to Professor Patton's house. I was ill with a feverish cold: perhaps that is why they were all so good to me. At all events, when I had freely confessed all of my wrong-doing there seemed no more to be said, and the only reference made to it was when I went home and Aunt Anna reminded me I had spoiled Mattie's dress.
"I think, dear," she said, one morning, when we were in the garden, "you had better send her a new one. Perhaps it would be a good idea to save some of your pocket-money for this purpose." And very gladly I consented to this little discipline.
Laura, who is opposite me as I write, teaching my little girl to pronounce f, has just asked me if I remember how long ago all this happened.
"Can it be fifteen years?" she says—and in my heart it seems only yesterday, although never since have I forgotten the lesson that day taught: that false colors never help us to be happy, and that "fun" built up on wrong-doing never can be honest enjoyment.
h, lovely days are hasting here, when Summer's tripping feet
Will dance along the clover fields and o'er the golden wheat,
When winds will wander through the rye, and merry brooks shall sing,
And scarlet-vested orioles in cradle nests shall swing.
Then up and down the sunny hills, and o'er the velvet turf,
And where the great waves thunder in to break in foamy surf,
You'll see the little children come, so quick to hear are they
When Summer bids them follow her, and tells them what to play.
She'll show them where the berries ripe are blushing thick and sweet;
She'll lead them where the tangled boughs in fragrant arches meet;
She'll smile when in the shady pool the little fishers dip,
And hush the prattling breezes near with finger on her lip.
What fun to pitch the new-mown hay, and climb the load so high
That proudly lifts the darlings up between the earth and sky!
What joy to build the mimic fort, and pelt it down with sand!
What wealth to fill with buttercups each small despairing hand!
And, oh, to toss the torn straw hat upon the shining curls,
And after Bess and Brindle trot through pastures strung with pearls!
What bliss and what supreme content in afternoons to lie,
And from the hammock watch the clouds like white sails gliding by!
Ah! sweet it is to sit and dream, my little Golden-Hair,
And picture summer's happy days without a single care;
For blither than your gladdest thought the summer-time will be,
That hither comes with tripping feet to reign o'er land and sea.
The Postmistress would like to hear from each little reader of Our Post-office Box who has a garden which he or she takes care of without any help from papa, mamma, or older brothers and sisters. What have you planted in your gardens? Which flowers are in bloom now? When do you work in them? What do you do with your buds and blossoms? The pleasure of having flowers to give away is very great. If you have a little friend who is ill—too ill to see playmates, or talk, or hear merry voices—you can show how sorry you are for Jack or Fanny, or whoever it may be, by leaving a tiny bouquet at the door, with your love. A few pansies, a rose-bud tied up with a couple of geranium leaves, a bunch of mignonette or lilies-of-the-valley, do not cost much, but they show your good-will, and cheer a sick-room with their sweet faces and sweeter perfume.
Of course you all know what Flower Missions are. There are many suffering children in hospitals who are made very happy by the gift of flowers, either daisies and violets from woods and fields, or roses and lilies from gardens. Some of you, no doubt, send flowers every summer, that poor, or sad, or sick people in the cities may be comforted by them.
Now remember, little gardeners, that you are to have your turn, and tell us all about your successes and your failures.
The vegetable and fruit gardeners may speak too. Let us hear about the lettuce, the onions, the radishes, and the strawberries. If there are any little business men or women who earn money of their own by selling the nice things they raise, they are invited to write and tell us how they manage their affairs.
Stoddard, New Hampshire.
I am a little boy eleven years old, and live on a farm in the town of Stoddard. I have a dog, and call him Jack, two nice calves, a very pretty lamb, four doves, and some hens. I like to attend to my father's stock. He keeps horses, oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and some young stock. I let out the cattle to water, and tie them up again. When my father is away in the summer-time, Jack and I go after the cows. Sometimes Jack trees a woodchuck, and then he and I have a grand time digging him out. He and I caught twenty-one last year. Jack is a splendid dog. You ought to see him drive up the cows; they have to go home when he says so, and they will start when they see him coming.
I have been making sugar for myself this spring. My father let me have twenty buckets, and my mother let me take her large brass kettle and two pots. I hung them up by a large rock, and tapped fourteen trees, and have made forty pounds of sugar, which I sold at ten cents per pound. I have bought me a pair of boots and some books, and have almost enough left to pay for Young People next year. I start to school next week.
J. W. T.
Well done, my little man! You worked faithfully, and spent your money very wisely. I wish you had told Our Post-office Box what books you bought, and I hope the boots will wear well. And then you had a splendid time making the sugar. I wish some of us had been there to help you.
If woodchucks were not such pests to the farmer, I think I would feel sorry that Jack trees so many of them. I think I can see him bounding along after the cows. What is your name? J. stands for Jonathan, James, Jerome, and a number of other names; and I like my boys to send more than their initials to me, so that I can remember them when they write again.
Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands.
I read your Post-office Box with a great deal of interest every time it comes. I used to live in Kansas, and often saw prairie fires there, and one nearly burned up my father's hay-stack and barn. But we fought it, and saved them. My father and mother moved to these islands from there, and landed here the last day of 1878. We have Kanaka policemen to guard the streets, and most of the sidewalks are made of lava sand: some are of broken boards, and there is a nice stone pavement once in a long distance. So when it rains the sidewalks are muddy. Most of the yards are very beautiful. We have a nice band. They are all Kanakas except the leader, who is a German. They give moonlight concerts free in the Park several times a month, and every Saturday afternoon at half past four o'clock. The little Park is very nice, and has plenty of seats in it. I went to Hilo with my papa, and also to the lava flow, which is only a mile and a half from that place. It is still too hot to step on in some places, though the flow stopped on the 9th of last August. When it rained you could trace it a long distance by the steam. I am nearly eleven years old, and go to school, and have not been absent or tardy this term.
Charlotte H. P.
When next I go to one of our Saturday afternoon concerts in Prospect Park, I will think of you, dear, and wonder whether the bands are playing the same airs in Brooklyn and Honolulu.
I send you some poetry my father wrote on my birthday. I live in Mount Vernon, a few miles from New York. We have a large martin box, and this spring, before the martins came, a lot of sparrows built their nests in it. When the martins arrived and found the sparrows in their house, they gave them notice to leave; but the sparrows fought for their place like little warriors, and the battle lasted a week before the brave sparrows were beaten off. I like Young People ever so much!
Harry L.
Darling little Harry,
Only eight years old,
Healthy as a sparrow
On the tree-top bold;
Cheeks as red as roses
By a lily laid,
Little form as perfect
As was ever made.
Cunning little package
Of brain and nerves and things,
Wrapped up in the whitest
And pinkiest of skins,
Labelled "Papa's Treasure,"
Worth its weight in gold;
Miser-like I hug it,
To my heart enfold.
Would that I could keep you
Ever young as now,
So innocent and loving,
With unclouded brow;
But days speed on so fast,
That in a few years more
My little boy will be a man,
That I can hug no more.
Mountain House, Sierra County, California.
When I opened Young People yesterday, the first thing I saw was the picture of Toby Tyler, looking as natural as ever. If I knew Toby, I would tell him about my black cat, which he could have in his circus. It was born with hardly any tail, and what there is of it is crooked at the end. His hind-feet are much higher than his fore-feet, and he growls like a bear when we touch him; so we have named him Bruin. I also have a dog that Toby would like to have, as he can ride on the velocipede, with my sister. He can ride sitting in my brother's cart, with a hat on his head and a pipe in his mouth. His name is Tiger, and he is quite large. I should think that Toby had had enough of a circus, without wanting to be the manager of one. I hope this letter will be put in print, for I would like Bob Simpson to see that my cat would do as well in the circus as his three-legged cat with four kittens.
Ida C.
Trinidad, Colorado.
I have been a constant reader of your paper for nearly two years, and like it very much. The Post-office Box has a great many interesting letters in it, and I have often thought I should like to write one myself for it. I am nearly twelve years old. I was born in Madura, Southern India, where my father was a medical missionary. Eight years ago we left India on account of father's health, and a short time after our arrival in America we came to Colorado. We have been living in Trinidad nearly four years. It is an old Spanish town, I don't know how old. The word Trinidad means the Trinity. The population of this place is made up of Americans and Mexicans. There are a great many things I would like to tell you about the Mexicans and their mode of living, but it would make my letter too long.
Lela P.
No, dear, it would not have made your letter too long, and so I shall expect another from you before a great while, telling all that is interesting about your Mexican neighbors.
St. Joseph, Tensas Parish, Louisiana.
I hope you will want to hear from a little over-flowed girl. I will try to tell you some of the trouble we have been in. The water came over our yard on the 15th of March. In a few days we had to move out of our kitchen and lower floor, and go upstairs. The next week there were three families who had to move out of their houses and come here. My aunty's house was seven feet from the ground, and she had to come here.
They had to make platforms on their galleries and put cows on them, and their stable started to float off. They had to bring their horses into the dining-room. The gin was full of colored people, and the barn full of mules. I can't tell you how much we have lost. All our hogs were drowned; we lost many chickens; the fences and bridges are all gone.
This house is like a bee-hive. There are twenty-three people in it. We had to put cloth around one end of the gallery for some colored people to live in, as our gin and barn were full.
There has been much suffering among the old colored folks. They had to leave their comfortable homes, and go to the gins, without fires. My old black mammy came into the house with us.
I have a fine dog named Roswell. He stands on the steps, and catches all the minnows that go by. I have also one of the smartest black-and-tans I ever saw. His name is Rover. I have a nice little boat that belongs to me alone, and I am learning to row. I would like to tell you how much my little cousins and I like this dear paper. How happy we are when Saturday comes—for that is the day we receive it—and that night mamma reads to us. But I must say good-by. I forgot to say how deep the water was here in our yard. It was six feet deep in our front yard, and eight in the back yard.
Sadie N.
The girls and boys who have not been over-flowed as you have will enjoy reading your description of the exciting time you have passed through. I am afraid some of them will think it was fun to have had water so high that Roswell could stand on the steps and catch minnows. But the people who had to live through so much fright and danger will hope that no such flood may ever come again.
Here is a pretty story about a cat and a dog who were great friends.
Puss and Pincher ate from the same plate, and slept on the same rug. Puss at one time had a little family of kittens, whom she kept in the attic at the top of the house.
One morning there was a terrific thunder-storm. Pincher was taking his ease in the parlor, and Puss was looking after her children in the garret.
Pincher was rather afraid of the lightning, and creeping close to his mistress, hid himself under her skirts. Presently somebody opened the parlor door, and in came Puss, mewing very pitifully.
She came up to Pincher, rubbed her face against his cheek, touched him gently with her paw, and then walked to the door, all of which said as plainly as words could have done, "Come, Pincher, come and help me."
But Pincher would not go, and Puss, after trying a little longer, went away herself.
A lady visiting at the house followed her upstairs, and found that she had brought one kitten down and tucked it under a wardrobe. She had probably wanted Pincher to stay with this child while she went after the others. She brought it in her mouth to the lady, who took it in her arms, went to the attic with Puss, where she moved the whole family away from the window, and then sat down by them till the storm was over.
The next morning, when the kind lady opened her door to go to breakfast, there sat Puss, who rubbed against her, purred, and showed the greatest pleasure in seeing her. This was her way of showing her gratitude.
Toogana, Kansas.
I thought perhaps the Postmistress would like to hear from a boy who lives in the far West. My brother Wroy and I earned by herding the money that brings to us the weekly visits of Young People, and we hail it with joy. Only some weeks it does not come, and then we wonder what can be the matter, and go home very sad. "Talking Leaves" is the best story I ever read. I will be sorry when it is done.
Wroy and I have been practicing "spring and fall styles for boys," springing from the millet stack, and falling on the millet that is spread out to be threshed. It is fun, and threshes the millet too. Papa has been away all winter, so we take care of mamma and sister Zella, feed and herd forty head of cattle, yoke up old Ben and Sam and haul wood and chips, and do whatever mamma tells us.
Zella and I have sixteen turkeys. We want to raise two hundred this year. Wroy has ten Pekin ducks; they are pure white, and look very handsome as they swim around over our Home Lake.
But I must close, and if this letter is published, I may write more of our frontier life another time.
Walter William C.
Something wrong, we fear, about the mails in your neighborhood, Walter, when you fail to receive your paper. We hope it seldom happens. You and your brother are leading a very manly life, with plenty to do, to think of, and to enjoy, and we will be pleased to hear from you again.
Madison, Wisconsin.
I thought I would write you, and tell you about my pets. I have a bob-tailed kitten; it was born without a tail. They are called Manx cats. I have a dog named Gip; he is so fat that mamma is ashamed to take him up town with her. I[Pg 463] have six large dolls. One of them is a boy doll named Fred, after my uncle in Dakota. I had all my Harper's Young People bound this winter, and they make a lovely book. I attend a private school, and the school-room is fitted up beautifully, with a Brussels carpet and lace curtains.
Helen Julia K.
Since you have so pleasant a school-room, I suppose you find it very easy to study, and so make great progress. I wish a number of the little correspondents would write about their school-rooms. I had charming times at one to which I was sent when about eight years old. There was no carpet. Instead of curtains, there were faded shades of green paper. The school-master sat at a battered desk at the head of the room. On one side were the boys, and on the other the girls. The girls used to play at noon under a mighty oak-tree. We had picnics there nearly every day, with oak-leaf plates and a tin dipper for a goblet. Do any of my little friends have such picnic parties now?
I thought I would write and tell you about a pet I had; it was a canary-bird. It would sit on my finger when I would put it in the cage. Its name was Dicky. It was only a young bird, and could not sing very well. I am thirteen years old. I would like to exchange with any little girl or boy a 5-cent piece dated 1775 and a fifth of a Chinese penny, for the best offer.
Nettie Amelung,
865 Lincoln Place, Brooklyn, N. Y.
I wouldn't cry about it, dear.
Though things are going wrong;
'Tis much the better way, my dear,
To sing a little song.
Lima, Ohio.
I am six years old to-day. I never have been to school, but can read some of the stories in my Young People. My mamma is giving me music lessons. I can sing and play a number of tunes. I like my paper very much.
Nettie N.
Cahto, Mendocino County, California.
I am a little girl living in Long Valley, Mendocino County, California. My brother is trapping. The eagles have been killing father's lambs. Brother took a lamb which they had killed, set his trap with it, and caught the eagle. That time the lamb caught the eagle. I go with him sometimes to his traps to see the foxes, 'coons, and wild-cats try to get out.
My little brother, four years old, went with father to feed the hogs. Father said so much rubbish would kill them. "Well," said he, "papa, you won't have to shoot them so many times."
I go to school. My mother tells me that my school days are pleasant days for me. I would agree with her if I had not so far to go—two miles over hills; and everything looks so cheerful when I start to school!
Allie R.
Perhaps you think you would rather stay at home than take that long walk; but your mother is right. School days are very happy ones, and your little feet skip over the two miles quickly, do they not? Have you any little friends who go with you to school?
Fred M. Dille, Greeley, Colorado, desires the name of a boy living in Cincinnati who sent him a match-box containing fossils, shells, and minerals, that he may send specimens in return.
A Boy's Grievance.—A boy of fourteen complains to us that his mother treats him as if he were a baby. He says she forbids his going to a certain safe and pleasant lake, to bathe or swim, and that she will not consent to his taking trips into the country with two friends of his own age, who are splendid fellows.
No doubt it seems to this lad that his mother is a little bit unreasonable. But she may have a strong feeling of terror about the deep waters of the lake which he thinks so safe, and if, as I judge from his note, he is really a kind and manly boy, he would prefer to go without the pleasure of swimming rather than make his mother anxious or uneasy about him.
Ladies are sometimes more timid than there is any need to be about places and things which boys and men consider entirely free from danger. Yet a gentleman always prefers to yield his own wishes rather than to let his mother or sister suffer from alarm.
As for the out-of-town trips, the mother's objection might be removed if the boys would get some older friend to go with them. It is always well to take the advice of mothers with regard to friends. Boys think they can choose wisely for themselves, but they are not able, as older persons are, to see just what companions are best for them. I do not think you would complain of home restraints if you remembered how much the dear mother has done for you all your life. No love is so unselfish as a mother's, and we can not prize it too highly.
Glens Falls, New York.
We live only nine miles from Lake George, where we go in the summer. There are many places of historical interest there. French Point, where we went last summer, used to be the camping-place of the French and Indians. I have an arrow-head from there, and a friend a spear-head. Opposite French Point, is Black Mountain, the highest mountain on the lake. Farther down is Sabbath-day Point, and Rogers's Slide, where the Rogers's Rock Hotel is. There you can take a carriage and go to Fort Ticonderoga. I have seen the oven and under-ground passage. Mamma has an old-fashioned cup with the fort on it. Recently, while digging for the foundation of a paper mill in the village, they found a cannon-ball and several other things. I almost feel acquainted with the Postmistress and the children that write to Young People.
Jessie L.
West Haven, Connecticut.
I enjoy reading your nice stories very much indeed, especially the stories written by Mr. Otis. My sister Bessie and I have five hens and one rooster. Dora is my hen. Year before last I was sick a little while. That same year Dora had some little chickens. Specky killed some, the other hens killed one, and the cats killed all the rest except two. One day papa carried me out to see them; only two came out. I supposed the others were in the coop. The first time I went to feed them I was taking out their usual amount of food, when my sister asked me what I was getting so much for. I did not know until then that there were only two left. I was nine years old last 22d of February. I have never written before, so please print this.
Mary E. C.
You poor darling! It was too bad so many chicks were killed.
St. Marys, Ontario, Canada.
I am a little boy seven years old. I do not go to school, but study at home. I can write a little, and read very well, and I read all about Jumbo, and I want to tell the little people a funny story about him. My auntie was in England, and when in the Zoological Gardens one day she saw Jumbo carrying many happy children about on his back. After a time she sat down on a bench with a lady, and had a biscuit in her hand. They had their faces close down over a book, to learn all about where to go. Presently it grew dark before them, and my auntie felt something strange touching her hand, and looking up, there stood Jumbo helping himself to the biscuit in her hand without any ceremony. My auntie says Jumbo had the bench all to himself without any delay. I like Harper's Young People so much! and watch for it every week.
Reggie R.
That was very "cute" in Jumbo.
Brooklyn, New York.
I am a little girl nine years old. I have taken Harper's Young People since last January. I like it very much, and always look forward to Tuesday with pleasure, for that is the day I receive it. Most little girls tell about their pets, but I have none, because I have lived all my life in hotels. I am more fond of my books than anything else. I have one that I should think many little girls would like to have; it is The History of the Bible Made Simple for Children, with three hundred beautiful pictures, and I like it ever so much.
Madeleine W.
Louisville, Ohio.
I am an Ohio boy fourteen years of age. On my last birthday my parents gave me a dollar and a half, and told me to make good use of it. I did so by subscribing for Harper's Young People. I find now that I could not have made a better use of it. My father is a physician, and I intend to be one also. I go to school every day, and in a few years expect to go to college.
I will now tell you of some of my pets. First of all are my dogs, of which I have two. The one I call Dash is a water-spaniel, brown in color, with a white breast, which I call his shirt bosom. The other one is a Gordon setter, whose name is Duke. He is two and a half feet high, and from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail he measures four and a half feet. He is my pony in the winter season, and enjoys hauling me as well as I enjoy being hauled. I often take both dogs to the creek. They are very good swimmers. I have one brother ten years old, and a sister eight. My brother says he will be a druggist. I the doctor, and he the druggist; won't that be nice? My father has a drug store, and I act as clerk for him during vacation. When we ask sister what she will be, she says she will be a mamma. I have a great many other pets besides my dogs, but will not write about them this time.
J. C. E. S.
We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the article on the "Steam-Engine," and to an interesting account by Eesung Eyliss of some little inhabitants of the feathered world, given under the title "Do Birds Know Their Old Homes?" Then Sherwood Ryse has some good advice to give the boys on the treatment of "Rabbits as Pets."
1.—1. Pertaining to the moon. 2. Custom. 3. Pertaining to the nose. 4. A precious stone. 5. To lease again.
Empire City.
2.—1. To scratch. 2. The top. 3. A kind of fungus. 4. Things which children like.
3.—1. A fruit. 2. To frost. 3. To obtain.
4.—1. The front. 2. A unit. 3. Clear profit.
Museum.
1. A fuel. 2. A compound of iodine and a metal. 3. An angel. 4. An island. 5. Fright. 6. Conclusion. 7. To idle. Primals and finals name a mountain range of Germany.
I. Scycle.
1.—1. In dish. 2. Right. 3. Birds. 4. To supply. 5. In sap.
2.—1. A letter. 2. What skaters like. 3. Thoughts. 4. A doubter. 5. A corrosive. 6. A title. 7. A letter.
3.—1. A letter. 2. A science. 3. To wither. 4. Part of the body. 5. A letter.
Benny Fishel.
4.—1. A letter. 2. An end. 3. An animal. 4. To fondle. 5. A letter.
C. B. K. and Mary S.
5.—1. A letter. 2. A drink. 3. A girl's name. 4. A reptile. 5. A letter.
6.—1. A vowel. 2. Finis. 3. To enrich. 4. A girl's nickname. 5. A vowel.
Blanche F.
My first is in river, but not in bay.
My second is in vex, but not in annoy.
My third is in corn, but not in hay.
My fourth is in gem, but not in toy.
My fifth is in lady, but not in girl.
My sixth is in screw, but not in nail.
My seventh is in hair, but not in curl.
My eighth is in strong, but not in frail.
My ninth is in cripple, but not in lame.
My whole is a poem well known to fame.
Eureka.
| P | F | ||||||||||||
| O | A | R | A | L | E | ||||||||
| P | A | P | A | W | F | L | I | N | T | ||||
| R | A | T | E | N | D | ||||||||
| W | T |
| C | ||||
| E | R | E | ||
| C | R | O | W | D |
| E | W | E | ||
| D |
Eagle. Daisy.
| D | efense | W | hirlwind |
| A | ttack | E | yelet |
| N | ight-fall | B | ee-hive |
| I | slands | S | ongster |
| E | choes | T | omtit |
| L | odge | E | ngine |
| R | idge-pole |
Daniel Webster.
Priesthood. Piece-meal. Whitewashed Lambskin.
1. P-earl-s. 2. S-haw-l. 3. S-hoot-s. 4. B-arrack-s. 5. L-edge-r. 6. T-run-k. 7 A-gate-s. 8. C-hor-d. 9. W-all-s. 10. T-angle-s.
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "I. Scycle," C. B. Kunkel, Mary Snyder, "Rose-bud," "Prince Charming," Olivia T., Benny Rickarts, Mary Snell, Jonathan S. R., Charlie Cox, Emily R. Bennett, Madeline Whittier, Nettie Simpson, Janet Carruthers, John Carnes, Sammie Brown, "A Reader," "Bluebell," Maud M. Chambers, Eloise, "A. B. C.," Lena and Lutie, Allie E. Cressingham, Arthur B. Sinclair, "Silver Fox," Susan Talbot, Mamie Meeks, Amy Grace, John Robertson, Alf Sinclair, George P. Taggart, Florence, Mabel, and Annie Knight, and Florence H. Chambers.
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
We have a new game, or drawing exercise, at our home nowadays, which we call Phizo, and a good deal of amusement it causes us. We also find it excellent practice and discipline in drawing and the study of character. It is desirable that those engaging in this game should have some little skill in drawing.
The way we came to try what we call Phizo was in this wise: A party of us were sitting cosily around the library table, and papa was talking to a literary friend about the difficulty of conveying any correct idea of form by mere words, and consequently the almost utter impossibility of an artist representing pictorially an author's idea by merely reading his work. The literary gentleman seemed rather inclined to dispute this statement, when papa said:
"Well, if I can't convince you, suppose that we try a few practical experiments. I will draw a simple profile of a head of marked character, and you shall describe it to those present—we can all draw more or less—and each shall draw a face from your description without seeing the original, and then we will compare them, and see how nearly they approach that original."
Papa then drew the accompanying head, which the literary gentleman—whom I may as well call Mr. Stylus—described as follows:
"Forehead large and overhanging, the upper part projecting beyond the lower; eyes severe and deep-set; nose sharply cut, rather small, with a slight tendency upward; mouth firm and compressed; upper lip short; lower lip projecting; chin long and prominent; jaw square; hair brushed back behind the ears, and rather long; head large; the whole character refined, intellectual, and severe."
"There," said papa, "it has taken you four times as long to write your description as it took me to make my sketch. Now let us see what idea you have conveyed to your audience."
We all set to work at once, and made our sketches, and the accompanying pictures show the result. When we came to compare these ridiculous heads one with another, and then with the one originally drawn by papa, you can imagine that we had a hearty laugh.
Of course he insisted that we had given a brilliant illustration of the manner in which artists frequently fail in their efforts to portray the characters that writers describe, and it was quite useless to try and persuade him that we were not endowed with professional skill in the use of our pencils.
Now, for the benefit of any of our readers who would like to experiment with Phizo, I subjoin a description of a profile head which papa made, and Mr. Stylus described as follows:
"Forehead moderately high and rather full; eyebrows distinctly marked; eyes large, with heavy eyelids; nose high; mouth full, with corners slightly drooping; chin full and round; hair curling on forehead, coiled at back of the head."
Now suppose our artistic subscribers try and see what they can make of this description.
"JES YOU 'HAVE YERSELF, AND COME 'LONG NOW."
AND SHE WENT.
[1] Begun in No. 127, Harper's Young People.
[2] Begun in No. 132, Harper's Young People.
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