St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 13, May 1886, No. 7.
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Title: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 13, May 1886, No. 7.
Author: Various
Editor: Mary Mapes Dodge
Release date: May 31, 2010 [eBook #32622]
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, VOL. 13, MAY 1886, NO. 7. ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
ST. NICHOLAS
An
ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE
FOR YOUNG FOLKS.
CONDUCTED BY
MARY MAPES DODGE.
VOLUME XIII.
PART II., MAY, 1886, TO OCTOBER, 1886.
THE CENTURY CO. NEW YORK.
F. WARNE & CO., LONDON.
Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.
THE DE VINNE PRESS.
ST. NICHOLAS:
VOLUME XIII.
PART II.
SIX MONTHS--MAY, 1886, TO OCTOBER, 1886.
CONTENTS OF PART II., VOLUME XIII.
PAGE.
ABOUT BREATHING _Hellen Clark Swazey_ 946
ADVENTURE AT THE FLUME, OUR.
(Illustrated). _W. L_ 844
AMBITIOUS KANGAROO, THE.
Jingle _A. R. Wells_ 853
AMUSING THE BABY.
Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Eva Lovett Carson_ 706
ARMY, AN. Verses _A. C_ 757
ART AND ARTISTS, STORIES OF.
English Painters. (Illustrated) _Clara Erskine Clement_ 803
AUNT DEBORAH'S LESSON. (Illustrated) _G. H. Baskette_ 694
AUTUMN TO SPRING. Poem _Edith M. Thomas_ 883
BABY'S DIMPLE, THE. Poem _William H. Hayne_ 731
BALLAD OF BASE-BALL, A. Verses _I. D_ 774
BELATED FAIRY, A. Picture, drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 693
BLOSSOM-TIME. Poem _Laura E. Richards_ 518
BOAT-BUILDING. (Illustrated) _George J. Manson_ 698
BOPEEP. Poem.
(Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) _Sydney Dayre_ 756
BOYS' CAMP, A. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) 607
BOYS' PARADISE, THE.
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _Elizabeth Balch_ 604
BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 943
BROWNIES AT LAWN TENNIS, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 857
BROWNIES IN THE MENAGERIE, THE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 707
BROWNIES ON ROLLER SKATES, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Palmer Cox_ 543
BUBBLE BOWLING.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Adelia B. Beard_ 540
BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE, THE. Verse _Edith M. Thomas_ 599
CAPTAIN JACK'S FOURTH OF JULY KITE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Daniel C. Beard_ 702
CARICATURE PLANT, THE.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _.M. A_ 522
CHILDREN OF THE SUN, THE. Poem.
(Illustrated) _Arthur Wentworth Eaton_ 770
CHILDREN'S EXHIBITION, THE.
(Illustrated by E. J. Meeker) _Charles Barnard_ 916
CHILD'S FANCY, A. Poem _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 645
CONSIDERATE FARMER JONES. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 843
CRAFTY CRAB, THE. JINGLE. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Isabel Frances Bellows_ 845
CREW OF THE CAPTAIN'S GIG, THE.
(Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) _Rev. Charles R. Talbot_ 899
DAISY-SONG. Verses _Grace Denio Litchfield_ 662
DANGEROUS DOG, THE. JINGLE. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _A. R. Wells_ 837
DIFFERENCE OF OPINION, A. Verses _Lilian Dynevor Rice_ 679
DOG STORIES, ST. NICHOLAS. (Illustrated) 526, 624
"DO YOU LIKE BUTTER, BOSSY?" Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 791
DUEL WITH A STORK, A. Pictures, drawn by Frederick J. Hibbert 754
FISHES AND THEIR YOUNG.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _C. F. Holder_ 600
FLY-FISHING FOR TROUT. (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks,
Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 655
FRESH FROM A DIP IN THE BREAKERS.
Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 670
FROG IN THE SHOE, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by Boz) _Aunt Fanny Barrow_ 791
FUN IN HIGH LIFE. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 935
GEORGE WASHINGTON. (Illustrated by 505, 590, 663, 758,
H. A. Ogden and others) _Horace E. Scudder_ 838, 908
GIRAFFE, THE. (Illustrated) _Gerrish Eldridge_ 768
GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE, THE.
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _E. Vinton Blake_ 494
GRANDPAPA ROSEBUSH. Verses.
(Illustrated) _Laura E. Richards_ 583
GREAT SPRING-BOARD ACT, THE. Picture, drawn by T. J. Nicholl 677
HANDIWORK OF SOME CLEVER SCHOOL-BOYS, THE.
(Illustrated by the Author) _J. Abdon Donnegan_ 547
HER PICTURE. Verses.
(Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) _Anna M. Pratt_ 942
HIGHLY COLORED. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 869
HOW CONRAD LOST HIS SCHOOL-BOOKS.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Walter Bobbett_ 514
"HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE?" Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 757
HURLY-BURLY. Jingle.
(Illustrated by L. Hopkins) _Emma Mortimer White_ 871
IF. Jingle. (Illustrated) _E. A. B._ 703
IN THE GARDEN. Verses. _Bessie Chandler_ 898
INVERTED. Jingle.
(Illustrated by W. T. Peters) _John B. Tabb_ 828
"IT WAS A FAIR ARTIST NAMED MAY." Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _O. Herford_ 501
JAPANESE BABIES. Verses. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Anna C. Vincent_ 948
JINGLES. 501, 613, 630, 681, 687, 697, 703, 733, 748, 785, 791, 797,
828, 837, 845, 853, 949
JOLLY OLD KNIGHT, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Oliver Herford_ 748
KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.
(Illustrated) _Margaret Meredith_ 537
KELP-GATHERERS, THE. 584, 687, 776,
(Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) _J. T. Trowbridge_ 847,929
KNICKERBOCKER BOY, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) _Caroline S. King_ 542
LACE-LEAF, A SEARCH FOR THE.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _Alice May_ 518
LA FAYETTE.
(Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) _Mrs. Eugenia M. Hodge_ 643
LAKE GEORGE CAPSIZE, A. (Illustrated) _Edward Eggleston_ 829
LAST CRUISE OF THE "SLUG," THE.
(Illustrated by D. Clinton Peters) _Thomas Edwin Turner_ 671
LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) _M. B. Jordan_ 870
LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Malcolm Douglas_ 928
LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. 502, 564, 646, 734, 822,
(Illustrated by R. B. Birch) _Frances Hodgson Burnett_ 884
LITTLE MISS MABEL. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Daisy Jones_ 613
LITTLE SEAMSTRESS, A. Verse. _Mary E. Wilkins_ 733
MAN OVERBOARD!
(Illustrated by the Author) _H. A. Johnson_ 775
MATTER-OF-FACT CINDERELLA, A.
(Illustrated) _Annie A. Preston_ 860
MAY SONG. Poem. (Illustrated
and engrossed by Laura C. Hills) _Laura E. Richards_ 492
MONSTER, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Maria I. Hammond_ 732
MORNING-GLORIES. Poem. _Laura Ledyard Pope_ 501
MORRA. (Illustrated) _Susan Anna Brown_ 846
MOTHER'S IDEA. _A. M. Platt_ 613
NAN'S REVOLT. (Illustrated 682, 749, 816,
by Jessie Curtis Shepherd) _Rose Lattimore Alling_ 896
NED'S BUTTERCUP. Verses. _Bessie Chandler_ 941
NEW THEORY, A. Verse. _Bessie Chandler_ 785
NEW VIEW OF THE MOON, A. Verses. _Eva Lovett Carson_ 551
NO MORE SCHOOL. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller 571
NOTIONAL NIGHTINGALE, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by L. Hopkins) _A. R. Wells_ 748
NUMBER ONE. Verses. _Charles R. Talbot_ 705
OCTOBER. Poem. (Illustrated) _Susan Hartley_ 890
"OH, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" Jingle. (Illustrated by E. Sylvester) 869
OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR. (Illustrated) _E. S. Brooks_ 936
ONCE-ON-A-TIME. Poem. _Emily Huntington Miller_ 563
ON THE WILLEY-BROOK TRESTLE.
(Illustrated by Henry Sandham) _Willis Boyd Allen_ 764
OWL, THE BAT, AND THE BUMBLE-BEE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by De Cost Smith) _Laura E Richards_ 747
PERSONALLY CONDUCTED. (Illustrated by E. J.
Meeker and others) _Frank R. Stockton_
Queen Paris. 572
PICTURES. 525, 571, 637, 670, 677, 693, 701, 715, 738, 754, 757,
791, 798, 843, 856, 869, 935, 947
PUSSIES' COATS, THE. Jingle.
(Illustrated by H. P. Share) _Esther B. Tiffany_ 687
PUZZLED BESSIE. Picture, drawn by Albert E. Sterner 947
PUZZLED PAPA, A. Verses. _M. L. B. Branch_ 603
QUAINT LITTLE MAN, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _A. Brennan_ 949
READY FOR BUSINESS; OR,
CHOOSING AN OCCUPATION. (Illustrated) _George J. Manson_
Boat-building. 698
RECIPE, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Mary A. Lathbury_ 629
REGATTA. A. Game.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Frank Bellew_ 783
ROBIN'S RETURN. Poem. _Edith M. Thomas_ 612
ROCK-A-BYE. Poem. _Mary N. Prescott_ 535
ROCKY MOUNTAIN HERMIT, A. (Illustrated by
J. C. Beard and others) _Alfred Terry Bacon_ 723, 832
ROPE YARN SPUN BY AN OLD SAILOR, A.
(Illustrated by the Author) _C. W. Miller_ 786
ROYAL FISH, A. (Illustrated by W. L.
Sheppard, Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 739
SAD CASE, A. Verses.
(Illustrated by Mary Richardson) _Margaret Vandegrift_ 733
SAILOR BOY, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Wallace E. Mather_ 790
SALMON: A ROYAL FISH. (Illustrated by W. L.
Sheppard, Henry Sandham, and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 739
SATCHEL, THE.
(Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) _Tudor Jenks_ 616
SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF, A.
(Illustrated by J. C. Beard) _Alice May_ 518
SEA-URCHIN, THE. Jingle. (Illustrated
and engrossed by R. B. Birch) _Isabel Frances Bellows_ 785
SHAKSPERE WHEN A BOY.
(Illustrated by Alfred Parsons) _Rose Kingsley_ 483
SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD, THE.
(Illustrated by J. G. Francis) _C. F. Holder_ 533
SOME CURIOUS MARINERS. (Illustrated by
J. C. Beard and J. M. Nugent) _C. F. Holder_ 891
SONG OF SUMMER, A. Poem. _Emma C. Dowd_ 671
SPRING BEAUTIES. Poem.
(Illustrated by A. Brennan) _Helen Gray Cone_ 513
ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES. (Illustrated)
A Clever Little Yellow Dog _John R. Coryell_ 526
A Dog that Could Count _E. P. Roe_ 529
A Clever Sheep Dog 530
A Story of Two Buckets _Charlotte M. Vaile_ 530
The Left-field of the Lincoln Nine _C. F. Holder_ 624
A Dog that Could Climb Trees _C. F. Holder_ 626
A Sociable, Sensible Dog _E. P. Roe_ 626
A Dog whose Feelings were Hurt _E. P. Roe_ 628
A Dog that Repaid a Trick 628
Mephistopheles _Anna Gardner_ 628
STORIES OF ART AND ARTISTS.
English Painters. (Illustrated) _Clara Erskine Clement_ 803
TEA-PARTY, A. Verses. (Illustrated
and engrossed by the Author) _Margaret Johnson_ 865
TELL-TALE BARN, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Esther B. Tiffany_ 924
"THE BIGGEST OF BIRDS." Jingle.
(Illustrated G. R. Halm) _E. E. Sterns_ 703
THEORETIC TURTLE, THE. Verses.
(Illustrated) _A. R. Wells_ 681
"THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET." Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller 701
"THIS SEAT RESERVED." Picture. 856
THREE VELVETY BEES. Verses.
(Illustrated by F. E. Gifford) _M. M. D._ 654
TIMOTHY TIMID. Jingle.
(Illustrated by the Author) _A. Brennan_ 697
TIPPIE AND JIMMIE.
(Illustrated by H. P. Share) _Mary L. French_ 705
TODDLEKINS AND TROT. Verses.
(Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) _Anna M. Pratt_ 843
TROUT, FLY-FISHING FOR. (Illustrated by
J. H. Cocks, Henry Sandham, E. J. Meeker,
and others) _Ripley Hitchcock_ 655
UNDER THE SNOW. Poem. _Lilian Dynevor Rice_ 815
VEGETABLE CLOTHING.
(Illustrated by D. C. Beard) _C. J. Russell_ 523
VENETIAN MARQUETRY.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Charles G. Leland_ 866
WAITING FOR A COLD WAVE. Picture, drawn by C. Weaver 738
WEASEL AND THE ADDER, THE. (Illustrated) _Gerrish Eldridge_ 907
WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS. Poem.
(Illustrated) _L. G. R._ 536
WHAT IT WAS. Verses.
(Illustrated by F. E. Gifford) _Malcolm Douglas_ 701
WHEN SHAKSPERE WAS A BOY.
(Illustrated by Alfred Parsons) _Rose Kingsley_ 483
WILD FLOWERS, THE. Verses. (Illustrated) _Jessie Penniman_ 603
WILD HUNTERS. (Illustrated) _John R. Coryell_ 681
WINGED SEEDS. Poem. _Helen Gray Cone_ 571
WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY! Picture, drawn by R. Blum 525
WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET. (Illustrated) _Henry Eckford_ 538, 621,
677, 771, 854, 925
WORK AND PLAY FOR YOUNG FOLK. (Illustrated.)
A Rope Yarn Spun by an Old Sailor.
(Illustrated by the Author) _C. W. Miller_ 786
Venetian Marquetry.
(Illustrated by the Author) _Charles G. Leland_ 866
DEPARTMENTS.
FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK. (Illustrated.)
Riddles. _M. M. D._ 630
"Pretty Painted Bridges" }
"White Sheep, White Sheep" } _E. E. Sterns_ 630
"On Dormio Hill" }
A Letter from a Little Boy _Ralph Ranlet_ 710
"Dude" and the Cats 711
Riddles for Very Little Folk _E. E. Sterns_ 950
PLAYS AND MUSIC.
Easter Carol _William E. Ashmall_ 546
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. (Illustrated.)
Introduction--"Everything is Lovely, and the Goose Hangs
High"--Girls! To the Rescue!--About Little Lord
Fauntleroy--Fishing for Necklaces--A Suggestion to the
Bottled Fish--The Newspaper Plant (illustrated)--One More
Living Barometer, 552; A Bumble Grumble--Pretty Dusty
Wings--Trees that Rain--Shooting Stars--Coasting in
August--More about Turtles--A Fish that Weaves its Nest--A
Clever Humming-bird (illustrated), 632; Introduction--The
Seventeen-year Locust (illustrated)--The Great Lubber Locust
(illustrated)--The Dog and the Queer Grasshoppers
(illustrated), 712; Introduction--Longfellow's First
Letter--The Water-snake as a Fisherman--More Animal
Weather-Prophets--A Useful Bird with an Aristocratic Name--A
Wise Humming-bird--The Pitcher Plant (illustrated), 792;
Introduction--Poor Lark!--Those Mocking-birds Again--A Living
Island (illustrated)--Wrong Names for Things--Who can Answer
This? 872; Introduction--A Perfectly Quiet Day--How He Proved
It--Walking Without Legs--A Queer Sunshade (illustrated)--A
Queer Jumble--That Dear Little Lord, 952.
THE AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION. (Illustrated) 557, 636, 717, 794, 874, 957
THE LETTER-BOX. (Illustrated) 554, 634, 714, 796, 876, 954
THE RIDDLE-BOX. (Illustrated) 559, 639, 719, 799, 879, 959
EDITORIAL NOTES 554, 634
FRONTISPIECES.
"In Spring-time--When Shakspere was a Boy," by Léon Moran,
facing Title-page of Volume--"A June Morning," by E. C. Held,
facing page 563--"La Fayette and the British Ambassador," by
F. H. Lungren, facing page 643--"The Captain and the
Captain's Mate," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 723--"The
Connoisseurs," after a painting by Sir Edwin Landseer, facing
page 803--"Martha Washington," from an unfinished portrait by
Gilbert Stuart, facing page 883.
[Illustration: IN SPRING-TIME--WHEN SHAKSPERE WAS A BOY.
(SEE PAGE 490.)]
ST. NICHOLAS.
VOL. XIII. MAY, 1886. NO. 7.
[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]
When Shakspere was a Boy
BY ROSE KINGSLEY.
On Henley street, in quiet Stratford town, there stands an old
half-timbered house. The panels between the dark beams are of
soft-colored yellow plaster. The windows are filled with little diamond
panes; and in one of the upper rooms they are guarded with fine wire
outside the old glass, which is misty with innumerable names scratched
all over it. Poets and princes, wise men and foolish, have scrawled
their names after a silly fashion, on windows, wall, and ceiling of that
oak-floored room, because, on the 22d of April, 1564, a baby was born
there--the son of John and Mary Shakspere. And on the following
Wednesday, April 26, the baby was carried down to the old church beside
the sleepy Avon and baptized by the name of William.
Little did John Shakspere and the gossips dream, when the baby William's
name was duly inscribed in the register-book with its corners and clasps
of embossed brass, that he was destined to become England's greatest
poet. Little did they dream, honest folk, that the old market town and
the house on Henley street and the meadows across the river, covered in
that pleasant April month with cowslips and daisies and "lady-smocks all
silver-white," would become sacred ground to hundreds of thousands of
people from all quarters of the globe, who should come, year by year, on
reverent pilgrimage to Shakspere's birthplace.
The baby grew up as most babies do; and when he was two and a half years
old, a little brother Gilbert was born. As we walk through the streets
to-day, we can fancy the little lads toddling about the town together,
while father John was minding his glove and wool trade at the old house.
John Shakspere, in those early days, was a well-to-do man. He was a
chamberlain of the borough when little Gilbert was born; and in 1568 he
was elected High Bailiff, or Mayor, of Stratford, although he, in
common with many of his fellow-burgesses, could not write his own name.
He had land, too, at Snitterfield, where his father had lived; and his
wife, Mary Arden, was the owner of Ashbies, the farm at Wilmcote, hard
by.
[Illustration: MARY ARDEN'S HOUSE AT WILMCOTE.]
But, though the parents were illiterate, they knew the value of a good
education. The Free Grammar School had been refounded a few years before
by Edward VI. And although there is no actual record of his school days,
we may take it as certain that little Will Shakspere was sent to the
Free School when about seven years old, as we know his brother Gilbert
was, a little later. The old Grammar School still stands; and boys still
learn their lessons in the self-same room with the high pitched roof and
oaken beams, where little Will Shakspere studied his "A, B, C-book," and
got his earliest notions of Latin. But during part of Shakspere's school
days the schoolroom was under repair; and boys and master--Walter Roche
by name--migrated for a while to the Guild Chapel next door. And this
was surely in the poet's mind when, in later years, he talked of a
"pedant who keeps a school i' the church."
All boys learned their Latin then from two well-known books--the
"Accidence" and the "Sententiæ Pueriles." And that William was no
exception to the rule we may see by translations from the latter in
several of his plays, and by an account, in one of his plays, of Master
Page's examination in the "Accidence." An old desk which came from the
Grammar School and stood there in Shakspere's time is shown at the
birthplace. And when we look at it we wonder what sort of a boy little
William was--whether his future greatness made a mark in any way during
his school days; whether that conical forehead of his stood him in good
stead as he learned his Latin Grammar; whether he was quiet and
studious, or merry and mischievous; whether he hid dormice and apples
and birds' eggs in his desk, and peeped at them during school hours;
whether he got into scrapes and was whipped. Just think of Shakspere
getting a whipping! No doubt he often did. Masters in those days were
not greater, but rather less, respecters of persons than they are now,
and they believed very firmly in the adage which is going out of
fashion, that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. So we may think of
little Will Shakspere coming out of the Grammar School and passing the
old Guild Chapel and the Falcon Inn with two little red fists crammed
into two little red and streaming eyes, and going home to mother Mary in
Henley street to be comforted and coddled and popped down on the settle
in the wide chimney corner, with some dainty, dear to the heart of small
boys who got into trouble three hundred years ago just as they do now.
Let us hope his cake was not like one he describes as "dough on both
sides."
[Illustration: THE LARGE SCHOOLROOM IN THE OLD GRAMMAR SCHOOL AT
STRATFORD.]
But I fancy that lessons bore a very small part in Will Shakspere's
education. He certainly never knew much Latin; but he knew all about
country things as only a country-bred boy can know about them. He and
Gilbert must have run many a time to Ashbies, their mother's farm at
Wilmcote, and watched the oxen plowing in the heavy clay fields; and
cried, perhaps, as children do now "as the butcher takes away the calf";
and played with the shepherd's "bob-tailed cur"; and gossiped with
Christopher Sly, who could tell them all manner of wonderful tales, for
had he not been peddler, card-maker, bear-herd, "and now by present
profession a tinker"?
They must have listened to their father and their uncle Henry up at the
big farm close to Snitterfield church (where Henry Shakspere lived) as
the two men discussed the price of a yoke of oxen at Stratford or
Warwick fair, or debated whether they should "sow the head-land with
wheat,--with red wheat, Davy,"[A] or grumbled over the "smith's note
for shoeing and plough-irons," or told the latest turn in the quarrel
between "William Visor of Woncot" and "Clement Perkes of the Hill." Very
likely the little hazel-eyed boys took William Visor's part, though they
wisely kept their opinions to themselves, since small boys in that
period were not allowed the liberty of speech they enjoy in these
degenerate times. William Visor was a neighbor of the Ardens, and
possibly a friend of "Marian Hackett, the fat ale-wife of Wincot"; for
Wincot, Woncot, and Wilmcote are all the same place. Or perhaps the
young lads sided with Clement Perkes; for the Hill where he lived at
Weston was known as Cherry Orchard Farm, a name full of tempting
suggestions to little boys. And we know that Shakspere, like many less
wise people, was fond of "ripe red cherries." He mentions them again and
again. He and Gilbert, and their little friends the Sadlers and Harts
and Halls, must have played bob-cherry, as we do now,--drawing up the
stem of the cherry with our tongues, and, with a sudden snap, getting
the round, ripe fruit between our lips,--and then have used the stones
for "cherry-pit"--a child's game that is frequently mentioned by
Shakspere and other old writers, which consisted in pitching
cherry-stones into a small hole.
[Footnote A: 2d Henry IV., Act 5. Scene 1.]
[Illustration: THE SCHOOL AND GUILD CHAPEL.]
Stratford lies just at the beginning of the fruit-growing country, which
stretches right down the Vale of Evesham to Worcester and the Severn;
and little Will Shakspere was well versed in the merits of all kinds of
fruits. There were the plum-trees, that make you think in the
spring-time that a snow-shower has fallen upon a sunny day all over the
Stratford district; while in the autumn the branches are laden with "the
mellow plum." Who can doubt that little Will climbed the damson-tree,
"with danger of my life," as he said later that Simpcox did at his
wife's bidding?[B] In the plays he mentions apples of many sorts--some
of which, though rare or extinct in other parts of England, still grow
about his native place--the bitter-sweetings and leather-coats, the
apple-johns and the pomewaters. Many a time he must have stood with all
the boys of the place watching, as we might do to-day, the cider-making
on some village green, when the heaps of apples, red, green, and yellow,
are brought in barrows and baskets and carts from the orchards, and
ground up into a thick yellow pulp in the crushing-mill turned by a
horse, and that pulp is put into presses from which the clear juice runs
into tubs, while the dry cakes of pulp are carted away to fatten the
pigs.
[Footnote B: 2d Henry VI., Act 2, Scene 1.]
There were grapes, too, growing plentifully in Warwickshire in his day;
and "apricocks," "ripe figs, and mulberries," like those with which the
fairies were told to feed Bottom the weaver. Blackberries and the
handsome purple dewberries grew then as now, by the hedges in the
orchards and in the shade of the Weir-brake just below Stratford mill,
where, so says tradition, the scene of the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was
laid. In the Weir-brake, too, and in all the woods about their home, the
Shakspere boys must have gone nutting--that most delightful harvest of
the year, when you bend down "the hazel twig," so "straight and
slender," and fill baskets and pockets with the sweet nuts in their
rough, green husks, and crack them all the way home like so many happy
squirrels.
[Illustration: THE GUILD COUNCIL-ROOM--NOW THE HEAD-MASTER'S
CLASS-ROOM.]
All the hedge-rows were full then, as they are to this day, of wild
pear-trees, wild apples, and "crabs," as crab-apples are called in
England. Roasted "crabs" served with hot ale were a favorite Christmas
dish in Shakspere's time. And I doubt not that the boys rejoiced at the
house in Henley street as the time of year came round "when roasted
crabs hiss in the bowl."
How snug the "house-place" in the old home must have looked with its
roaring fire of logs, on winter evenings, when the two little boys of
nine and seven, and Joan and Anne, the little sisters, huddled up in the
chimney-corner with baby Richard in his cradle, while the mother
prepared hot ale and "roasted crabs" for her gossips. Will, I warrant,
as with twinkling eyes he watched Mrs. Hart or Mrs. Sadler or Mrs.
Hathaway, from Shottery, thought that it was Puck himself, the very
spirit of mischief, who had got into the bowl "in very likeness of a
roasted crab."
It must have been a recollection of those winter evenings that made
little Will, in later years, write his delightful "Winter Song":
"When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
"When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit;
Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."
Among the gossips there would be much talk of wonders, appearances,
mysterious occurrences, and charms; and the children listened with all
their ears, you may be sure. Perhaps one of Mistress Shakspere's friends
possessed the power that some people in Warwickshire still are said to
possess, of charming away warts by a touch and some murmured invocation;
or curing toothache and all other aches and pains. There are plenty of
people now who, after your second cup of tea is finished, will take the
cup, twist the grounds around three times, turn it mouth downward in the
saucer, and then, by looking at the tea-leaves which still stick to the
bottom of the cup, will undertake to tell you what is going to
happen--of presents you will receive, or people who are coming to see
you. And many Warwickshire women still believe firmly that
whooping-cough can be charmed away by the patient walking nine times
over running water.
[Illustration: "THE HEDGE-ROWS WERE FULL, AS THEY ARE TO THIS DAY, OF
WILD APPLES, WILD PEARS, AND 'CRABS.'"]
The boys' games of those days were much the same as they are to-day.
Each game then, as now, had its regular season in the year. In the
season for marbles, no one would dream of playing anything else.
"Knuckle-hole" is still the favorite game in Warwickshire. The
standing-up game, pitching the taw from a mark scraped across the
ground, is, I am told by competent authorities, rather going out of
fashion; but it is still played. The marble season lasts through the
late winter, much to the distraction of mothers, who have to clean and
mend their sons' nether garments, which are worn with kneeling and
plastered with mud at that time of year. Then comes the spinning-top,
whip-top, and peg-top time. Later again there is tip-cat for the boys,
and hop-scotch for the girls.
On the corn-bins in the Warwickshire ale-house stables we can still find
the lines rudely cut for "nine men's morris." This, in Shakspere's day,
was a favorite game, and one much in vogue among the shepherd boys in
the summer, who cut a "board" in the short turf and whiled away the long
hours by playing it. Little Will must often have gone to watch his
father play "shovel-board" at the Falcon tavern, in Stratford, on the
board upon which tradition says he himself played, in later life. And at
home, he and his brother must have played "push-pin," an old game which
is still played in remote parts of the country. Two pins are laid on the
table; the players in turn jerk them with their fingers, and he who
throws one pin across the other is allowed to take one of them, while
those who do not succeed have to give a pin. This is the game Shakspere
alludes to in "Love's Labour's Lost," when he says, "And Nestor play at
push-pin with the boys."
Little Will knew a great deal about sport. All his allusions to sporting
or woodcraft are those of a man who had been familiar with such things
from his childhood. He and Gilbert must have set plenty of "springes, to
catch wood-cocks," and dug out the "earth-delving conies" that swarmed
in the commmonland of Welcombe, those dingles that in later years he
fought so hard to preserve from inclosure.
[Illustration: BOYS FISHING IN THE AVON--OPPOSITE THE WEIR-BRAKE.]
They must have fished many a time, as the Stratford boys do to this day,
in the slow waters of the Avon, sitting quietly intent for hours upon
the steep clay bank
"to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait."[C]
[Footnote C: "Much Ado about Nothing," Act 3, Sc. 1.]
Then who can doubt that he often watched the hunting of the hare? Each
line in his wonderful description of the hunted hare is written by a
thorough sportsman and a keen observer of nature. How the purblind hare
runs among a flock of sheep or into a rabbit-warren, or "sorteth with a
herd of deer" to throw out "the hot scent-snuffing hounds." How they
pause silent till they have worked "with much ado the cold fault cleanly
out," and then burst into music again.
Of deer, Shakspere knew much--too much for his own comfort. In his
childhood, there were herds at Fulbrooke,--and when he was older, at
Charlecote, at Grove Park, and at Warwick. And probably there were a few
roe in the wilder parts of the Forest of Arden, which came down within
three miles of Stratford, and covered the whole of the country north of
the Avon, out to Nuneaton and Birmingham. We can fancy how the boys
stole out to watch the Grevilles and Leycesters and Lucys and Verneys on
some great hunting party, and whispered to each other,
"Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,
For through this lawnd anon the deer will come."
But the time of all others in the year that we connect most closely with
Shakspere is the sweet spring-time, when the long cold winter--very long
and very cold among those undrained clay-lands of Warwickshire--had come
to an end. How closely little Will watched for
"daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty";
and for
"violets, cowslips, and pale primroses."
We can fancy the little boys hunting in some sheltered nook in the
Welcombe woods for the first primroses; and climbing up Borden Hill just
beyond Shottery, perhaps with Anne Hathaway from the pretty old house in
the orchards below, to the bank--the only one in the neighborhood,--
"where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows";
or wandering over the flat sunny meadows along the Avon valley, picking
cowslips, and looking into each tiny yellow bell for the spots in their
gold coats,--
"Those be rubies, fairy favors,
In those freckles live their savors,"--
as they brought home baskets of the flower-heads for their mother to
make into cowslip wine.
Spring, in this Stratford country, is exquisite. The woods are carpeted
with primroses and wild hyacinths; while in the "merry month of May" the
nightingale swarms among the hawthorn trees white with blossom.
On every village green there stood a painted May pole--one is still
standing at Weston, near Stratford; and May-Day is still kept in
Warwickshire with a "May feast" upon old May-Day, the 12th of May. Every
one knows how the prettiest girl in the village was chosen Queen o' the
May, and how all joined in the "Whitsun Morris-dance."
[Illustration: A BUNCH OF COWSLIPS.]
Long Marston,--"Dancing Marston," as it has been called ever since
Shakspere's time,--a few miles from Stratford, was famous till within
the memory of man for a troop of Morris-dancers, who went about from
village to village, strangely dressed, to dance at all the feasts.
Shakspere probably had the Marston dancers in his mind when he wrote of
the "three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three
swine-herds," that made themselves all "men of hair," and called
themselves "Saltiers," at the sheep-shearing feast which pretty Perdita
presided over, in "The Winter's Tale." The sheep-shearing feast, which
came when roses were out on the hedges and in the gardens, must have
been a merry and important time for the Shakspere boys. John Shakspere
was, of course, specially interested in the price of a tod of wool, for
wool-stapling was part of his trade. Perhaps William himself was sent by
his mother to buy the groceries for the feast, and stood conning the
list as he makes the clown do, in "The Winter's Tale."
In the spring-time, too, came the peddler with all his wonders and
treasures:
"Lawn as white as driven snow;
Cypress black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces and for noses."
Those last must have pleased the little boys more than all the rest of
the peddler's goods. And perhaps it was from this very peddler that Will
Shakspere bought the pair of gloves which, after the fashion of the day,
he gave to Anne Hathaway at their betrothal.
But the great event of the year in the quiet country town was Stratford
"Mop" or statute fair, on the 12th of October. The market-place was
filled, as it is to this day, with clowns and mountebanks, wrestlers,
and rope-dancers at their "rope-tricks." Oxen and sheep were roasted
whole. A roaring trade was driven by quack doctors and dentists. All the
servants in the country came and stood around to be hired, as the
farm-hands and the maids for the farm-houses still do--the carters with
a bit of whipcord in their hats; the shepherds with a lock of wool; the
laborers with a straw. And next day, we need not doubt, there were many
candidates for the town stocks, as there are now for the police court.
There were bear-baitings, too, and bull-baitings--those cruel sports
which have only been abolished in Warwickshire within the last hundred
years. But in Shakspere's day bear-baiting was a popular and refined
amusement. During Queen Elizabeth's visit to Kenilworth, in 1575, there
was a great bear-baiting in her honor, of which a curious and most
sickening account still exists. And when Shakspere went to London his
lodgings were close to the bear-garden, or "Bear's College," at
Southwark, whither all London flocked to see the poor beasts tormented
and tortured.
There was, however, one amusement which, from his earliest years, must
have delighted little Will Shakspere above all others--I mean a visit
from the players. That he inherited his love for the drama from his
father is more than probable; for it was during the year of John
Shakspere's High Bailiffship that plays are first mentioned in the
records at Stratford. According to the custom of the day, when the
players belonging to some great nobleman came to a town, they reported
themselves to the mayor to get a license for playing. If the mayor
liked them, or wished to show respect to their master, he would appoint
them to play their first play before himself and the Council. This was
called the Mayor's Play, every one coming in free, and the mayor giving
the players a reward in money. Between the autumns of 1568 and 1569,
"The Queen's and the Earl of Worcester's players visited the
town and gave representations before the Council, the former
company receiving nine shillings and the latter twelve pence
for their first performances."
And there is little reason to doubt that our little Will, then between
five and six years old, was taken to see them by his father, the mayor,
as a little boy named Willis was taken at Gloucester that same year,
being exactly William Shakspere's age; and, standing between his
father's knees, Master Will probably there got his first experience of
the art in which he was to become the master for all ages. We wonder
what that first play was--some quaint, rude drama probably, such as the
one little Willis saw at Gloucester, with plenty of princes and fair
ladies, and demons with painted masks, and the "Herod" in red gloves, of
the "Coventry Mystery" players.
Not only in Stratford, but in most of the towns roundabout, there are
various records of players giving performances. When little Will was
eleven years old, Queen Elizabeth came on her celebrated visit, in 1575,
to Lord Leycester at Kenilworth; and as all the country flocked to see
the great show, it is probable that the boy and his father were among
the crowds of spectators and saw some of the plays given in the Queen's
honor.
A year or two later, troubles began to multiply at the house in Henley
street. John Shakspere got into debt. The farm at Ashbies was mortgaged.
His daughter Anne died in 1579; and two years before her death, young
William, then thirteen, was taken from school and apprenticed--some
accounts say to a butcher--or, as seems more probable, to his own
father, to help him in his failing wool-trade.
For the next five years nothing is known about Will Shakspere. Then we
find him courting Anne Hathaway in the pretty old brick and timbered
cottage at Shottery, its garden all full of roses and rosemary,
"carnations and striped gillyvors." A year or two later, he is stealing
one of Sir Thomas Lucy's deer,--writing a lampoon on the worthy
justice,--and flying to London from his wrath, to hold horses at the
door of the Globe Theater before he joined the Lord Chamberlain's
players, and became known to all posterity as Mr. William Shakspere,
Writer of Plays.
May Song By Laura E. Richards
[Illustration]
Is there anything new to sing about you,
May, my dear?
Any unhackneyed thing about you,
Pray, my dear?
Anything that has not been sung
Long ago when the world was young,
By silver throat and golden tongue?
Say, my dear!
So many have said that your eyes are blue,
May, my dear,
It must be a tiresome fact, though true,
May, my dear,
And if I for one, my gracious Queen,
Should boldly assert that your eyes were green,
'Twould be a relief to you, I ween,
Eh, my dear?
We know of the touch of your garments fold,
May, my dear,
The daisies come starring with white and gold
The way, my dear.
We know that the painted blossoms all
Come starting up at your gentle call,
By dale and meadow and garden-wall,
May, my dear.
We know that your birds have the sweetest tune,
May, my dear:
And lovers love best beneath your moon,
They say, my dear.
And I might add that that your perfumed kiss
Is considered productive of highest bliss;
But you must be so tired of hearing this!
Eh, my dear?
No, I really don't think there's anything fresh,
Or new, my dear.
For the world is small, and available rhymes
Are few, my dear.
So if I say naught about vernal bowers,
And forbear to mention the sunlit showers,
I think I shall make the best use of my powers.
Dont you, my dear?
And yet I cannot help loving you so,
May, my dear,
That the old words, whether I will or no,
I say, my dear,
And how you are fair, and how you are sweet
My loving lips forever repeat.--
And is that the reason you pass so fleet?
Ah! stay, my dear!
THE GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE.
BY E. VINTON BLAKE.
Tricycles had become an every-day affair in Sherridoc, and since the
formation of the Girls' Club, lady tricyclers were not an extraordinary
sight. So Charlotte, or "Charley" Van Rensselaer, as she was called, and
her brother Starrett excited but little comment as they wheeled swiftly
down Haymarket street, moving noiselessly and easily through the throng
of carriages and other vehicles, until, as the houses grew less frequent
and the pavements stopped altogether, they rolled through the suburbs of
the town and so into the open country, without stay or pause.
For they were making time. The club itself, thanks to the failure of the
express company to deliver Charley's new "Columbia" when promised, had
several hours' start on the road; and Starrett, like the obliging
brother that he was, had remained behind in order that Charlotte need
not ride alone nor the club be longer delayed by waiting for her.
Charley Van Rensselaer, her cousin Cornelia, or "Corny" Hadwin, and
their warm friends Mattie Hyde and Arno Cummings, were four bright and
active young girls of from thirteen to sixteen, who composed the Girls'
Tricycle Club. Little by little they had won first the interest and then
the consent of their somewhat conservative parents to this novel but
exhilarating exercise, and having now become expert riders, they were
off for a long run of eighty miles down Cape Cod from Sherridoc City to
Curtin Harbor, where their parents had summer cottages. Faithful and
clever Joe Marston, Mr. Van Rensselaer's colored servant, and an expert
tricycler, had gone ahead with the club as guide and commissary-general,
and Starrett Van Rensselaer, Charley's younger brother, was invited to
accompany them as an escort, on the odd-looking "Royal Mail" he had
borrowed for the trip,--bicycles not being allowed.
And now the door-yards broaden out and the houses become still more
rambling. There are wide-spreading orchard boughs, and cool woody spaces
here and there between the farms. Now a youngster scampers into the
house shrieking, "Ma, Ma! Oh, come here, Ma! Here's a girl a-ridin'
three wheels at once!" and Charley, looking back, perceives the urchin's
sisters and cousins and aunts peering at her from the door. Starrett too
looks back, and laughs.
"You'll have to get used to that," he says.
"I expect to," responds Charley serenely; "but you must remember that
four of these things have gone on before us on this same road and they
must have taken off a little of the novelty."
Over the brow of Haymarket Hill they go, and the long steep sweep into
the valley of the Owassee lies before them. Charley, with her feet on
the "rest," commences to descend. An amazed cow grazing by the roadside
makes a charge on the singular vehicle, but the girl never flinches, and
with one hand on the steering-bar and the other on the brake she avoids
every stone, every rut, every gully in the road. The irate cow, after
nearly plunging on its nose down the first steep incline, pauses to
recover its senses and then returns slowly up the hill. Starrett waves
it a laughing adieu. "Sensible bovine that," he says; "she knows that a
stern chase is a long chase."
"My, though!" exclaims delighted Charley, "we're just flying, Starrett!
Aren't we?"
They are indeed. The bushes whiz past,--the wind sweeps their
faces,--trees, stones, fences flit by like phantoms. Charley feels like
a bird on the wing. Such exhilaration is there in a good tricycle
"coast" downhill!
But it is not all such pleasure; for, a few miles farther on, they
become acquainted with the other side of the story, as they go toiling
up the long ascent of Comstock Hill, a sandy and winding incline that
leads to the highlands of Fisherville.
"If it weren't for the sand," said Charley as she pushes her tricycle
before her, "I would test the new 'power-gear' on my 'Columbia' by
riding up Comstock Hill. But, dear me, I believe there are not three
yards of solid earth on this road!"
"Never mind, we're more than half-way up," said Starrett, consolingly.
"Do you suppose it's sandy like this near Curtin Harbor?" inquired
Charley.
"I haven't the least idea," Starrett replied. "If it is, we can branch
off and take the cars at Minot Station."
"The cars? Why, Starrett Van Rensselaer!" exclaims Charley. "Why, I
wouldn't take the cars--not for anything--unless--well, unless I were
fairly driven to it."
And now they both draw a long breath, for the crest of Comstock Hill is
won.
"Look behind you, Starrett," says Charley. "Did you ever see a prettier
picture?"
Starrett acknowledges he never did. The low-lying valley is green and
fair. The Owassee stretches like a silver ribbon across the picture, and
there is not a human being in sight save these two tricyclers who take
all this summer beauty into their impressible young hearts.
On they go, through Fisherville and into the open country again. Truly
no grass grows underneath those flashing wheels. The new "Columbia" has
the oil well worked in by this time, and the "Royal Mail," with its
queer one-sided "steerer," seems undisturbed by any ordinary roads. The
freshening wind is behind them; the blue sky, cloud-flecked, above; and
all around, bird-song and the rustle of blowing grass and bending
boughs.
"This is grand, Charley!" cries Starrett; "so much better than horseback
riding--and I've tried both."
"You don't tire yourself much more, and you're sure your horse won't run
away with you," Charley assents, whizzing along beside him. "I feel
strong enough for a good long run yet, and we ought to catch up with
them easily, before long."
The winding, woody road brings them suddenly to a hill-top. To the
right, below, lies a wide expanse of velvety marsh meadow, with its
vivid and variegated tints of green, olive, and reddish-brown, and
occasional intersections of tottering, moss-grown fence; there is a
starry glimmer as of lilies in the frequent pools that give back the
glory of the sun. To the left are seen the dark, still reaches of a lake
that winds in and out in the cool shadow of high woody banks. An old
ice-house stands lonesome and gray on its margin.
The brother and sister halt on the brow of the hill, to enjoy a view
that may be one of the memories of a lifetime; then the wheels roll
slowly toward the descent. The slope is steep and winding; they do not
"coast" with feet on the rest above the steering-wheel. It is not
desirable to capsize or collide with any up-coming vehicle. So they
glide warily on, with hands on the brakes, until the bottom is reached.
But here a crazy guide-post at a fork in the road misleads them by
pointing in the wrong direction for the Wareham road. But by great good
luck, they strike a shady wood track, full two miles long, which cuts
off five miles from the road they should have traveled, and which, so
Starrett says when he recognizes it, will bring them just so much nearer
the club. Dismounting at last, a pine-covered knoll, with a brook
bubbling below, attracts them; and, seated on the brown pine-needles,
the brother and sister talk over their adventures, and wonder how far
ahead the others may be. Suddenly Starrett, who faces the road, drops
his hands to his side with an exclamation of surprise.
"What now?" says Charley, looking quickly around, A glance makes her a
partner in Starrett's astonishment; for, over the main road they have
just now regained, come one, two, three, four tricycles, their
glittering spokes flashing in the sun. They see Joe Marston's dusky face
and stalwart figure, and behind him they catch the flutter of garnet and
blue--the colors of the club. Occasionally a head in the procession
turns to look expectantly behind.
Starrett and Charley keep close in the shade of the pines, restraining a
laugh with difficulty.
"Here is a good place to stop, Joe," cries Cornelia Hadwin. "It's cool
and shady, and we can see the road. I think they should have caught up
with us by this time. Can anything have happened,--do you suppose?"
"Dunno, miss," answers Joe with a grave face. But as he dismounts to
wheel his machine up the knoll, he stops short with a sudden smoothing
out of all the perplexed lines from his dark brow. "Hi, dar!" he
exclaims. "Look-a yer, Miss Corney!"
Cornelia does look, and so do all the rest. There is a perfect chorus of
shrieks and laughter, a babel of voices, a torrent of questions.
"Oh, we travel, I assure you!" says Starrett. "We took a flying leap and
came in ahead of you."
"How did it happen? When did you pass us?" These and countless other
questions follow. Then all is explained, and at five o'clock the merry
six are on the road again, rolling along in lively style.
So, in single file, with Joe in advance, and Starrett bringing up the
rear, the club rides through the main street of Wareham, down the long
slant to the bridge over the Wareham river. The evening mist hangs low
along the stream; the bridge seems to stretch across the rushing tide
and end abruptly in mid-air. The soft, grayish opaque cloud hides the
farther shore from sight.
There are heads at doors and windows, and people on the street stop to
gaze. At first the girls feel a little abashed at so much attention. But
nobody is discourteous; Joe rides steadily on, and there is nothing to
do but to follow.
"I suppose we do look queer to them," says Mattie Hyde.
"Oh, well, you are missionaries, you know," says Starrett assuringly.
"Perhaps your club may be the means of introducing tricycles into many
of the places we shall pass through."
"That's one of our objects, of course," observes Charley.
"If girls and women knew what comfort one can take with a tricycle, half
the battle would be won," says Arno Cummings timidly.
[Illustration: "THE BUSHES WHIZ PAST,--TREES, STONES, FENCES FLIT BY
LIKE PHANTOMS."]
"It isn't altogether that, Arno," says Charley, who, as the originator
of the club, has her advanced theories to support. "A good many would
like to, but don't really dare. You know that Shakspere says 'Conscience
doth make cowards of us all.' I think that custom makes us cowards,
too."
"Custom will be on our side, though, by and by," declares Mattie Hyde.
"Doctor Sawyer told Mamma the other day that he would prescribe the
tricycle rather than medicine for many of his patients. He said that the
machines are much used in England, and that they are gaining ground in
this country, though not so rapidly as he could wish."
But even this knowledge of the healthfulness and desirability of the
tricycle does not make a hard piece of road any easier. After a night's
rest at the hospitable house of an aunt of Mattie Hyde's, the club find
themselves, next day, among the "Sandwiches," as Starrett facetiously
dubs the town of that name which is divided into North, East, South, and
West Sandwich. And there they come upon a wooded tract that sorely taxes
their endurance and presents the most formidable obstacle they have yet
encountered. The sand is impassable; it closes completely over the
wheel-tires, and, after a short space of arduous labor, the club come to
a dismayed standstill.
"What on earth are we to do?" queries Corny Hadwin in despair.
No one answers her. The boughs wave softly overhead; the small cloud of
dust their efforts have raised floats slowly away and settles on the
scant herbage underneath the pines. Near at hand sounds the shriek of
the "up" train. They are not far from the railroad.
"Shall we give it up and take to the train?" Starrett asks, as they
catch the sound of the locomotive.
"Dear me, we mustn't do that!" exclaims Charley. "Let's dismount and
push the machines a little way. Perhaps the wheeling is better just
ahead."
But it is not. The ruts are strewn with straw, shavings, and chips;
everything indicates that the woods are extensive, and that others
before them have found the sand a tribulation.
"Oh, this is the worst of all!" groans Corny.
"But we'll not give up, nevertheless," declares little Arno Cummings,
developing unexpected grit in the emergency. "I shouldn't like to tell
them at Curtin Harbor that we had to take to the cars to get around a
difficulty."
Joe mops the perspiration from his dusky brow, and then stops to listen.
A creak, a rumble, and a tramp, tramp are heard behind them. "Dar's
sumfin a-comin!" says Joe.
The "sumfin" soon appears in sight,--a big, empty, four-horse wagon,
making its unwieldy way in their direction. The same idea occurs to
everybody at once.
"There! He'll carry us!"
[Illustration: WITH JOE IN ADVANCE, THE CLUB RIDES THROUGH WAREHAM.]
Carry them! Of course he will--for a consideration. And almost before
the driver has recovered from his evident astonishment at this vision of
six tricycles in the heart of the Sandwich woods, the riders and their
machines are safely in the big cart, and on their way through the sandy
tract, which, they now learn, is several miles in extent.
It is impossible for the horses to go faster than a walk for the whole
distance. The sand is a constant clog, and scarcely a breath of air can
penetrate the close piny ranks on either side the narrow road. It is a
slow and somewhat crowded ride, but the club tells stories, sings and
jokes and answers the curious inquiries of their teamster, to whom a
tricycle is a thing unknown till now. But in due time, the young folk
have bidden him good day, and are speeding on toward Barnstable. The air
grows salty, strong, and bracing.
"It's like a breath of new life," says Starrett; and soon they are
rolling between the long row of grand old trees that line Barnstable's
quiet main street. At the hotel they stop for dinner and a noonday rest.
It is four in the afternoon when they remount. The lady boarders, who
have taken quite an interest in the young tricyclers, bid them farewell
with all manner of good wishes, and one gray-haired society lady
remarks, "Those girls are sensible; and their mothers are sensible too.
Give young people the delights of nature and the freedom of outdoor
sports, and keep them from late parties, and the whirl of folly and
fashion. I've seen too many young lives warped and twisted and weakened
in the endeavor to 'keep up' in fashionable society. Yes, those girls
are sensible."
And, wheeling still, by hill and dale, the "sensible" girls and their
escort roll merrily into old Yarmouth, with its broad, shady streets and
big, substantial, old-fashioned houses. Quaint and picturesque indeed it
is, with quiet nooks and corners, breezy streets, time-stained wharves
where lie battered fishing craft and the smarter boats devoted to the
summer visitors who have found out the beauties of the town. Here, too,
Arno Cummings has an uncle, a bluff and breezy old sea-captain, who
gives the whole party a hearty welcome; and at his house, the club spend
two nights and the day between--a day of shade and shine, with the sea
wind blowing everywhere. They explore the old town from end to end. They
come continually upon pictures,--now a broad grassy lane with its
moss-grown fences flanked by rising pastures of brownish grass; now a
long slope ending in a rocky outlook over the blue sea; now a brown
cottage nestled in among trees and hills. And on the second morning
after their arrival, they bid the hospitable Captain Cummings adieu, and
pass, single file, over the great drawbridge across the inlet that cuts
Yarmouth in two, and so spin along through the succession of little
towns which, leaving Yarmouth, almost join together into one. Such are
the "Dennises"--divided as usual into North, East, South and West,--and
the "Harwiches," where at Harwich proper the tricyclers bid farewell to
the railroad which has kept them company at short intervals all the way
down.
"Six miles to Curtin Harbor." So says the lazy youth at a cross roads
store, and away they spin, while the spires and houses of Harwich
disappear behind the trees.
And now how the wind blows! And all around the horizon the sky has that
watery appearance that betokens the nearness of the sea. There is a
peculiar, bracing freedom in the wild, salt wind; the very sway of the
brown grass, the swing of the odorous wild pinks that nod in the corners
of old mossy fences have a life and freshness that one misses greatly in
tamer, more settled districts. For now they are plunging bravely into
the long stretch of sand barrens and pine woods that, with only an
occasional house, stretch for many a mile between Harwich and Curtin
Harbor.
But here, in the afternoon, a sudden shower overtakes them. They can no
longer pick their dainty way by the roadside, but must keep the middle
track or run the risk of upsetting. There is scarce a quarter of a mile
of level ground to be found. The pine woods close in upon them, and when
at the summit of a hill they anxiously look for some other shelter than
the thronging pines, they can see nothing but the long, winding,
lightish streak of road and the endless outlines of monotonous
pine-trees on either side against the dark sky.
"Six miles to Curtin Harbor!" cries Starrett at last. "That boy's a
fraud. I believe it's sixty."
"Reckon dey're Cape Cod miles, Mas'r Starrett," says Joe. "Dey say down
yer, yo' know, dat one on 'em 's equal to two ob good trav'lin' in any
uthah part ob de worl'."
If it were only clear now, coasting merrily down these hills would be
royal fun, but in this state of the weather caution is necessary. A halt
is called for consultation. The six composedly dismount and sit down on
the clumps of "poverty grass," beneath the doubtful shelter of the
pines.
"Well, now," asks Starrett, "what are we going to do? I know you girls
are tired and drenched; you needn't deny it. And there's no sign of a
house this side of Jericho or Jerusalem."
Suddenly Charley has an idea. "O girls," she says, "let's camp out,
right here! We're not badly off, for we all have our waterproof cloaks;
but you've all been longing for an adventure, and here's one for a
_finale_. We'll at least make a tent and have supper. It'll be just
splendid!"
The club vociferously acquiesce. Joe alone, dubious, shakes his head.
But he is outvoted and overruled.
A quantity of pine boughs are piled, by Joe and Starrett, tent-fashion,
across and around four of the tricycles; a heap of dry leaves, carefully
collected, makes a fragrant couch, whereon the young ladies compose
themselves, wrapped and snugly covered with shawls and capes from the
"luggage-carriers." Lastly Joe spreads the rubber waterproofs securely
over the wheels and boughs, and the young campers are completely
sheltered.
A rummage in the lunch-boxes and "luggage-carriers" of the six machines
brings to light half a dozen soda crackers, two bananas, six pieces of
gingerbread, a slice of dry cheese, three apples, and--this is Joe's
surprise!--a small can of chicken.
A chorus of delight greets this last discovery, and Joe is at once
besieged.
"Now, yo' jes' sot down, ef yo' please, young ladies," says Joe, holding
the can above his head. "I'll 'tend to yo' d'reckly. Yo' jes' gib me de
tings and I'll serve supper in fus'-class style."
When the chicken,--delicately served on the soda crackers,--the apples,
bananas, and gingerbread are distributed, and the cheese toasted--in a
fashion--at one of the lamps, the merry six leave not a crumb to tell
the tale. It is true that a conscious vacancy still exists in the six
hungry stomachs--such appetites have these young wheelers; but they are
refreshed and no one thinks of complaining.
The merry meal finished, weariness and the patter of rain incline the
girls to rest, and soon silence falls upon the camp, broken only by the
sighing of the wind among the dark pine boughs, and the occasional chirp
of some sleepy bird.
Then Starrett, also, wrapped in his waterproof coat, throws himself down
to rest beneath the shelter of a friendly pine close by.
Joe, left alone as the sentinel, falls to thinking over the situation,
wondering where they are and whether they have missed the right road.
He walks about uneasily and then stands looking up and down the stretch
of road. The tricycle lamp, which he has lighted to dispel the gloom,
casts a yellow gleam over the tent and Starrett's shrouded figure, while
beyond and all around are the pines with their swaying branches and the
long black vistas between. Joe walks back and forth, in the rain, vainly
trying to think in which direction they are to proceed.
[Illustration: "DE YOUNG GEMMAN AN' I MAKE DIS TENT TO KEEP DE YOUNG
LADIES DRY."]
He has been wondering thus for perhaps five minutes, when he becomes
aware of a pair of fiery eyes watching him from the shadows. Joe starts.
He does not know what peculiar class of wild beasts inhabits Cape Cod,
but there are the eyes plainly enough. He stops and stands motionless.
The eyes move, come boldly forward, and Joe, now doubly astonished, sees
full in the glare of the tricycle lamp--a big grayish cat!
And the cat has a nickel-plated collar with a ribbon attached. Joe knows
that even on Cape Cod no wild beasts roam about, in summer storms, with
nickeled and be-ribboned collars, but what can a cat be doing away in
the depths of a pine forest? And then he suddenly concludes that the
cat's home can not be far away. The gray cat comes purring about his
knees. Joe is fond of cats, so he takes it in his arms and fondles its
wet fur, and it proves to be company for him and really helps him to
forget the discomfort of the rain.
At about seven o'clock in the evening, however, the rain slackens, the
clouds scatter, and rifts of light appear through the trees. And just as
Joe is thinking of rousing the club for another "spin," he hears a
whistle and a heavy step from across the road. Then an old farmer fellow
of about forty-five, in search of a lost cow, comes to an abrupt and
amazed halt at confronting among the pines Joe, the gray cat, Starrett's
recumbent figure, the tent, and the glimmering tricycle wheels. He
stands speechless until Joe's voice breaks the spell.
"Good-ebenin', sar," says Joe. "Can you tell me if dis is de road to
Curtin Harbor?"
"Curtin Harbor!" exclaims the farmer, with his eyes still full of mute
amazement. "No, it's not. 'T any rate not the direct one. If you've come
over from Harwich, you've gone two miles out of yer way. You should have
taken the other road, back there by the old school-house."
"Dar's whar I missed it!" cries Joe, slapping his knee. "I was suah I
did sumfin' wrong somewhar, but I couldn't locate it, to save me! I'se
much obliged."
"You can cut across to the main road by crossing my field yonder and
going up by the house just beyond----"
"Hi, den dere is a house over yar!" says Joe.
"Why, certainly," says the farmer, "not more than forty rods from here."
And when Joe finds how very near he has been to a comfortable farmhouse
he says he feels "like kickin' hisself."
"But," says the visitor, still eying the camp. "How did it all happen.
Are you traveling on foot?"
"No, sar; on tricycles," explains Joe, proudly; "we are de Girls'
Tricycle Club, all de way from Sherridoc, wid Mas'r Starrett an' me
along to look arter 'em and see 'em safe down to Curtin Harbor. We los'
de track back yondah, an' de young gemman an' I jes' rig up dis tent for
to keep the young ladies dry an' gib 'em a chance to rest till de shower
was ober."
The farmer's surprise grows to interest.
"And so this is a tricycle," he says. "And did the young ladies ride
those things all the way from Sherridoc?"
"All de way, sar," answers Joe, proudly, "'cept when we wus stuck in de
Sandywiches and had to be carted froo wid a team."
After the good man's curiosity has been satisfied, and Starrett has
summoned the girls to appear, the worthy farmer strolls off after his
lost cow, first inviting the club to the farm to another supper. One by
one, the girls emerge from their camp, but when they hear how near to a
house they have been during the rain, great is the laughter.
"I don't care, though," cries Cornelia Hadwin; "we've really had a sort
of a camping-out time, and I'm glad of it."
After hearing Joe's report, the club determines to push on at once to
Curtin Harbor in the early evening, without accepting the hospitable
invitation to supper at the farmhouse.
The two miles to the main road are quickly traversed, and before long
the club wheels around a long curve in the road, and the blue expanse of
Curtin Harbor lies beneath them. The clouds are gone by this time; the
rising moon shoots slantwise through a few thin, dissolving folds, and
brings out ripples of gold and silver on the long seas. There seems to
be a breeze that stirs the water to darker ruffles beyond the head-land,
but where the young folk sit on their tricycles, enjoying the beauty of
the scene and the salty damp of the evening air, not a blade of the
coarse, silvery beach-grass stirs; every spire and blade stands in
sheeny silver in the mellow light.
Below the beach-road branches off a long winding descent to the quiet
cottages which lie in the evening glow, seemingly fast asleep.
"Now, girls, for a good coast!" cries Starrett. "Here goes!"
And away indeed he goes, over the brow of the hill, rolling swiftly, and
removing his feet from the pedals as his machine gathers way. Away also
they all fly after him, merry as larks, waking all the echoes of the
shore with their light-hearted shouts and laughter. The tricycle lamps
flash out upon the seaward road, and soon it comes to pass, that as
Charley's wheels whiz flashing into the wide, grassy dooryard of a
certain pleasant little summer abode, a hand lifts the window curtain,
and a voice, with a ring of irrepressible gladness but a great pretense
of gruffness, calls out:
"Is this my noisy daughter, who has been running wild for a week over
all the roads on Cape Cod?"
"Oh, Papa!" cries Charley, gleefully, "we've had a perfectly charming
trip!"
And so says the entire club. And they pass a vote of thanks to Joe for
taking faithful care of them, and to Starrett for his excellent escort
duty. And now when the story of their eighty-mile ride is told,
everybody votes tricycling a wonderfully health-giving and delightful
exercise, and the first long trip of the Girls' Tricycling Club a grand
success.
MORNING-GLORIES.
BY LAURA LEDYARD POPE.
My neighbor's morning-glories rise
And flutter at her casement;
_My_ morning-glories' lovely eyes
Peep just above the basement.
And both our morning-glories strew
With loveliness the railing,
And thrust their starry faces through
The vines about the paling.
But when at last the thrifty sun
A work-day world arouses,
Hers gather up their dainty skirts
And vanish in their houses.
They draw their silken curtains close,
There's not a soul can find them;
And mine run up the school-house path,
And shut the door behind them!
* * * * *
[Illustration]
It was a fair Artist named May
If you looked at her sketch she would say,
"It's horrid, I know--
If you please _wont_ you go,
I'm not in the humor today."
LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.
BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
On the following Sunday morning, Mr. Mordaunt had a large congregation.
Indeed, he could scarcely remember any Sunday on which the church had
been so crowded. People appeared upon the scene who seldom did him the
honor of coming to hear his sermons. There were even people from
Hazelton, which was the next parish. There were hearty, sunburned
farmers, stout, comfortable, apple-cheeked wives in their best bonnets
and most gorgeous shawls, and half a dozen children or so to each
family. The doctor's wife was there, with her four daughters. Mrs.
Kimsey and Mr. Kimsey, who kept the druggist's shop, and made pills, and
did up powders for everybody within ten miles, sat in their pew; Mrs.
Dibble in hers, Miss Smiff, the village dressmaker, and her friend Miss
Perkins, the milliner, sat in theirs; the doctor's young man was
present, and the druggist's apprentice; in fact, almost every family on
the county side was represented, in one way or another.
In the course of the preceding week, many wonderful stories had been
told of little Lord Fauntleroy. Mrs. Dibble had been kept so busy
attending to customers who came in to buy a pennyworth of needles or a
ha'p'orth of tape and to hear what she had to relate, that the little
shop bell over the door had nearly tinkled itself to death over the
coming and going. Mrs. Dibble knew exactly how his small lordship's
rooms had been furnished for him, what expensive toys had been bought,
how there was a beautiful brown pony awaiting him, and a small groom to
attend it, and a little dog-cart, with silver-mounted harness. And she
could tell, too, what all the servants had said when they had caught
glimpses of the child on the night of his arrival; and how every female
below stairs had said it was a shame, so it was, to part the poor pretty
dear from his mother; and had all declared their hearts came into their
mouths when he went alone into the library to see his grandfather, for
"there was no knowing how he'd be treated, and his lordship's temper was
enough to fluster them with old heads on their shoulders, let alone a
child."
"But if you'll believe me, Mrs. Jennifer, mum," Mrs. Dibble had said,
"fear that child does not know--so Mr. Thomas hisself says; an' set an'
smile he did, an' talked to his lordship as if they'd been friends ever
since his first hour. An' the Earl so took aback, Mr. Thomas says, that
he couldn't do nothing but listen and stare from under his eyebrows. An'
it's Mr. Thomas's opinion, Mrs. Bates, mum, that bad as he is, he was
pleased in his secret soul, an' proud, too; for a handsomer little
fellow, or with better manners, though so old-fashioned, Mr. Thomas says
he'd never wish to see."
And then there had come the story of Higgins. The Reverend Mr. Mordaunt
had told it at his own dinner table, and the servant who had heard it
had told it in the kitchen, and from there it had spread like wildfire.
And on market-day, when Higgins had appeared in town, he had been
questioned on every side, and Newick had been questioned too, and in
response had shown to two or three people the note signed "Fauntleroy."
And so the farmers' wives had found plenty to talk of over their tea and
their shopping, and they had done the subject full justice and made the
most of it. And on Sunday they had either walked to church or had been
driven in their gigs by their husbands, who were perhaps a trifle
curious themselves about the new little lord who was to be in time the
owner of the soil.
It was by no means the Earl's habit to attend church, but he chose to
appear on this first Sunday--it was his whim to present himself in the
huge family pew, with Fauntleroy at his side.
There were many loiterers in the churchyard, and many lingerers in the
lane that morning. There were groups at the gates and in the porch, and
there had been much discussion as to whether my lord would really appear
or not. When this discussion was at its height, one good woman suddenly
uttered an exclamation.
"Eh," she said; "that must be the mother, pretty young thing."
All who heard turned and looked at the slender figure in black coming up
the path. The veil was thrown back from her face and they could see how
fair and sweet it was, and how the bright hair curled as softly as a
child's under the little widow's cap.
She was not thinking of the people about; she was thinking of Cedric,
and of his visits to her, and his joy over his new pony, on which he had
actually ridden to her door the day before, sitting very straight and
looking very proud and happy. But soon she could not help being
attracted by the fact that she was being looked at and that her arrival
had created some sort of sensation. She first noticed it because an old
woman in a red cloak made a bobbing curtsy to her, and then another did
the same thing and said, "God bless you, my lady!" and one man after
another took off his hat as she passed. For a moment she did not
understand, and then she realized that it was because she was little
Lord Fauntleroy's mother that they did so, and she flushed rather shyly
and smiled and bowed too, and said, "Thank you" in a gentle voice to the
old woman who had blessed her. To a person who had always lived in a
bustling, crowded American city this simple deference was very novel,
and at first just a little embarrassing; but after all, she could not
help liking and being touched by the friendly warm-heartedness of which
it seemed to speak. She had scarcely passed through the stone porch into
the church before the great event of the day happened. The carriage from
the Castle, with its handsome horses and tall liveried servants, bowled
around the corner and down the green lane.
"Here they come!" went from one looker-on to another.
And then the carriage drew up, and Thomas stepped down and opened the
door, and a little boy, dressed in black velvet, and with a splendid mop
of bright waving hair, jumped out.
Every man, woman, and child looked curiously upon him.
"He's the Captain over again!" said those of the on-lookers who
remembered his father. "He's the Captain's self, to the life!"
He stood there in the sunlight looking up at the Earl, as Thomas helped
that nobleman out, with the most affectionate interest that could be
imagined. The instant he could help, he put out his hand and offered his
shoulder as if he had been seven feet high. It was plain enough to every
one that however it might be with other people, the Earl of Dorincourt
struck no terror into the breast of his grandson.
"Just lean on me," they heard him say. "How glad the people are to see
you, and how well they all seem to know you!"
"Take off your cap, Fauntleroy," said the Earl. "They are bowing to
you."
"To me!" cried Fauntleroy, whipping off his cap in a moment, baring his
bright head to the crowd and turning shining, puzzled eyes on them as he
tried to bow to every one at once.
"God bless your lordship!" said the curtsying, red-cloaked old woman who
had spoken to his mother; "long life to you!"
"Thank you, ma'am," said Fauntleroy. And then they went into the church,
and were looked at there, on their way up the aisle to the square,
red-cushioned and curtained pew. When Fauntleroy was fairly seated he
made two discoveries which pleased him: the first was that, across the
church where he could look at her, his mother sat and smiled at him; the
second, that at one end of the pew against the wall, knelt two quaint
figures carven in stone, facing each other as they kneeled on either
side of a pillar supporting two stone missals, their pointed hands
folded as if in prayer, their dress very antique and strange. On the
tablet by them was written something of which he could only read the
curious words:
"Here lyethe ye bodye of Gregorye Arthure Fyrst Earle of Dorincort
allsoe of Alysone Hildegarde hys wyfe."
"May I whisper?" inquired his lordship, devoured by curiosity.
"What is it?" said his grandfather.
"Who are they?"
"Some of your ancestors," answered the Earl, "who lived a few hundred
years ago."
"Perhaps," said Lord Fauntleroy, regarding them with respect, "perhaps I
got my spelling from them." And then he proceeded to find his place in
the church service. When the music began, he stood up and looked across
at his mother, smiling. He was very fond of music, and his mother and he
often sang together, so he joined in with the rest, his pure, sweet,
high voice rising as clear as the song of a bird. He quite forgot
himself in his pleasure in it. The Earl forgot himself a little too, as
he sat in his curtain-shielded corner of the pew and watched the boy.
Cedric stood with the big psalter open in his hands, singing with all
his childish might, his face a little uplifted, happily; and as he sang,
a long ray of sunshine crept in and, slanting through a golden pane of a
stained glass window, brightened the falling hair about his young head.
His mother, as she looked at him across the church, felt a thrill pass
through her heart, and a prayer rose in it too; a prayer that the pure,
simple happiness of his childish soul might last, and that the strange,
great fortune which had fallen to him might bring no wrong or evil with
it. There were many soft anxious thoughts in her tender heart in those
new days.
[Illustration: "I'VE A GREAT DEAL TO THANK YOUR LORDSHIP FOR," SAID
HIGGINS. (SEE NEXT PAGE.)]
"Oh, Ceddie!" she had said to him the evening before, as she hung over
him in saying good-night, before he went away; "oh, Ceddie, dear, I wish
for your sake I was very clever and could say a great many wise things!
But only be good, dear, only be brave, only be kind and true always, and
then you will never hurt any one, so long as you live, and you may help
many, and the big world may be better because my little child was born.
And that is best of all, Ceddie,--it is better than everything else,
that the world should be a little better because a man has lived--even
ever so little better, dearest."
And on his return to the Castle, Fauntleroy had repeated her words to
his grandfather.
"And I thought about you when she said that," he ended; "and I told her
that was the way the world was because you had lived, and I was going to
try if I could be like you."
"And what did she say to that?" asked his lordship, a trifle uneasily.
"She said that was right, and we must always look for good in people and
try to be like it."
Perhaps it was this the old man remembered as he glanced through the
divided folds of the red curtain of his pew. Many times he looked over
the people's heads to where his son's wife sat alone, and he saw the
fair face the unforgiven dead had loved, and the eyes which were so like
those of the child at his side; but what his thoughts were, and whether
they were hard and bitter, or softened a little, it would have been
hard to discover.
As they came out of the church, many of those who had attended the
service stood waiting to see them pass. As they neared the gate, a man
who stood with his hat in his hand made a step forward and then
hesitated. He was a middle-aged farmer, with a careworn face.
"Well, Higgins," said the Earl.
Fauntleroy turned quickly to look at him.
"Oh!" he exclaimed; "is it Mr. Higgins?"
"Yes," answered the Earl dryly; "and I suppose he came to take a look at
his new landlord."
"Yes, my lord," said the man, his sunburned face reddening. "Mr. Newick
told me his young lordship was kind enough to speak for me, and I
thought I'd like to say a word of thanks, if I might be allowed."
Perhaps he felt some wonder when he saw what a little fellow it was who
had innocently done so much for him, and who stood there looking up just
as one of his own less fortunate children might have done--apparently
not realizing his own importance in the least.
"I've a great deal to thank your lordship for," he said; "a great deal.
I----"
"Oh," said Fauntleroy; "I only wrote the letter. It was my grandfather
who did it. But you know how he is about always being good to everybody.
Is Mrs. Higgins well now?"
Higgins looked a trifle taken aback. He also was somewhat startled at
hearing his noble landlord presented in the character of a benevolent
being, full of engaging qualities.
"I--well, yes, your lordship," he stammered; "the missus is better since
the trouble was took off her mind. It was worrying broke her down."
"I'm glad of that," said Fauntleroy. "My grandfather was very sorry
about your children having the scarlet fever, and so was I. He has had
children himself. I'm his son's little boy, you know."
Higgins was on the verge of being panic-stricken. He felt it would be
the safer and more discreet plan not to look at the Earl, as it had been
well known that his fatherly affection for his sons had been such that
he had seen them about twice a year, and that when they had been ill, he
had promptly departed for London, because he would not be bored with
doctors and nurses. It was a little trying therefore to his lordship's
nerves to be told, while he looked on, his eyes gleaming from under his
shaggy eyebrows, that he felt an interest in scarlet fever.
"You see, Higgins," broke in the Earl with a fine grim smile; "you
people have been mistaken in me. Lord Fauntleroy understands me. When
you want reliable information on the subject of my character, apply to
him. Get into the carriage, Fauntleroy."
And Fauntleroy jumped in, and the carriage rolled away down the green
lane, and even when it turned the corner into the high road, the Earl
was still grimly smiling.
(_To be continued._)
GEORGE WASHINGTON
[_A Historical Biography._]
BY HORACE E. SCUDDER.
CHAPTER XIII.
A VIRGINIA BURGESS.
Before Washington's marriage, and while he was in camp near Fort
Cumberland, making active preparations for the campaign against Fort
Duquesne, there was an election for members of the Virginia House of
Burgesses. Washington offered himself as candidate to the electors of
Frederic County, in which Winchester, where he had been for the past
three years, was the principal town. His friends were somewhat fearful
that the other candidates, who were on the ground, would have the
advantage over Washington, who was with the army, at a distance; and
they wrote, urging him to come on and look after his interests. Colonel
Bouquet, under whose orders he was, cheerfully gave him leave of
absence, but Washington replied:
"I had, before Colonel Stephen came to this place, abandoned all
thoughts of attending personally the election at Winchester, choosing
rather to leave the management of that affair to my friends, than be
absent from my regiment, when there is a probability of its being called
to duty. I am much pleased now, that I did so."
Here was a case where Washington broke his excellent rule of--"If you
want a thing done, do it yourself." If his regiment was to lie idle at
Fort Cumberland, he could easily have galloped to Winchester, and have
been back in a few days; but there was a chance that it might move, and
so he gave up at once all thought of leaving it. Glad enough he was to
have the news confirmed. To lead his men forward, and to have a hand in
the capture of Fort Duquesne, was the first thing--the election must
take care of itself. This was not a bad statement for his friends at
Winchester to make. A man who sticks to his post, and does his duty
without regard to his personal interests, is the very man for a
representative in the legislature. The people of Frederic knew
Washington thoroughly, and though they had sometimes felt his heavy
hand, they gave him a hearty vote, and he was elected a member of the
House of Burgesses.
This was in 1758, and he continued to serve as a member for the next
fifteen years. There is a story told of his first appearance in the
House. He was something more than a new member; he was the late
Commander-in-Chief of the Virginia army, the foremost man, in a military
way, in the province; he had just returned from the successful
expedition against Fort Duquesne. So the House resolved to welcome him
in a manner becoming so gallant a Virginian, and it passed a vote of
thanks for the distinguished military services he had rendered the
country. The Speaker, Mr. Robinson, rose when Washington came in to take
his seat, and made a little speech of praise and welcome, presenting the
thanks of the House. Every one applauded and waited for the tall colonel
to respond. There he stood, blushing, stammering, confused. He could
give his orders to his men easily enough, and he could even say what was
necessary, to Mrs. Martha Custis; but to address the House of Burgesses
in answer to a vote of thanks--that was another matter! Not a plain word
could he get out. It was a capital answer, and the Speaker interpreted
it to the House.
"Sit down, Mr. Washington," said he. "Your modesty equals your valor,
and that surpasses the power of any language I possess."
It was a trying ordeal for the new member, and if speech-making had been
his chief business in the House, he would have made a sorry failure. He
rarely made a speech, and never a long one, but for all that he was a
valuable member, and his re-election at every term showed that the
people understood his value. If there was any work to be done, any
important committee to be appointed, Washington could be counted on, and
his sound judgment, his mature experience, and sense of honor, made his
opinion one which every one respected. He was always on hand, punctual,
and faithful; and qualities of diligence and fidelity in such a place,
when combined with sound judgment and honor, are sure to tell in the
long run. He once gave a piece of advice to a nephew who had also been
elected to the House, and it probably was the result of his own
experience and observation.
"The only advice I will offer," he said; "if you have a mind to command
the attention of the House, is to speak seldom but on important
subjects, except such as particularly relate to your constituents; and,
in the former case, make yourself perfect master of the subject. Never
exceed a decent warmth, and submit your sentiments with diffidence. A
dictatorial style, though it may carry conviction, is always accompanied
with disgust."
It was in January, 1759, that Washington took his seat in the House, and
if he made it his rule "to speak seldom but on important subjects," he
had several opportunities to speak before he finally left the Virginia
Legislature for a more important gathering. The first very important
subject was the Stamp Act, in 1765. The British Government had passed an
act requiring the American colonies to place a stamp upon every
newspaper or almanac that was published, upon every marriage
certificate, every will, every deed, and upon other legal papers. These
stamps were to be sold by officers of the crown, and the money obtained
by the sale was to be used to pay British soldiers stationed in America
to enforce the laws made by Parliament.
The colonies were aflame with indignation. They declared that Parliament
had no right to pass such an act; that the Ministry that proposed it was
about an unlawful business; and that it was adding insult to injury to
send over soldiers to enforce such laws. People, when they meet on the
corner of the street and discuss public matters, are usually much more
outspoken than when they meet in legislatures; but the American
colonists were wont to talk very plainly in their assemblies, and it was
no new thing for the representatives, chosen by the people, to be at
odds with the governor, who represented the British Government. So when
Patrick Henry rose up in the House of Burgesses, with his resolutions
declaring that the Stamp Act was illegal and that the colony of Virginia
had always enjoyed the right of governing itself, as far as taxation
went,--and when he made a flaming speech which threatened the King,
there was great confusion; and though his resolutions were passed, there
was but a bare majority.
There is no record of what Washington may have said or how he voted on
that occasion, but his letters show that he thought the Stamp Act a very
unwise act on the part of Great Britain, and a piece of oppression.
"That Act," he says, "could be looked upon in no other light by every
person who would view it in its proper colors." But he did not rush into
a passion over it. Instead, he studied it coolly, and before it was
repealed, wrote at some length to his wife's uncle, who was living in
London, his reasons for thinking that the British Ministry would gain
nothing by pressing the Stamp Act and other laws which bore hard on
colonial prosperity; for he held that if they would only see it, the
colonies were as necessary to England as England to the colonies.
[Illustration: PATRICK HENRY.]
It is difficult for us to-day to put ourselves in the place of
Washington and other men of his time. Washington was a Virginian, and
was one of the Legislature. He was used to making laws and providing for
the needs of the people of Virginia, but he was accustomed to look
beyond Virginia to England. There the King was, and he was one of the
subjects of the King. The King's officers came to Virginia, and when
Washington saw, as he so often did, a British man-of-war lying in the
river off Mount Vernon, his mind was thrilled with pleasure as he
thought of the power of the empire to which he belonged. He had seen the
British soldiers marching against the French, and he had himself served
under a British general. He had an ardent desire to go to England, to
see London, to see the King and his Court, and Parliament, and the
Courts of Justice, and the great merchants who made the city famous; but
as yet he had been unable to go.
He had seen but little of the other colonies. He had made a journey to
Boston, and that had given him some acquaintance with men; but wherever
he went, he found people looking eagerly toward England and asking what
the Ministry there would do about fighting the French on the Western
borders. Though he and others might never have seen England, it was the
center of the world to them. He thought of the other colonies not so
much as all parts of one great country on this side of the Atlantic, as
each separately a part of the British Empire.
After all, however, and most of all, he was a Virginian. In Virginia he
owned land. There was his home, and there his occupation. He was a
farmer, a planter of tobacco and wheat, and it was his business to sell
his products. As for the French, they were enemies of Great Britain, but
they were also very near enemies of Virginia. They were getting
possession of land in Virginia itself--land which Washington owned in
part; and when he was busily engaged in driving them out, he did not
have to stop and think of France, he needed only to think of Fort
Duquesne, a few days' march to the westward.
When, therefore he found the British Government making laws which made
him pay roundly for sending his tobacco to market, and taxing him as if
there were no Virginia Legislature to say what taxes the people could
and should pay, he began to be restless and dissatisfied. England was a
great way off; Virginia was close at hand. He was loyal to the King and
had fought under the King's officers, but if the King cared nothing for
his loyalty, and only wanted his pence, his loyalty was likely to cool.
His chief resentment, however, was against Parliament. Parliament was
making laws and laying taxes. But what was Parliament? It was a body of
law-makers in England, just as the House of Burgesses was in Virginia.
To be sure, it could pass laws about navigation which concerned all
parts of the British Empire; but, somehow, it made these laws very
profitable to England and very disadvantageous to Virginia. Parliament,
however, had no right to pass such a law as the Stamp Act. That was
making a special law for the American colonies, and taking away a right
which belonged to the colonial assemblies.
Washington had grown up with an intense love of law, and in this he was
like other American Englishmen. In England there were very few persons
who made the laws, the vast majority had nothing to do but to obey the
laws. Yet it is among the makers of laws that the love of law prevails;
and since in America a great many more Englishmen had to do with
government in colony and in town than in England, there were more who
passionately insisted upon the law being observed. An unlawful act was
to them an outrage. When they said that England was oppressing them,
and making them slaves, they did not mean that they wanted liberty to
do what they pleased, but that they wanted to be governed by just laws,
made by the men who had the right to make laws. And that right belonged
to the legislatures, to which they sent representatives.
So it was out of his love of law and justice that Washington and others
protested against the Stamp Act; and when the act was repealed, they
threw up their hats and hurrahed, not because they now should not have
to buy and use stamps, but because by repealing the act, Parliament had
as much as said that it was an unlawful act. However, this was an
unwilling admission on the part of Parliament, which repealed the act,
but said at once: "We can tax you if we choose to."
In fact, Parliament stupidly tried soon after to prove that it had the
right by imposing duties on tea, paper, glass, and painters' colors. But
the people in the colonies were on the alert. They had really been
governing themselves so long that now, when Parliament tried to get the
power away from them, they simply went on using their power. They did
this in two ways; the colonial governments again asserted their rights
in the case, and the people began to form associations, in which they
bound themselves not to buy goods of England until the offensive act was
repealed. This latter was one of the most interesting movements in the
breaking away of the colonies from England. It was a popular movement;
it did not depend upon what this or that colonial assembly might do; it
was perfectly lawful, and so far as it was complete it was effective.
Yet all the while the movement was doing more, and what but a very few
detected; it was binding the scattered people in the colonies together.
Washington took a great deal of interest in these associations, and
belonged to one himself. He was growing exceedingly impatient of English
misrule, and saw clearly to what it was leading. "At a time," he says,
"when our lordly masters in Great Britain will be satisfied with nothing
less than the deprivation of American freedom, it seems highly necessary
that something should be done to avert the stroke, and maintain the
liberty which we have derived from our ancestors. But the manner of
doing it to answer the purpose effectually is the point in question.
That no man should scruple, or hesitate a moment, to use arms in defense
of so valuable a blessing, is clearly my opinion. Yet arms, I would beg
leave to add, should be the last resort. We have already, it is said,
proved the inefficacy of addresses to the throne, and remonstrances to
Parliament. How far, then, their attention to our rights and privileges
is to be awakened or alarmed by starving their trade and manufactures,
remains to be tried."
He took the lead in forming an association in Virginia, and he kept
scrupulously to his agreement; for when he sent his orders to London, he
was very careful to instruct his correspondents to send him none of the
goods unless the Act of Parliament had meantime been repealed. As the
times grew more exciting, Washington watched events steadily. He took no
step backward, but he moved forward deliberately and with firmness. He
did not allow himself to be carried away by the passions of the time. It
was all very well, some said, to stop buying from England, but let us
stop selling also. They need our tobacco. Suppose we refuse to send it
unless Parliament repeals the Act. Washington stood out against that
except as a final resource, and for the reason which he stated in a
letter:
"I am convinced, as much as I am of my own existence, that
there is no relief for us but in their distress; and I
think, at least I hope, that there is public virtue enough
left among us to deny ourselves everything but the bare
necessaries of life to accomplish this end. This we have a
right to do, and no power upon earth can compel us to do
otherwise, till it has first reduced us to the most abject
state of slavery. The stopping of our exports would, no
doubt, be a shorter method than the other to effect this
purpose; but if we owe money to Great Britain, nothing but
the last necessity can justify the non-payment of it; and,
therefore, I have great doubts upon this head, and wish to
see the other method first tried, which is legal and will
facilitate these payments."
That is, by the economy necessarily preached, the people would save
money with which to pay their debts.
Washington had been at the front both in the House of Burgesses, in his
own county, and among the people generally. He was a member of the
convention called to meet at Williamsburg; and he was appointed by that
convention one of seven delegates to attend the first Continental
Congress at Philadelphia.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS.
Near the end of August, 1774, Patrick Henry and Edmund Pendleton, two of
the delegates from Virginia to the first Continental Congress, rode from
their homes to Mount Vernon and made a short visit. Then, on the last
day of the month, Washington mounted his horse also, and the three
friends started for Philadelphia to attend the congress, which was
called to meet on the 5th of September. Pendleton was a dozen years
older than Washington, and Henry was the youngest of the party. He was
the most fiery in speech, and more than once, in recent conventions, had
carried his hearers away by his bold words. He was the most eloquent
man in the colonies,--of rude appearance, but when once wrought up by
excitement, able to pour out a torrent of words.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON, PATRICK HENRY, AND EDMUND PENDLETON ON THEIR
WAY TO PHILADELPHIA, AS DELEGATES TO THE FIRST CONTINENTAL CONGRESS.[D]]
For my part, I would rather have heard the speech which Washington made
at the convention in Williamsburg in the August before, when he rose up
to read the resolution which he and his neighbors had passed at their
meeting in Fairfax County. The eloquence of a man who is a famous orator
is not quite so convincing as that of a man of action, who rarely
speaks, but who is finally stirred by a great occasion. People were used
to hearing Washington say a few words in a slow, hesitating, deliberate
way; and they knew that he had carefully considered beforehand what
words he should use. But this time he was terribly in earnest, and when
he had read the resolution, he spoke as no one had heard him before. He
was a passionate man who had his anger under control; but when it
occasionally burst out, it was as if a dam to a stream had given way.
And now he was consumed with indignation at the manner in which Great
Britain was treating the colonies. He was ready, he said, to raise a
regiment of a thousand men, pay all their expenses, and lead them to
Boston to drive out the King's soldiers.
The three men, therefore, must have talked long and earnestly as they
rode to Philadelphia; for the Congress which they were to attend was the
first one to which all the colonies were invited to send delegates. It
was to consider the cause of the whole people, and Virginia was to see
in Massachusetts not a rival colony, but one with which she had common
cause. The last time Washington had gone over the road he had been on an
errand to the King's chief representative in America, the
Commander-in-Chief, Governor Shirley, and one matter which he had held
very much at heart had been his own commission as an officer in His
Majesty's army. He was on a different errand now. Still, like the men
who were most in earnest at that time, he was thinking how the colonies
could secure their rights as colonies, not how they might break away
from England and set up for themselves.
[Footnote D: The above illustration is reproduced from Irving's "Life of
Washington," by kind permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons.]
They were five days on the road, and on September the 4th, they
breakfasted near Newcastle, in Delaware, dined at Chester, in
Pennsylvania, and in the evening were in Philadelphia, at the City
Tavern, which stood on Second street, above Walnut street, and was the
meeting-place of most of the delegates. Washington, however, though he
was often at the City Tavern, had his lodging at Dr. Shippen's. The
Congress met the next day at Carpenters' Hall, and was in session for
seven weeks. The first two or three days were especially exciting to the
members. There they were, fifty-one men, from all the colonies save
Georgia, met to consult together--Englishmen who sang "God save the
King," but asked also what right the King had to act as he had done
toward Boston. They did not know one another well at the beginning.
There was no man among them who could be called famous beyond his own
colony, unless it was George Washington. Up to this time the different
colonies had lived so apart from one another, each concerned about its
own affairs, that there had been little opportunity for a man to be
widely known.
[Illustration: CARPENTERS' HALL, PHILADELPHIA, WHERE THE FIRST
CONTINENTAL CONGRESS ASSEMBLED.]
So, as they looked at one another at the City Tavern, or at the
Carpenters' Hall when they met, each man was wondering who would take
the lead. Virginia was the largest and most important colony.
Massachusetts had a right to speak, because she had called the
convention, and because it was in Boston that the people were suffering
most from the action of the British Parliament. Perhaps the two most
conspicuous members at first were Patrick Henry, of Virginia, and Samuel
Adams, of Massachusetts; but in the seven weeks of the session, others
showed their good judgment and patriotism. Patrick Henry was asked after
he returned to Virginia whom he considered the greatest man in the
Congress, and he replied: "If you speak of eloquence, Mr. Rutledge, of
South Carolina, is by far the greatest orator; but if you speak of solid
information and sound judgment, Colonel Washington is unquestionably the
greatest man on the floor."
Washington carried on the methods which he had always practiced. He
attended the sessions punctually and regularly; he listened to what
others had to say, and gave his own opinion only after he had carefully
formed it. It is an example of the thoroughness with which he made
himself master of every subject, that he used to copy in his own hand
the important papers which were laid before Congress, such as the
petition to the King which was agreed upon. This he would do
deliberately and exactly,--it was like committing the paper to memory.
Besides this, he made abstracts of other papers, stating the substance
of them in a few clear words.
The greater part of each day was occupied in the Congress, but besides
the regular business, there was a great deal of informal talk among the
members. They were full of the subject, and used to meet to discuss
affairs at dinner, or in knots about the fire at the City Tavern.
Philadelphia was then the most important city in the country, and there
were many men of wide experience living in it. Washington went
everywhere by invitation. He dined with the Chief Justice, with the
Mayor, and with all the notable people.
In this way he was able to become better acquainted both with the state
of affairs in other colonies and with the way the most intelligent
people were thinking about the difficulties of the time. The first
Continental Congress gave expression to the deliberate judgment of the
colonies upon the acts of Great Britain. It protested against the manner
in which Parliament was treating the colonies. It declared firmly and
solemnly that as British subjects the people of the colonies owed no
allegiance to Parliament, in which they had no representatives; that
their own legislatures alone had the right to lay taxes. But after all,
the great advantage of this first Congress was in the opportunity which
it gave for representatives from the different colonies to become
acquainted with one another, and thus to make all parts of the country
more ready to act together.
It was only now and then that any one suggested the independence of the
colonies. Washington, like a few others, thought it possible the
colonies might have to arm and resist the unlawful attempt to force
unconstitutional laws upon them; but he did not, at this time, go so far
as to propose a separation from England. He had a friend among the
British officers in Boston, one of his old comrades in the war against
France, a Captain Mackenzie, who wrote to him, complaining of the way
the Boston people were behaving. Captain Mackenzie, very naturally, as
an officer, saw only a troublesome, rebellious lot of people whom it was
the business of the army to put down. Washington wrote earnestly to him,
trying to show him the reason why the people felt as they did, and the
wrong way of looking at the subject which Captain Mackenzie and other
officers had. He expressed his sorrow that fortune should have placed
his friend in a service that was sure to bring down vengeance upon those
engaged in it. He went on:
"I do not mean by this to insinuate that an officer is not
to discharge his duty, even when chance, not choice, has
placed him in a disagreeable situation; but I conceive, when
you condemn the conduct of the Massachusetts people, you
reason from effects, not causes; otherwise you would not
wonder at a people, who are every day receiving fresh proofs
of a systematic assertion of an arbitrary power, deeply
planned to overturn the laws and constitution of their
country, and to violate the most essential and valuable
rights of mankind, being irritated, and with difficulty
restrained from acts of the greatest violence and
intemperance. For my own part, I confess to you candidly,
that I view things in a very different point of light from
the one in which you seem to consider them; and though you
are taught by venal men ... to believe that the people of
Massachusetts are rebellious, setting up for independency,
and what not, give me leave, my good friend, to tell you,
that you are abused, grossly abused.... Give me leave to
add, and I think I can announce it as a fact, that it is not
the wish or interest of that government, or any other upon
this continent, separately or collectively, to set up for
independence; but this you may at the same time rely on,
that none of them will ever submit to the loss of those
valuable rights and privileges which are essential to the
happiness of every free State, and without which, life,
liberty, and property are rendered totally insecure."
It was with such a belief as this that Washington went back to Mount
Vernon, and while he was occupied with his engrossing private affairs,
busied himself also with organizing and drilling soldiers. Independent
companies were formed all over Virginia, and one after another placed
themselves under his command. Although, by the custom of those
companies, each was independent of the others, yet by choosing the same
commander they virtually made Washington Commander-in-Chief of the
Virginia volunteers. He was the first military man in the colony, and
every one turned to him for advice and instruction. So through the
winter and spring, he was constantly on the move, going to one place
after another to review the companies which had been formed.
I think that winter and spring of 1775 must have been a somewhat
sorrowful one to George Washington, and that he must have felt as if a
great change were coming in his life. His wife's daughter had died, and
he missed her sadly. Young John Custis had married and gone away to
live. The sound of war was heard on all sides, and among the visitors to
Mount Vernon were some who afterward were to be generals in the American
army. He still rode occasionally after the hounds, but the old days of
fun were gone. George William Fairfax had gone back to England, and the
jolly company at Belvoir was scattered. The house itself there had
caught fire, and burned to the ground.
But the time for action was at hand. Washington turned from his home and
his fox-hunting to go to Richmond as a delegate to a second Virginia
convention. It was called to hear the reports of the delegates to
Philadelphia and to see what further was to be done. It was clear to
some, and to Washington among them, that the people must be ready for
the worst. They had shown themselves in earnest by all the drill and
training they had been going through as independent companies. Now let
those companies be formed into a real army. It was idle to send any more
petitions to the King.
"We must fight!" exclaimed Patrick Henry; "I repeat it, sir; we must
fight! An appeal to arms and the God of Hosts is all that is left us!"
[Illustration: JOHN ADAMS, OF MASSACHUSETTS, WHO PROPOSED WASHINGTON FOR
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY.]
A committee, of which Washington was one, was appointed to report a plan
for an army of Virginia.
But when people make up their minds to fight, they know very well, if
they are sensible, that more than half the task before them is to find
means for feeding and clothing not only the troops but the people who
are dependent on the troops. Therefore the convention appointed another
committee, of which Washington also was a member, to devise a plan for
encouraging manufactures, so that the people could do without England.
Heretofore, the Virginians had done scarcely any manufacturing; nearly
everything they needed they had bought from England with tobacco. But if
they were to be at war with England, they must be making ready to
provide for themselves. It was late in the day to do anything; slavery,
though they did not then see it clearly, had made a variety of
industries impossible. However, the people were advised to form
associations to promote the raising of wool, cotton, flax, and hemp, and
to encourage the use of home manufactures.
Washington was again chosen one of the delegates to the Continental
Congress, for the second Congress had been called to meet at
Philadelphia. He was even readier to go than before. On the day when he
was chosen, he wrote to his brother John Augustine Washington: "It is my
full intention to devote my life and fortune to the cause we are engaged
in, if needful."
That was at the end of March. The second Continental Congress was to
meet on May 10; and just before Washington left Mount Vernon came the
news of Lexington and Concord. Curiously enough, the Governor of
Virginia had done just what Governor Gage had attempted to do; he had
seized some powder which was stored at Fredericksburg, and placed it for
safety on board a vessel of the British navy. The independent companies
at once met and called upon Washington to take command of them, that
they might compel the Governor to restore the powder. Washington kept
cool. The Governor promised to restore the powder, and Washington
advised the people to wait to see what Congress would do.
When Congress met, the men who came together were no longer strangers to
one another. They had parted warm friends the previous fall; they had
gone to their several homes and now had come back more determined than
ever, and more united. Every one spoke of Lexington and Concord; and the
Massachusetts men told how large an army had already gathered around
Boston. But it was an army made up not only of Massachusetts men, but of
men from Connecticut, Rhode Island and New Hampshire. It was plain that
there must be some authority over such an army, and the Provincial
Congress of Massachusetts wrote to the Continental Congress at
Philadelphia, advising that body to assume control of all the forces, to
raise a continental army, appoint a commander, and do whatever else was
necessary to prepare for war. There had already been fighting; there was
an army; and it was no longer a war between Massachusetts and Great
Britain.
I do not know what other delegates to the Congress at Philadelphia came
as soldiers, but there was one tall Virginian present who wore his
military coat; and when the talk fell upon appointing a commander, all
eyes were turned toward him. Every one, however, felt the gravity and
delicacy of the situation. Here was an army adopted by Congress; but it
was a New England army, and if the struggle were to come at Boston, it
was natural that the troops should mainly come from that neighborhood.
The colonies were widely separated; they had not acted much together.
Would it not be better, would it not save ill-feeling, if a New England
man were to command this New England army?
There were some who thought thus; and besides, there was still a good
deal of difference of opinion as to the course to be pursued. Some were
all ready for independence; others, and perhaps the most, hoped to bring
the British to terms. Parties were rising in Congress; petty jealousies
were showing themselves, when suddenly John Adams, of Massachusetts,
seeing into what perplexities they were drifting, came forward with a
distinct proposition that Congress should adopt the army before Boston
and appoint a commander. He did not name Washington, but described him
as a certain gentleman from Virginia "who could unite the cordial
exertions of all the colonies better than any other person." No one
doubted who was meant, and Washington, confused and agitated, left the
room at once.
Nothing else was now talked of. The delegates discussed the matter in
groups and small circles, and a few days afterward a Maryland delegate
formally nominated George Washington to be Commander-in-Chief of the
American Army. He was unanimously elected, but the honor of bringing him
distinctly before the Congress belongs to John Adams. It seems now a
very natural thing to do, but really it was something which required
wisdom and courage. When one sums up all Washington's military
experience at this time, it was not great, or such as to point him out
as unmistakably the leader of the American army. There was a general
then in command at Cambridge, who had seen more of war than Washington
had. But Washington was the leading military man in Virginia, and it was
for this reason that John Adams, as a New England man, urged his
election. The Congress had done something to bring the colonies
together; the war was to do more, but probably no single act really had
a more far-reaching significance in making the Union, than the act of
nominating the Virginian Washington by the New England Adams.
(_To be continued._)
Spring Beauties.
BY HELEN GRAY CONE.
The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church;
A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch.
"Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them.
But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them.
"Vanity, oh, vanity!
Young maids, beware of vanity!"
Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee,
Half parson-like, half soldierly.
The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes,
Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes;
And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass,
They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass.
All because the buff-coat Bee
Lectured them so solemnly:--
"Vanity, oh, vanity!
Young maids, beware of vanity!"
[Illustration]
HOW CONRAD LOST HIS SCHOOL-BOOKS.
BY WALTER BOBBETT.
Conrad was not a prince, not even a lord; he was only an ordinary boy.
He should have been on his way to school; but, having a talent for doing
nothing, he was wandering about the fields and little strips of
woodland, amusing himself by watching the birds skim through the air. He
had lately been reading a volume of fairy-tales, and as he walked along
he began to wonder whether there really was a bit of truth in any of
them.
[Illustration: "HE BECKONED TO CONRAD, WHO CROSSED THE STREAM ON A
SLIGHT PLANK BRIDGE."]
He kept on thinking so intently about it, that he did not notice how
near he was to a little brook, until he found himself almost on the
point of tumbling into the water. This put a stop to his wondering, for
the next moment he stood staring in astonishment, not at the water, but
at a little old man who was sitting on the roots of a large tree that
grew on the opposite bank of the stream. He was dressed in a very
curious fashion. On his head he had a tall steeple-crowned hat, in which
were placed two long peacock's feathers.
The little old man sat looking very attentively at Conrad, and seemed to
derive a great deal of comfort from a long pipe, which he was enjoying
so energetically that all around him the air was filled with smoke. At
last he beckoned to Conrad, who crossed the stream on a slight plank
bridge, and advanced toward him.
By that time, Conrad had leaped to the conclusion, in his own mind, that
the very queer-looking old gentleman was an enchanter, and so he had
resolved to be very respectful, to do just as he was bidden, and to wait
very patiently for the little old man to speak first.
Presently the little old man shifted the pipe for a moment, and asked:
"What are those books that you are carrying?"
"They are my school-books," said Conrad; "but I am tired of going to
school, and I wish to go with the fairies!"
The little old man smiled a benevolent smile, and exclaimed: "Oh!" Then
he shifted his pipe again, and said quickly:
"Give me the school-books."
Conrad did so, at once.
The little old man then opened a spelling-book, and turned to the
fly-leaf.
"Conrad," said he.
Conrad started, for he wondered how the little man had learned his name.
He himself had not once mentioned it. He was sure now that the queer
little person was an enchanter.
"So, Conrad," said the little old man again, "you wish to go to the
fairies, do you? Well, you may go; but you must leave your books with me
until you come back."
Conrad's attention was now attracted by a raven, which he saw standing
beside the enchanter, and which he had not noticed before.
Turning to the bird, the enchanter said: "Give me my key."
The raven hopped from a large key upon which it had been standing, and
taking it in its beak, presented it to its master.
[Illustration]
Conrad wished to ask if the raven would bite, and whether it could do
any better trick than carrying a key; but he thought this might be
considered an impertinent question, so he said nothing.
"Take this key," said the little old man, "and be careful not to lose
it. Walk on until you come to the edge of yonder forest; pass straight
through the wood, and when you arrive at the other side, you will behold
a castle not far distant. You may find it difficult to gain admission;
but you must persevere. As to what will happen afterward, I may not tell
you now. One word more, and then begone; should you ever need my
assistance, blow down the key."
Conrad was so astonished at all he had seen and heard, that he hardly
knew what to do; but as the little old man pointed in the direction of
the forest, Conrad bade him good-day, and walked away to follow the
orders he had received.
He kept on until he came to the forest, which he entered. It seemed so
quiet and dark, that he would have been frightened, had he not
remembered that, in case of danger, he could depend on assistance from
the enchanter.
At last he reached the end of the wood, and about a mile beyond, he saw
the castle with its gilded dome and all its windows shining in the
sunlight. This sight cheered him, and he walked on till he came to the
gateway. He found the great gates wide open; and no one prevented his
entering, as it happened to be a day on which the King received
petitions from those of his subjects who wished to present any.
He passed on through the large court-yard, key in hand, and instead of
going in at the entrance to the court, he entered a little side door and
ascended a winding stairway. Up he went, higher and higher, till it
seemed as if the stairway would never end, when suddenly he came face to
face with an official who was descending.
"What business have you here?" asked the officer.
Conrad could not answer; so the man gently took hold of his ear and led
him down the stairs again, varying the monotony of the long descent by
giving the ear a severe pinch at every seventh step. Out through the
court-yard they passed, the bystanders all cheering and laughing; out of
the gate again; and with one final pinch, the boy was left sobbing on
the roadway.
Poor Conrad had, indeed, found it difficult to gain admission to the
castle. Drying his tears, however, he began to walk around the outside
of the building, until at last he came to a ladder that was leaning
against a window.
"The very thing!" said he; "it must have been left here on purpose for
me."
Up he climbed, slipped in at the window, and dropped quietly to the
floor.
He found himself in a large hall, through which he walked until he came
to an archway at the farther end. Before the archway hung an embroidered
curtain. Conrad pushed it aside, and entered a richly decorated room, at
the end of which stood a throne. Around it were assembled many nobles,
pages, and guards, who were awaiting the return of the King from
hunting.
Few of them looked at Conrad. Some seemed to cast a scornful side-glance
at him, and one even told him to go back by the way he had come. Conrad
was not a whit daunted, however, and boldly holding up his key, so that
every one could see it, he walked up to a portly-looking gentleman, who
was dressed in black velvet and who wore a golden chain around his neck.
Conrad asked him what he was to do. The portly gentleman stared at him.
Conrad asked if any of the company were enchanted; "because," said he,
"if they are, I'll disenchant them with my key."
"Enchanted?" said the gentleman in black. "What do you mean? Why do you
bother me about enchantment?"
Conrad began to feel a little nervous, and to think that they did not
seem at all like enchanted folk; at least, they did not act like any he
had read about in his books.
The enchanter had told him that he would meet with difficulties, but,
despite his confidence, he could not help getting very red in the face.
And by this time, all the gentlemen, except the one dressed in black,
were smiling.
Suddenly, Conrad remembered what the little old man had said about
whistling down the key. Happy thought! He at once rushed up in front of
the portly gentleman with the black velvet suit and the golden chain,
and began to whistle in the key as hard as he could.
But, at this performance, the nobles all stopped smiling and looked
first at one another, and then at Conrad, with very grave faces; one
even put his hand upon his sword.
Now, it happened that the gentleman in black velvet was a Grand Duke and
the Prime Minister of the kingdom. At that moment he was thinking over
some important question of state, and the sight of Conrad whistling and
capering in front of him, just as he was settling everything to his own
satisfaction, made him so angry, that he stopped and stared at Conrad,
as if he could have stepped upon him. Conrad kept on whistling, but the
little enchanter did not come. "He must either be ill or very deaf,"
thought Conrad, and he was just making up his mind that something was
wrong, when all doubts on the subject were removed by the Grand Duke,
who advanced toward him, picked him up by the collar of his jacket, and,
carrying him to a window, quietly dropped him out.
[Illustration]
Poor Conrad was very much shaken by his fall, and for a time was so
dazed that he could hardly realize what had happened. In a little while,
he began to collect his thoughts; but as he picked himself up, he
concluded, notwithstanding the difficulties he had encountered, that he
would try once more to gain admission to the castle. So he arose and
walked toward a door which he saw a few paces distant.
His key fitted the lock perfectly. He pushed aside a sliding door,
walked in, and passed down a stairway, when he found himself in a dark
cellar. The floor was strewn with boxes and small barrels, over which he
stumbled, breaking some bottles that stood in his way. He began to feel
frightened, so he climbed to the top of a barrel, in order to get a
glimpse of his position and see if he could find his way out to
daylight. Suddenly the barrel-head gave way, and before he had time to
jump off, Conrad fell, up to his knees, in some soft powder. He
struggled to free himself, but only upset the barrel and covered himself
from head to foot with flour or fine meal. At last he called for
assistance; and a door, that he had not noticed until then, opened, and
a girl of about his own age came into the cellar, and asked what was the
matter.
"I've tumbled into something; please come and help me out," cried
Conrad.
She hurried to him, and with her aid he at last succeeded in freeing
himself.
After brushing the dust from his hair and his clothes, he followed
where his new friend led the way, and entered a kitchen, thinking that
without doubt he was now in the presence of an enchanted princess, who
must have been waiting many years for some one to disenchant her. "To be
sure," thought he, "I am not a prince; but then that does not so much
matter; there is no telling but I may be one, some day;" so he decided
to ask the maiden how she had become enchanted.
"Beautiful Princess," exclaimed he,----and he was just attempting a very
fine speech in the best fairy-story manner, when the young girl laughed,
and told him to be seated, and asked him if he would like to have a pie.
Conrad was astonished by this question from an enchanted princess; but,
without waiting for his reply, the girl walked toward a table on which
stood a number of mince-pies, and, taking up one of them, she placed it
before Conrad.
That was not the way in which an enchanted princess was supposed to act;
but as Conrad was very hungry, he did not express his surprise, but
turned his attention to the pie. While he was eating, the princess
busied herself with beating some eggs in a large bowl, and before he
knew it, Conrad found that he had eaten all the pie.
Then they talked about the weather and whatever else they happened to
think of; and at last, Conrad asked her how long she had been enchanted.
"What!" exclaimed the princess.
He repeated his question.
"Why, what do you mean?" said she.
He was just about explaining, when "tramp, tramp, tramp!"--the noise of
feet was heard coming down the stairs. The princess jumped up, and
cried:
"Oh, run! Run quickly! I shall be punished if they find that I have
given you a pie!"
"Oh, no," said Conrad; "do not be frightened! I will protect you from
them. I came to this castle on purpose to rescue you."
"But I do not want to be rescued!" said she. "Do go, at once!"
Tramp, tramp! Nearer and nearer came the sound,--almost to the bottom of
the stairs. Conrad felt for his key.
"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, "I must have lost my key when I fell into the
barrel! I never noticed that I was without it till now. All is lost!
Adieu, good Princess!"
"Good-bye," said she; "only go!"
He jumped upon a table, and climbed out of the window. It was all that
was left for him to do. After he was outside of the building, he turned,
and waving his hand to the princess, begged her to remember him.
"I will come back to you, if I ever get my key again," he said; "and
then I'll disenchant you."
At that moment the kitchen door opened, and Conrad saw a great light. It
might have been a bull's-eye lantern, but Conrad was sure that it was a
dragon that was pointing its fiery eye at him.
"Oh, the poor princess!" said he. "If only I had my key!"
Then, as the light flashed full at him, he became so frightened that he
turned and ran for the gate as hard as he could. He made his way across
the court-yard much faster than when he had come in, and soon he had
left the castle far behind. The houses began to be farther apart and to
have a more rustic appearance. He heard a cart coming along the road.
"Please give me a ride!" he cried to the driver.
"Yes, I will," said the man; "jump in." And Conrad clambered into the
cart.
"You look tired," said the driver. "Lie down on that blanket and rest
yourself."
Conrad gladly did as he was told and, feeling much fatigued after his
adventures, he was soon fast asleep.
He did not awake until he felt himself carried out of the cart, and was
just enough awake to know that all the inmates of his father's house,
together with a few of the neighbors, were crowding about and asking him
where he had been. And that was all he noticed, for the next moment he
was off to sleep again, and was carried upstairs and put to bed.
He did not feel very well the next morning, so the doctor was called in,
who advised that he should remain in the house for a few days, as he had
a slight fever.
While at home, he told his aunt what had happened to him; but she only
patted his head, and told him that he must have been dreaming. But this
Conrad refused to believe.
When he recovered, however, he became a much better boy, more quiet and
attentive to his studies; and it may be mentioned that, whenever any one
told a fairy-tale, he wore a very solemn face, took a back seat, and
said nothing.
It is not known whether he still believes in fairies; but one thing is
certain--he never saw the little old enchanter again, nor the
school-books that he had left with him.
BLOSSOM-TIME.
BY L. E. R.
Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees,
Pink and white drifting of petals sweet!
Kiss her and crown her our Lady of Blossoming,
There as she sits on the apple-tree sweet!
Has she not gathered the summer about her?
See how it laughs from her lips and her eyes!
Think you the sun there would shine on without her?
Nay! 'Tis her smile keeps the gray from the skies!
Fire of the rose, and snow of the jessamine,
Gold of the lily-dust hid in her hair;
Day holds his breath and Night comes up to look at her,
Leaving their strife for a vision so rare.
Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees,
Pink and white drifting of petals sweet!
Kiss her, and crown her, and flutter adown her,
And carpet the ground for her dear little feet!
A SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF.
BY ALICE MAY.
[Illustration]
Early one morning, a palanquin carried by native bearers, and containing
as passengers Mr. Steedman, an English missionary, and his little son
Harry, was proceeding up the one street of Biforána, a queer little
bamboo village on the island of Madagascar, situated about midway
between Antananarivo, the capital, and the eastern coast.
Comparatively little is known of Madagascar, although the unsuccessful
attempt of France to obtain possession of it drew interest and attention
to it not many months ago. There are but two larger islands in the
world. As many of you know, it lies some two hundred and fifty miles to
the east of the African coast, is nine hundred and eighty miles long
and two hundred and fifty wide, and is therefore nearly four times as
large as England and Wales combined.
The Queen of this island kingdom is a young woman with the curious name
of Rasendranovo Ranavalo III. She succeeded to the throne in 1883. She
is a Christian, as is also a large part of the population of her realm;
and there are numerous missionary stations throughout the island.
Harry Steedman's father was one of these missionaries, and Harry himself
was accustomed to traveling by palanquin, since there are no roads nor
carriages to be found in Madagascar.
[Illustration: "PASSING A GROVE OF PALMS KNOWN AS THE 'TRAVELER'S
TREE.'"]
The palanquin was an oblong basket of bamboo, lined with plaited
sheepskin. The ends of the long poles or handles rested upon the
shoulders of four Madagascan bearers, while four others accompanied
these as a relay. Under the palanquin hood of woven palm-cloth, Mr.
Steedman reclined comfortably, while Harry nestled cozily at his feet;
and so, out of the village, and through the swamp of Biforána, the
procession moved until the mire became so thick that the palanquin could
not be carried with ease. As the next best mode of conveyance, the two
passengers were then transferred to the shoulders of two stout natives.
[Illustration: PALANQUIN TRAVELING BECOMES UNCOMFORTABLE.]
Mr. Steedman had started upon an expedition in search of the beautiful
lace-leaf plant, or water-yam, of Madagascar, which he was told grew in
the forests beyond Biforána, and which he was very desirous of finding
in its native state. Harry, after urgent solicitation, had been allowed
to accompany his father; but, as he clung to the neck of his swarthy
bearer, the little fellow found that there was not, after all, so much
fun in the trip as he had expected. And later on, when the palanquin, in
which they were soon seated again, was tossed and bumped by the slipping
and stumbling of the bearers as they climbed a very steep hill-side, he
began almost to wish himself at home.
After passing a grove of the stately palms known as the "traveler's
tree," they found themselves on a path that led to the bank of a river.
They endeavored to ford it, but speedily found that the danger from deep
holes and ugly-looking crocodiles was too great for them to proceed. So
Raheh, the chief bearer, uttered a curious cry, or signal, which soon
brought into view a _làkana_, or canoe, rudely fashioned from a hollow
tree-trunk; and in it a native was paddling rapidly toward them.
Harry and his father stepped into the rather shaky-looking craft not
without misgivings, but they were soon safely landed on the other
shore. When all had been thus ferried across and the native boatman had
been paid, the party entered the great forest of Alamazaotra, which
covers more than forty miles of wild and mountainous country.
[Illustration: THE LACE-LEAF OF MADAGASCAR.]
Their path at once led them through a gorge so narrow that the sides of
the palanquin grazed the rocky walls, and the masses of tangled foliage,
meeting far above their heads, almost entirely obscured the light. The
bearers paused for breath after climbing the steep ascent that led from
this gloomy pass, and Harry and his father exclaimed in wonder at the
strange beauty of the wild tropical forest.
Gigantic palms upheld around their stately heads a leafy dome closely
interlaced by clinging vines. Long garlands of moss and climbing plants
crossed and recrossed this lofty roof, and from its shadowy arches great
masses of gray moss hung suspended. Here and there among the cool green
and gray tints of leaves and moss some tropical flowers and fruits
gleamed forth in bright flashes of scarlet and gold.
Myriads of frail wood-blossoms hid their pale heads under the feathery
ferns that clustered about the roots of the trees, and the dead palms
were tenderly shrouded in waxy-leaved climbing vines, their graceful
fallen crowns replaced by masses of green ferns, intermingled with the
faint pink and blue tints of some rare orchid. On every side were little
groves of bamboo,--their light-green fringes contrasting with the darker
fronds of the stately tree-fern.
Absolute silence reigned throughout this solitude, and Harry began to be
so oppressed by the stillness as to grow fearful of danger. But his
father explained that during the wet season, in which they were
traveling, insect life in these tropical forests is asleep, and Harry
himself knew that there were but few wild animals in Madagascar. Indeed,
with the exception of that curious animal, part fox, part squirrel, and
part monkey, that is peculiar to Madagascar and is called, from its
prowling habits and ghostly appearance, the lemur, or "ghostly visitor,"
the great island possesses no large native quadrupeds. The hump-backed
African cattle and the singular fat-tailed sheep, now common throughout
the island, were not originally found in Madagascar, but were taken over
from Africa.
The bearers of the palanquin clambered on, now over steep and
moss-covered rocks, now crossing sluggish streams on slippery
stepping-stones, or sliding down precipices, until poor Harry was so
rattled and shaken and tossed and tumbled that he declared he didn't
know his head from his heels.
But, at last, a break occurred in the long stretch of rock and forest,
and as the bearers paused upon a piece of level ground, for a moment's
rest, Raheh suddenly uttered the joyful cry of "_rano!_" (water) and
all, on listening, distinguished the sound of a rushing stream.
Urged on by Raheh, the bearers pushed ahead, and soon stood upon the
banks of a beautiful river, dashing merrily along over rocks and fallen
trees, until with a leap it disappeared in the shadows of the vast
forest. Upon the farther side was grouped a little village of the clay
huts belonging to the friendly Hovas, and beyond the village stretched
green fields of waving rice. The "Hovas" are the governing race in the
island, and are the most civilized. Their capital city of Antananarivo,
in the center of the island, is a well-built city of over 100,000
inhabitants.
A tree had fallen across the stream, with its head resting upon the
opposite bank, and this natural bridge was entirely covered with pink,
blue, and white flowers of the waxy orchid. This beautiful sight,
however, was unnoticed by Harry and his father, for in the water at
their feet was the object of their search, the Lattice or Lace leaf.
[Illustration: MADAGASCAN DRINKING-CUP FORMED FROM A LEAF OF THE
"TRAVELER'S TREE."]
The lace-leaf plant, or fresh-water yam as it is sometimes called
because of its potato-shaped or yam-like root, is found in many of the
rivers of Madagascar. The difficulty of obtaining it, however, makes it
a rare plant to Europeans; and when, a few days before, Mr. Steedman had
recognized in some "roasted potatoes," as Harry called the
pleasant-tasting vegetable that one of his boyish Madagascan friends had
given him to eat, the edible root of the lace-leaf plant, the missionary
had determined to make a careful search for the plant so prized by
naturalists. And now at last he had found it, bobbing backward and
forward in a fantastic dance just above the eddying waters of the
beautiful forest river. As soon as they recognized it, both Mr. Steedman
and his son were on the ground in an instant, and bending eagerly above
the clear stream. The water was so pure and limpid that every pebble
could be counted, and in the cool, bright current they saw, to their
delight, a perfect labyrinth of lace-work. Dozens of lace-leaves, green,
gold, olive, and brown, were floating just beneath the surface of the
water.
"Oh, Papa! did you ever see anything so lovely?" said Harry, excitedly.
Mr. Steedman could take but a one-sided view of those wonderful leaves,
as one glass from his spectacles had been lost during their rough
journey; but the remaining glass fairly sparkled with satisfaction.
"Ah, my son, this plant is both lovely and rare. See, the young leaves
are light green and yellow; the older leaves are darker,--shades of
green and olive. A few are even black, and all growing from the same
root. How perfect is every leaf, in spite of its delicate texture! Some
of those larger leaves must be ten or twelve inches long. The strong
midrib in each serves as a support for the fragile threads forming the
meshes on each side."
Harry now plunged his hand into the lace-like web, half expecting it to
dissolve in his grasp. But no! The wiry little yellow leaf which he
raised from the water, was perfect in form, and a gleam of sunlight,
falling upon the shining meshes, transformed them into threads of
glistening gold.
He now discovered, as he examined them carefully, that the under
surfaces of the leaves, were glistening with little pearly bubbles of
air.
[Illustration: RAHEH, THE GUIDE.]
"Oh, Papa," he cried, joyously holding the glistening meshes aloft, "the
lace-leaves are jeweled!"
"Yes, Harry," said his father, "those diamond drops are made by the
breathing of the plant."
Mr. Steedman attempted to detach a root of one of the plants from its
bed of mud, but the little tendrils branching from it on every side held
the root firmly in its place. At last he succeeded in extricating the
little white threads, one by one, and removed the entire plant to the
bank. Its root, which is eaten in Madagascar, was very like the ginger
root, and had a tough, light-brown skin.
Harry carefully placed the leaves of the plant in his herbarium, while
his father packed the root, with its native soil, in a tin case,
preparatory to sending it to the Botanical Society in London.
"Harry," he said, as they finished their work, "this plant could be
easily reared in our green-houses--heat and moisture being all that is
required. But nature seems to have jealously surrounded these beautiful
leaves with almost impassable barriers, and the lace-plant is
comparatively unknown.
"But come, my boy Raheh says '_maly-massandro_' (the sun is dead), and
it will be as long as 'two cookings of rice' (two half hours) before we
can be ferried across to yonder village and secure a place to pass the
night."
And so, after Raheh had given Harry one last drink from the clear, cool
river, in the odd-looking leaf-cup he carried for the purpose, the tired
but successful lace-leaf hunters crossed over to the Hova village and
were soon fast asleep.
THE CARICATURE PLANT.
BY M. A.
One of the most remarkable plants in the whole vegetable kingdom is that
known to botanists as the _Justicia Picta_, which has also been well
named "The Caricature Plant."
At first sight, it appears to be a heavy, large-leafed plant, with
purple blossoms, chiefly remarkable for the light-yellow centers of its
dark-green leaves, which cause them to look as if some acid had been
spilled upon them and taken the color out wherever it had touched.
As I stood looking at this odd plant and thinking what a sickly,
blighted appearance the queer, yellow stains gave it, I was suddenly
impressed with the fact that the plant was "making faces" at me. Still,
unaccustomed as I was to seeing plants indulge in this strictly human
amusement, I was slow to believe it, and stooped to read the somewhat
illegible inscription on the card below the plant--"_Justicia Picta_, or
'Caricature Plant.'" My first impression was correct then. This curious
shrub had indeed occupied itself in growing up in ridiculous caricatures
of the "human face divine," until it now stood, covered from the topmost
leaf down, with the queerest faces imaginable. Nature had taken to
caricaturing. The flesh-colored profiles stood out in strong relief
against the dark-green of the leaves.
A discovery of one of these vegetable marks leads to an examination of a
second and a third leaf, until all are scanned as closely and curiously
as the leaves of the comic papers that form the caricature plants of
the literary kingdom.
What a valuable plant this would be for one of our professional
caricaturists to have growing in his conservatory! When an order was
sent to him for a "speaking likeness" of some unhappy politician, he
could simply visit his _Justicia Picta_ with pencil and paper in hand,
and look over the leaves for a suitable squint, grin, or distorted nose
to sketch from. He could, moreover, affirm with truth that the portrait
was "taken from nature." Cuthbert Collingwood, the celebrated
naturalist, says of the _Justicia Picta_: "One of these plants in the
garden of Gustave Doré would be worth a fortune to him, supplying him
with a never-failing fund of grotesque physiognomies, from which he
might illustrate every serio-comic romance ever written." I have never
heard of the cultivation of the Caricature Plant in this country; but
botanists tell us that it is a hardy shrub. I think we should be glad to
see the funny faces on its leaves. After all the lovely flowers we are
called upon to admire, I am sure that a plant evidently intended to make
us laugh would receive a warm welcome from our young people.
The Chinese appreciate the Caricature Plant, and in some parts of China
it is quite extensively cultivated. Perhaps some of the funny, grinning
faces on Chinese toys and ornaments are reproductions of the grotesque
features on the leaves of the plant.
Finally, I must assure any unbelieving readers of ST. NICHOLAS that
neither in this account of a very remarkable plant, nor in the
accompanying illustration, has the writer drawn upon imagination.
[Illustration: THE CARICATURE PLANT.]
The _Justicia Picta_ really exists. It is a native of the East Indies,
and is a source of much amusement and curiosity to both botanists and
travelers.
VEGETABLE CLOTHING.
BY C. J. RUSSELL.
About two hundred years ago the governor of the island of Jamaica, Sir
Thomas Lynch, sent to King Charles II. of England a vegetable necktie,
and a very good necktie it was, although it had grown on a tree and had
not been altered since it was taken from the tree. It was as soft and
white and delicate as lace, and it is not surprising that the King
should have expressed his doubts when he was told that the beautiful
fabric had grown on a tree in almost the exact condition in which he saw
it. It had been stretched a little, and that was all.
But if King Charles was astonished to learn that neckties grew on trees
in Jamaica, what must have been the feelings of a stranger traveling in
Central America, on being told that mosquito-nets grew on trees in that
country? He had complained to his host that the mosquitoes had nearly
eaten him up the night before, and had been told in response that he
should have a new netting put over his bed.
Satisfied with this statement, the traveler was turning away, but his
attention was arrested by his host's calmly continuing, "in fact, we are
going to strip a tree anyhow, because there is to be a wedding on the
estate, and we wish to have a dress ready for the bride."
[Illustration: KING CHARLES'S VEGETABLE NECKTIE.]
"You don't mean," said the traveler incredulously, "that
mosquito-netting and bridal dresses grow on trees, do you?"
"That is just what I mean," replied his host.
"All right," said the stranger, who fancied a joke was being attempted
at his expense, "let me see you gather the fruit and I will believe
you."
"Certainly," was the answer; "follow the men, and you will see that I
speak the exact truth."
Still looking for some jest, the stranger followed the two men who were
to pluck the singular fruit, and stood by when they stopped at a rather
small tree, bearing thick, glossy-green leaves, but nothing else which
the utmost effort of the imagination could convert into the netting or
the wedding garments. The tree was about twenty feet high and six inches
in diameter, and its bark looked much like that of a birch-tree.
"Is this the tree?" asked the stranger.
"Yes, señor," answered one of the men, with a smile.
"I don't see the mosquito-netting nor the wedding-dress," said the
stranger, "and I can't see any joke either."
"If the señor will wait a few minutes he will see all that was promised,
and more too," was the reply. "He will see that this tree can bear not
only mosquito-netting and wedding-dresses, but fish-nets and
neck-scarfs, mourning crape or bridal veils."
The tree was without more ado cut down. Three strips of bark, each about
six inches wide and eight feet long, were taken from the trunk and
thrown into a stream of water. Then each man took a strip while it was
still in the water, and with the point of his knife separated a thin
layer of the inner bark from one end of the strip. This layer was then
taken in the fingers and gently pulled, whereupon it came away in an
even sheet of the entire width and length of the strip of bark. Twelve
sheets were thus taken from each strip of bark, and thrown into the
water.
A light broke in upon the stranger's mind. Without a doubt these strips
were to be sewn together into one sheet. The plan seemed a good one and
the fabric thus formed might do, he thought, if no better cloth could be
had.
The men were not through yet, however, for when each strip of bark had
yielded its twelve sheets, each sheet was taken from the water and
gradually stretched sidewise. The spectator could hardly believe his
eyes. The sheet broadened and broadened until from a close piece of
material six inches wide, it became a filmy cloud of delicate lace, over
three feet in width. The astonished gentleman was forced to confess that
no human-made loom ever turned out lace which could surpass in snowy
whiteness and gossamer-like delicacy that product of nature.
The natural lace is not so regular in formation as the material called
illusion, so much worn by ladies in summer; but it is as soft and white,
and will bear washing, which is not true of illusion. In Jamaica and
Central America, this wonderful lace is put to all the uses mentioned by
the native to our traveler, and to more uses besides. In fact, among the
poorer people it supplies the place of manufactured cloth, which they
can not afford to buy; and the wealthier classes do not by any means
scorn it for ornamental use.
Long before the white man found his way to this part of the world, the
Indians had known and used this vegetable cloth; so that what was so new
and wonderful to King Charles and Governor Sir Thomas Lynch was an old
story to the natives. Some time after King Charles received his
vegetable necktie, Sir Hans Sloane, whose art-collection and library
were the foundation of the British Museum, visited Jamaica. He described
the tree fully, and was the first person who told the civilized world
about it. The tree is commonly called the lace-bark tree. Its botanical
name is _Lagetto lintearia_.
WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY!
[Illustration: THE PET GREYHOUND RESOLVES INDIGNANTLY THAT THE JAPANESE
"MUST GO!"]
ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.
X.--A CLEVER LITTLE YELLOW DOG.
BY JOHN R. CORYELL.
One cold winter night, not long ago, I took pity on a poor little
dejected-looking yellow puppy, and invited him into my house. Having
once taken him in, it was quite out of the question to think of turning
him out again. I was not afraid that I might be robbing anybody, for he
was the kind of dog that very few persons care to have. He was
dirty-yellow in color, very lank of body, and he seemed to be made up of
ill-assorted parts of different kinds of dogs. His legs, particularly,
seemed intended for some other dog and acted as if they never would
become reconciled to carrying the queer body to which they were joined.
I should have preferred a handsome dog, but since I had no choice, I
determined to do my duty by the little outcast, and to give him such an
education that in the beauties of his mind the ugliness of his body
would be overlooked.
The first thing needed for him was a name; and I tried to think of
something appropriate, but soon gave it up, and in default of a better
title called him Bob. To teach him the name was easy. I merely called
out the word "Bob!" every time I fed him. As it was important that he
should learn to look to me as the source of all his happiness and
instruction, I permitted no one else to feed him. It took him about a
week to learn his name, and to recognize the fact that all the
blandishments he could lavish on the cook would be of no avail, and that
his only hope was in me.
At the very outset, I had made up my mind that under no circumstances
should he receive angry words or blows. He was a broken-spirited,
affectionate little puppy, and I was resolved that if there was no way
of teaching him except by brutality, he should remain ignorant all his
life. The abject way in which, to this day, he runs from a child makes
me feel sad. I fancy that much of his early life was spent in dodging
stones or snow-balls thrown by boys--not cruel, but thoughtless boys.
It was necessary to control him, and I quickly discovered an easy way.
He was such a sensitive little fellow that when he once learned to love
me, he seemed to know by the tones of my voice whether I was pleased
with him, and to have me pleased seemed to be the one object of his
life. Therefore, if I saw him doing anything wrong, I had only to say
sharply and firmly, "No, Bob!" and down would go the tail and ears, and
he would slink shame-facedly to his special corner and from there watch
me until I would call him to me and pat his head.
After a while, a quiet "No, Bob!" would effect the same result. This was
a great victory, and made most of the subsequent teaching merely a
matter of patience.
The first real lesson was when I undertook to make him sit up. If he had
only known what I wished him to do, he would gladly have done it; but
the words "Sit up!" meant nothing to him. He was almost too willing, for
when I took hold of him to put him into a sitting position, he became as
limp as a wet rag, and seemed to be trying to put himself into a
condition to be twisted into any shape I chose.
Then I put him into a corner and set him up, saying continually, "Sit
up! Sit up!" I held him up for a while and then took my hand away, but
at once he collapsed as if all the stiffening had suddenly left his
back-bone. Then I showed him a piece of sugar, of which he was very
fond, and immediately he was himself again. Once more, and many times
more, I put him in position in the corner, until at last, seemingly by
accident, he failed to fall over when I took my hand away. I did not tax
his endurance, but at once gave him the sugar.
It took him about three days to grasp the idea that "sit up!" meant a
special performance, and that to achieve it meant a lump of sugar. Then
I put him through the same process in the middle of the room. He missed
the support of the wall at first, and fell over; whereupon he looked
foolish. One fact was evidently firmly fixed in his mind, however,--the
fact that there was sugar to be had if only he could do as I wished him
to do. All the time that he was struggling for balance, he kept his eye
on the lump of sugar, which I had on the floor beside me. Finally that
lesson was learned, and he could sit up if I would put him in position.
He knew, too, what "sit up!" meant.
After that, I would not feed him until he had first sat up; but it was a
long time before he gained sufficient confidence in himself to sit up
without help. At first I helped him up by both paws; then I helped by
holding only one paw; then I merely touched one paw; then I only
motioned, as if about to touch the paw; and finally I simply said, "Sit
up!"
I think Bob reasoned this all out in his own mind and concluded that
there must be some strange and beautiful power in the words "sit up!"
for he could see that whenever he did it, he had something to eat. I am
obliged to confess that Bob loved to eat; and after he had learned to
sit up, he was inclined to perform the feat morning, noon, and night,
and it was, of course, impossible to make him go away without first
giving him a morsel, however small, of food.
[Illustration: AWAITING FURTHER ORDERS.]
Lessons in standing up, walking and waltzing followed, and they were all
easily taught. In teaching him anything, I was always careful to
associate the action required of him with certain words. Standing,
walking on his hind legs, and waltzing were always "stand up!" "walk!"
"waltz about!" I never taught him more than one thing at a time, so that
there should be no possibility of his misunderstanding the meaning of
the word or words used.
In teaching him to stand up, I first made him sit; then by holding a
piece of sugar over his head, I induced him to stand erect,--while I
kept repeating, "Stand up!" "Stand up!" After he had learned this
lesson, I made him first sit, then stand, and then, by going from him
and saying "Walk!" I made him follow me until he understood the
connection between the words and the action, even when I was at the
other end of the room. I taught him to "waltz" by making him go around
and around after a piece of sugar held over his head when he was
standing up.
To make him go to his corner and lie down, without hurting his feelings,
was difficult. If I said sharply, "Go to your corner and lie down!" he
would go; but he would feel so badly that he could not play for half an
hour. But by repeating the command in gradually softening tones and by
giving him a piece of sugar each time, he eventually learned that he was
not thereby in disgrace.
Seeing, however, how a sharp word would make his ears and tail droop, I
took advantage of this fact, and whenever he had done wrong I would
always say "Naughty!" a dozen times over, until at last I had only to
whisper "Naughty!"--and down would go those ensigns in a moment. On the
other hand, if I said "Good dog!" he was immediately on the alert, ears
up, head cocked to one side, and tail wagging, ready for any kind of
sport.
After he had learned to walk, I taught him to go slowly when I said
"like a gentleman!" and quickly when I said "like a schoolboy!" To teach
him these things required patience principally; but I found that to
teach him some things taxed my ingenuity as well.
I wished him to speak both softly and loudly; but how to make him do it
puzzled me. For Bob seldom barked except when engaged in uproarious
play, and at such times he was not susceptible to instruction. One day,
however, he had been playing with a little rubber ball, running after it
and bringing it to me until I was tired, a condition in which he never
seemed to be.
To stop the game I put my foot on the ball, and picked up a book to
read. Bob waited a few moments to see what I was going to do, and
finding I was not going to play, tried to push my foot away with his
nose. Failing in that, he pulled with one paw. That also failed, and Bob
was puzzled. He retired a few steps, placed his head between his
forepaws on the floor and looked at me. I pretended not to see him,
curious to know what he would do. He remained perfectly still for nearly
a minute, and then, as if determined to attract my attention somehow, he
barked.
There was my clew; I gave him the ball at once. In a few moments I again
placed my foot on the ball, and waited until I saw he was about to bark,
when I said, "Shout! Shout!" He barked, and I gave him the ball. I
repeated this several times a day, and day after day, until he learned
to bark whenever he wanted the ball and I said "Shout!" Then I made him
shout for his meals, and finally, he would "shout" whenever I told him
to do so.
[Illustration: "BOB" JUMPING.]
To make him speak softly, I took advantage of a fashion he had of
whining when he wished to go into the yard for a frolic. I would go to
the door and say, "Want to go out?" Bob would at once respond by
preparing to rush out the moment the door was opened. Then I would say,
"Speak softly!" and keep repeating the words until he whined. After a
while he would whine the moment I said, "Speak softly!"
Another thing that I taught him was to fall down and lie motionless when
I said, "Dead!" This I accomplished by taking hold of his forefeet in
one hand and his hindfeet in the other, and suddenly dropping him on his
side on the floor, as I said the word "Dead!" several times.
At first, Bob thought I was playing some new game with him, and prepared
for a good time, but I had only to say "No!" to him to make him sedate
at once. By this time he had learned that when I repeated a thing
several times, it was because he was to learn something; and the little
fellow really seemed to try to understand what I wished him to do.
After I had pulled his feet from under him a number of times, and had
made him lie still until I said, "Alive!" I tried tapping a hindfoot and
a forefoot, at the same time saying "Dead!" He was a long time learning
this trick; and several times when I thought he had learned to do it
when I simply tapped his feet, I was obliged to go back and pull his
feet from under him. In time, however, he learned to fall the moment I
touched the side of one hindfoot. From that to motioning at the foot,
and finally, merely saying "Dead!" the progress was quick. To make him
jump up, I always said "Alive!"
To make him go "lame" was very easy. I tied a long string to one
forefoot, and by saying, "Lame!" and at the same time making him walk,
while I prevented him from putting the tied foot down, he soon learned
to go on three legs.
One of the funniest things he learned to do was to take his piece of
carpet, shake it well, and put it back in its place. It was through an
accident that I thought of teaching him to do this. I had been
accustomed to shake out his carpet in the yard every morning. One
morning I threw it on the grass to air. In a moment Bob had it in his
mouth and was worrying it, shaking it, and growling. He was playing, but
I saw that I could teach him something, and at once said, "Make your
bed!" By repeating this, morning after morning, he at last learned to
pick up his carpet, carry it out into the yard, shake it, and carry it
back. I could never teach him to lay it down properly, however; he
seemed to think it was as good in a heap as if nicely smoothed out.
After I had taught Bob a number of tricks, I determined to write a play
for him. I do not believe that any human actor ever had audiences more
appreciative than his, when he performed in his "play." His little
friends were always ready to give him sugar by the handful if I did not
interfere, and Bob was always ready to take all that was offered. The
"play" was nothing more than a simple little story into which were
introduced the words which I used in commanding him to perform his
various tricks. I would repeat the story, and when I came to a word of
command, such as "dead," I would emphasize it so that Bob would at once
do whatever he had been taught to do at the sound of that word. The play
I wrote was about as follows:--
"Once upon a time there was a little dog named _Bob_ [here Bob would run
to me, and wait expectantly]. Usually he was a very _good dog_ [wag,
wag, would go his tail], but once in a while he was very _naughty_ [down
would drop ears and tail]. When he was a _good dog_ [happy again], he
would _sit up_ and show any little boy or girl how to behave. At such
times, he would _speak softly_ [prolonged whine], as a polite dog
should, though once in a while he would become excited, and _shout,
shout, shout_ [furious barking], as impolite children are sometimes apt
to do.
"When a lady entered the room where he was, he would always _stand_ up,
ready to give her his chair if she wished it; or if she preferred to go
into the garden or the street, he would go with her and _walk like a
gentleman_. When he played, however, he could run _like a schoolboy_.
But once he was in the ball-room, he could _waltz about_ as well as the
best dancer there.
"If any one ever said to him, '_go to your corner and lie down_' he
would do so at once like the well bred dog he was. But he was always
obedient and would come immediately as soon as one said _Bob_.
"I was very sorry to hear one day that this remarkable dog was _dead_. I
felt so badly that I went to his house, but was pleasantly surprised
when I reached there, to find that he was very much _alive_."
[Illustration: FETCH BRINGS IN THE PERVERSE COW.]
What will be the limit of Bob's education I do not know, for he
continues to learn with increasing ease every day. In addition to all
that has been described, he can now, at the proper order of command,
sneeze, catch a piece of meat from his nose at the word "three," jump
over a cane, turn a somersault, and play tag.
XI.--A DOG THAT COULD COUNT.
BY E. P. ROE.
Old Fetch was a shepherd dog and lived in the Highlands of the Hudson.
His master kept nearly a dozen cows, and they ranged at will among the
hills during the day. When the sun was low in the west, his master would
say to his dog, "Bring the cows home"; and it was because the dog did
this task so well, that he was called Fetch. He would run to a flat rock
and hold his ear down close to it, having learned that he could thus
catch the far-off tinkle of the cow-bells better than in any other way.
If he could not hear them he would range about until he did, and then he
was off like a shot in the direction of the sound.
One sultry day he departed as usual upon his evening task. From
scattered, shady, and grassy nooks, he at last gathered all the cattle
into a mountain road, leading to the distant barnyard.
Switching off the flies with their tails, the cows jogged slowly
homeward, the tinkle of their bells gradually becoming more and more
distinct to the milkmaid who was awaiting them. One of the cows was
known to be a little perverse, and on that evening she gave fresh
evidence of willfulness. One part of the road ran through a low, moist
spot bordered by a thicket of black alder, and into this the cow pushed
her way, and stood quietly. The others passed on, followed some distance
in the rear by Fetch. He was panting from his exertions in the hot
evening, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he slowly and languidly
pursued his way.
Indeed he had quite discarded his usual vigilance, and the perverse cow
took advantage of it.
As the cows approached the barnyard gate, he quickened his pace, and
hurried forward, as if to say, "I'm here, attending to business." But
his complacency was disturbed as the cows filed through the gate. He
whined a little, and growled a little, attracting his master's
attention. Then he went to the high fence surrounding the yard, and
standing on his hindfeet peered between two of the rails. After looking
at the herd carefully for a time, he started off down the road again on
a full run. His master now observed that one of the cows was missing,
and he sat down on a rock to see what Fetch was going to do about it.
Before very long he heard the furious tinkling of a bell, and soon Fetch
appeared bringing in the perverse cow at a rapid pace, hastening her on
by frequently leaping up and catching her ear in his teeth. The gate was
again thrown open, and the cow, shaking her head from the pain of the
dog's rough reminders, was led through it in a way that she did not soon
forget. Fetch looked after her a moment with the air of one remarking to
himself, "You'll not try that trick again," and then he lay down quietly
to cool off in time for supper.
XII.--A CLEVER SHEEP DOG.
A recent English writer tells the following story of an ingenious
sheep-dog that, when the flock took a wrong road, would turn them back
without worrying them. His owner had hesitated for some time before he
made up his mind to have a dog, as he had often seen dogs ill-use the
poor sheep. But believing that in most cases the dogs' harshness toward
the sheep was due to bad training, and not to their naturally evil
dispositions, he resolved to make trial of one. The dog he procured was
young; and he trained it after his own ideas. He soon found the docile
creature a very useful helper in driving a flock from one pasture to
another. The sheep often took a wrong turn, and then scampered off as
fast as they could go. At such times, most shepherds who had dogs were
accustomed to send the dog after the flock, at the top of its speed. Of
course, it soon overtook them, but the sheep were often much frightened,
and not infrequently hurt by falling down or by rushing against one
another. To prevent this, the shepherd mentioned would order his dog
"Smart" to go to the other side of the hedge, saying, "Now, go ahead,
and bring 'em back!" Smart would promptly obey, and would noiselessly
run along behind the hedge, sometimes even climbing a little slope by
the roadway, whence he could overlook the flock and see just where each
sheep was moving. As soon as Smart, by peeping over or through the
hedge, had satisfied himself that he was ahead of all the sheep, he
would come coolly out of the hedge and bring them back down the lane so
gently as not to cause them the least alarm. Smart never attempted to
get ahead of a flock in the way common to most of the dogs in that
vicinity,--by rushing past them and frightening them; but looking at his
master and wagging his tail, he would cross the hedge, overtake them,
and quietly drive them back into the right road.
XIII.--A STORY OF TWO BUCKETS.
BY CHARLOTTE M. VAILE.
There they were hanging, one of them out of sight in the cool, deep
water, and the other swinging empty in the sunshine, as Daisy Hadley and
her dog Bruno came up to the well. The little girl and the big dog had
been rambling about all the morning, following the brook through fields
of sunflowers and poppies, or climbing the rocks on the sides of the
mountains; but they were tired and thirsty now, and Daisy looked
wistfully at the empty bucket, wishing she were strong enough to pull it
down and bring the other, full and dripping, up in its place.
"Bruno," she said reproachfully, "I wish you could draw me some water."
Bruno was a great, shaggy Newfoundland, that had been Daisy's play-mate
ever since she could remember. He was a wonderful dog. Daisy herself
would have told you that there were only a few things he could not do,
but unfortunately managing that well was one of them. So there was no
help for it, and Daisy was turning reluctantly away when she caught
sight of Mr. Paul Gregg, one of the other summer boarders in the Park.
[Illustration: "A CLEVER SHEEP DOG." (SEE PRECEDING PAGE.)]
If he had not come up just then, there would have been no story to tell,
and the buckets might have gone up and down in the well to this day
without taking part in any more remarkable event. But he _did_ come up;
and Daisy's face brightened, for they were great friends, though she was
only a little girl in the Kindergarten, and he was a tall young student.
He stopped when Daisy said she wanted some water; and putting down his
botanical box, he began to draw some gloves over his rather soft hands.
"I don't like this kind of a well at all," said Daisy. "It isn't half as
nice as the one at my grandfather's. _That_ had only one bucket, with a
rope that went 'round and 'round a great roller; and there was a handle
that I could turn myself."
"This is a very old and respectable kind of a well, though," said Mr.
Gregg, taking hold of the rope. "There must have been such wells as long
ago as Shakspere's time."
"How do you know?" asked Daisy, who was sure that Shakspere lived a
great while ago, though she could not have told when.
"Shakspere, you know, Daisy," said Mr. Gregg, "was a great poet who
lived hundreds of years ago, and in a play he wrote, called 'King
Richard II.,' he tells about just such a well as this. Richard was one
of the kings of England, and a very unlucky king he was, though I can't
deny that he brought his troubles on himself, for he was anything but a
wise and prudent ruler. At last his cousin Prince Henry raised a great
army and forced Richard to give up the crown. Poor King Richard did not
show much spirit when his troubles came; but, according to Shakspere, he
made a very neat speech, when his clever cousin Henry told him that he
had decided to become King himself. Among other things, Richard said
that the crown he must give up was
'Like a deep well
That owns two buckets filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen, and full of water;
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.'"
While Mr. Gregg was talking, the buckets in the well had changed places.
The one which had swung in the air so lightly at first had gone down out
of sight, and the other had come up ready to be emptied and to take its
place in the sunshine.
Mr. Gregg paused now as he poured out some of the water. Daisy was
silent too, trying to understand it all.
"What became of King Richard?" she asked presently.
"He died in prison," said Mr. Gregg. "Some say his cousin Henry, who
took his place as king, had him put to death; and now," he added,
turning away from the well, "I think that I will see if your mother is
ready to go to dinner with us."
Then he turned toward the cottage and left Daisy standing by the well.
She had not understood it all, but she felt very sorry for the unhappy
king, and she thought she knew why he said he was like the bucket in the
deep, dark water when he sank under his grief and shame never to see any
more bright days.
She was leaning on the side of the well, with her hand upon the rope,
thinking very earnestly of it all and trying to catch a glimpse of the
bucket that was hanging there in the dark, when something dreadful
happened. Before she knew it, she had leaned over too far. She lost her
balance and fell over the side of the well. Down, down went the bucket,
more swiftly than it had ever gone before, and with it, but holding
desperately to the rope, went Daisy! There was only time for one
terrible cry--and she was out of sight in the well!
There was no one there to save her,--Yes, there was Bruno! He heard the
cry. He saw his little friend go down, and with a bark that rang across
to the mountains, he rushed to the well. He leaped frantically against
the low wooden side just as the bucket which had been in the water rose
even with its edge. Somehow he managed to fling his heavy paws on it,
then his whole body, and then, all at once, it was Bruno that was going
down, down, but clinging to the bucket and howling as he went,--and
Daisy was coming up!
It was only for a minute, therefore, that Daisy was in the water. The
next moment, thanks to the sudden pull at the other end of the rope, she
was rising again; and just as Bruno, loosened his hold of the bucket,
and dropped heavily into the water, Mr. Paul Gregg reached the side of
the well, seized the rope and drew Daisy to the top, gasping, shivering,
and frightened almost to death.
As soon as Daisy could speak, she said, "Save Bruno!" But they had
already begun to do that, and they did save him, of course. The brave
old fellow was none the worse for his adventure. He dried himself in the
sunshine, and then lay down beside the rocking-chair where Daisy sat
folded in a soft wrap, with vaseline on her blistered hands.
Daisy was none the worse for it either, in the end; though at first,
when her mother asked her how it happened and she tried to say something
about a "poor king," and "a bucket-full of tears," the poor lady was
afraid the plunge had affected her daughter's mind, and to this day she
is in doubt whether Shakspere or King Henry or Mr. Paul Gregg was
responsible for the accident.
One thing however, was clear. It was Bruno who had saved her. Had he
really meant to go down with the bucket and rescue her? Daisy never had
a doubt of it herself. For the rest of the season he was the hero of the
Park. The summer guests bought him a silver collar beautifully engraved,
and Mr. Paul Gregg declared that he should propose his name as an
honorary member of the Humane Society.
But Bruno's head was not turned with all those honors. He rambled
through the fields with Daisy as he had done before, and when she put
her arms around his neck, and said that he should be her dearest friend
forever, he was happier than if his collar had been made of gold, or
than if he had been elected president of the Humane Society.
THE SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD.
BY C. F. HOLDER.
[Illustration: THE "GO-AS-YOU-PLEASE" RACE, AS SEEN THROUGH A MAGNIFYING
GLASS. (SEE PAGE 535.)]
In a former number of ST. NICHOLAS the largest circus in the world was
described, and the curious animal actors were shown in many of their
tricks and performances. We now wish to exhibit another circus, the
smallest in the world, the performers in which, numbering several
hundreds, could all be carried about in a cherry-stone--in fact, a
circus of fleas, of such remarkable intelligence that in their various
feats they were quite equal to many of the larger trained animals with
which we are familiar.
But before showing what the flea can do, let us look at its antecedents.
We know that it is a wingless fly,--a cousin to the house-flies on one
side, and to the crane-flies on the other; and a more knightly-looking
little creature you can not possibly imagine. Under the microscope we
see it covered with a rich polished armor resembling tortoise-shell. The
head is small, and supports two _antennæ_ or feelers, composed of five
joints, and between these is the proboscis, a terrible affair. Upon
close examination with a powerful glass, what an array of piercing and
cutting blades are seen,--long, narrow, transparent knives, each edge
armed with a double row of glistening points that extend outward and
then are hooked backward! These are known as the mandibles, and fit
closely together, concealing another and smaller blade that has a
similar but single row of points. Besides all this, there are two
cutting-blades; the under edges are as sharp as sharp can be, while the
upper are thick and set with bristles. Do you wonder then that the flea
is so sharp a biter?
On its armored head are two large eyes; and the entire body is seen to
be made up of a series of elastic armor-like bands wonderfully jointed,
and armed with bristling spines like the steel points on the armor of
olden times. The legs are six in number, jointed in so remarkable a
manner that they can be folded up one within another. When the flea
makes its prodigious leaps, these six legs all unfold at once, hurling
the little fellow high into the air.
The baby flea is produced from a minute egg that in six days hatches
into a tiny worm. In about ten days, the worm changes into a chrysalis,
and in twelve days more it appears a perfect flea, ready for warfare
upon anything or anybody.
Who first discovered that the flea was susceptible to education and kind
treatment is not known; but the fact remains that on their small heads
there is a thinking-cap capable of accomplishing great results. In the
selection of fleas for training, however, the same care must be taken as
with human beings, as the greatest difference is found in them. Some are
exceedingly apt scholars, while others never can learn, and so it is
that great numbers of fleas are experimented with before a troupe is
accepted. The Flea Circus here described was exhibited a few years ago
and was composed of about two hundred of the most distinguished and
intelligent fleas in the entire family.
One of the first lessons taught the flea, is to control its jumping
powers, for if its great leaps should be taken in the middle of a
performance, there would be a sudden ending to the circus. To insure
against such a misfortune, the student flea is first placed in a glass
phial, and encouraged to jump as much as possible. Every leap here made
brings the polished head of the flea against the glass, hurling the
insect back, and throwing it this way and that, until, after a long and
sorry experience, and perhaps many head-aches, it makes up its mind
never to unfold its legs suddenly again. When it has proved this by
refusing to jump in the open air, the first and most important lesson is
complete, and it joins the troupe, and is daily harnessed and trained,
until, finally, it is pronounced ready to go on the stage or in the
ring.
The famous Flea Circus was placed on an ordinary table, and resembled in
size and shape a common dinner plate. A rim several inches high
encircled the outer edge, and around the circle stood a number of small
wooden boxes--the houses of the performers, and the stables for their
carriages. The signal being given, the audience, consisting of one human
being, would take in hand the large magnifying glass, hold it over the
ring, and the performance would begin. At the word of command from the
director, a very jolly, red-faced old gentleman, armed with a pair of
pincers, a tiny trap-door in one of the wooden houses sprang open and a
number of fleas filed out. They passed around the circle in a dignified
manner, appearing through the glass about as large as wasps or bees.
Each flea had a gold cord about its waist, and this was the grand entry
always seen at the circus. Having completed the circuit, they returned
to their quarters, and the performance proper commenced. Five fleas,
each adorned with a different color, stepped from another house, and
after running about here and there, and being admonished by the
director, ranged themselves in a line, and at the word "go!" started on
a rush around the circle; running into each other, rolling over and
over, and making frantic leaps over one another. Only after half the
course had been gone over, did they move in regular order, and strive
fairly for the goal. In another moment, a large flea would have won the
race had not two laggards almost at the last instant, as if made
reckless by their evident risk of defeat, taken a desperate leap and
landed far beyond the winning-post. Forthwith they were taken up in the
pincers, and placed in solitary confinement in the glass phial, where it
was supposed they had learned not to jump.
[Illustration: THE DANCE.]
A dance was next announced and at a signal from the manager there came
tumbling out from the third house probably the most ludicrous band of
performers ever witnessed. Each dancer was in full regalia, like the
ladies who ride the padded horses in the regular circus, their dresses
of tissue paper being ornamented with purple, gold, and red hues. The
glass was placed in position, the spectator looked through it, the
performers were lifted in by the pincers, and the dance began--a mixture
of the Highland-fling, the sailor's hornpipe, and a "regular"
break-down.
[Illustration: THE HURDLE-RACE.]
The little creatures bobbed up and down, now on one claw, now on all
six, hopping, leaping, bowing, and scraping, moving forward and back,
bumping into one another, now up, now down, until they seemed utterly
exhausted, and several that had fallen down, and were kept by their
voluminous skirts from getting up, had to be carried off by the aid of
the ever-ready pincers.
Next came a hurdle-race. Hurdles of thin silver wire were arranged, over
which two fleas were supposed to leap. One, however, was evidently very
lazy or very cunning, as it won the last race by crawling under the
wire.
A clown flea now appeared in the ring, and crawled about in a comical
manner with a white clown's cap on its diminutive head. A moment later
out came a number of fleas all harnessed with gold wire trappings, and
the several vehicles were taken from the stables. There was a tally-ho
coach, smaller than a very small pea, an Eskimo sled, about a quarter of
an inch long, with wire runners, a trotting sulky, evidently made from
hair or bristles, and other gorgeous equipages. The tally-ho team of
four frantic fleas, evidently fiery steeds, was harnessed to the coach,
and on the top were placed four phlegmatic fleas that had probably been
booked as outsiders, while the insides were two others fleas, which, we
are sorry to say, were obliged to get in through the window, and acted
very much as if they wished to get out again. The other vehicles were
each provided with a steed and rider, and then all were drawn up in a
row. At the word of command, off they started pell-mell! The tally-ho
leaders evidently jumped their traces at first, but finally they were
off with a rush, running over the clown, knocking off his hat, and, for
the moment, creating a dreadful panic. The sled team threw its driver,
and the sulky ran away, the flea trotter actually leaping into the air,
sulky and all. But order was soon restored, and as the track was
arranged on the downhill principle, the racers made rapid time. In two
minutes the circuit was completed, the tally-ho coming in ahead,
without, however, its outside passengers, who were thrown off as the
coach was rounding the curve, and at once crawled into the nearest place
of refuge.
[Illustration: SIGNOR PULEX IRRITANICI ON THE TIGHT-ROPE.]
The last act of this wonderful circus was perhaps the best. The manager
arranged the stage by placing two very fine entomological pins about
four inches apart, connecting them by a slender silver wire, and then
announced that Signor _Pulex Irritanici_, the world-renowned tight-rope
performer, would attempt his wonderful feat of dancing upon the wire at
a "dizzy height" (compared to the size of the performer). The Signor was
then brought out in a small bottle of cut-glass; his only ornament was a
little jacket of tissue-paper. When fished out and placed upon the
pin-head, he boldly started out upon the wire over which his little
clawed toes seemed to fit. In the middle, and over the terrific abyss,
he balanced up and down for a second, stood upon his longest legs, and
then moved on, crossing in safety, and thus ending the circus, at least
for that occasion.
ROCK-A-BYE.
BY MARY N. PRESCOTT.
"Rock-a-bye, babies, upon the tree-top,"
To her young the mother-bird sings,
"When the wind's still, the rocking will stop,
And then you may all use your wings."
"Rock-a-bye, babies, under the eaves,"
The swallow croons to her brood,
"Here you are safer, my children, from thieves
Than if I had built in the wood."
"Rock-a-bye, babies, the river runs deep,"
The reed-bird trills to her flock,
"The river stirs only to sing you to sleep,
The wind your green cradle to rock!"
WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS.
BY L. G. R.
[Illustration]
Buttercup! Buttercup!
Hold your shining clusters up!
In each little house of gold,
What is this that I behold?
Twenty soldiers, straight and slim,
Golden-helmeted and prim.
All day long so still they stand,
Never turning head or hand;
No one guesses where they stray
In the moonlight nights of May.
When the fairies are abroad,
These small men keep watch and ward;
Round the fairy ring they pace
All night long, to guard the place;
But when morning comes again,
Back are all the little men.
KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.
BY MARGARET MEREDITH.
My plan dates from a few delightful weeks which I spent with a girl
friend, long ago. We were devoted to poetry and to reading aloud; and in
that occupation we had the aid of a brilliant, accomplished young woman.
She selected for us from Coleridge, Shelley, and several other authors,
whose entire works she knew we would not care to read, all the specially
fine poems or passages, and these we read and discussed with her over
our fancy-work. It was charming. At last, she suggested that, as I was
soon to go away and leave the books and clippings with which I had been
growing familiar, it would be helpful for me to write down the choicest
bits, and try in that way to keep in some degree what I had gained. This
I did, putting the extracts in a school copy-book which our friend
dubbed "Snippers,"--from an odd seamstress word which she had picked up
by chance.
Other "snipper" books followed when that one, years after, had been
filled.
My system is an orderly one. All my books are broad-paged and
wide-lined, thus preventing the cramped and crowded writing which often
makes such books unreadable. When I find anything which strikes me as
worth keeping, I note on a slip of paper, somewhat longer than the book
I am reading, the number of the page and make a perpendicular line
beneath it, with a cross line indicating the relative position of the
sentence which I wish to keep, thus:
[Illustration: 23]
If the page is in columns, I make, instead of the single line, a rough
parallelogram, and note within it by square dots the relative positions
of the sentences chosen for preservation, thus:
[Illustration: 187]
This slip of paper I use as a book-mark until it is filled or the book
is finished, noting upon it, as indicated, the choicest passages and
their positions on the pages. When I have finished the book I go
carefully over these selected sentences. Many are discarded; the rest go
into my "snippers." Below the first entry and to the right, I place the
name of the book and its author, both heavily underscored; below the
others, the word "Ibid" or "ditto," underscored. At the top of each page
I note the year, and at the head of each batch of extracts the month or
day.
Paragraphs cut from newspapers, which are worth saving, are pasted as a
fly-leaf to the inner edge of the page, or even slipped under the
binding thread.
In carrying out my plan I am always content with hasty work,--but I
write plainly, and if possible with ink, as much fingering destroys
pencil-marks. I once tried classifying the extracts, but this scarcely
paid for the trouble.
I used sometimes to wonder whether these books of selections were of any
real value. But I have grown now to prize them greatly. Many a time I go
to them for a dimly remembered phrase or passage. Sometimes, too, I read
them over, for of course they give me the essence of what I most like
and admire in my reading. A short time since I lent one to a literary
friend, and was surprised to find she enjoyed it so greatly that she was
almost unwilling to give it back.
I am very glad that I began this practice in my young days. It gives
very little trouble, and that little is a pleasure.
There is a familiar expression about an "embarrassment of riches." This
is the greatest disappointment I experience with my "snippers." For,
occasionally, a book has too many good things in it to be easily copied,
and then my only relief is to own it and, marking it vol. _X_, add it to
my row of extract-books.
[Illustration: THE END]
WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.
BY HENRY ECKFORD.
THIRD PAPER.
Perhaps you have never given a thought to the fact that, because you
were born into a nation using an alphabet that came down from the
Phoenicians, you are saved a world of trouble. But consider the Chinese.
If a Chinese boy and an American boy begin to learn their letters at the
same time, each studying his own writing, then by the time the American
is ten years old he has advanced as far in the use of letters as the
Chinese boy will have advanced in the use of his when he is twenty years
old. That is the same as saying that Chinese writing is three or four
times as hard to learn as English. Think of spending the years between
ten and twenty in learning to read! On the other hand, the long
apprenticeship of Chinese and Japanese boys to their letters does them
good in one way. They paint their letters with a brush on soft paper. By
this means they learn very early to be skillful with the brush, which is
one reason why Chinese and Japanese artists are so very dexterous with
their brushes.
All writing, let it be remembered, must have begun with pictures. It is
largely Chinese writing which has explained how all sorts of letters
were gradually changed from pictures to an alphabet, in which hardly a
single letter tells from what picture it started. The Japanese tongue is
quite different from the Chinese. But the use by the Japanese of signs
employed ages before by the Chinese explains another step in the
progress of language. The writing of the Mexican Indians also helps us
to understand the growth of alphabets. When, ages ago, the Chinese began
to write, they drew little pictures of the things they wished to
represent, as did the Egyptians before them in their picture-writing;
and from picture-writing they made some advance in the direction of
sound-writing, or rebuses. Then the little rebus-pictures were so much
altered that it became very difficult to see what they once meant.
Now Chinese is a queer language. All its words are only one syllable
long. But the sounds in the Chinese language are not very many, some
four hundred and sixty-five at most, and their written language contains
about eighty thousand pictures, each picture representing a thing or
idea. And these pictures must be committed to memory. This is hard work,
and not even the wisest Chinese professor can learn them all. But now
comes a difficulty. For, of course, where there are so many words and
so few sounds, many different words have to be called by the same sound.
How then are they to tell, when several different things have exactly
the same name which of them is meant?
[Illustration: REBUS-PICTURES FROM THE OLD CHINESE, SHOWING THE
BEGINNINGS OF PICTURE-WRITING.
1. A Month. (From a picture of the moon.) 2. The Eye. 3. A Horse. 4. An
Ax. 5. Rain. 6. Face. 7. A Dragon. 8. Bamboo. 9. Rhinoceros. 10. Dawn.
(From the rising sun.)]
We have such words. For instance, there is Bill, the name of a boy; and
bill, the beak of a bird; there is bill, an old weapon, and bill, a
piece of money; there is bill, an article over which legislatures
debate, and bill, a claim for payment of money; besides bills of
exchange, bills of lading, and so forth. But Chinese is full of such
words of a single syllable, _yen_, for instance, which, like bill, means
many very different things. So they chose a number of little pictures,
and agreed that these should be used as "keys." The Chinese "keys" were
used like the Egyptian "determinative signs," of which I told you. Each
"key" meant that the sign or signs near which it stood belonged to some
large general set of things, like things of the vegetable, mineral, or
animal kingdom, forests, mines, or seas, air, or water, or of persons,
like gods or men. It was like the game called Throwing Light, in which
you guess the article by narrowing down the field until certain what it
is.
But there Chinese writing stopped short, thousands of years ago. There
it is to-day. There are now two hundred and fourteen of these "keys,"
and, by intense application, Chinamen learn to use their method with
surprising quickness and success.
The Japanese acted toward Chinese writing much as the Phoenicians did
toward Egyptian writing. The Japanese, a very intelligent people, made
what you have learned to know as a syllabary, out of signs taken from
the Chinese symbols. It is called a syllabary, you remember, because
each sign stood in their language for a syllable. They had to do this,
because, while Chinese is all short syllables, Japanese is a language of
much longer words even than ours. They cut down and simplified the
Chinese signs, giving them names of their own. In this way they manage
to write very swiftly. And, while not so clumsy as the Chinese fashion,
the Japanese method is clumsier than is the use of an alphabet. In late
years, a society has been started in Japan to do away altogether with
their old-time writing, and adopt our alphabet.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
Perhaps, by this time, you are beginning to see how very slowly
alphabets have grown, and how hard it has been for human beings to
perfect them. Knowing this, will you not look now with more interest on
written and printed words? When you see letters, will you not reflect
what a history each one has, reaching far back into the remotest past,
where at first all seems dark, and where, when light does come, the very
number and variety of materials perplex the student of alphabets?
Moreover, will you not feel ashamed of people who laugh or sneer at
savage nations who have no sound-writing, no syllabary, no alphabet? It
does not mean that in such races all men are stupid. As a rule it means
simply that the race has not had a fair chance. It has been racked by
wars. Or it has never come in contact
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