Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, November 29, 1881, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, November 29, 1881
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: October 8, 2015 [EBook #50163]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, NOV 29, 1881 ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| Vol. III.—No. 109. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, November 29, 1881. | Copyright, 1881, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
Mr. Primrose arrived at home one morning just as his family were gathering for breakfast. He had been for two days at a small town about thirty miles distant, to which he had been summoned to assist in the trial of a pair of noted criminals.
"You look tired out," said Mrs. Primrose.
"Tired enough," he said. "I have been up nearly all night."
"How did that happen?"
"Well, it was partly my own fault. I met my old friend Philip Sanford up there; he was on the defense in the case I was prosecuting. We had a grand tilt over it—fought each other vigorously all the way through. The chief criminal shook his fist at me when I was making the closing speech. I began to see that the case was going against me, and I pressed the rascals pretty hard."
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Primrose, with an anxious face. "I am always in fear of some of those desperate characters doing you some injury out of revenge."
The gentleman laughed. "Don't worry yourself, dear," he said. "There is much more to be feared from the rogues who go uncaught than from those who feel the strong grasp of the law. But, as I was telling, the case went to the jury about nine last night, and then Sanford and I got down to a game of chess. If I didn't beat him at law, I beat him well at the game, and it was one o'clock before we took heed of the time. Then, as my train was due at three, it was not worth while to go to bed, so we played and talked on. When I got to the station, I found the train was behind time, so I lay on a bench till it came, at five, and here I am."
"You will take a rest now?"
"Not a bit," he said, opening some letters he had found waiting for him. "Business is pressing just now. Ha! ha!" he exclaimed, "this is good news. We'll have those rogues in the penitentiary yet."
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Primrose.
"Why, I told you just now that I feared the jury would not convict on the evidence, although it was convincing to me. Here is a letter from the sheriff of Hancock County, who wishes that these same fellows be held to answer to a charge of complicity in a bank robbery which took place in that county some months since. If the jury fails to convict, the prisoners must be re-arrested the moment they are discharged."
"Rather a damper on them, I should say," said Frank, with a chuckle.
"You'd be astonished to see what decent-looking men they are," continued his father. "The chief criminal would impress you as having been trained for a gentleman, and his accomplice is not much more than a boy; both are well dressed. The daintiest little pearl-mounted revolver I ever saw was displayed in court as the instrument used in their last scrape; Frank, you must take a run up to Homer on the nine train."
"He can not," said Mrs. Primrose. "I'm sorry, but he sprained his foot yesterday, and must keep quiet for a few days."
"That's bad—for the boy and for me. I must hurry down town and send some one else."
"Oh, papa, let me go!" said Tom. "Please do, sir. I've been up there twice with you, you know, and I'd know just where to go, and you could tell me just what to do."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Frank. "'Heedless Tom' on important business! Why, he would be sure to have the judge and sheriff under arrest, and the burglars at large. He can't help doing everything backward, you know."
"Come, Frank, don't be so sharp," said his mother. "Tom is trying to be more careful lately, I think."
"Yes," said Mr. Primrose, in a teasing tone, "he is not at all like the boy I sent from the office last week to buy a pamphlet called 'Westward Ho!' and who brought me instead a garden hoe."
There was a laugh at Tom's expense, but he persisted, coaxingly:
"Do let me go, papa. You know I wouldn't be careless about your business."
"I guess you may go, Tom. Now listen. Find Sheriff Carroll either at his house or at the court-house, and give him this letter. Take the twelve train home, and be sure you are on time. There is money for your fare."
So Mr. Primrose departed, while Tom, highly delighted at the prospect of such an unexpected little jaunt, went to get ready. He meant to act through the whole matter with such caution and judgment as to fully convince his father of the propriety of intrusting him with the weightiest concerns. And his first care was to leave for the station in such good time as to put all fear of his missing the train out of the question.
Alas, poor Tom!
"Now, where's my hat?"
This inquiry was a sound of dismay in the Primrose household. Tom's hat was always missing. There was no spot in the house, yard, barn, or garden where it might not be hopefully searched for.
"Where did you have it last?" some one asked. Some one was always sure to ask that.
"I don't know—yes, I remember putting it on Rover's head, and he ran away with it. No, I found it after that behind the coal-house. I had it when we were playing hide-and-seek last evening."
Tom was usually left to do his own hunting, but in such an emergency as this all the family energy was aroused. Uneasiness gathered in every face as time went on.
"Let me see your old hat," said his mother at last. But the old hat proved to be too shabby to be thought of. Then his brother's hat was tried, but Frank was three years older, and it would not do.
"Wear it down to Mr. Ramsay, the hatter's," said his mother. "Tell him of your difficulty, and he will lend you a hat for a few hours." But Tom did not like to do this, and he continued his hunt longer than was prudent. At length his little sister came from the barn with a note of triumph and the missing hat. It had been lying in a corner of the hay-loft, where he had hidden the evening before. He seized it gratefully, and was off like the wind.
The locomotive was hissing in the station as Tom, hot and out of breath, asked for a ticket to Homer. Then he felt for his pocket-book in one pocket and then another, growing hotter as he failed to find it. After thorough search he concluded, with intense dismay, that his run must have shaken it from his pocket. He knew he had no time for thought. At the distance of about half a block was situated the office of one of his father's friends. He rushed over to it and told his trouble in a few words.
"Hurry, Tom, hurry," said the gentleman, as already the premonitory puff of the engine sounded. "Don't stop for a ticket, but board the train—if you can; but—Stop, boy! Hallo, there!" he shouted; "don't let that boy jump on that train!"
He ran after Tom as he flew toward the now-moving train, which the boy was fully resolved to board. But he was seized by friendly hands.
"You can't do that, my boy—no, sir," as Tom struggled. "Have you no concern for your life or limbs?"
"I must go on that train; I will," cried poor Tom, in utter despair. But it moved pitilessly on, while a few men gathered near to inquire into his trouble.
"It was about some business for my father," he explained, hardly able to force back his tears, as he realized what a terrible failure he had made at the very outset. "It was very important, and what shall I do?"
"There's a freight train going up," said a brakeman.
"When?" asked Tom, eagerly.
"In about half an hour. It'll be slow, though. You'll get to Homer about eleven, if that'll do you."
Tom could only hope it might.
After a ride made long by anxiety he stood at last before Sheriff Carroll, and presented his letter, waiting breathlessly to hear what he might say.
"Too bad! too bad! I discharged those scamps not more than an hour ago. Tell your father, though, that we may stand a chance of nabbing them yet. I'll have all the trains watched, and send out on the country roads. That sort are very apt to strike across country." He bustled away to set things moving, while Tom, full of bitter mortification, slowly walked back to the station.
He watched eagerly as the return train came in, in hope of seeing some kind of a "scrimmage," as he mentally expressed it, which might look like an arrest. But nothing of the sort occurred. He did not even see a force of policemen drawn up with threatening aspect, as he had expected, and made up his mind that Carroll was not up to his duty in this matter. His inexperienced gaze failed to take note of two or three keen-eyed men standing carelessly around in plain clothes, who would certainly have pressed the hospitalities of the village of Homer upon any stray criminals so warmly as to enable them to arrive at a speedy decision to travel no further at present.
As Tom rode along, he felt too much depressed at first by the very bad result of his undertaking to pay much heed to what was going on around him. But he suddenly jerked himself from the corner into which he had settled, and sat up with every sense on the alert.
"I told Primrose—revenged on him—jury agreed—got off—that I would go down—have it out with him—"
This was what came to his ears, mingled with the rattle of the cars. The words were spoken by one of two men who occupied the seat behind him. Tom ventured a peep over the back of his seat. They certainly did not look like desperate characters; but what was he to think of what he had heard? His father had made special mention of the very respectable appearance of the two men he had been prosecuting.
The older man had such a pleasant face that Tom was beginning to feel ashamed of his suspicions, when he suddenly bobbed down in his seat, with a cold chill at his heart. The man was examining something he held in his hand—a thing so small and delicate that at first glance Tom had taken it for a pocket-knife, but it was a pearl-mounted revolver. The full gravity of the situation now forced itself upon his excited mind. This was the Chief Criminal spoken of by his father, the younger man being, of course, the Accomplice. They were handling the very revolver which had been shown during the trial. This man's fierce anger had been excited by his father's vigorous attempt to consign him to merited punishment, and his words fully indicated that he was now on his way to seek revenge. How? Poor Tom fairly writhed in his seat as all the fearful possibilities of the case came before him, and he was obliged to own to himself that but for his petty acts of carelessness these men would now be safe under lock and key.
He left the car, full of the one idea of using any and every means of insuring his father's safety. Hastening to his office, he learned that he had been absent from it most of the day. It was supposed that he had been called out of town again. Reaching home, hoping to find him there, Tom learned that he had not been up to dinner, but was still expected, though it was long after the usual hour. Hot, tired, and anxious, Tom made but a poor attempt at the dinner urged upon him, and took his way to the front part of the house to watch for his father. He established himself on a sofa near a bay-window in the parlor, with a very heavy pressure of care on his heart. He knew it would not do to tell his nervous mother: even poor, heedless Tom was thoughtful of her comfort. And he did not want Frank to know anything about it if he could help it. It might all come out right yet, and then only his father need know.
"Tell him not to hurry—we can wait," said a voice in the room. Tom rubbed his eyes and stared about, as the maid showed in two strangers. He was wide awake in a moment, and drew himself into a corner of the sofa where he was nearly concealed by a curtain which divided the bay-window from the room. The maid drew aside the curtains of another window, and threw it open. And there, in the bright sunlight, Tom saw, with fright and horror, which at first took from him the power to move or speak, the Chief Criminal and the Accomplice seat themselves comfortably in his father's house.
What now? With a desperate effort at self-control he tried to think what it was best to do. It rested on him now not only to insure his father's safety, but to prevent the escape of these men.
He presently got up, and going quietly to a door which led into another room, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he turned to the window near which the men sat. The older one addressed him pleasantly.
"You are a son of Mr. Primrose?" he said, offering his hand.
Tom bowed slightly, but took no notice of the extended hand. He lowered the window and fastened it, hoping that the burglars, if they tried to open it, might not at first understand the catch, thus giving more time. He then passed into the hall, noiselessly locking that door also.
Frank was nursing his sprained foot on the back piazza. In answer to Tom's excited inquiries he told him their father had returned home a short time since, had dined, and gone to his room. His mother was in the kitchen canning fruit. Glad not to meet her, Tom sprang up the stairs, and knocking at his father's door, begged to be let in.
"I am bathing, Tom," was the answer; "wait a little."
"Oh, father," pleaded Tom, "do let me speak to you just one minute."
Tom's claims to be heard were usually urgent, so his father only said, "Have a little patience, my boy; in ten minutes I'll hear all you have to say."
Ten minutes! What might not happen in ten minutes! If he waited up there, the criminals might, finding themselves shut in, guess that they were under suspicion, and make good their escape. If he went to call help, his father might, in his absence, run into the very danger he was seeking to save him from.
A bright thought came to him. So long as his father remained in his room he must be safe. Tom turned the key in the door, and locked him in. Then, with all the speed which terror could lend to a boy's nimble feet, he ran to the police station, a few blocks distant, reaching it in a condition which only left him able to convey a general idea that something dreadful was going on at Mr. Primrose's. Two policemen were there. First sending a message to head-quarters for further force, they followed Tom in all haste, a small crowd of by-standers falling into line, and gathering strength as they neared the Primrose domicile. As they came to the gate Tom saw the Accomplice trying to open the window.
"See! they're getting away!" he cried. And the policemen bounded into the house and seized the two men. At this moment a heavy pounding was heard overhead. Tom turned paler than before.
"There must be more of them up stairs," he shrieked; "they are getting after my father."
He tore up the stairs, and found the room still locked; but the pounding kept on. He turned the key with a trembling hand.
"Who locked me in?" exclaimed his father. "Such[Pg 68] foolery—" He stopped in surprise as half a dozen men tramped hastily up stairs.
"Are you hurt, Mr. Primrose? Are the rascals in there?"
"Hurt? No. What's the matter? what is all this fuss about?" He stared in amazement at the crowd pressing into the hall. "Is the house on fire?"
"Not a bit, sir; but we've got two of the men in there."
He pushed his way down stairs, and was met by several policemen, who had made their way through the crowd outside. As the principal excitement seemed in the parlor, he turned that way. The eyes of all there were fixed upon two quiet-looking men, who stood with a policeman's hand on a shoulder of each.
"Philip Sanford! What does all this mean?"
"I must ask you that," was the answer. "I came to your house on a friendly visit, and to introduce my nephew, who is desirous of becoming a law student in your office"—motioning toward the younger man—"and I find myself under arrest."
The policemen dropped their hands and looked toward Mr. Primrose. Mr. Primrose looked at them.
"Why are you here, men?" he asked.
"The little chap wanted us pretty badly," said one of them, turning to Tom with a laugh.
"I—thought they were the criminals, papa—had come to hurt you, and I couldn't speak to you, and I locked you up. I didn't know what to do—and you said the burglars were such nice-looking men." A laugh arose at this.
"Go on," said his father; "I don't understand yet."
"The burglars were gone when I got to Homer; they sat behind me on the cars, and talked about being revenged on you, papa; and one of them had that revolver." Tom's voice broke, and he seized his father's hand.
The two criminals laughed heartily.
"I believe I see into it now," said Mr. Sanford. "I said I was coming here to get revenge for the beating you gave me at chess. This revolver"—he took it from his pocket—"was given me this morning by the burglar I have been defending, as a token of his gratitude, as he expressed it, for the able manner in which I had conducted his case. And this poor little fellow"—looking kindly at Tom—"has been suffering agonies of fear for his father's safety ever since I showed it in the cars."
"So, friends," said Mr. Primrose, looking around, "I thank you all for coming to my protection, but you see I do not need it."
The police led the way out, and others followed, with increasing merriment at the mistake which had been made. A shout arose also from the crowd outside as it left the premises.
"I beg your pardon, sir; and yours," faltered poor Tom, with his strongest effort to keep back the tears of mortification at the terrible blunder he had committed.
"No pardon is necessary," said Mr. Sanford. "If my own small boy lives to your age, the best I can wish for him is that he may be as brave and energetic as you have been to-day, and as faithful in watching for his father's safety, even if it sometimes leads him into a mistake. You'll take my hand now, my boy, won't you?"
Tom grasped it, and then escaped to his room. There lay his pocket-book, just where he had left it when he changed his clothes in the morning. He threw himself on the bed and cried till sleep came to relieve his troubles.
When he awoke it was twilight, and his mother was beside him.
"Come, dear," she said, "they are all waiting for you. Yes, you must go down," as Tom shook his head: "they will not go to tea till you go down. And look at this—your father received it about an hour ago."
It was a telegram from Homer, and read thus:
"Have caught the men, and shipped to Hancock County.
"Carroll."
The boy whose fortune it is to live in the country looks forward to the advent of autumn with eagerness, if happily he belongs to that large class of boys who have a passion for hunting. There are some people who object to this trait in the character of boys, as indicative of cruelty, but I doubt if they fully understand the trait. Very few hunters, old or young, take pleasure in the mere act of killing birds and animals. If this was the chief end in view, they could secure it without days of toilsome tramping. A hunter's pleasure is made up of a great deal more than success in filling his bag. If he is to be really an expert in his work, he must study carefully the habits of the game which he pursues, become acquainted with the country over which he is to hunt, and submit to long practice with his gun or rifle.
The most common object of pursuit with boy hunters in our New England and Middle States is the rabbit. The more mature sportsman may look with scorn[Pg 69] on the "cotton-tail" if he pleases, and rejoice more over one dead quail than the capture of a dozen rabbits. Not so the boy. With boys, size counts in a good many ways. Then, too, in rabbit-hunting, boys get a variety of sport. They can find time after school to set a few snares or dead-falls in the nearest thicket. Or on a Saturday, taking such dogs as they own or can borrow (most dogs, like most boys, seem to be ready to hunt rabbits), they can set out for the brush lots and stubble fields, and revel in excitement as the sharp bark of the dogs lets them know that a fresh track has been struck.
When cold weather and snow come, the rabbit is apt to desert his snuggery in the fields for a home in some well-built stone wall. Then the boy hunter lets the rabbit betray himself, and very plainly he does it; for no boy who is once shown a rabbit track in newly fallen snow can ever mistake for it the track of any other animal: two dots before, and two behind, like this, · · :, are the rabbit's handwriting, and a little skill soon traces him to his hiding-place.
To secure game birds requires more skill with the gun, and a more intimate knowledge of their habits. Our principal game birds in the Eastern States are the woodcock, the quail, and the ruffled grouse, or, as it is called in some States, the partridge. Of these the woodcock is the most mysterious, and by epicures the most highly prized. It is the only one of the group that seeks a warmer climate in winter.
With the first advent of spring weather the woodcock returns, often nesting so early that the spring floods destroy its eggs. By the first of July the young birds are almost grown, and in too many States the law allows them to be killed after that date. The summer woodcock is, however, no such bird as it will become if allowed to moult, and then to grow fat in the corn fields and brakes. October finds it strong of wing, ready for a night flight of many miles; then it may be sought not only in the low grounds, but on the alder-covered hill-sides.
The quail is the best known of all our game birds, because of its remaining with us all the year round, because of its easily recognized note, "Bob White," and because, timid as it is, it loves civilization, and lives on cultivated lands.
The ruffled grouse may be called the king of our Northern game birds. Delighting in mountains and thick swamps, wild, and strong of wing, the hunter who brings one down when under full headway must be of steady nerve, quick sight, and skillful with long practice.
If a modern artist were to draw a sketch to illustrate an article on our hunting season, it would have to differ very much from the pretty picture on the preceding page. The spear and cross-bow are weapons unknown to modern American hunters, and instead of the winding of the horn, there is only the shrill note of the dog whistle. And we may say, Alas the change! The spear was not always thrown aright; it and the arrow hit but one object at a time, and had a limit to their flight. But nowadays, with our highly trained dogs, and our ever-loaded breech-loading guns, able to mow down a whole flock at once, what chance has bird or animal, however well provided by nature with means of safety?
Little is the wonder that our game grows scarcer year by year. With no vast landed estates, as in England, to be kept stocked and preserved, it will not be very long before woodcock, quail, and grouse will be curiosities even to the farmers' boys, who will have to invent some new pleasure to take the place of the hunting sports of which their grandfathers will tell them.
I wonder how many young people who sit down to practice or take a lesson at the piano-forte know the story of the instrument now familiar in every household of the civilized world. Look at it as we have it to-day, almost perfect in size and quality and tone. It is capable of producing the fullest and the softest sounds, just as its name indicates, for piano means soft, and forte means loud. Can you realize that little more than a hundred years ago pianos were a rarity? Only one or two makers produced any instruments worthy of the name, and few households possessed one. "But," I can hear my young readers exclaim, "the music we play on our pianos—Bach and Haydn, as well as old English airs—were certainly played on some horizontal instrument." Of course they were, but not on our kind of piano-fortes; and the story I am going to tell will take you back far into the sixteenth century, when ladies of rank, and monks and nuns, and some troubadours, had the instruments from which our piano is descended. These were known as the clavichord and the virginal.
The clavichord was perfected about 1500, and the name was derived from "clavi" (a key) and "chorda" (a string); so you see at once that it contained the two principal elements of our piano-forte. Although it went out of use in Bach's day, yet that dear old master, whose gavottes all our young people are playing now, loved to use it. The piano-forte had been invented, but Bach loved his old clavichord. As he sat thrumming it, I think he liked to fancy himself away in the early sixteenth-century days, when Henry the Seventh's court enjoyed madrigals and queer little bits of music on the same sort of an instrument. Following[Pg 70] the clavichord, we have that graceful, romantic instrument called the virginal. This was an improvement on the clavichord, and toward the close of the sixteenth century we find its name in poetry, romance, biography—indeed, in history.
VIRGINAL.
The virginal produced a low, tinkling sort of sound not unlike that of the German zither. Only ladies of quality, musicians, or nuns or monks in convents, performed upon the virginal, and so I think we associate it with all the grace and beauty and the slow stateliness of that romantic epoch. When I think of a virginal, it seems to me to bring many suggestions of rich colors, softly fading lights, the flash of jewels, or the movement of white hands, oak wainscoting, and tapestried walls—perhaps some very sad and sorrowing heart, perhaps some young and hopeful one, but always something that is picturesque and dreamy.
Perhaps we would not think it so sweet an instrument to-day, but assuredly in the sixteenth century it moved people to very tender, elevated thoughts. Shakspeare wrote of it with deep feeling, and there are some quaint lines of Spenser's about it. "My love doth sit ... playing alone, careless, on her heavenlie virginals."
In 1583, Sir James Melvil was sent by Mary Stuart to England as Ambassador, and in his memoirs he relates how he heard Queen Elizabeth play. He says that Lord Hunsden took him up into a "quiet gallery," where, unknown to the Queen, he might hear her play. The two gentlemen stood outside a tapestried doorway, from within which came the soft tinkle-tinkle of the virginal. I wish he had told us what the Queen was playing. Presently, it appears, his curiosity to see her Majesty overcame his prudence, and he softly raised the curtain, and went into the room. The Queen played on, "a melody which ravished him," he says, but for some moments did not see that any one was listening. Is it not a pretty picture?
At that time the Queen had not lost the charm of youth, and in her splendid dress, with her head down-bent, her figure at the quaint virginal against the rich and sombre colors of the room, must have looked charming, and the silent Scotch gentleman just inside the doorway listening in rapt attention: it is so poetic a picture of the time that we can almost hear her music, and if we read on a little further, we see that the Queen, suddenly seeing Sir James, came forward, remonstrating with him for having come in, for, she said, she was not used to play before people, but only to "shun melancholy." Then she sat down upon a low cushion, and honest Sir James, according to the custom of the time, fell upon his knees before her. The Queen, with a truly feminine spirit, inquired whether he thought she or Mary Queen of Scots played the best. Sir James said that his sovereign played "reasonably, for a queen." This answer would not serve to-day, as the Queen of England is one of the most perfect of amateur musicians.
ITALIAN SPINET, ORNAMENTED WITH PRECIOUS STONES.
The virginal and spinet belong to the same period. From them, as need of a more elaborate performance grew, we have the harpsichord. A very fine harpsichord looked something like a grand piano, but it had two rows of keys, one upper and one lower. I shall not here go into a description of the harpsichord. It is only needful to say that it was the outgrowth of clavichord and virginal and spinet, and had some of the defects as well as the good points of all three.
HANDEL'S FAVORITE HARPISCHORD.
Our great-grandmothers played upon harpsichords. They were tinkling little affairs, yet I fancy that Mozart's and Haydn's music must have sounded very quaint and pleasing upon them. Where have they all vanished to, I wonder?—along with the flowery brocaded gowns, the slender fans, the powder and patches and paint, of that dear old time?
In an old house I once visited, a harpsichord of seventeen hundred and something used to stand neglected and disused in an upper hall. Sometimes we children thrummed waltzes upon it; sometimes I remember our getting out a faded old music-book with the picture of a shepherdess on it, and picking out the funny little songs that were printed there a hundred years ago. On the fly-leaf of the book was written in a very flourishy hand, "To Isabel, from J——." Who was Isabel, and who was J., we used to wonder.
I can fancy that the music she played to please her mamma and papa, and perhaps her uncles and aunts, was of a very primitive order, for when harpsichords were used, young ladies were not at all proficient. Music was then considered a "genteel" sort of accomplishment, and good masters were very rare, and never tried to make their pupils do more than strike the notes correctly and in good "dum-dum" sort of time. Consider our advantages now, and yet I fancy those young people of "Isabel's" day valued their musical instruction much more than we do ours.
PIANO OF ABOUT 1777.
Well, then, from this pretty, picturesque harpsichord period, we find ourselves by slow degrees in that of the piano, and I suppose the first thing you will wish to know is how a piano-forte differs from these other instruments of which I have been writing. The principal difference is that the strings are struck with a hammer. About the beginning of the eighteenth century this idea had originated with three men at once—an Italian named Cristofali, a Frenchman named Marius, and a German named Schröter; but all investigators seem convinced that Cristofali was the real originator. His ideas were the[Pg 71] best. So, later in the century, when harpsichords began to be thought incomplete, different makers tried to produce something better, and the result was the primitive piano-forte.
At this time the composer Sebastian Bach was in Berlin. Frederick the Great was eager to hear him play, and as that famous sovereign possessed several of the new piano-fortes (or forte-pianos, as they then were called), Bach came one evening to the palace, where a crowd of gay ladies and gentlemen were assembled.
The composer had to go from room to room, trying first one of the new pianos, then another. These instruments were manufactured in Germany, but, later, English and French pianos took the palm, and about the beginning of this century American ladies were growing proficient in the art of piano-playing—proficient at least for that day. Have you not all seen your grandmammas' music-books, in which "The Battle of Prague" is an honored "piece"? True, there were hundreds of nobler works, but only public performers seem to have attempted them.
As time went on, and the interest in the instrument grew, the mechanism of the piano-forte was improved, and at this date (1881), it is considered perfect. Here and there as you play, as you listen to the sounds of the little hammer falling on the strings, let your thoughts wander back to Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth of England, with their virginals and spinets—indeed, farther into the' realm of poetic, dreamy sound, for beyond these were clavicytheriums, citoles and citherns, dulcimers and psalteries, and in the East, among the people whom we see now in sculpture, a whole line of lyres and harps and lutes.
It may not seem that so far away as early Egyptian days was the first idea of our piano, yet certainly such is the case. In some far Eastern country you might see, graven in stone of centuries gone by, a figure holding an instrument dimly shadowing that on which you now may play all written music.
The wanderers still occasionally came across the natives. Once, on arriving at a village, they obtained a young bullock in exchange for buttons, a few of which the savages had left on their coats; and that the distribution of this godsend might be equal, the whole was cut in pieces, and, just as I have seen done with a cake at school, one of the party, standing with his back to it, named the person who should have the piece held up. But generally the natives denied them everything. Once they strove to barter some poor relic of their property for a calf, which the others appeared to agree to, "but no sooner had they got the price than the calf was driven away."
On one occasion only did they exhibit the slightest pity. On the party coming upon another dead whale, a band of natives surrounded them, but on perceiving their sad condition, and that there was really nothing more to steal, they forbore to molest them, and one of them even lent his lance, with which some chunks of blubber were cut out.
A little afterward they found two planks on a sandy bank, in each of which was a nail. "Elated," as we are told, "with this valuable discovery," they set fire to the planks, and getting out the nails, "flattened them between two stones into something like knives." A few yards further on, by turning up the sand, they found water, of which they had been much in want; and here, with much thankfulness, they rested. This was the last day of what seemed to these poor souls good fortune.
They did indeed fall in with a dead shark, but it was in such an advanced stage of decay that "the liver only could be eaten." Nay, driven by the extremity of hunger, the carpenter ate of some deadly berries, and was poisoned. Now this man it was who from the first, until the hour of his death, had taken care of the little boy; who had striven to relieve those fatigues which his tender limbs could so little endure; "who had heard his complaints with pity; who had fed him when he could obtain wherewithal to do it," and who had lulled his weary little body to rest.
No human work more commends itself to our admiration than that of this poor carpenter, who reminds us, indeed, of the Carpenter's Son with his "Suffer little children to come unto me." Even at this distant time, when that poor boy has been a hundred years "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest," the tears rise to our eyes when we think of his forlorn condition, deprived of his noble protector.
"I will take him," said the steward, however, who had now succeeded to the command, and that good man kept his word. The natives never gave them so much as a drink of water, though "now and then the women gave a draught of milk to the little boy," and the little party began to break down from sheer fatigue and privation. When this took place, from hard necessity there was no chance but for the rest to leave them.
"THEY CARRIED HIM BY TURNS."
Only they never dreamed of leaving the boy. "It was marvellous," we are told, how he supported the journey (and, alas! how much more marvellous, since he was fated not to survive it after all). "Where the path was even and good," says John Hynes, in his simple fashion, "the child walked, and was able to keep pace with the party; when they came to deep sand or long grass, the people carried him by turns." His only duty was to keep their fire alight while they explored the sand for food.
It will be remembered that, having no flint and steel, they always carried torches; and once, in rounding a bluff to shorten the way, the surf put them out; they came, however, upon the remains of a fire which some Caffre women had lighted, "and joyfully rekindled them." In crossing the rivers where there was a ford, they tied their rags in a bundle, fastened it round their heads, and in it they stuck their brands, and thus kept them dry. Sometimes great storms would come on, and the rain fall so heavily that the men had to hold their canvas frocks over their fire to prevent its being extinguished. Without fire, they would have been lost indeed.
Many times, from causes over which they had no control, the little party separated, but they never forgot one another. Those before used to write upon the sand whatever direction could be of benefit to those behind; such as, "Turn in here, and you will find wood and water." It makes the heart bleed to think that so much tenderness and good-fellowship, maintained under such trying circumstances, should have failed in the end, and have been shown, as it were, for nothing. And yet it was not for nothing. It is impossible to believe that those brave men have not gained their reward, and some great reward for their terrible sufferings. And as to "use," it should be of great and good use to us all to have such an example set before us.
Sometimes those left behind would turn up again, having proceeded, when a little refreshed, by some shorter way; but they had always the same tale of ill-usage and privation to tell. Hynes himself, having been wounded by the natives, was left for dead on one occasion, but recollecting the way his companions intended to pursue by great exertions he overtook them. "I shall bear the scar of that lance wound to my grave," he says.
One day the cooper died, and was buried in the sand. This happened in Hynes's absence, and as he had an affection for the man, he asked to be shown the spot; but on[Pg 72] arriving at it, the body had already been dug up and carried away by some wild animal, as could be perceived by its foot-prints. The steward and his charge were now taken ill, and since the rest could not find it in their hearts to leave the child, they staid with him. "Having prepared early in the morning whatever could be obtained for breakfast, and willing to treat his tender frame with all the indulgence in their power, they meant to call him when everything was ready. He still rested near the fire, where all had slept during the night before; but on going to wake him, they found his soul had taken flight to another world." These are the words in which John Hynes describes the misfortune which he evidently considers the worst that had hitherto befallen them. As for the steward, "the loss," we are told, "of one who had been so long the object of his care nearly overcame him. It was with the utmost difficulty his companions got him along."
Presently Robert Fitzgerald asks for a shell of water; Hynes supplies him with one, which he drinks with great avidity. He then asks for another, which, "having received, he swallows with equal relish, and laying himself down, instantly expires." They all thought this a very happy death, and were envious of it. Then William Fruel sinks exhausted on the sand; his companions from necessity go on to seek wood and water, but promise to return to him. Turning their eyes back, they see him crawling after them; but on returning for him after a few hours, they find some wild beast has carried him away.
It would be painful to describe in detail what they now suffered; "former distresses were not to be compared to it." One after another drops from exhaustion; the rest "shake hands with him, and recommending him to Heaven for that assistance which they themselves can not afford, leave him to expire." The party of forty-three are at length reduced to three, John Hynes, Evans, and Wormington, and the senses of even these are so impaired that they can hardly hear or see. One morning the torments of thirst become so intolerable that Wormington begs the two others to cast lots with him as to who shall die for the rest, that by drinking his blood the other two may survive. To which Hynes replies that if he (Hynes) drops, they may do what they will with him, but as long as he can walk he will consent to no such thing. The idea is then abandoned by common consent, nor is it renewed when Wormington falls, and "with one feeble effort to rise, stretches himself on the shore, burying his right hand in the sand."
The next morning the two survivors perceive some objects which to their failing powers look like "large birds." They turn out to be four of their own party, who had been left behind, now nearly blind, and almost reduced to idiocy. It was a most ghastly meeting. Since they could no longer search narrowly for food, they would certainly have now starved to death but for watching the motions of certain sea-birds, which, after scratching in the sand, they perceived let something drop out of their beaks. On searching for themselves, the poor men found that the birds were catching shell-fish which had burrowed in the sand.
On the one hundred and seventeenth day of their journey, (though they knew nothing themselves of dates) these six unfortunates at last met with a European—a Dutch settler. "Their joy was such that, combined with their weak condition, it could only be expressed by convulsive movements." But "after gaining some composure," they learned they were within the limits of the settlements, and not above three hundred miles from the Cape of Good Hope.
They were received with the utmost hospitality, which it seemed was offered with some imprudence, since on being supplied with bread and milk, "their voracity was such as to have almost proved their destruction." After being carefully nursed, and in some degree recovered, they were forwarded in carts to the nearest town, which was two hundred miles distant. "During the whole way, wherever they passed the night, the farmers assembling to hear their sad story, and supplying them with all of which they stood in need."
Nay, notwithstanding that England and Holland were then at war, the Dutch Governor of the Cape of Good Hope dispatched a very strong expedition through the country in quest of the other castaways, should any still remain. They met William Hubberly, servant of the second mate, staggering on alone, "melancholy and forlorn." On other parts of the road they met seven Lascars and two of the black female servants. From these they learned that five days after the ship's company had separated another division of the party took place, but what had become of the others they knew not. They had seen the Captain's coat, however, on one of the natives, from which they gathered that he was dead. No further information could be obtained, and so violent was the opposition of the Caffres that the expedition was compelled to return.
Seven years afterward Colonel Gordon, while travelling in Caffraria, was informed by a native that there was a white woman among his countrymen, with a child whom she frequently embraced, and over whom she wept bitterly. Bad health compelled the Colonel to return home, but he sent her a letter in French, Dutch, and English, begging that some sign, such as a burned stick, or other token, might be returned in answer to it, when every exertion should be made for her recovery; but nothing more was ever heard of her. Nevertheless, for years there was a general belief at the Cape that some of the unfortunate ladies still survived, who had it in their power to return, but that having been compelled to marry Caffre chieftains, and "apprehending that their place in society was lost, and that they should be degraded in the eyes of their equals," they resolved to abide where they were.
THE DOLLS' RECEPTION AT REPUBLICAN HALL, THIRTY-THIRD
STREET, NEW YORK.—Drawn by Mrs. Jessie Shepherd.
This beautiful engraving will give our little readers an idea of an entertainment which is now being held in Republican Hall, Thirty-third Street, New York city, where, instead of grown people or children being the important personages, three hundred dollies are dressed up in magnificent toilets, waiting to receive the visits and admiration of their friends.
The dollies do not talk, with the exception of a few who say "Papa" and "Mamma"; but they are all arranged in groups representing beautiful pictures. Some of these have backgrounds of painted scenery, and all have appropriate surroundings to perfect the tableaux.
There are a "model school," with dormitory, school-room, and play-ground; a christening, with the minister and baby and a party of friends; a kitchen, with a whole family of darkies; a dozen children "coasting"; a real log-cabin, to be used as a baby-house; and last, and prettiest of all, the heroes and heroines of every nursery: Mother Goose and her children, dressed in costumes which the modern picture-books have made popular; Red Riding-hood, Polly Flinders, Bobby Shaftoe and the little lady he left behind him, Little Bopeep, Mistress Mary, Tom Tucker, Willy Boz, Tom, Tom, the Piper's son, and his audience, and a great many others.
Among such a vast number of dollies there are of course a great many babies. These are all placed in the "Nursery," where they are waited upon and attended by full-grown dolls, dressed neatly, and with pretty little nurses' caps. Everything is provided in the way of cradles, rattles, and baby-jumpers for these very little folks, and they are so well cared for and amused that their papas and mammas, who are busy taking part in the tableaux, need have no concern about them.
Taking it altogether, the exhibition is a pleasant place to visit. The dolls are all well dressed, and will be sold at prices which, by comparison, are not unreasonable; but they will not be removed from their places in the tableaux until after the exhibition is concluded.
And now for the object. Several years ago a half-dozen young ladies set to work to raise three thousand dollars to build a little cottage somewhere on the sea-shore, which might afford a comfortable summer home to such of the children as were able to bear removal from the Children's Hospital, on Thirty-fourth Street and Ninth Avenue. This institution is managed by the Sisters of St. Mary, an Episcopal sisterhood, and so well managed that the ladies wished to place the little summer home also in their care.
The three thousand dollars was raised long ago; but the project grew, as such things will, and the house which was built last spring cost, with the land, about nine thousand dollars. It is situated on Rockaway Beach, between the large new hotel and Far Rockaway, and will accommodate about forty children. Some of those who are taken from the hospital will remain all summer; others will go for ten days or two weeks. In this way the ladies hope to give health and pleasure to a great many poor little children, who must otherwise suffer in tenement-houses all summer.
The home will be called "St. Mary's by the Sea." It will be opened early next summer, and the inmates will be very glad to receive a visit from any of their friends who are interested in the work.
If the name of the author of Pinafore were as widely known as is his work, William S. Gilbert would be one of the most celebrated of living persons. This gentleman, to whom we owe that delightful comic opera, is forty-five years of age, and a lawyer by profession, though he does not now practice law. Unlike "Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B.," Mr. Gilbert does not "stick close to his desk," but does "go to sea." In fact, he wrote a great deal of Pinafore on board the yacht Pleione, of which he is the owner and captain, and doubtless "a right good captain, too." He has a companion who never leaves him, whose name is Roy. Roy, of course, is a dog, and besides being a dog he is also a capital sailor, for his master never goes to sea without him.
It must not be supposed that when Mr. Gilbert and his friend Arthur Sullivan have finished their opera, and placed it in the theatre manager's hands, their work is done. If you were to call at Mr. Gilbert's house while an opera is in preparation at the theatre, you might find him in his library, with two or three other persons, having a private performance on their own account.
These are actors who have proved themselves so dull in learning the business of their parts that, rather than have the performance injured by poor acting, the author is giving them private instruction. For besides being the inventor and author of Pinafore, the Pirates, and Patience, Mr. Gilbert designs all the costumes and scenery, drills the actors, and is as particular about everything on the stage being ship-shape as if he were really the captain of a man-of-war.
In addition to the operas named above, Mr. Gilbert has written The Sorcerer, and Trial by Jury, several plays, and The Bab Ballads, a book of most delightful nonsense. It may seem an easy thing to make people laugh, but the author of Pinafore really works very hard. It is pleasant to think, however, that hard work agrees with him, for it certainly does not spoil his good-humor.
We have a little fairy,
Who flits about the house,
As gleeful as a cricket,
As quiet as a mouse.
She brings papa his slippers,
She runs up stairs and down,
The dearest little fairy
In all the busy town.
here had been a very good reason why neither Steve Harrison nor Murray came back with the Lipan braves who were sent to bring home the game. They had been preparing to do so, when they were summoned into the presence of To-la-go-to-de.
"No Tongue is a great hunter," said the dark-browed leader as they came forward. "Cougar, big-horn, deer all good. Apache heap better."
"That's what I came for."
"Go find them. Eat a heap. Take Yellow Head. Go all night."
"Any warriors go with me?"
"No. Maybe Apache dog see you. See pale-faces, and not think of Lipans. Dress Yellow Head. Wash off paint."
It was a genuine stroke of Indian war cunning. The two pale-faces were to act as scouts in the advance. If the Apaches should happen to see them, their presence would not suggest the dangerous nearness of a band of hostile Indians.
It may be the wise old chief added to himself that if both of them were killed on their perilous errand, the loss to his tribe would be of less consequence than that of two full-blooded Lipans. His pride of race would prevent his admitting that he had no brave in his band who[Pg 75] was as well fitted to follow and find Apaches as was No Tongue.
"Now, Steve, we must eat all we know how, and then I'll fix you."
It had not harmed the young hunter in the opinion of his red friends that he had been unable to conceal his delight at the prospect before him.
"Young brave," they said, with approving nods. "Glad all over. Make good warrior some day."
He was indeed "glad all over"; but Murray cautioned him by a look, and he said nothing.
He was almost too glad to eat, but his appetite came back to him while he and Murray were cooking. He had eaten nothing since morning, and mountain air is a very hungry sort of air.
"That's right, my boy. There's no saying when you may get your next square meal. There's hard work before you and me, and plenty of it."
The next thing that came to Steve was a surprise.
Murray had never worn paint or adopted any more of Indian ways than he could help, but it was a wonder how soon he made himself look like a white man. There was more in the pack on his spare pony than Steve had imagined.
A few minutes' work with a pair of small scissors made a remarkable change in his hair and beard, and then the long locks of Yellow Head himself had to suffer.
"Go and scrub off every spot of paint, while I'm rigging my hunting shirt and leggings. You won't know me when you come back."
That was saying a little too much, but To-la-go-to-de himself expressed his admiration. He had seen wilder-looking white men by the hundred among the border settlements. No eyes in the world would suspect No Tongue of being a Lipan.
The transformation in Steve's appearance was shortly even greater, for Murray was able to furnish him with a "check" shirt and a black silk neckkerchief.
"Buckskin trousers'll have to do, my boy. No boots in camp; but I can knock the wrinkles out of this headpiece for you."
It was a black felt hat, and not very badly worn. Murray himself always wore one, but the supply had not been good enough for a long time to allow Steve to do the same.
"Now, Steve, I'm going to make old Two Knives give you the best mount in camp. Good as mine."
Such a war party never carries any slow horses with it, but there were some better than others, and the chief was as anxious as Steve that his scouts should be well mounted. Otherwise they might not be able to get back to him with any information they might pick up.
"Plenty of ammunition, Steve. Never mind any other kind of baggage, except some jerked meat. We may have to live on that."
There was no need for To-la-go-to-de to urge them. Not a minute was thrown away in their rapid preparations, and then the whole band turned out to see them ride away.
"I tell you what, Steve," said Murray, "we're not dressed in the latest fashion, but I haven't felt so much like a white man for years. I'll act like one too."
There was a flash of pain in his eyes as he said that. Could it be he had ever done anything unworthy of his race and training?
Perhaps, for he had ridden on a great many war-paths with the fierce and merciless Lipans.
The latter would not follow till morning, and would move less rapidly than their two scouts, but their progress was not likely to be at all slow.
Steve Harrison rode on by the side of his friend for some distance without saying a word.
"What's the matter, Steve?"
"Murray, I don't mean ever to go back to the Lipans."
"Not unless it's necessary."
"It won't be necessary."
"Can't say, Steve. All this country's full of Apaches. We may get a sight of 'em any minute. I don't much care how soon we do, either."
"I'm not Indian enough for some things, Murray."
"Couldn't you fight Apaches?"
"I suppose I could, if they came to fight me. But I don't want to kill anybody. I thought you said you were feeling more like a white man."
"Steve, I don't know how I'd feel if I had a white shirt on, and a suit of civilized clothes. I'm a good deal of a savage yet, as it is."
"I never saw anything very savage about you."
"I'm on the war-path now, Steve, after my old enemies. Let's make as good time as we can before dark. After that, we'll have to go carefully till the moon's up."
They were advancing a good deal more rapidly than the Apaches had been able to do over that same pass, hindered by their long train of tired pack-ponies, and their women and children.
It was not a difficult trail to follow, for the lodge-pole ends, dragging on the ground, had so deeply marked it that a man like Murray could have found it in the dark.
That was precisely what he did, after the sun sank behind the western mountains, and the deep shadows crept up from the ravines and covered everything.
After the moon rose it was easier work, and Steve thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than was the moonlight on the quartz cliffs, and the forest, and the little lakes in the deep valleys, and on the foaming streams which came tumbling down the mountain-sides from the regions of perpetual snow above.
Perhaps he was right, for hardly anybody has ever seen anything more beautiful in its way than such a moonlight view as that.
There was no time to stop and gaze, for Murray pushed on as fast as possible without using up their tough and wiry mustangs.
"We may need all the legs they've got to-morrow, Steve. We must find grass and water for them before daybreak."
It was a good three hours before sunrise, and the moon had again left them in darkness, when they almost groped their way down a steep declivity into a small hollow.
"Can't say how much there is of it, Steve, but this'll do. The Apache ponies have been cropping this very grass within twenty-four hours. Look at that."
"I can't see it very well."
"Feel of it, then. Don't you understand such a sign as that?"
"It's only a tuft of grass."
"Yes, but I found it ready pulled off, and it hasn't had time to more than wilt a little. The man that pulled it was here yesterday."
Murray did not know it, but no man had pulled that grass. It was a bunch Ni-ha-be had gathered for her pony, and then had thrown at Rita. Still, the guess about the time of it was nearly right, and that was a good enough place to rest in until daylight.
"No cooking this morning, I suppose?" remarked Steve, when Murray shook him out of the nice nap he had snatched, wrapped in his "serape," or Mexican blanket. "No breakfast, eh?"
"You don't know what tales a smoke might tell, or to whom it might tell 'em. Cold meat'll have to do for this time, and glad to get it. After that, Steve, you'll do the most dangerous riding ever you did."
"Why, are they so near?"
"Can't be many miles. Our first hunt, though, will be for a place to hide our horses in."
"Why not leave 'em here?"
"I thought of that, but we may need 'em."
Their morning ride was a longer one than Murray imagined, but before noon he was able to say,
"The backbone of the pass is miles behind us, Steve. All the rest of the way'll be down hill, or kind of up and down."
"Up and down" it was; but they had barely advanced another half-mile before Steve exclaimed,
"There they are, Murray!"
"There they are. What a valley it is, too! But, Steve, they don't mean to stay there—"
"'A SPY-GLASS! I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD ONE.'"
"A spy-glass! I didn't know you had one. How do you tell that they won't stay?"
"The glass? It's a double one. Some army officer owned it once, I suppose. I got it of old Two Knives himself. Nobody knows how it came to him. Look through it."
Steve had seen such things before, but had known very little about them. He did not even know how very good a glass that was with which he was now peering down upon the camp of the Apaches.
"See the lodge-poles lying there? In a dozen places?"
"They've put up some lodges."
"If they meant to stay, they'd put up the others. No use for us to go back. The Lipans are coming along."
"But how can we get any further? We can't ride right through them."
"I should say not. Nor over them, either. But if we can get into that pine forest over there on the north slope, without being seen, we can ride around them."
"I'll risk it, Murray."
"So will I, Steve. I'd never let you try a thing like that alone."
"I could do it."
"Perhaps. And you'll have a good many things of that kind to do before you reach the settlements; but I guess I'll go with you this time."
"You'd better go with me all the way."
Murray said nothing, but he sprang from his horse, and Steve imitated him.
Men on foot were not so likely to be seen from the Apache camp.
There was nothing in or about the camp which Murray did not carefully study through his glass, and it showed him what was going on more clearly and perfectly than even the wonderfully keen black eyes of Ni-ha-be had seen it from almost the same spot the day before.
"It's a hunting camp, Steve, but it's a very strong party."
"Too strong for our Lipans?"
"I don't know about that. If we could surprise them, by night, we might do something with them."
"I'm no Lipan, Murray. None of those people down there ever did me any harm. Did they ever do you any? I don't mean any other Apaches; I'm just speaking of that camp."
"Well, no, I'm not sure about that. I don't know that I've any special grudge against this lot."
"Seems to me it's a good deal like an Indian to kill one man for what another man did. I'm only a boy, and I've been among the Lipans three years, but I've made up my mind to stay white."
Steve spoke with a good deal of energy, and his robust form seemed to stand up straighter.
"You're right, Steve—don't you do a thing that isn't fit for your color. I won't say anything more about myself just now."
If anybody had been listening to those two that morning, or indeed at any other time, he might have noticed something curious about the way Steve Harrison talked. It was not to be wondered at that a veteran like Murray should be slow of speech, and it suited well with his white hair and his wrinkles.
There was a good reason for it. Except when talking with Murray, Steve had not heard a word of English for three years.
Yes, there had been one other exception. Whenever he had found himself all alone, he had talked to himself, asking and answering questions, and listening to his own pronunciation of the words.
"I shall get among white men some day," he thought, "and it would be a dreadful thing to be white myself and not to talk white. Anyhow, I've learned Mexican Spanish since I've been out here, and I'll be glad enough to forget all I know of Indian talk."
He did not know it, but some things he said sounded ten years older and wiser just for his manner of saying them. Besides, he had had to think a great deal, and to keep most of his thoughts to himself. Not a great many boys do that.
"Come on, Steve. That ledge isn't badly broken. Horses can follow it, and it heads away right into the pine forest. We must try it."
"We can get almost down into the valley without being seen."
"Yes, and we can find out if any good gap opens out of the valley to the northward."
Fig. 1.—KNITTED AND CROCHET MITTEN.
Now that Thanksgiving is over, the little folks are of course beginning to think about Christmas. And how many presents there are to make! And what are they to be?
The question is so bewildering that we know some of our girl readers will be glad to receive a suggestion. Who will make a warm pair of mittens for some cold pair of little hands? If the following directions are only followed, there will be no trouble:
Fig. 2.—DETAIL OF MITTEN.
These mittens are worked with white zephyr worsted and steel knitting-needles of suitable size. The knitted part is all plain, with the exception of a round of holes, through which is run a cord finished with balls. The cuff is crocheted in Afghan stitch, and is set on the mitten. For the mitten make a foundation of 36 stitches; close these in a ring, and knit, always forward, as follows: 1st and 2d rounds—all knit plain. 3d round—all purled. 4th round.—Always alternately throw the thread over, knit two stitches together. 5th round—like the 3d round. 6th to 50th rounds—all knit plain. But for the thumb gore in the 7th round widen 1 stitch on each side of the first stitch, working 1 knit, 1 purled, on each stitch before and after this stitch. In the 10th, 13th, 16th, 19th, and 21st rounds work one widening in a straight direction above the widening in the preceding round, the number of stitches between the widenings increasing by 2 in each round. In the 22d round take up the stitch of the gore and the stitches on both sides on separate needles, and finish the thumb in 12 rounds, working always forward. In the last 4 rounds close the thumb, narrowing three times, one above another, in a straight direction, at regular intervals, and work off the remaining 3 stitches together. Lay on the thread anew at the main part, and finish the mitten, narrowing in the last 8 of the 50 rounds four times at regular intervals, one above another, in a straight direction, so that in the last round all the stitches are used up. For the cuff, worked crosswise, make a foundation of 9 stitches, and on these work 3 pattern rows in Afghan stitch. The 4th pattern row is worked on the lower vertical veins of the pattern row before the last, and thus becomes raised. The 6th pattern row is worked on the third, and the 6th on the 5th pattern row. Repeat always the 4th to 6th pattern rows until the cuff is of suitable width. Join the stitches of the last pattern row with the foundation stitches, and edge the cuff with 1 round as follows: * 1 single crochet on the first edge stitch between the next 2 pattern rows, 4 chain stitches, 1 single crochet on the fifth following vein below, 4 chain stitches, 1 slip stitch on the first of the 4 chain stitches before the last, 4 chain stitches, and repeat from *; finally, 1 slip on the first single crochet in this round.
Bubble, bubble, bubble,
For the little babies;
Good oatmeal and milk,
Fit for lords and ladies.
Jenny, set the table
With the spoons and dishes:
Soon my bonnie bairnies
Shall have all their wishes.
Take your places, children;
Keep the table steady.
Are your aprons fastened?
Are your dishes ready?
And such hungry children
No doubt will want double;
So, good pot, keep boiling,
Bubble, bubble, bubble.
Some of our little friends seem to have the impression that there is a charge made for publishing letters in this Post-office Box, and that theirs will be published if they send the money to pay for them. This is a mistake which we wish to correct. No charge is made for either the letters or exchanges we publish in this department. But even with the enlarged space now devoted to our young correspondents, we can print only a selection from the thousands of letters we receive. If we were to leave out all the bright stories and droll rhymes and all the instructive articles, and make up Harper's Young People of letters only, we are sure our boys and girls would protest against such a proceeding. We want them to understand that we are trying to make the very best Post-office Box that we can, and if the first little letter they send does not find a niche, they must wait awhile, and then write a second, and a third.
Scholars in the Latin class must adopt "Dum spiro, spero" as their motto, and pupils who have not yet begun Latin may take four little letters, H O P E, for theirs.
Please, when you write to us on business, be careful to sign your names in full, and give also your full post-office address. Do this in every case.
Continue to be patient, even if your exchanges do not appear. If only you knew how fast the exchanges come crowding in, you would understand why it is that we must keep some of them lying in a pigeon-hole when we desire very much indeed to have them translated into type.
Fort Custer, Montana.
I am a boy thirteen years of age, and live on the Little Horn River, about ten miles from Custer's battle-field. We have quite a number of cattle and a few horses. There are a great many elk, deer, bears, buffaloes, wolves, and coyotes around here, though not so many as there were a few years ago. There were a great many Indians here in the spring. Two years ago the Crow scouts were encamping about five hundred yards from our house, and one morning about one o'clock the Sioux Indians came and stole all their ponies. They exchanged about one hundred shots, but no one was killed. The Crows all came over to our house, and were afraid to go back to their tents until daylight. Next morning several soldiers started in pursuit of the Sioux, and followed them for nearly three weeks before they overtook them. They then had a fight; the sergeant was killed, and they captured five Indians, and secured the stolen ponies. I have never been out of Montana. I have never seen a railroad car in my life.
I have two brothers and one sister, and a number of pets. My brothers hunt antelopes in the winter.
N. H. D.
Wissahickon, Pennsylvania.
I want to tell you about our bird Hensie. He is very cunning. He is a young canary-bird, and likes soaked cracker. One morning my aunt put a dry cracker in his cage. He took a piece of it in his bill, hopped upon his bath-tub, and dropped the cracker in the water. He watched it, and when it was soft, took it out and put it on the floor of his cage, and began eating it. He has done this several times since then. He tries very hard to sing, and imitates the notes of the other canary-bird.
Robbie S. S.
Bound Brook, New Jersey.
I live on the bank of the Raritan River. Am eight years old, and have a nephew fifteen years old, who shot six wild-ducks the other day. I had nine pigeons, but they all went away except two. We had a dog named Duke, and a man shot him. This is the first time I have written to Harper's Young People. A friend of mamma's in Brooklyn has sent it to us ever since it was published. There are lots of robins around here. Give my respects to Jimmy Brown.
Paul Q. O.
Chimacum, Washington Territory.
I live in a lovely valley surrounded by high hills and mountains. It is a very pleasant place in summer, but very dreary in winter, as nothing can then be seen except snow in every direction. The nearest town is called Port Townsend; it is about ten miles from here. The Coast Range of mountains looms up in the west, and they are really magnificent when the sun shines on them. There is quite a large creek flowing through my father's farm, from which we get large speckled trout. Many people come from the towns to fish in the summer. There is a smelting furnace at the "Beach," two miles from here, where iron ore is melted. The place is called Irondale, and is the nearest post-office to this valley. There is a great amount of bog ore in this valley, and as it is only a foot below the surface of the ground, it is easily mined.
Barton R.
Dear Santa Claus,—Will you please give me a drum for a Christmas present? I won't drum with it in the house, and I'll let my brothers drum too. Papa said if I wrote to Harper's Young People, maybe you would see it, and send me one. I am seven years old, and my name is Hammond W. I live in Monticello, Sullivan Co., N. Y.
Papa has taken Young People for us for two years, and this year it is mine. Please put this in, so I can get the drum.
Hammond W.
My brother and myself have a little pony that is real cunning. I was riding the other day, and a boy threw a snow-ball at her, and she ran after him just as fast as she could go, and he had to jump over a fence. The pony throws me off every time she gets a chance. I put my arm out of joint a few months ago, and it is not strong yet. I have a trapeze and some parallel rings. I can perform a great many tricks. The water is nearly as high now as it was in the spring. I was in Milwaukee a few weeks ago, and I saw the place where Matthew Carpenter was buried, but did not go near it. I tried to ride the bicycle that my brother rides, and I don't want to try again. I have a collection of 950 stamps, and I will exchange rare stamps, such as New Zealand, Servia, etc., for rare stamps and coins.
C. B. Bird, Jefferson, Wis.
Apollo, Pennsylvania.
I am a boy just twelve years old. My brother takes Young People for Blanche and me, on condition that we shall not read novels. We are having a new iron bridge, which will be free, built across the river at this place. They have four piers built, and still have one more, besides the two abutments, to finish. We used to pay toll across the old bridge, which was carried away when the ice came down the river last spring.
We have good coasting here in winter, as this is only a little country town of about fifteen hundred inhabitants. Our school re-opened in September, and will be in session six months.
I have three sisters and four brothers. Paul, the youngest, is a chubby little fellow of two.
A. Lincoln C.
Colfax, California.
In Young People No. 103 I saw a letter from Augusta C., South Glastenbury, Connecticut. This young lady says she hates cats. I should judge that she never had any. I disagree with her entirely. Almost any cat, if fed well and petted, will make as affectionate a little pet as one can desire. I have had a great many cats. When I was a little girl, about five or six years old, I had a very nice pussy, which I named Rose. She was exceedingly good and gentle, and would allow me to dress her in my doll's clothes, and rock her in my toy cradle. I have a very pretty kitten now. She is black, with dainty white paws, and great sleepy yellow eyes. She is very gentle and loving, and purrs loudly whenever I fondle her. I have named her Niketa. I hope Miss Augusta will see that she is mistaken in saying that all cats are treacherous, and "care for nothing but their own comfort." I know of many cases where cats have displayed their love for human beings.
Jeannie K. P.
Emmetsburg, Iowa.
My little brother is off with papa in the country, and I hope you will publish my letter so that I can surprise him, as I am going to keep it secret. I am almost seven, and can ride nicely. We have a pony named Bonny, and I have been riding all day; three of us little ones ride at the same time, and sometimes four, but not far. I had a cat named Fannie, and we had to have her killed this morning, for she had an awful spasm. We had three pet lambs, Gypsy, Topsy, and Flirt, but we have sent them to the farm for the winter. Mamma is writing for me. "Good-night, and pleasant dreams."
Daisy O.
Neenah, Wisconsin.
I am a little boy seven years old. I have a dog named Rover. I go to school to my auntie. I have no sister nor brother here, but I have two little sisters in heaven. My mamma gave me an express wagon. I am going to take Young People until I am a big man.
Allie Harwood L.
Newark, New Jersey.
I go to the public school, and take advantage of all that my teacher tells us. We have a very good teacher; her name is Miss H. The boys and girls saved their pennies and bought pictures, etc., to decorate our room. Do you not think that it is nice to see that your room is the nicest room in the school? When we are through our lessons we can go to a table, which is called the reading-table. Here you can find story-books of all kinds, and among these is Harper's Young People. On the same table you can also find cubes, scales, measures, weights, etc. We are all the time saying, If we only could see something about our school! and I hope that you will print this in the Post-office Box. We will visit Harper's Young People one of these days.
Is this written plain enough?
C. F. K.
Written so plainly that tired eyes were rested when they read it. It is a splendid idea to have that reading-table in your class-room.
Athens, Georgia.
I am nine years of age. I have a pet cat, and her name is Beauty, and I have a dog whose name is Rex. I have a sister older than myself; she is ten years of age. I go to school to Miss Fannie A. I like her very well, although she sometimes scolds. I have an uncle who sends us the Young People. I liked "All-Hallow-eve" very much. My sister Hallie has a pet dog, whose name is Flirt. She is so timid that if you go in the yard with a stick, and make believe that you are going to whip her, she will get down on her stomach, and keep right still until you go away. I think this is long enough, so good-by.
Your friend,
Annie H.
Woodside, near Lincolnton, North Carolina.
I wish again, my dear young friends, to thank you for the books, papers, and the box of things for the Christmas tree that have come since I wrote to you last. I am so glad you keep sending them, for I find so many who need them, and to whom they will do so much good. We have some money, and will begin having the lumber for the school-house hauled to the mill to be sawed very soon now—as soon as the men sow their wheat and get in their corn. The parcels I have received have been from Miss Emma Joiner, Easton, Md.; Miss Julia Langden, Elmira, N. Y.; Rev. David Strang, Lincoln, Tenn.; Mrs. E. A. Clark, Battle Creek, Mich.; Miss Maria McRene Suydam, Newark, N. J.; Miss Mary O'Neil, Miss Clara Copeland, Miss Harper, Miss Millie Glover, Miss Hattie Burgess, Miss Cora Cote, Miss Livia Mandeville, Miss Grace Webb, Miss Etta Coulter, and Miss Hattie Plinney, Rochester, N. Y.; Miss Mary Harkell, Weathersfield, Vt.; Master Charles Graff, Harlem, New York City; Miss Carrie Yardley, Lockhaven, Penn.; Mrs. Harrison, Walnut Creek, Col.; Mrs. P. A. Harrison, Dewbury, Barry County, Mich.; Miss McFarland and Mrs. Snyder, Paxton, Ill.; Miss Miriam Oliver, Milwaukee, Wis.; Master Paul Krughoff, Nashville, Ill.; Master N. B. Blunt, Lexington Avenue, New York City; Miss Annie Wetzell, Grand Rapids, Mich.; Master George R. Hitchcock, Champlain, N. Y.; Miss Helen Woodworth, 268 Ryerson Street, Brooklyn, N. Y.; Master Walter Anderson, Nashville, Ill.; Mrs. S. B. Bortwick, South Amboy, N. J.; Miss Ethel and Master Vivian Ketchum, Augusta, Ill.; Miss Minna Mandeville, Kinderhook, N. Y.: Miss M. D. L., Madison, N. J.; Miss Corinne Redden, Master Bertie Ellis, and Miss Winnie Needles, Nashville, Ill.; Miss Slack, Bristol, Penn.
Our school keeps growing, and now numbers fifty-six. They are learning very well indeed. They are now learning on Saturday afternoons a carol to sing at Christmas! Not many can read; they have to learn the words orally. They catch the tune very quickly. They are looking forward with so much pleasure to the expected tree at Christmas. I wish I could tell you what a happy time it will be for them all, and how often I wish that you could all spend a Sunday with us, and see how pleased they are to be learning. We do—all of us who teach them—thank you so much for your kind and generous help! I will write you all about the tree after Christmas. Truly your grateful friend,
Mrs. Richardson.
Jacksonville, Illinois.
The Editor said that we little girls must write about our dolls, so I thought I would. I have not seen any letters from this place. I must begin to write about my dolls. I have seven baby dolls—Lillie (a wax one), Daisy, Phœbe (she is wax too), Mattie, Ludie, Boneby, and last a little doll, not an inch long, called Neil. I had four birds, and they all died; three doves and five cats, and they all ran away or were killed. I now have a white and black cat. Mamma drives a spirited horse, and we all make a great pet of him.
Grace A. M.
Newark, New Jersey.
I am a little girl six years old. My brother takes Harper's Young People, but I love to read it, and I read it all myself. I like to read the letters best. I have been reading since I was four years old, and we have had Young People from the first, and on rainy days we get the numbers out and look them all over. We have two dogs named Beaut and Snooze. Snooze has a "bobtail." I have a black cat, with a few white spots, named Harry, and when I take him up he puts his two paws around my neck, as though he wanted to love me. He never scratches or acts ugly to me. I have three dolls, named Fannie, Bessie, and Nellie. I have a cousin Anna, just my size, and we play together often. I go to Sunday-school every Sunday, and learn the Golden Text; then I get a pink ticket for saying it, and when I have four pink tickets, I get a pretty floral card for them.[Pg 79] I study at home with mamma. I can read, spell, and cipher, and now I am learning to write. I hope to see my letter in Young People. Mamma is writing this letter for me, but I told her what to write. Your friend,
Hattie C.
Weymouth, Massachusetts.
I have a hen-house of my own, and I am going to keep hens this winter. I have fifteen brown Leghorns and a rooster. I have made a silo, and filled it with sorrel for them to eat in the winter. If any of the boys who read Young People keep hens, I would like to hear from them. I have a cat that weighs thirteen pounds. I am eleven years old.
H. Everett C.
Fairview, Louisiana.
I am a little Southern girl nine years old. My grandpa has taken Harper's publications as long as my mamma can remember, and has taken Young People for me ever since it came out. I have never been to a school, as there is none near us. I said my lessons to a Northern lady who was visiting her sister last year for four months, and she taught me all I know about writing. I say my lessons to mamma now. I think Young People is splendid. I live on a plantation about a mile from the Mississippi River. When it is high, we can read the names of the boats. It seems so strange to read about snow up North, when we have not had a frost. We have geraniums growing in the yard, and plenty of roses in bloom. We have nine pecan-trees; they are full of pecans. I have four dolls, and lots of play-things. Bob, Buddy, and I have a play-house under the grape-vine. I like to play with dolls very much.
H. M. S.
Brooklyn, New York.
I have three tame turtles. I put them all in a row to see which one can go the fastest. But the two big ones have now made their way into the ground, and left the little one behind, and so I have helped the little one to make its way into the ground with the others. I have a lot of pigeons, and I have some chickens. We were going out to the woods to-day to get some autumn leaves and moss, but it rained, so I thought I would write a letter to you.
Jesse W. P.
Modie G.—Your friend who thinks the Editor of Young People writes the letters in Our Post-office Box is mistaken. If she could only see what a budget awaits the Editor every morning, she would open her eyes quite wide with amazement. We are glad you learn to recite the pretty poems which are printed in Young People.
Some of you are now and then puzzled and disappointed because your paper suddenly ceases to come to you on its usual day; you wonder what has happened to it. Let us tell you how to make such a provoking experience impossible. On the left-hand corner of the cover, just after the number of the volume, you will observe the number of the paper for the current week. Now look at the little printed label which bears your name, and on the right of your name you will perceive certain figures; they tell you the number of Harper's Young People with which your subscription will expire. Within a few weeks of that number's arrival, ask papa to please renew the paper for you, and it will then go on without an interruption.
Willie and Others.—Mud-turtles are managed during the winter just as land-turtles are; that is, given a tub of wet sand, and allowed to burrow there and go to sleep, as they do in the marshes where they live in freedom. You will find paragraphs about turtles in the Post-office Box of Nos. 5, 28, and 51, Vol. I.
So far as she can, the Postmistress answers questions and publishes letters in the order of their reception. Nobody need feel slighted if attention to him or her is deferred. The turn of each will come in time.
And now to reply to some of the inquiries which are winking their inquisitive eyes like animated interrogation points while the Postmistress puts on her thinking-cap:
What were the original Seven Wonders of the World? They were these: 1. The Pyramids of Egypt. 2. The Mausoleum built for Mausolus, King of Caria, by his queen Artemisia. 3. The Temple of Diana at Ephesus. 4. The Walls and Hanging Gardens of Babylon. 5. The vast brazen image of the sun at Rhodes, called the Colossus. 6. The ivory and gold statue of Jupiter Olympus, at Olympia. 7. The Pharos, or Watch-tower, built by Ptolemy Philadelphus at Alexandria. You will find it an interesting and profitable pursuit for the long winter evenings to read something about these Wonders in the pages of ancient history. These Wonders were given in the Post-Office Box of No. 61, Vol. II., but we repeat them for the benefit of the C. Y. P. R. U.
I am asked why the capital of France was called Paris. It derives its name from the Parish, a tribe of aborigines whom Cæsar met and defeated in his conquest of Gaul. This tribe occupied the island in the Seine on which the famous Cathedral of Notre Dame stands.
Dear Postmistress,—Can I do anything toward beautifying our ugly, old-fashioned parlor? It is covered with a horrid red and green Brussels carpet, an abomination to artistic eyes. The family photographs, in lozenge-shaped frames, adorn the walls, and the furniture is hopelessly hideous. Can you suggest anything? Don't mention Japanese fans or banners; mother wouldn't tolerate them. Don't speak of unbleached muslin curtains; they wouldn't be given house room. But do tell me how I can make the room look livable, for that is just what it does not look at present. An old school-mate is coming to visit me next month, and I blush to own it, but I am ashamed to have her see our dreadful parlor.
Harriet L.
The carpet and pictures, as you describe them, are discouraging. But people must do the best they can under the circumstances which are theirs. One of the pleasantest parlors I ever saw had a rag-carpet on the floor, and a map of the United States, bordered by the heads of the successive Presidents, on the wall. In the first place, keep your parlor resplendently clean; don't permit the suspicion of dust or the trail of stray shreds and thread on the too brilliant carpet. Admit the sunshine and air every day. Fill the windows with plants—blooming plants, if possible, but green, growing ones at all events. Fill a glass globe with sprays of tradiscanthia, which grows rapidly in water, and set that on the middle of the table. Bring your choicest books, and put them where visitors can read them. "Bread of flour is good; but there is bread, sweet as honey, if we would eat it, in a good book, and the family must be poor indeed which, once in their lives, can not for such multipliable barley loaves pay their baker's bill." I do not know why I think so, but I am very sure that you have some books in your house; and believe me, nothing furnishes a room more beautifully than a few books. I do not admire fans and screens very much myself, and I am no friend to curtains and tidies and such things, unless one has plenty of time to care for them. But you have doubtless a large, old-fashioned sofa. Make a generous-looking pillow to invite the weary head, and put it at one end of the sofa, and at the other lay a gay patchwork quilt. Study harmony, and even in an ugly room harmony will evolve a certain degree of beauty. Every parlor should aim at some high effect. The key-note of your aim should be comfort, and comfort carried to its ultimate superlative is luxury.
The only way I know of to make a room look livable is to live in it. Sit in your parlor every day. Gather the household there every evening. Don't be ashamed of the friendly, familiar faces on the walls, nor, indeed, suffer in yourself any shame of any honest thing that belongs to you or yours, your home or your environment. So advises the Postmistress.
We are indebted to the Rev. A. B. Russell, of Cumberland Furnace, Dickson County, Tennessee, for the following interesting item illustrating the reasoning power of animals. Necessity is the parent of invention, and even a hog, it seems, can do something which resembles thinking:
We passed a full-grown hog with a cob usually in its mouth, especially when lying down, to enable it to breathe well, it having had its nose torn off at the extremity, some months ago, by a ferocious dog, to which I was witness. An instance of the reasoning of animal mind.
To Bronze Plaster or Soapstone Figures.—Give them a sizing of glue; rub them down with a piece of flannel. Take equal parts of Prussian blue, spruce ochre, and verditer, and mix with water, oil, or turpentine, each separately; then mix together so as to produce the shade desired. Apply with a small brush.
L. M. E.—There are several excellent agricultural colleges in the Eastern States. Among them are the State College of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts, at Orono, Maine; the Massachusetts Agricultural College, at Amherst; New Hampshire College of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts, at Hanover; College of Agriculture, in connection with Cornell University, at Ithaca, New York; Pennsylvania State College, Centre County, Pennsylvania; and State Agricultural College, at Burlington, Vermont. At any of these a student may be sure of the conditions which you mention.
The members of the C. Y. P. R. U. will find in this number the conclusion of "The Wreck of the Grosvenor" to which we called their attention last week, and an article of great interest on the "Piano-forte," by Mrs. John Lillie.
In barter, not in sale.
In liquor, not in juice.
In umbrella, not in veil.
In either, not in choose.
In binding, not in wedge.
In island, not in ledge.
In rosy, not in pale.
In drooping, not in frail.
My whole are two favorite song-birds.
Elsie Fay.
| My first is the initial letter of a river in England. |
| My second is that of a city in Pennsylvania. |
| My third is that of a river in South America. |
| My fourth, of an island off the coast of Labrador. |
| My fifth is that of one of the States. |
| My sixth, that of a noted summer resort. |
| My seventh, that of a lake in Switzerland. |
| My eighth, of a lake in Minnesota. |
| My ninth, of a city in Austria. |
| My tenth, of one of the British isles. |
| My eleventh, of a branch of the Amazon. |
| My twelfth, of a city in Italy. |
| My whole is something you have lately enjoyed. |
Katie.
| My first is in mouse, but not in rat. |
| My second in kitten, but not in cat. |
| My third in stag, but not in deer. |
| My fourth is in milk, but not in beer. |
| My fifth is in stone, but not in sand. |
| And my whole is something that can not stand. |
Katie M.
1. A girl's name. 2. Death. 3. A token. 4. A mountain.
Phil I. Pene.
Behead a story, and leave a beverage. A boy's nickname, and leave a verb. Behead to annoy, and leave metal in its rough state. Behead a part of a tree, and leave the edge of a wall. Behead an animal, and leave a personal pronoun. The first letters of the beheaded words spell an indispensable article of furniture.
Maud B.
Burlington. Gentian.
Fox-hound.
| A | M | E | N | D |
| M | A | N | O | R |
| E | N | S | U | E |
| N | O | U | N | S |
| D | R | E | S | S |
| C | H | A | R | D |
| H | I | D | E | R |
| I | R | E | N | E |
| M | E | L | T | S |
| B | R | A | S | S |
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Jonas D. Cooper, Bertie Wheeler, Arthur Zinn, Nathan Glucksman, Belle Walrath, Maggie Cushing, William A. Lewis, "Lodestar."
The following are the names of the little folks who have succeeded in reproducing our artist's idea of Wiggle No. 22. We shall be glad if each will send us his or her address:
W. M. Duff, George Strauss, "Scamp," H. Hull, Sadie E. Lyon, Bessie S. Brown, L. H. Gibbs, "Tip," J. R., Peter B. Havenagh, J. A. H., Wilfred Hostetter, E. S. C. (aged six years), Arthur Beames, Carl Woodruff, and Gertie Davis.
[For Exchanges, see third page of cover.]
THE LAST OF THE THANKSGIVING FEAST.
I am brown or gray. I may be painted any color. Under some circumstances, I am very annoying to sensitive ears. As I make no sound, and am a fixture, so I can not annoy any one. My swift motion may give uneasiness to those unaccustomed to me, but as I am an act of mutilation performed by a person, which I am not, of course I can not stir. When in rapid motion, with all my equipments, I am a very pretty sight. To some, seeing me only suggests sickness and bitterness. I can't be seen, for I am intangible, and can only be heard. I can't be heard, for when I am done, no sound is heard, because I am an act, not a thing. I make no sound when in motion. Poems have been written in my honor. Many anathemas also have I excited, particularly from the sleepless. Yet I don't see how it is possible for me—colorless, brown, soundless, sharp, rasping, tasteless, bitter, motionless, vibrating, quiescent, gliding—to excite either pleasurable or the contrary emotions in any one. Absolutely valueless, save to my owner, I play an important part in commerce. I am an article of merchandise, and very expensive. A little of me goes a great way, and costs a great deal. I take up very little space. In spacious quarters I require a large amount of leeway. Large revenues are derived from me. I can be had for the taking, and generally am regarded as a nuisance. No one can like me, I am so disagreeable; yet to many I am the dearest thing they own. No owner would willingly part with me. I am a protection, a home, and, to crown all, I am vegetable, mineral, and medicinal.
The lady treads her lofty halls,
Her robes are long and fine,
And because of my first their velvet folds
With softest, lustre shine.
And when the revel and rout are done,
And the robes are laid away,
Again my first the lady takes
Through half the livelong day.
Through every land beneath the sun
Where Nature's touch we find,
It's never my last that's "more than kin."
Though always "less than kind."
The sweetest lips that e'er were kissed
Have to my whole been pressed:
It rests on the knees of feeble age,
On the infant's tender breast.
| He did not read his book, but ate a deal of cake. |
| And so, although he tried, he could not keep awake; |
| Thus fast asleep he fell, and very, very soon |
| He had a horrid nightmare, in the afternoon— |
| The table grew an elephant, the cake changed to a tiger, |
| And gobbled up his little self, who turned into a ni'ger. |
[1] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.
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1881, by Various
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