Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, February 21, 1882, by Various
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Title: Harper's Young People, February 21, 1882
An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Release Date: April 1, 2017 [EBook #54468]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE ***
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
| Vol. III.—No. 121. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, February 21, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
The voices went on, but Jesse's power of listening seemed gone. He had to clutch the ladder for support. What could he do?
It was clear to his mind that Bill had come back for some evil deed. What was it he had come to steal? Jesse shook with terror, but tried to remember just what Bill had said, and just where this hidden treasure lay. The cupboard to the right of the fire-place, under the floor. It was always locked, he knew that. Oh, if only he dared move!
The wind and rain seemed to make the most unearthly noises as poor little Jesse crept to the door and sped across the yard. There was no light in the old kitchen but that of the fire. At first he was glad of this; it seemed to protect him from Bill and his wicked companion. But on second thoughts he remembered that if they saw the house in darkness, they might conclude it safe to come in for their evil purpose; and so he lighted two candles, placing them on the table near the window. This done, he went to the cupboard door, and looking at it in perplexity and terror, wondered what he ought to do next.
His one distinct idea was that he must in some way save Miss Holsover's treasure, whatever it might be. He did not care how or with what he wrenched the cupboard door open; but when it fell back there was a new difficulty, and every sound outside seemed to increase his nervousness and dread.
Nothing of importance was on the shelves; but Bill had said under the floor. How could he move the flooring? Finally, taking the screw-driver he had used in forcing open the door, he put the edge of the instrument into the crack, and to his delight found that the old plank yielded.
He searched narrowly, and there, protected by a wooden box, lay a smaller one of tin, and a package tied with faded ribbon.
Jesse did not stop to look at what he had found. Blowing out his candle, he gathered them up as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, and then, with one hasty thought what to do, he rushed to the front door, and sped away in the darkness.
For the first few moments he had no definite idea of where he meant to go. His main thought was to get away from Bill, and save Miss Holsover's treasure.
Suddenly he thought of Mr. North, and turning down the lane by the cross-roads, he walked along toward his house as swiftly as possible. That there was money in the box he held, Jesse never doubted; but what the package contained was more mysterious. There were papers, and he could feel a frame and glass. But he did not even think what it might be. He was too worn out by excitement to have any clear ideas. The road ahead of him seemed endless, and so dark that it seemed as if he could never find his way.
But happily his long walks on Miss Holsover's errands stood him in good stead. He knew all the country for miles around, and had grown fearless from habit.
As he went along he thought with a pang of his preparations to leave the farm, and that perhaps no chance would come again when he would feel courageous enough to go.
Then another thought came. Suppose Miss Holsover refused to believe that Bill had meant to rob her cupboard, and asserted that the real thief was Jesse himself? This was more than likely, and the child shuddered, thinking of the result. Well, he knew he was doing his duty.
Poor, tired little Jesse! He looked up at the dark sky, and knew that beyond it there was One who always knew. Comfort came with the thought. He pushed on bravely, holding the box and package with a firmer grasp.
Mr. North had had his supper, and was sitting at his comfortable fireside smoking his pipe, while Mrs. North, in the little inside kitchen, was making a cheerful clatter with the supper dishes.
Suddenly their attention was arrested as by something falling against the outer door.
"What's that noise?" exclaimed the old lady.
"I don't know," Mr. North said, jumping up and putting down his pipe. He disappeared from the kitchen, and Mrs. North, accustomed to her son's always doing the right thing, quietly waited.
He was only gone two minutes, but he returned with a slower step. In his arms he bore Jesse's apparently lifeless figure. His poor garments hung wet about him—his face against Mr. North's rough coat was like some rain-washed, beaten-down white flower; but his thin little hands still clasped the "treasure."
"Why, Peter North!" exclaimed the old lady.
Mr. North slowly shook his head.
"Ef that thar old fiend has killed him," he whispered, solemnly, "I vow I'll hev her hung."
Very tenderly he deposited the child on the big soft lounge which stood not far from the fire-place, and it was not long before he and his mother had devised restoratives.
Mrs. North knew just what to do. She ran up stairs, and in a few moments a bright wood fire was crackling in the spare room, while she and her little servant Jenny aired sheets, and made a comfortable bed. Jesse was soon brought up stairs, and snugly tucked in.
Then after administering a hot drink, and bidding him go to sleep, the good lady went down to her son again.
He was standing before the fire, holding Miss Holsover's treasure in his hands. Jesse had contrived to make them understand what had happened at the farm, but something else was absorbing the good-hearted man.
"Mother," he said, "jest look here. These things are that child's. Look what's written on the package." And he handed it to Mrs. North. The old lady scanned it curiously. In a faded but delicate and refined hand was written the following:
"For my child Jesse. To be sent to my brother, Paul Martin, —— Beacon Street, Boston, July 6, 1865."
"I see through it all," said Mr. North. "That old skinflint has kep' 'em from him. Seems to me we ought to look to it that he never goes back."
Mrs. North looked at her son with moistened eyes.
"It's the Lord as sent him," she said, softly, and Mr. North bowed his head.
The sun was shining brightly St. Valentine's morning when Mr. North, leaving Jesse on the lounge near the fire, started for Boston.
Once in that city, he proceeded directly to the Beacon Street address. It was a quiet old-fashioned house on a corner, and on Mr. North's inquiry of the butler for Mr. Martin, he was told that that gentleman had been dead five years, but his widow lived there. So Mr. North was ushered into a beautiful room, full of books and pictures and quiet colors, to wait for the lady of the house.
In a few moments an elegantly dressed, gentle-looking lady came into the room, and good Mr. North turned to her, stammering out his story.
"How remarkable!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin. "I am sure it is my husband's nephew Jesse. Oh, if he had but lived to see this day! His sister Helen ran away from home to marry a young sailor, and she was never heard from again. This Miss Holsover must have known her. But why should she not have brought the child to us, when poor Helen so evidently desired it?"
Mrs. Martin opened the package eagerly. Within were several letters from Paul Martin to his sister, and one long one from Helen to her brother, which had evidently been written during her last illness. In it she spoke of having found board with Miss Holsover, to whom she had intrusted her valuable jewels and all her money and her poor little child, Miss Holsover promising to take all to Boston when she was dead.
"There is the secret," exclaimed Mrs. Martin, looking up from the letter with streaming eyes. "The wretched woman kept the jewels and money, and made the child her drudge. Oh, my poor little Jesse, if I can only find you!"
Mr. North had a sumptuous dinner before he and Mrs. Martin started out for B——. Then some time was devoted to making purchases for Jesse's comfort and convenience. Mr. North looked on in mute admiration while Mrs. Martin purchased a warm suit, a stylish little overcoat trimmed with handsome fur, and a warm seal cap, not to speak of shoes and stockings and all sorts of underwear.
Then they were on board the train, and whirling on toward B—— and Jesse.
It had not been a long day to the poor boy. He lay on the sofa, glad of the repose. As the twilight deepened, night and a snow-storm set in. Jesse watched the window, and listened eagerly for every sound of wheels; but he fell asleep before Mrs. Martin and Mr. North arrived, and awoke to find himself in his aunt's arms.
It was a blissful evening. Jesse was too weak to move; but he lay still, holding his new aunt's hands, and half crying with joy. Mr. North had gone over to the farm, and on his return brought the word that Miss Holsover refused to make any explanation, and declared herself well rid of a troublesome charge. A little threatening, however, induced her to give up the key of the tin box. In it were found the money and jewels which the miserly old woman had evidently been hoarding.
What became of Bill and his companion they never knew, and Mrs. Martin declared herself so happy to have Jesse that they could afford to forget the Holsovers forever.
It was about three years later, when Mr. and Mrs. North were spending the 14th of February at Mrs. Martin's house, that Jesse, a very different-looking person from the poor little waif of former times, put his hand on his first friend's shoulder, and, smiling, said,
"Mr. North, do you remember the day you gave me that lift?"
"Of course I do, Master Jesse," he answered, looking at the boy's bright, happy face as he stood near him. Then he glanced around the beautiful room, to which the handsomely dressed figure seemed so well adapted.
"Well," said Jesse, "you remember how you told me what valentines meant?"
"Now you speak of it, I believe I do."
"Don't you think I got mine?" the boy continued, gently. "And it was you who brought it to me, after all."
They did not speak for a moment; then the good-hearted man said, quietly: "No, my boy; it was you doing your duty. Instead of seeking to be revenged on that poor woman, who's in her grave now, you did what was right, and God sent you your valentine."
And Jesse, happy in his aunt's home, seeing his old friends often, cheering many lives, and being grateful for his blessings, brings new happiness and comfort to others with every year. And the sunshine of the present has put far into the past the night he left the lonely farm-house unconsciously carrying his first valentine.
A dear old friend of mine once showed me a fragment of manuscript music by John Sebastian Bach.
This bit of music was part of a gavotte; and as in this paper I mean to tell you Bach's story, and his special association with that quaint dance-music, I think we had better first see what the gavotte and the chaconne, the passacaille and the sarabande, mean. All of this music was popular in Bach's day.
In a French gallery there is a picture of splendidly dressed ladies and gentlemen dancing the gavotte. They wear the costume of the latter part of the seventeenth century. They have smiling faces, nourish large fans, and wear high-heeled slippers, which they lift gracefully; for the gavotte was a very brilliant dance in its movement.
The name came from a people in Dauphiny, known as Gavots. They danced it more wildly than the stately people of Louis's court; but the music of every gavotte seems to me to be best suited to them. One can fancy them on their village green clattering away to the quaint gay music, flinging their arms about, or beating time with their hands. But when the gavotte was introduced into the upper classes, and with it various other dances of the people, it became more refined, dignified, even more serious.
Bach wrote many gavottes, some singly, some in what are called suites, or sets of short pieces of music. Just now all who can play well at all are interested in this dance-music of the eighteenth century. It holds its own perhaps as much from the fact that its form is very generally classic as from its charming melodies.
It is always well, even for beginners, to understand the principle on which any kind of music is written. You will find your practicing much more interesting if you look deeper than the mere sounds. Suppose we take some simple gavotte, and examine into the way it is written. Here, for instance, is the first strain in one of Bach's most popular gavottes:
Now let us see what the few rules created for its composition are. They are these:
It must be in common time, which really means equal time, two or four beats to the bar, although the term is generally applied to that of four crotchets to the bar, marked by the Italian C.
The movement is rather quick, and it is generally in two parts. These parts are, in accordance with a custom peculiar to old dances, repeated.
Originally the gavotte consisted of four bars in the first part and eight bars in the second; but if the gavotte is only one of various parts of a suite, no fixed number of bars is given. Now, as a general rule, the gavotte begins on the third beat of the bar, so that you will see, if you calculate, that each part must finish with a half-bar containing a minim, not two crotchets.
I know that to many of my young readers this may sound very dull and useless; but if you will only give a little careful study to a few rules which apply to your first "pieces," lessons in real harmony and thorough-bass will seem much more interesting to you later on. The chaconne and the passacaille, the passaglia and the sarabande, are all dances of about the same period as the gavotte, and have certain governing principles. The chaconne is slow, and is usually written in the major key. This is always a semitone greater than the minor.
The passacaille is written in the minor key. What is called the theme[1] in the chaconne is invariably in the bass; in the passacaille it may be in any part. The passacaille has a very curious kind of interest, since in the last century composers made use of it to show their skill—what is known as contrapuntal skill. It must consist of a short theme of two, four, or eight bars. Bach, Frescobaldi, and Handel all wrote famous passacailles.
The sarabande is more stately in its movement. It was a popular dance in the sixteenth century, and some say it was introduced then by a famous dancer called Varatanda. I think that it might often have formed part of very picturesque scenes in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when people were full of a certain kind of poetry, and enjoyed whatever was splendid and stately. Sometimes dancers were hired to perform it; sometimes ladies and gentlemen of quality danced it for their sovereign.
Old songs are full of references to sarabandes as being danced at times when sadness or even deep regret filled the minds of the performers; so that we may picture it as a slow, pathetic movement, with melancholy and sweetness in its train.
And from these dances of olden time we come to a great name—to the story of a great man who wrote, amidst hundreds of finer things, the most exquisite gavottes, chaconnes, and passacailles that we know. I mean John Sebastian Bach.
In a certain part of Germany lived the Bach family, famous for generations for their musical ability. Finally we hear of one of them living in the quaint town of Eisenach, and having a little son named John Sebastian, who from his tiniest years glowed with musical fire. All the genius of that family seemed to have taken root in him, yet when his father died, his elder brother, with whom the boy lived, seemed to think it better for him not to study.
Well, little John Sebastian craved music. I fancy the house in Eisenach in the year 1695 was very dull. German children then as now were kept very strictly, and when the elder brother forbade music to the little boy, he did not know the pain he was inflicting.
YOUNG BACH COPYING MUSIC BY MOONLIGHT.
In the old house John Sebastian well knew that there was a rare old book of manuscript music, and this he longed to copy. It was hidden, locked away in a cupboard; but the door had a lattice-work panel in it, and so the child watched his opportunity, climbed up, and pulled the book through the lattice. But even then it was hard to know how to copy the music, since candles or lights were refused him. So he waited for moonlight nights, and on every one worked hard in his window, finally succeeding in copying the entire book. I have often thought of the picture of the dear little German boy working away in his old-fashioned room, the moonlight tenderly bathing his head and eager fingers, and the manuscript page on which he worked. How little he knew that two hundred years later all music-loving nations would reverence his name.
How he worked on with many trials, the usual ups and downs of an earnest life, I can only tell you briefly, but employment and leisure in which to compose came to him quite young in life, and he had the happiest kind of a domestic circle.
Bach was twice married, and his children inherited enough of his musical ability to make it a pleasure for him to instruct them. The young Prince of Anhalt-Cothen loved him so dearly that he could scarcely bear to be separated from him, and later he was given an important position at Leipsic.
One grief clouded his later years. From overwork in copying and writing music he became quite blind—a calamity which all his dear friends felt deeply. In 1750 he died suddenly.
Now in Bach's lifetime great progress had been made in piano-forte music. Among other things, he invented a new style of fingering. In Bach's day the thumb and little finger were rarely used. This he changed entirely, and our present ideas are due to his influence.
When I spoke of him as the composer of famous gavottes it was only because that form of composition is one which is peculiarly adapted to young students, which is now newly popular, and which he wrote with wonderful grace. But Bach, as you may hear later, filled the world with many grander sounds. They come in solemn majesty in his famous Passion Music. They come, filling the air with sweetness, in his many preludes and symphonies. They are in concertos and sonatas. Bach worked with his heart full of exaltation. About him was the court of Frederick the Great, of George II. in England. Piano-making was beginning to be a studied question. People saw the need of good music at home as well as in public. Bach passed through those years when piano-forte music was, you might say, on trial, well knowing what it might one day be.
Peace and gentleness were always about him. He was a kindly, keen, busy man, full of generosity and goodness, and he lived and died believing in the future of his art.
s Steve walked away with Red Wolf, Many Bears at once turned his attention to Murray, and the great affairs to be decided by the chiefs and councillors.
The chiefs and warriors whose fame and rank entitled them to such a privilege soon gathered for the expected "talk."
Murray found himself regarded as an honored guest. Not only were his hosts indebted to him for past favors, but they were anxiously expecting more.
At first he merely listened as brave after brave replied to the mention of his name. He saw that only the very gray-headed men had anything to say in favor of peaceful action, and a prompt "getting away."
He was even surprised at the ardor with which many of the warriors declared their eagerness for a blow at the Lipans, and the good reasons they were able to give.
The presence of the band of Two Knives was a sort of invasion of the Apache hunting grounds.
The Lipans had no business this side of the mountains. They had come to strike the Apaches, and if they should be allowed to get away unhurt, they would surely come again.
Send Warning had already told how many there were of them. If there were no more than that, none of them ought to be allowed to get away.
Murray could but think that a party of Apaches in the Lipan country would probably be talked about and dealt with very much in the same way, but it seemed to require a special effort for him to think at all.
His head had been in a sort of whirl for some minutes before the time when Many Bears turned suddenly upon him with the question:
"What Send Warning say? His head is very white."
Murray was muttering to himself at the moment, while Dolores handed her husband a stick with a piece of corn bread on the point of it. "She is not an Apache. She is a full-blooded Mexican. Yes, I've seen that woman before."
But the chief's inquiry startled him out of that train of recollection. He could not have answered instantly to save his life, but it was according to Indian notions that he should not speak too quickly, so he had time to recover himself.
"More enemies besides Lipans," he said at length. "Apaches better not forget pale-face miners."
"Ugh!"
The exclamation went all around the circle, for that was the very thing none of them had thought of.
"Pale-faces fight Lipans," remarked Many Bears.
"Is the great chief sure of that?" asked Murray. "Suppose they come all together. Apaches need more braves then. Suppose they fight each other first, then Apaches eat up all that are left. Great chief better find out."
"Ugh!"
It was a very loud grunt indeed to come from the throat of Many Bears, and the chiefs and braves looked at one another in a way that spoke a good deal for the value they set on the advice of their white friend.
Whipping sixty Lipans was one thing, attacking them with a strong force of pale-face riflemen to help them was quite another.
"What Send Warning say do?"
"Do?" almost sharply exclaimed Murray, with his eyes upon the retreating form of Mother Dolores. "I'll tell you. Send your whole camp across the river. They can surround it here. Then send out your best braves to watch for the Lipans. They'll attack you before morning. That's what they came for. They won't fight the miners."
He was partly right and partly wrong, but Many Bears and his chiefs rose to their feet as one man.
"The words of Send Warning are wise. He is very old, and he is a chief. No use talk any more. All braves go and eat a heap. Tell squaws bring up all ponies. Get ready to cross river. No lose time."
Murray was not a "general," and he had never studied war, but he knew it would be a good thing to have deep water between that camp and any assailants, instead of behind it. Many Bears was a chief of great experience, but it had never occurred to him that it would cost him all his horses if he should be beaten in a fight with a river behind him. The blunder was to be remedied now with a rapidity which astonished even Murray, for he had not known how good a ford there was right there.
"Hope the Lipans won't find that out," he said to himself. "They'll think twice before they try to swim their horses. I've given these fellows good advice. May prevent[Pg 262] a battle. But if one should come, how could I fight the Lipans? What am I doing in an Apache camp anyhow? Steve and I must make haste out of this." And then a puzzled, pained, anxious look came over his wrinkled face, and he seemed to be looking around him very wistfully indeed, as if he wanted to see somebody. "Not to-night, perhaps; but I'll see her again in the morning. Steve and I must get away to-morrow. It'll be easy enough to give him his directions, and I can find Two Knives and his braves in a few hours."
As the deepening gloom of the evening settled slowly down, he stood beside Many Bears on the bank of the river, and watched the young braves drive in the last squads of ponies from their pasturage, and urge them across the ford. He had no idea how much quiet fun Steve and his friend Red Wolf had already enjoyed. The squaws had insisted upon making all the boys and girls who were big enough swim instead of going over on pony-back, and the youngsters, in their turn, had revenged themselves by all the mischievous pranks they knew.
If talk could have raised the river, the chatter of nearly two hundred squaws of all ages, added to the scolding of Too Many Toes, would have made a torrent of it. And yet a number of the squaws, wives and daughters of men of character and station, attended to the business of fording the stream with the silence and gravity of the most dignified white matrons. Dolores would have scorned putting herself on a level with such a squaw as Too Many Toes even in the use of her tongue, and as for Ni-ha-be and Rita, they never forgot to whose family they belonged.
"Rita," said Ni-ha-be, as they rode down to the river, "your blanket is loose. Red Wolf and Knotted Cord are watching us."
"Send Warning is not there."
"No, of course not. He is with the chiefs. Don't let them see we are looking at them."
"IN AN INSTANT SHE WAS FLOUNDERING IN THE RIVER."
Ni-ha-be had better have been attending to the feet of her own pretty mustang. The ford was not very wide just there, and the two girls were compelled to get a little out of the way of two mules loaded with lodge poles. Alas for the vanity of the chief's self-confident daughter! Her horse's fore-feet went over the ledge, and in an instant more she was floundering in the river, while every squaw and young Indian who could see her broke out into merry laughter. It was well, perhaps, that she slipped from the ford on the up-stream side; but she did not need a bit of help from anybody. No Apache girl of her age ever needed to be taught to swim. In a moment she had caught her mustang by the head, turned it to the ledge, and found her own footing on the rock, from which position she encouraged the unlucky quadruped to follow.
Thus, although the water was at her shoulders, she managed, all dripping as she was, to clamber into the saddle again. It was so dreadfully provoking, though, and she had certainly heard Red Wolf laugh.
It had been the chief's order that the lodges should be set up on the safe side of the ford, and so there was work enough before the squaws. Even some of the younger braves were called upon to lend a hand, and in less than an hour's time there was a very respectable Indian village. Lodges, ponies, fires, dogs, everything belonging to an Apache hunting camp was there, and between them and any probable danger the river was rolling now, and the Lipans did not know where to look for the ford.
"Ni-ha-be," exclaimed Dolores, sharply, a little later, "go into lodge. Too late for young squaw. What will the great chief say?"
"It is early yet."
"Go in. Lipans come and carry you off. Old pale-face see you, and say foolish young squaw. Not know enough to keep dry. Fall off pony. Ugh!"
That was a sharp hit, and Ni-ha-be obeyed Dolores rather than stay for another reminder of her ducking, but Rita followed her very slowly. "If I could see him again," she murmured, "I feel sure he would speak to me. I don't care what they say. Dolores may scold as much as she pleases. I will ask Send Warning about those words, and all about those pictures."
Up rose the sun o'er Egypt's tents,
O'er Egypt's pyramids and sands,
O'er fierce and fiery Mamelukes,
And o'er Napoleon's veteran bands;
The palms stood still in the hot air,
The sad and silent Sphinx looked on,
While over all the Afric sun
In burning, blinding splendor shone.
The Mamelukes fretted on their steeds,
Their cimeters all bright and bare;
The French stood grimly watching them,
Napoleon in the centre square.
He pointed to the Pyramids:
"Comrades, from those grand heights, I say,
The brave of forty centuries
Will watch you draw your swords to-day!"
They answered him with ringing shouts,
And ere the echoes died away
The van, like a tornado, charged,
Led by the brave and bold Desaix.
Then while the trusty "Forty-third"
Stood waiting for the word to charge,
They saw their little drummer-boy
Come from the column of Dufarge.
With tottering steps and bleeding breast,
But bravely beating still his drum,
He said, with sad and tearful face,
"Oh, Forty-third, to you I've come;
I've come to you, my Regiment,
For nothing but a child am I;
I've come to you, my comrades brave,
That you may teach me how to die!
"I'll never shame you, Forty-third;
I want to be as brave and true;
I want to die as brave men die;
So tell a poor child what to do."
Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard,
And Joubert turned his head away:
The lad had been the pet of all,
And now they knew not what to say,
Till Regnier kissed the boy, and spoke:
"Our Petit Jean, I see 'tis plain
Your place is with the Forty-third;
So beat us now the 'charge' again,
Then follow, and we'll show you how
Death comes unto the soldier brave.
Comrades, salute the nine-year-old
Who'll bravely fill a soldier's grave!"
The men's hearts glowed like living coals,
And Regnier cried, "Why do we stay?"
And to the roll of the little drum
They rode upon their vengeful way;
But each one as he passed the child
His sword with earnest purpose drew,
And cried in brave or tender tones,
"Mon Petit Jean, adieu! adieu!"
"I come, my Regiment, I come!"
But never Petit Jean again
His drum beat for the Forty-third:
They found him lying with the slain.
They put the medal on his breast,
Together clasped his childish hands,
And dug, with many a bitter tear,
A grave for him in Egypt's sands.
'Tis near a century ago,
But still his memory is green;
The Regiment has not a name
So dear as that of Petit Jean;
And many a weary soldier has
To brave and noble deeds been stirred
By the tale of the little nine-year-old
Who died among the Forty-third.
Girls often declare that boys have all the fun. Well, they certainly do seem to get the larger share of it in a good many ways. Then, when they grow up, they are very apt, too, to carry off all the honors, the literary fame, the military glory, the professional success, while the girls are left at home to do worsted-work.
Now and then, however, the girls come to the front in art, in literature, in science, and even in war. You all know how Joan of Arc led the armies of France to victory, and how Moll Pitcher stood at the mouth of her cannon, pouring confusion into the British ranks.
Not so great as these women of martial fame were the "Milkmaids of Dort," but still they have their place in history. If any of you ever go to Holland, the land of wooden dikes and windmills, it is quite possible that you may find yourselves some day in the ancient town of Dort, or Dordrecht. It is a grand old city. Here among these antiquated buildings, with their queer gables and great iron cranes, many an interesting historical event has taken place.
In the centre of the great market-place of Dort stands a fountain, and if you will look close you will see upon the tall pyramid a relievo representing a cow, and underneath, in sitting posture, a milkmaid. They are there to commemorate the following historical fact:
When the provinces of the United Netherlands were struggling for their liberty, two beautiful daughters of a rich farmer, on their way to the town with milk, observed not far from their path several Spanish soldiers concealed behind some hedges. The patriotic maidens pretended not to have seen anything, pursued their journey, and as soon as they arrived in the city, insisted upon an admission to the burgomaster, who had not yet left his bed. They were admitted, and related what they had discovered. The news was spread about. Not a moment was lost. The Council was assembled; measures were immediately taken; the sluices were opened, and a number of the enemy lost their lives in the water. Thus the inhabitants were saved from an awful doom.
The magistrates in a body honored the farmer with a visit, where they thanked his daughters for the act of patriotism which saved the town. They afterward indemnified him fully for the loss he sustained from the inundation, and the most distinguished young citizens vied with each other who should be honored with the hands of the milkmaids. Then, as the years went by, the fountain was erected, and the story commemorated in stone.
It was only a day or so after my bicycle ride that I received a letter from father, telling me that he and mother were detained in London, and asking if Thad and I could do without them for a week longer.
So in view of our "to-be-continued" lonely condition, the landlady kindly offered to introduce us to "three young gentlemen" who were attending school in the town, and who boarded with her sister.
They all came of noble families, she informed me, adding that it would be a great honor for me to know them.
Thus my expectations were raised to the highest pitch, and the morning of the day they were to call I spent in polishing my watch chain to its brightest, and deciding whether a blue or a red bow would be most appropriate to wear.
I know now that I must have seen scores of little dukes and lords walking about the streets of London just like other boys, but I didn't know it then, and always had an idea that they all wore red velvet cloaks and cream-colored tights, carried swords dangling at their sides, and never went out except in a gilded chariot, preceded by two men on horseback blowing brass horns to clear the way.
Therefore I was considerably astonished when I saw three boys of about my own age turn in at the gate, all dressed in short black coats and tall black hats, exactly like any common English school-boy.
"Now, Thad," I said, as I turned away from the window, "be sure and make a low bow when you are introduced, because—" But the Landlady's knock was on the door, and in she came, followed in close order by Malcolm Heppingham, the son of a Duke, Douglas Galton, whose father was an Earl, and Ralph Maisley, who was an "Honorable."
I was presented to these high and mighty individuals with great ceremony, and then the landlady went out and left us to ourselves.
For a moment there was dead silence, while Thad stood staring at our visitors as if afraid to sit down in their presence. The three English chaps stared at us too, and then all at once began to ask questions about America.
And such questions! Why, they made me think of it as some island away off in the Arctic Ocean, which people never heard from except every two or three years, when a ship managed to break its way through the ice, and carried back the news that a new barn had been built or half the inhabitants killed off by the natives.
Nevertheless, I was deeply impressed by the grand airs the young noblemen gave themselves, and the queer way they had of pronouncing their words.
Their call was a very formal one, for they only staid about ten minutes, and then filed out in solemn procession, after making me promise to come and see them the very next afternoon. Nothing was said about Thad, so I concluded they thought him too young for company.
Well, of course I felt very much honored by the pressing invitation to visit them so soon, and promptly at the hour named presented myself at their boarding-house, where I was immediately pounced upon by all three of my titled friends, who in a very lively manner, and all talking at once, informed me that I had arrived just in the nick of time to see the "jolliest sight"—no less than the ascent of the dining-room chimney by a boy sweep.
Then they took me into the long dining-hall, with its great fire-place, which, though big enough to hold two boys, was anything but a pleasant spot to poke one's head into.
The sweep quickly and quietly made his preparations, and with our four pair of eyes riveted upon his sooty form, speedily clambered out of sight.
"I say," cried Duke Malcolm, when there was nothing more to be seen, "while he's up there, come on out and take a look at my dog-kennel."
"And my rabbit-burrows," put in the Earl.
"And you must see my pony too, you know," added the Honorable Ralph.
This last inducement was not to be resisted, so I hurried out into the back yard after my hosts, wondering why the chaps with the biggest titles should have only dogs and rabbits to show, while the fellow who was merely an Honorable rejoiced in the possession of a pony.
The kennel and burrows were duly inspected and admired, and we were crossing the yard to visit the stables, when the Earl suddenly stopped, struck one hand against his forehead, and with the other pointed to the chimney over the dining-room, out of which smoke was ascending.
"The sweep!" cried the Duke, staggering back against the barn door, which banged to with a crash.
"He'll be roasted alive! Quick!" exclaimed the Honorable, and then they all three started on a run for the house.
I followed as fast as I could, but not knowing the ins and outs of the yard as well, I completely lost sight of them before I reached the back door. However, I remembered where the dining-room was, and dashing in,[Pg 264] found nobody there but the maid, who was blowing the already fiercely crackling fire into a brighter blaze.
Not stopping to wonder why the others were not there, I rushed up to her, and snatched the bellows out of her hands so suddenly that she immediately set up a cry of "Murder!" while I began to shout "Fire!" at the top of my voice, expecting every instant to see the charred body of the sweep come tumbling out of the chimney at my feet.
Before I could explain to the girl the awfulness of the deed she had done, the landlady, the butler, the rest of the servants, and all the lady boarders had crowded into the room, and as the maid was too frightened to say anything except that one word, they all began to stare at me as if I were a burglar.
But all my thoughts were with that poor sweep roasting alive in the chimney, and rushing up to the landlady, I entreated her to have the fire put out, and— But at that moment I saw looking in at the window the faces of my three noble friends, all distorted with suppressed laughter, while directly behind them stood the sweep himself, grinning from ear to ear.
"I say, Rander," called out the Duke, "why don't you cable to New York for one of your American fire-engines?"
"Perhaps we can induce the Queen to present you with a leather medal in honor of your mighty efforts at life-saving," added the Earl.
Then all three vaulted into the room to explain how they had caught a glimpse of the sweep walking off just as they reached the house, and forgetting me entirely, had run after him to see if he was scorched.
However, I consoled myself with the reflection that not one of those chaps with handles to their names can ever be King of England, while I have the chance of becoming President of the United States.
This is the favorite game of the Indian tribes of the Upper Missouri, with the exception of the Sioux. It is played by sides, each choosing a champion, and they in turn selecting their players alternately, according to their merits. The ground on which they play in summer is near the village; and is a clay-covered space which from constant use has become hard like pavement.
The scene of the accompanying sketch is laid in winter, when the game is played on the ice or frozen snow. It is begun by two of the players, one from each side, running abreast of one another, and rolling in advance a ring, which is cut out of stone, and is from two to four inches in diameter. The players follow it up with their tchungkees, spears or sticks about six feet long, with little projections of leather an inch and a half in length placed at intervals on the sides. These implements they throw before them as they run, sliding them along the ground beside the ring, and endeavoring to place the stick in such a position that the ring will fall upon it when it stops rolling, receiving one of the leather projections through it. They count for game one, two, or three, etc., from the point, according to the number on which it has fallen. The winner rolls in the next run, and the loser is counted out, while another from his side takes his place.
Thus the game proceeds until the sides have had their innings, the largest count being the game. They sometimes become so excited that they bet away everything they possess, and have even been known to sell themselves into slavery for a given period.
The game of tchungkee originated with the Mandans, a race now almost extinct. Prince Maximilian, in his travels among the North American Indians, called them the "gentlemen of the plains," from their courteous manners and gallantry to strangers.
Two-thirds of all the boys who read this article have without doubt been to the circus. But who has seen a show in winter-quarters? Not more than half a dozen of you, I fancy. And if you were to apply to the great gate of the mysterious inclosure at Bridgeport, you would not be let in, for there are very strict regulations, and the public are "not admitted." Somehow or other our artist found an "open, sesame," and he has given us a page of sketches showing some of the characteristic features of a great show not on exhibition.
To any one entering at the gate of the grounds two secretaries will usually present themselves. One of these is Mr. Barnum's private secretary, the other a pet bird of like appellation, to which is permitted a dignified freedom. There are also several pelicans strolling about, and a coach-dog, a great favorite with the elephants. On the right is the building in which the painting, carpentering, harness-making, and general tinkering for the show are going on. Here are a score of chariots in different stages of construction, orchest-melochors with the exasperating tune part taken out, broken cages and wagons. There are forges in different parts of the building. On the left is the car shed, a building over three hundred and fifty feet long, and four or five tracks wide, in which the cars for transporting the show are kept. It is full to overflowing, a number of flat cars being outside.
Under the wide eaves of the car shed are ranged the gorgeous and luxurious show wagons in which the animals are exhibited. The three large buildings form three sides of a quadrangle. Behind them is the ten-acre lot where the Bridgeport show is held at the beginning of every season.
How many elephants do you suppose Mr. Barnum has now? Can you fancy it?—there are twenty-two, big and little, young and old. Just think of the noise they can make! At a signal from the keeper they will begin to trumpet at once, and then the noise is like several thunder-storms with the rain and lightning left out.
As a matter of course you have all heard of the baby elephant recently born in the show. It came on the 2d of February. The mother is the elephant Queen. The father is named Chief. He is the largest in Mr. Barnum's herd of twenty-two. Those who have seen the elephant pyramid act will recollect him posed with uplifted trunk at the top of the heap. He is of wayward disposition, and has of late exhibited some savage traits of character. When the little one was born she weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds; her trunk was seven inches long, and she was about as big as a full-grown Newfoundland dog. Mr. Barnum has named the new-comer Bridgeport. He is going to exhibit her with Chief and Queen, as "The Elephant Family," and of course we are all going to see them.
One of the most interesting things about these elephants is the intelligence they show, and the attachment they form for their keepers, and even for the other animals about them. An amusing incident was daily witnessed last season in the greenroom of the show. Donald Melville, a little child two and a half years old, son of a trainer, formed a strange attachment for Gypsy, one of the largest elephants in the herd. Gypsy was equally fond of the child, and would follow it anywhere.
Donald could scarcely talk, but he would pull and tug at Gypsy's trunk until the intelligent animal would comprehend what was wanted, and carefully lay its huge carcass upon the ground, when the child would climb upon its back. To play hide-and-seek between Gypsy's legs was a favorite pastime with Donald.
There is a mammoth sloth bear in the menagerie which attracts a great deal of attention from such visitors as are admitted. He weighs upward of four hundred pounds, and when standing erect is nearly six feet tall. At the word of command the bear stands upright upon his hind-feet, closes both eyes, opens his mouth, and makes a guttural sound that the men call preaching. His calm, dignified attitude is ridiculous in the extreme, and has earned for him his clerical nick-name of "the Preacher."
Among the leopards there is a full-grown animal called Pet. It is so tame that the keeper will enter its cage, take it in his arms, and handle it as familiarly as if it were a house cat. Yet this is dangerous business. The men whose profession is the training of wild animals had sad stories to tell of their own and others' experience. One of Mr. Barnum's tamers carries a great scar on his forehead. He was in the cage with some lions one day when one of them took advantage of his looking away, and sprang at him. Its paw struck him in the face, and a claw made the dent in his skull. He did not lose his presence of mind, but seeing that the lion was temporarily frightened at having hit him, he got out of the cage as fast as possible. The claw just failed to reach the brain. Another time he tried to tame some hyenas, and one of his fingers was bitten short off. "The hyenas," he remarked to our artist, "are among the most cowardly and treacherous of wild beasts."
A rhinoceros is not supposed to be a playful animal, but there is one in the show that has a decided taste for playing with a ball. He will roll it up and down the wall of the cage with his absurdly shaped nose, and apparently finds great enjoyment in the sport. He expresses his delight in what may be called deep grunts of satisfaction.
The circus business demands a small army of performers and attendants. Mr. Barnum in the coming season will have over six hundred persons in his pay. The "master of the sails" will have a force of one hundred and twenty-five tent-setters; the head groom, sixty grooms: the loading-master, one hundred "razor-backs"; the menagerie, sixty attendants; and the advertising department, seventy men always ahead of the show. There will be performers of all sorts, caterers, side-show men, etc., at least two hundred more in number. The master of the sails said that in eighteen minutes his force of one hundred and twenty-five men had taken down and packed in the wagons fifteen tents containing two hundred and sixty thousand yards of canvas, to say nothing of the ropes, poles, and other appointments.
A novel feature of the show the next time it starts out in a procession is to be "Mother Hubbard's Shoe." A shoe of gigantic size, mounted on wheels, and filled by the convenient children of the company, will take its place among the chariots and cars. This new attraction will unquestionably be a source of delight to all small people.
It was the great misfortune of Tony Butler's life to have been born on the Twenty-second of February.
There was no comfort in reflecting that there were doubtless plenty of other boys in the country who labored under the same disadvantage. The other boys might perhaps be better fitted for the honor, but for poor Tony the distinction was a crushing one.
In the first place, he had an older brother, and that older brother's name was George. Now it is generally conceded that one of a name is enough for any family; but when Tony was born on the Twenty-second of February, how was poor Mrs. Butler to act?
Not to have called him after the Father of his Country would have been, in that good woman's opinion, a positive slight to the illustrious dead. As long as her boy was fortunate enough to have the same birthday as our great President, it became her plain duty to give him one other point[Pg 267] of resemblance, and then trust to time to complete the likeness.
It was a pity that they had a George already, but that difficulty could be done away with by calling her second son Washington. Washington Butler sounded well, and seemed all that was desirable; only there was just a little too much of it for every-day use. Sometimes the boy was called Washie, and sometimes Wash, and sometimes Wall, and sometimes Tony, until, as he grew older, and able to talk, he evinced a decided preference for the last title, and would answer to no other.
But although this lessened his troubles, it by no means ended them; for when a child has so many nicknames to choose from, everybody is apt to select a different one; and to confess the truth, he was not at all the right sort of a boy to be called George Washington.
There was nothing of the soldier, nothing of the patriot, nothing at all remarkable, about poor Tony in any way. He was a shy, homely little boy, who would have passed well enough as plain Sam, which, being his father's name, would also have been his had it not been for his unfortunate birthday. But as a George Washington, even his doting mother was forced to realize he was not a complete success.
The first day he went to school the master sonorously read out his name as Antony Butler, whereat his brother giggled, and Tony, blushing fiery red, stammered out that he was not an Antony at all.
"Not Antony?" said the teacher, in natural surprise. "Why, then, are you called Tony?"
"Because my name is George Washington, and we had a George already," was the embarrassed answer.
After this the boys with one accord dubbed him Washing Tony, as if he were a Chinese laundryman, and Washing Tony he continued to be called.
Under these circumstances, perhaps he was excusable in wishing he had been born on some less illustrious day, and when the Twenty-second came duly around, it required all the delights of a new pair of skates and a fur cap to reconcile him entirely to his fate.
It being a general holiday, all the boys proposed spending it on the ice, and Tony could skate a great deal better than he could write or cipher; although even here he was never what boys consider brave, and what their parents are apt to more accurately define as fool-hardy.
The truth is, there was not in the child a spice of that boyish daring which seems so attractive in its possessor, and which is in reality so wanton and useless.
Tony never wanted to climb high trees, or jump from steep places, or pat a restive horse, or throw an apple at a cross old farmer. All these things, which were clear to the hearts of his companions, were totally unattractive to him. He could never be dared to any deed that had a touch of danger in it, and the contrast between his prudent conduct and his illustrious title was, in the eyes of all the other boys, the crowning absurdity of the case.
On this particular birthday the weather, though clear, was mild for the season, and some apprehension had been felt as to the complete soundness of the ice. A careful investigation, however, showed it to be all firm and solid except in one corner, where the lake was deepest, and where the ice, though unbroken, looked thin and semi-transparent, with the restless water underneath. Around this uncertain quarter a line was drawn, and soon some thirty or forty boys were skimming rapidly over the frozen surface.
Fred Hazlit and Eddy Barrows were the champion skaters of the district, and their evolutions were regarded with wonder and delight by a host of smaller boys, who vainly tried to rival their achievements.
Not so Tony. Although perfectly at home on the ice, he seemed to have no more desire to excel here than elsewhere, but skated gravely up and down, enjoying himself in his sober fashion, his cap drawn over his eyes, his little red hands thrust in his overcoat pockets.
George, who did not think this at all amusing, was off with the older boys, trying to write his name on the ice, and going over and over it with a patient persistency that, practiced at school, would have made him the first writer in his class.
Gradually the forbidden ground began to be encroached on, some of the older boys skimming lightly over it, and finding it quite hard enough to bear their weight. Soon the line was obliterated by a dozen pairs of skates, and the children, never heeding it, spread themselves over every inch of ice on the lake.
All but Tony. With characteristic prudence he had marked the dangerous corner well, and never once ventured upon it. As he stopped to tighten his skates, four of the younger boys, hand in hand, came bearing down upon him.
"Catch hold," shouted Willie Marston, "and we'll make a line. Hurrah! Here goes!" and Tony with the rest shot across the smooth sheet of ice until they came to the inclosed quarter. The others were keeping right on, but Tony stopped short.
"It is not safe," he said, "and I am not going on it."
"Nonsense!" cried Dick Treves. "What a coward you are, Tony! We have been over it a dozen time already this morning, and it is just as safe as the rest."
"Of course it is," said Willie. "Come ahead."
But Tony did not go ahead. Neither did he discuss the matter, for argument of any kind was not at all in his way. He merely stopped and let go of Willie's hand. "It isn't safe," he persisted. "You can do as you like, but I am not going on it."
"Well, stay there," said Ned Marston, giving him a little shove—"stay where you are, General Washington, and cross the Delaware on dry land if you can."
"Three cheers for General Washington!" shouted Dick, derisively. "Hurrah for the bravest of the brave!" and then the three boys skated on, leaving Tony standing there upon the ice.
His face flushed crimson with shame, but he never stirred. He hated to be laughed at and called a coward, but he was afraid to venture, and no amount of ridicule could urge him on.
Slowly he turned to go, when at that instant an ominous sound struck his ear. The treacherous ice was cracking in all directions, a dozen jagged seams spreading like magic over the smooth surface. There was a sharp snap, a cry of terror, a splash, and three boys, white with fright, started back from the yawning hole, barely in time to save themselves from falling.
In the excitement and fear of that moment no one of them thought of his companion; but Tony, who stood beside, had seen poor Willie's despairing blue eyes fixed on him with a mute appeal for help as he staggered and fell into the dark water.
Somehow all his habitual caution, which was so falsely termed cowardice, had disappeared; he never even thought of being afraid, with that pitiful glance still before his eyes, but, urged on by some great impulse, cleared the space between them in an instant, and plunged down after his drowning friend.
Another minute and both boys re-appeared, Willie clutching fiercely at his preserver, and Tony holding him off as well as he could with one arm while he struck out bravely with the other.
It was but the work of a moment before help reached them, but that moment had saved poor Willie's life, and changed forever the opinions of the school.
They had learned what true courage was. Tony Butler might be timid and insignificant, but he had proved himself beyond a doubt worthy of his illustrious name, and a fit hero for the Twenty-second.
How did we come by this marvellous flower?
Say, can you tell us what is it?
Did it spring from the earth in some wonderful hour,
Dainty, and rare, and exquisite?
Why, seventeen Cupids went wild with despair
When Valentine's Day left each solus,
So they picked off the flowers and hung themselves there,
On the stalk of a tall gladiolus.
"How does a hardware dealer differ from a bootmaker?" asked a bright boy of one of his playmates. The latter, somewhat puzzled, gave it up. "Why," said the other, "because the one sold the nails, and the other nailed the soles."
Little Lucy fell and hurt her knee badly, which her mother, when she went to bed in the dark, tried to bandage. Soon the little one was heard calling. "Mamma," she said, "this bandage is not in the right place. I fell down higher up."
A grandfather, coming to read his paper, found that he had mislaid his spectacles, and thereupon declared, "I have lost my glasses somewhere, and can't read the paper." A little three-and-a-half-year-old girl, desiring to assist him, answered; "G'an'pa, you go outside and look froo ze window, and I'll hold ze paper up so you can read it."
A "Menagerie Race" was recently the source of great amusement to a party of army officers in India. Each competitor had an animal to enter, which he drove as straight as he could. There was a frog, a goose, a young pig, a cock, a cat, a dog, a turkey, a kid, a duck, a young monkey, and a pelican. The latter got away from his string and flew up into a high tree just as the race was going to begin. The animals had ribbons round their necks. The goose won the race, as he was the only one who went straight; the dog made for the pig, and a battle-royal ensued; the monkey and the cat laid down and would not move a step. It was a very amusing scene, so say the spectators, and the curious antics of the astonished animals caused a vast amount of laughter.
We had a parrot once which knew how to talk so well that it seemed as if he must certainly be able to think and reason as well as any of us. Two instances may be given to show what Polly could do in the way of conversation: One fine summer's morning, a young woman bringing a message to the house was asked into the kitchen, and while, as she supposed, quite alone there, a rather gruff voice remarked that it was "a very hot day," which it certainly was. As she did not know the parrot was there, she was considerably startled, and would scarcely believe it was the bird which had spoken to her. Another day Polly's cage was hung up on a tree near the poultry-yard, where a fight for supremacy was going on between two cocks, and the gardener, who was at work hard by, distinctly heard Polly say, "You idiots! Bran" (calling to the big dog which lay asleep in his kennel)—"Bran, bite them! bite them!"
Who could have believed that even among the famous riders of Hungaria would be found one who could perform the following feat? While a noble stag of ten was being hotly chased by the Kàposzátsmegyerer hounds—a subscription pack—one Karl Pörös, a discharged hussar, managed to bring the terrified animal to a stand-still in some close cover through which it was forcing its way, and, by an almost superhuman effort of strength and agility, to vault upon its back. After several desperate but unsuccessful attempts to dislodge its rider from his seat, the stag, stimulated anew to flight by the cry of the fast-approaching hounds, resumed its course, but it soon broke down under the weight of its unaccustomed burden, and died from sheer exhaustion and terror. Pörös—at least so the story goes—was found by the huntsmen sitting on the unwounded carcass of the stag, which he had literally ridden to death and resolutely claimed as the just reward of an achievement, unprecedented in the annals of the chase.
Fig. 1.
Fig. 2
Here is a design of a chair-sleigh, which can easily be constructed, and which will enable some of the ladies who do not skate to have a very pleasant time on the ice. The runners (see Fig. 1) are thirty-nine inches long, and are shod with iron for their whole length. They are about thirteen inches apart, and are braced in three places, namely, at the back, at the front, and in the middle (directly under the front legs of the seat). The foot-boards are two inches wide by five-eighths of an inch thick. The seat is about fifteen inches square, and strengthened underneath before and behind. The legs of the seat are fifteen inches high, and are fastened to the runners and the seat by hinges, which allow the seat to fall forward over the foot-board, as shown in Fig. 2. In like manner the long arms, instead of being firmly fixed, work on a round iron rod, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, connecting the runners in front. The arms are fifty inches long, and are mortised into the back piece, which is twenty-five inches long by two inches and seven-eighths wide, thus leaving a few inches at each end for handles. The arms are connected by a cross-piece in such a position that when the seat is perpendicular, the cross-piece shall rest upon little brackets placed on the front legs. This cross-piece has a screw-hole in it, by which it is screwed to the front brace of the seat, thus firmly securing the whole.
To fold the chair for carrying to and from the pond, draw the screw and raise the arms, and the seat will fall forward between the arms and under the cross-piece, as shown in Fig. 2. The advantages of this chair-sleigh over an ordinary chair on runners are that it is perfectly safe, does not interfere with the action of the skater who is pushing it, and can be easily carried in the hand or in a carriage.
Miss Pinkety Wink she had eyes that would blink,
And small feet that turned out at the toes;
She had neat little hands, hair braided in bands,
And her cheeks they were red as a rose,
And she always was dressed in fine clothes.
Miss Pinkety Wink, I am sure you will think,
Was a very nice Dolly indeed;
She was pretty and still, and she never got ill,
For the doctor there never was need;
To her mistress she always gave heed.
But Pinkety Wink (I'm afraid you will sink
When I tell you how sad was her fate),
For an airing gone out, and while riding about
In her fine little carriage in state,
It turned over, oh, sad to relate!
Poor Pinkety Wink, with her eyes that would blink,
From her shoulders had dropped off her head!
Little Carrie, she cried, while vainly she tried
Her dear Dolly to mend; then she said,
"I'm afraid my sweet Pinkey is dead!"
Now what do you think? Well, Pinkety Wink
She carried right straight to mamma,
Who melted some glue, and made her quite new;
And now Carrie is laughing, "Ha! ha!
Was there ever so nice a mamma?"
HOMELESS.
Last week we had Valentine's Day, and this week brings us a holiday of a different kind. Americans celebrate Washington's Birthday because that great and good man was our leader in the war for our separate existence as a nation. Many of you study the history of your country at school, and so you have learned that George Washington was born February 22, 1732. His father died when he was only eleven, but he had a good mother, and he early learned to honor her in all things. We have not room to tell you much about Washington's boyhood, but one thing we will say, because you little folks who are going to school may imitate George in this particular: his copy-books were always as neat and clean as possible, and are models of beautiful writing. You see, he was conscientious in little things. Now if you want to refresh your memories about the French and Indian War, the Revolution, and the early days of our Independence, you can not do better than to begin reading those portions of our history in the week that brings Washington's Birthday.
Brooklyn, New York.
I have three pet cats, but Mr. Tibbs is the wisest. One morning it was so cold there was ice on the window so that you could not see out, and Tibbie is very fond of looking out of the window; so, as he could not see, he took his tongue and licked a place big enough for him to look out. It was so cunning. He is a very high jumper. Every meal-time all the cats come around Mr. Tibbs, and then he cries for all of them. He is very large, and weighs sixteen pounds.
I go to school, and learn music, and I am very fond of it. When I grow older, I am going to take singing lessons and lessons on the organ. I also have my dolls. I have a large French doll, which has everything like a little girl. Then my baby is very sweet, with big brown eyes and golden curls. My French doll has blue eyes, and dark brown hair, like myself; I also have brown eyes. I have been a constant reader of your paper ever since it was published. I have a dear little turtle which is as large as a quarter of a dollar, but he sleeps all the time now.
Nettie M. T.
Washington, D. C.
I am a little girl just nine years old, and I am the only girl my papa and mamma have got, and the only grand-girl my two grandpapas and one grandmamma has, too, but I tell you he has lots of grand-boys, though.
I have four little brothers, all younger than I am, and once we had some cows, and Harvie—that's one of my brothers, who is eight—came running into the house, and told our nurse, Buty, he was "afraid to go out into the yard where the married cow was"—he meant the one that had the calf. Everybody laughed so much when mamma told them, and I have read some things not any funnier than that, so I thought it would be a nice thing to put in my letter to you. Harvie says I must put how old he was then, because you all might think he did it when he was eight. He was nearly four when he was frightened so badly. My aunts in Virginia take Harper's Young People for us, and Harvie, Lewis, and I like it ever so much. Lewis is just five, and wears pants, too. Maurice sits up and looks as though he knew what mamma was reading; but he don't, though. Isn't this a long one? I did not write it all the same day. If you can, I wish you would please copy this in the paper you send Harvie, Lewis, and me. I don't see many letters from Washington. Harvie says he just bets you won't.
Serena Helen S.
Oh, Harvie boy, you shouldn't bet, especially when you bet so foolishly. Rena's letter is "copied" right here by the types, and now we shall be expecting, one of these days, another letter from Rena's brother.
Keokuk, Iowa.
I am a little girl almost six years and a half old. I think Young People is the nicest paper published. Papa and auntie have read every number to me since the first. My dear mamma is in heaven, and I live at grandpa's with my auntie. Papa comes to see me three times a day, and every Friday he stays all night with me. Young People comes that night, and papa reads it to me. I think Jimmy Brown's stories are so funny. I liked "Lady Rags" so much! Then I thought I would try and help the poor, too. The Christmas number was very nice! After I read my paper I send it out to my grandma in the country; they have no little children there, but they like it ever so much. I have the nicest play-house; it is built out in the yard, is furnished like a big house, and will hold six or eight grown people. I have so many dolls that I can not tell you all about them. Yesterday I felt so badly! I took my newest doll out to walk; it was a gentleman, and I called it Frank, after my papa. I let it fall, and broke its head all to pieces. But papa got me another right away, just like the first. I have a kitty named after Toby Tyler. I do not go to school, but I study at home. I can spell very well, and print, but can not write yet, so my auntie is writing this for me. We read all the letters in Young People, and like them very much. I sometimes see the names of those who send money for the Young People's Cot; if I knew how to send it, I would send some also. I am getting a collection of picture cards. I have over four hundred now. Will you please publish this, for I have never seen a letter from Keokuk.
Lulu W.
We are glad you have a kind auntie and a dear loving father and grandma, since God has taken your mamma to live in the home above. About sending money to Young People's Cot, it is very simple. You need merely write a little letter, inclose your money, and address it to Miss E. Augusta Fanshawe, 43 New Street, New York city. This lady is Treasurer of the Cot Fund, and she will duly acknowledge all the money received by her, whether the amount be large or small.
How nice it was that your papa was able to buy a new head for his namesake so soon! Now if we should fall and break our heads, we could not get new ones so easily.
Charlotte, North Carolina.
I have a black-and-tan dog; his name is Bismarck—for short, Bis. I think he is beautiful—short, stubby, bandy-legged, and very fat, and wobbles when he runs. Papa got him for a pure-blooded rat terrier, but I do not think him very pure. Will B. and Willie S. caught a mouse and put it in a dry-goods box, and put Bis in with the mouse. The mouse ran all over Bis, and Bis would not touch it. So one held Bis's mouth open, and the other caught the mouse with the tongs and put it into Bis's mouth. Bis caught the mouse in his teeth, but was careful not to hurt it. It is dinner-time now, and I will close my letter.
Ned L.
Custer City, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy seven years old. Papa reads the stories to us. We want the man to write about Toby Tyler some more; and Jimmy Brown is the "boss" boy.
There are lots of wells here, with deep holes and high derricks. They get oil out of the holes, and send it to the 'finery, and they make it into 'finery oil for the stores, and they sell it to the people to burn in lamps. They get thick par'fine out of the wells too, and the men come with pails and kegs, and sell it to the factory, and they make candy and chewing-gum out of it for stores to sell to boys and girls. I am tired. That's all.
Joe A. V.
P.S.—I can't spell good, 'cause I've been sick 'bout four weeks.
Joe.
New York City.
Papa has given my brother and me Harper's Young People, both years, bound, but this year we are taking it by the week, because we thought we would have more time to read it, and we could make out the Wiggles. I have four brothers, all older than myself. We have a very large black Newfoundland dog called Carlo, and a white setter called Bob. We have a gray cat, and a cunning little black kitten, which papa called Janauschek, after the actress. This is the first letter I have ever written to any paper, and I hope you will print it.
Agnes R. L.
Booneville, California.
I am eleven years old, and live in the mountains in California, among the big redwood trees. I have a doll that shuts her eyes and opens them again. We have twenty-six geese and a lot of sheep—but they are dying now—and a pet lamb. To-morrow father and brother Simon go out in the mountains to get two wild hogs that Bob Bawles killed for us to-day. I have five sisters and three brothers.
Sarah A. R.
San Antonio, Texas.
Dear "Young People,"—Mamma gave us a year's subscription to your dear self for a birthday present, and when that expired, renewed it for a Christmas present. There are four of us boys, and our great favorite of all the papers we read, or get mamma to read to us, is Young People. We love Mr. Otis, and feel well acquainted with him and the dear Postmistress, and our little friends' letters are such pleasure to us! We copy them very often. We send you a small bouquet of violets in a box, and hope you will get them; they will be mailed with this letter. We have violets, pinks, roses, and tuberoses almost all winter. We would have sent some long ago, but mamma was too ill for us to think of anything pleasant. Our climate is so very mild that flowers, even geraniums, begonias, ice-plant, etc., grow out of doors all winter. Sometimes a frost comes and kills a few, but not often. Dear Young People, we all love you so! and when we go to New York we will call to see you. Grandpapa has been a subscriber to Harper's Monthly ever since it was first published. Mr. Nic Tengg, the bookseller here, ordered Young People for mamma, as we get all our papers through him. We will soon send something for Young People's Cot.
We can all swim, even four-year-old Edward, and ride our pony, and three of us can drive mamma's buggy all over town. We take lessons on the piano, and can sing several songs.
Your loving little admirers,
George C. F.
Joseph F. F.
Sterling I. F.
Edward F.
"What can be in this little box, so soft, yet so bulky, and oh! so sweet?" we said, when, the other day, a box came to our office. Opening it, dear boys, there were your violets, wrapped so nicely in the wet cotton that they, were still blue and beautiful. It took us quite a little while to discover who were the kind donors, for your letter was one of a great many which came to our Post-office Box that day. But when we did find out, we stopped writing and reading long enough to waft a kiss all the way to San Antonio. How nice it is for you to be able to ride, drive, and swim, as well as to sing and play! Each of these accomplishments will have its use, and give you pleasure all your lives. We are glad your dear mother is better, and if you come to New York, we will be much pleased to see you.
Stamford, Connecticut.
We have two little guinea-pigs, an old cat named Tomas, and four little bantams. I drive the old rooster all about the yard, harnessed to a little wagon. We have a nice horse named Saxon, which eats sugar. The little guinea-pigs drink coffee and eat brown paper. I am a little boy nine years old.
Willie R. D.
It must be fun to drive a rooster in harness, and the little wagon must look "cute." Did you begin when he was a little chick? Are you not afraid the guinea-pigs will have "nerves" if you give them coffee?
I haven't any pets to tell about, but I have six dolls. I live in Philadelphia all winter, but in the spring I go to Mayville, on Chautauqua Lake, near the Sunday-school Assembly Grounds. I go there a great many times, and I think it is very nice.
I have a horse of my own in Mayville. Her name is Daisy. I ride horseback on her. Once she threw me, and nearly broke my arm. It was bruised so I couldn't use it for a week.
I am beginning to get together a cabinet of curiosities. I will exchange a 25 and 50 cent stamp from Germany, a 2 and 5 cent from Finland, and 15 and 25 cent from France, and some silk cocoons and spun silk, for ore; shells, minerals, or anything fit for a cabinet.
Lodie Tourgee,
303 S. 11th St., Philadelphia, Penn.
deer Mister Harper,—my Pa tok yor paper for me. i be much plaes wid it. i tink "Torkin laves" is very inrestin. i got a cro an I named um Toosulom out ob de book. i cotched a Rabet an de way he did run! you ought to se um blink whin I put um in de kage. Put dis note in de paper kos I want to se how it looks.
Jacop Washington J.
Did you mean to be as funny as you could, young gentleman? We fancy it took not a little trouble to get up that bad spelling, and to put instead of capital I's those modest little i's. After all, it does not look so nicely as the letter you are going to write us next week, with every word spelled correctly, and all the capitals and stops in the right places, as prim as young ladies at a party. When you send that letter, please remember to write your address plainly in the upper right-hand corner.
Meadville, Pennsylvania.
I have been a sick boy. But as I am now much better, I hope to be well again soon.
I have asked my mamma to write for me. Mamma reads a great deal to us, and we have Harper's Young People and St. Nicholas.
We have them bound at the end of the year, and we think the two volumes of Harper's Young People the very nicest books we have. I have two sisters and one brother, and we have several pets—a white pony, a canary-bird, a black cat, and some mice.
Mamma read to us about having mice for pets in one of Harper's Young People, and I thought I would try to have some. I made a cage out of a starch box; on one side I fastened a large baking-powder can, and I put some cotton in that. I put wire netting over the front, and then I tried to catch the mice.
When I caught one, I put it in the cage, and after a few days he looked lonely, and seemed to[Pg 271] have grown thin, so I caught another and put him in, and now they are fat, and seem very happy.
They keep pretty still all day in the dark, but at night come out in the box, and eat and nibble just enough to keep their teeth sharp, I guess.
They are cunning little creatures, and I think very nice for pets, and perhaps if you should publish this letter some other little folks would like to try the same plan.
We always enjoy the stories in Young People, but we liked "Toby Tyler" best of all.
Louis de V. M.
Omaha, Nebraska.
My little sister and I take Harper's Young People. She is nine, and I am twelve. My brother has a cat nine years old. He is gray, and striped with black. My aunt has a Maltese cat twenty-seven years old. I go to the Central School, and I am in the sixth class. There is a parlor game called capping rhymes. One person gives two or three lines of some piece of poetry, and some other person takes two or three lines of another piece, the first word beginning with the first letter of the last word of the preceding person's verse.
Blanche A.
An easier way to play at rhymes is this: I begin, for instance, by saying:
"The moon came up in the clear night sky."
Sarah follows, making a line to rhyme with mine, thus,
"As round and full as an apple-pie."
Tom's turn is next, and he says,
"Some people think it is made of cheese."
And then Theodore takes it up with,
"But that is silly, as any one sees."
Bartle, Indiana.
I am a little boy ten years old. We live in the country, on the Knobs. It is very high land; my pa says it is a thousand feet above the level of the sea. We have lots of fruit trees, mostly peaches. I have lots of peaches to eat in summer. I know a word longer than the one sent by L. L. H., of Orange, New Jersey. It is A-ber-con-way-co-pen-ha-gen-nic-o-de-mus-an-a-bap-tist-dal-a-mu-tha-o-ba-di-ah. My pa learned this word when he went to school.
Frank C. P.
Exchangers will please address Alice C. Little, formerly of Institution for the Blind, Janesville, Wisconsin, at Oberlin, Ohio.
A Word to Exchangers.—Do not write with pale ink, green ink, blue ink, yellow ink, red ink, or brown ink. Do not write with a lead-pencil. Write very plainly, please, with black ink, on white paper or on a postal card. Before beginning to write, think over what you have to offer, and state it as briefly as possible. We can not make room for any exchange which covers four pages of note-paper. Observe our standing notice, and always communicate by mail with the boys and girls with whom you desire to exchange before sending away your own treasures. Remember that letters which are not fully prepaid will probably go to the Dead-letter Office, and in sending heavy articles, take pains to have them weighed, and put on a sufficient number of postage stamps.
Lucy wants to know something about the agate. She has a very pretty one set as a breastpin, and her brother prizes agates as among the most valuable things which he collects and exchanges. They have an interesting history.
Agates are composed of layers of quartz, generally of different varieties, intimately joined together, and are found of all colors, sometimes exceedingly vivid. In modern mineralogy this stone is an impure variety of chalcedony, which derives its name from Chalcedon, that once famous city of Bithynia, in Asia Minor. The rocks near this place, which is not far from the present Scutari, contain this stone in considerable quantities. Chalcedony consists of silica and alumina, and comprises besides agate, heliotrope, onyx, plasma, and sard, differently colored by metallic oxides. It is found in grape-like masses, but more frequently in rolled pebbles. The finest Oriental chalcedony presents in its interior a fine mottled appearance.
The first engraved gem that Pliny mentions is an agate that belonged to Pyrrhus, King of Epirus. This was in the first half of the third century before Christ. The same monarch is said to have had in his possession an agate on which were figured the nine Muses, and Apollo holding a lyre; the work not of an engraver, but of Nature herself! The veins in the stone were said to be arranged so naturally that each of the Muses had her particular attribute.
At a late period, and even in the Middle Ages, it was a popular belief that the engraved gems found in digging the ground of ancient sites were natural objects, and that the representations on them were a mere natural indication of the special power or quality each possessed.
Busts and heads in full and bass relief were executed by the Romans on chalcedony in the grandest style; the finest specimens of these that we possess are the Marlborough "Medusa," and the bust of "Matidia," supported on a peacock, and three inches high. The chalcedony was supposed to cure lunatics, and make them "amiable and merry."
The agate was an object of the most fanciful delusions to the ancients. Orpheus says, "If thou wearest a piece of the tree-agate on thy hand, the immortal gods shall be pleased with thee; if the same be tied to the horns of thy oxen when ploughing, or round the ploughman's sturdy arm, wheat-crowned Ceres shall descend from heaven with full lap upon thy furrows." He adds that every kind is an antidote to the asp's bite, if taken in wine.
By burning the agate it was believed that storms would be averted, the proof of their efficacy being that if thrown into a caldron of boiling water they immediately cooled it; but in order to do good, they must be strung on the hair of a lion's mane. The stone, colored like a hyena's skin, was believed to be the cause of domestic strife, and was viewed with horror.
What do you think of the wardrobe of Queen Elizabeth, girls? It must have been about the most varied and extensive ever recorded in royal annals, to judge from a list of her wearing apparel recently gathered from the State papers. When the Maiden Queen was sixty-eight, and might therefore have been supposed to have outlived some of her youthful vanity, she possessed 99 complete official costumes, 102 French gowns, 100 robes with trains and 67 without, 126 antique dresses, 136 bodices, and 125 tunics, not to mention such trifles as 96 mantles, 85 dressing-gowns, and 27 fans. With all these dresses, however, it is curious to note that Queen Bess owned only nine pairs of shoes. When she died, in 1603, three thousand articles of apparel were found in her wardrobes, duly catalogued.
"A Germantown Girl."—Thanks for your cordial indorsement of the article on cigarette smoking in No. 117. We hope you will ask the boys of your acquaintance to read it, and we are sure that you and your girl friends will do much to put an end to the bad habit in your set if your young gentlemen friends know that you disapprove of it.
Among the thousands of young people who read this paper there must be some who suffer from timidity or bashfulness. The Postmistress wishes all such to read the following quotation from an address made to children at a recent service in Westminster Abbey by Dr. Bradley, the successor of Dean Stanley, of whom you all have heard:
"Dean Stanley was, as I said, a man whom not only children, but all persons, rejoiced to meet, because, as an American whose name is known all over Europe said, at a great meeting held close by the other day, 'he was so pleasant'; simple words, but very true. Yet, strange to say, he was in his childhood and boyhood so shy and timid that his mother and his father—who, besides being a very good man, could tell stories all day about birds and insects and country life, and could draw children after him as a magnet draws the needle—were alarmed about him. They could not teach him to enjoy games like other children; and though he was not unhappy at school, they were much distressed because they could not get him to speak a word or seem happy in company. He seemed not to like—some of you, perhaps, know the feeling—to notice anything, or to be noticed when others were by him that he did not know quite well. He cured himself of this so completely that if it were not for the many letters describing him as he was then, no one would now believe this about him. How did he do so? By always trying to instruct himself about other things, and to interest himself about other people.
"It was not merely because he was so clever, and wrote such good poetry, that boys christened the corner where his little study was 'Poet's Corner,' that the Rugby boys were so fond of him, but because he was so affectionate, pure-minded, warm-hearted, and kind; and years afterward we young men, as we were at Oxford, learned to love him as our tutor, not because he was becoming famous in the land, but because he cared so much about us, and was always ready with a kind word and act, and we thought him so good. If any of the children to whom I am speaking suffer very much now, as boys and girls often do, in a way their elders never know of, from this same shyness and timidity, let them learn from the story of Dean Stanley the best way to cure themselves, and be of good cheer."
The members of the C. Y. P. R. U. will find in this number an interesting article, by Mrs. John Lillie, entitled "The Gavotte," giving a description of this picturesque old dance, together with a sketch of the boy life of the famous musician John Sebastian Bach. Our boy readers will be interested in the description of "Mr. Barnum's Show in Winter-Quarters," some of them may be inclined to try the Indian game of "Tchungkee," and others may like to busy themselves in the construction of "A Novel Chair-Sleigh." The girls will be interested in the story of "The Milkmaids of Dort."
1. A letter. 2. To descry. 3. A vulgar woman. 4. One of the United States. 5. A place where watches are manufactured. 6. A loud noise. 7. A letter.
Bob.
1.—1. Low, wet ground. 2. Part of a circus. 3. Kingly. 4. An animal. 5. Parts of a building.
Jimmy Brown.
2.—1. A present. 2. Unemployed. 3. To run away. 4. A bird.
3.—1. Pulverized grain. 2. A name. 3. An exclamation. 4. Final.
Nelson M.
4.—1. A number. 2. A metal. 3. Empty. 4. Extremes.
Captain Kidd.
| My first in heart as well as hand. |
| My second figures in the land. |
| My third appears in every plain. |
| My fourth is found in every train. |
| My fifth in hope, but not in fear. |
| My sixth in sound, but not in hear. |
| My seventh rides in every drive. |
| My eighth's in all, and in alive. |
| My ninth's in crown, but not in ring. |
| My tenth's a favorite with the king. |
| My eleventh may be seen in sail. |
| Also in storm, though not in gale. |
| My whole's a well-known mountain chain |
| That's girdled round by grove and plain. |
| Poets have added to my fame, |
| And Cooper often wrote my name. |
Dollie.
| P | P | |||||
| I | n | v | a | d | e | R |
| L | O | |||||
| G | G | |||||
| R | e | f | i | n | e | R |
| I | E | |||||
| M | S | |||||
| S | p | o | n | g | e | S |
| B | B | |||||
| Y | U | |||||
| J | a | v | e | l | i | N |
| O | Y | |||||
| H | A | |||||
| N | a | n | k | e | e | N |
Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan.
| L | ute | J | ars | G | ate |
| A | nne | A | lps | R | oof |
| D | ime | N | oon | E | lms |
| Y | ore | E | ase | Y | ear |
Lady Jane Grey.
| M | O | T | H | O | G | R | E | ||
| O | L | I | O | G | R | E | W | ||
| T | I | P | S | R | E | D | E | ||
| H | O | S | E | E | W | E | R |
Snow-storm. Whittier.
Tongue-tied. Cap-a-pie. Blackboard.
| W | H | E | A | T | T | R | A | S | H | |
| H | E | A | T | R | A | S | H | |||
| E | A | T | A | S | H | |||||
| A | T | S | H | |||||||
| T | H |
Answer to Enigma on page 240—Courtship.
Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Helen of Troy," Ludwdg L. Dessoir, "Commodore Nutt," Ella Price, "Fanchon," Gustave D. Mott, Georgie Wardell, Edith Abbey, Mary Hathaway, M. F. Tomes, H. L. Pruyn.
[For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover.]
A QUEER AQUARIUM.
There is no better amusement among the many in which old proverbs are brought to mind than the one just introduced under the above title, which exercises at the same time the inventive and guessing powers.
Any number can join in this game, which is begun by one of the players, who relates some real or fancied experience, or tells a story in which some proverb which he has in mind is expressed. The person who guesses the proverb thus indicated has to tell another story, which must be continued until it has also been guessed.
When played by a large company, it is well to divide into equal sides, arranged opposite each other in two lines. In this case the first player at the right upper side begins to tell the story, which must be guessed only on the opposite side. The guesser tells his story next, which must be guessed by some one on the right side of the room. The sides before beginning to play choose a time-keeper, who decides the duration of each contest, which should be from half an hour to an hour, according to the number of players. He keeps his watch in his hand, and calls out "Stop!" the instant the time has expired, and then declares the side to have won on which the unguessed story was being told at that moment. This keeps all the players on the alert, as each one is eager to guess while he is inventing his own story, so there may be no delay if he succeeds in guessing.
This effort to do two things at once is very good for the mental powers, as well as very amusing, as the players often become nervous and confused. The best stories are those which suggest several proverbs, as they may be guessed incorrectly at first, and thus give more time to the side on which the narrator is. To make this game clear to the youngest readers, who often play as well as their elders, a specimen of a simple story is given, as follows:
"An old farmer had lived very frugally on his farm for many years, until he had acquired a small competence. His old gray mare had worked as hard as he, and now, grown old in the service, was seldom driven fast, but went slowly from door to door, dragging the milk-cart, which stopped at every farm-house, in the morning for the full cans, and on the return trip from the station left the empty ones to be refilled. The old animal had become very lazy from this habit, and as she slowly jogged home, the old man would be able to read his daily paper, or to count over the coppers with which the sale of milk had filled the old leather bag which he always carried. One fine day, as he left the station on his homeward way, a telegram was put into his hands containing the startling news that his barn was on fire. Eager to save his stock, he plied the whip on his poor beast, whose hide was so thick that very little effect was produced. The farmer continued his blows until the whip-lash was worn out, and then tried the whip-stock, which soon broke also, and the old man was in despair, as the mare only jumped up and down, without increasing her forward progress." At this point "More haste the worse speed," is incorrectly guessed by one of the players, and the narrator proceeds: "The mare shook her head angrily, and leered at her master, showing the whites of her eyes as if in scorn, and this action reminded the farmer that she was very sensitive about the head, being always annoyed when her bridle was put on. 'Ah! old Betsey,' said he, 'I know how to make you go now;' and taking a handful of coppers from his bag, he threw them with all his might at the mare's head. Surprised at this novel attack, old Betsey darted off with the speed of an unbroken colt, and brought the old man home quicker than he had ever before gone over the road." "Money makes the mare go," guesses a player on the right, and begins the second story.
This example will show the method of playing, as the stories are as varied as the tastes of their authors, and old and young alike enjoy this game, which is adapted for the summer picnic as well as for the winter fireside.
The answer to the Monogram Puzzle on page 237 of No. 119 as follows:
Swift ran the deer in mortal fright,
Over Hawthorne bushes leaping;
Passing the Hamlet with footsteps light,
Near where the Cooper his shop was keeping.
Swift (Dean), Hawthorne, Hamlet, Cooper.
"Hi! here's fun. Daddy thinks I've been in School this
half-hour."
Does he, though?
GRAND FINALE!
[1] The theme, or, as it is sometimes called, tema, is the subject of the work; that is, the principal idea of melody—the "plot," as it were, of the whole thing.
[2] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Harper's Young People, February 21,
1882, by Various
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