Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, July 19, 1881, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Harper's Young People, July 19, 1881 An Illustrated Weekly Author: Various Release Date: February 17, 2015 [EBook #48289] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, JULY 19, 1881 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire FLORA MACDONALD IN NORTH CAROLINA. A LITTLE MARAUDER. A GOOD EXCHANGE. WONDERS OF CONEY ISLAND. THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST." HOW FAR CAN YOU SWIM? PINK'S PROPERTY. SPICE. OUR POST-OFFICE BOX. THE WIDOW MACHREE. A SIMPLE CAMP-BED. HARPERS YOUNG PEOPLE Vol. II.—No. 90. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. PRICE FOUR CENTS. Tuesday, July 19, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by Harper & Brothers. $1.50 per Year, in Advance. [Pg 593] FLORA MACDONALD ENCOURAGING THE SAILORS TO CONTINUE THE FIGHT. FLORA MACDONALD IN NORTH CAROLINA. BY BENSON J. LOSSING. When the young Prince Charles Edward, grandson of James II., King of Great Britain, landed in Scotland in 1745, and claimed his right to the throne from which his grandfather had been driven, thousands of Scotchmen, regarding him as their lawful sovereign, joined him in fighting for the British crown. He fought, was defeated, and became a hiding fugitive on the island of Uist, one of the Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland, and was assisted in making his escape to France by Flora Macdonald, a beautiful, patriotic, and romantic Scotch girl, just from school in Edinburgh, come to visit her kinsman, Laird Macdonald, the chief of Uist. Laird and Lady Macdonald were friends of the Prince, and were trying to hide him from the searching eyes of British soldiers, who swarmed on the island in quest of him. They could not shield him much longer. Lady Macdonald conceived a plan for the Prince's escape, but found no man willing to undertake the perilous enterprise. Her young kinswoman Flora spoke scornfully of the timidity that held back her countrymen from such a patriotic and benevolent task. "Will you undertake it, Flora?" asked Lady Macdonald, perceiving the young girl's zeal and patriotism. "Indeed I will," quickly responded Flora. Preparations were immediately made for the romantic enterprise. Neil Macdonald, a young kinsman of Flora, volunteered to accompany her. She obtained a passport to leave the island with Neil, and three others as a boat's crew, and Betsey Burke, a stout Irishwoman whom Flora pretended she had engaged as a seamstress for her mother in the isle of Skye. Flora and her little party left Uist on a pleasant afternoon. Betsey Burke was the Prince in disguise. That night they weathered a terrific storm, and reached Skye in safety in the morning. At the intended landing-place they were confronted by soldiers, when, turning quickly eastward, they escaped a volley of bullets sent after them, and landed near the house of Sir Alexander Macdonald. Leaving the Prince concealed among the rocks, Flora told her secret in the willing ears of Lady Macdonald, who furnished an escort for the party, including stout Betsey Burke, to the Laird of Kingsburg (who was also a Macdonald). Flora had conducted the young Prince as an Irish seamstress through crowds of soldiers and people who were searching for him. The travellers tarried at the house of the Laird of Kingsburg that night, and the next morning Prince Charles Edward embarked for a successful voyage to France. As he was about to leave he kissed his fair deliverer, and said, "Gentle, faithful maiden, I entertain the hope that we shall yet meet in the royal palace." The Prince and Flora never saw each other again. Her young kinsman, Neil Macdonald, accompanied Charles Edward to France, married there, and his son, born four years before Napoleon Bonaparte, became that great military leader's famous Marshal Macdonald, and Duke of Tarentum. The part that Flora had taken in the escape of the Prince soon became known, and she, with the Laird of Kingsburg and other kindred, was confined in the Tower of London as a prisoner of state, charged with the crime of treason. Flora's romantic story, and her extreme youth and radiant beauty, created almost universal sympathy for her among every class of the English people. When George II. asked her, sternly, "How could you dare to succor the enemy of my crown and kingdom?" she replied, with sweet simplicity, "It was no more than I would have done for your Majesty had you been in his place." It was so evident that Flora was not a political partisan of the "young Pretender," as he was called (she was not of his religious faith), and that she had acted from the generous and benevolent impulses of a woman's heart, that she and her kindred were pardoned and released. While she remained in London she attracted great attention. Crowds of the nobility and gentry of both sexes visited her, and bestowed upon her costly presents; and the government sent her home in a handsome chaise, accompanied by a fellow-prisoner, Malcolm McLeod, who afterward said, "I went to London to be hanged, and returned to Scotland in a chaise and four with Flora Macdonald." Flora afterward married Allan, son of the Laird of Kingsburg, and became the mistress of the mansion where Prince Charles Edward passed his last night in Scotland, June 29, 1746. There she and her husband entertained Dr. Johnson and Boswell when they visited the Hebrides in 1773. She had then been a wife more than twenty years, and was the mother of numerous children, yet she was still beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and abiding loyalty to the British crown. Misfortune caused Flora and her family to join some of their kindred who had settled in North Carolina, and she abode for a while at Cross Creek (now Fayetteville). In the winter of 1849 I started to follow the line of the retreat of General Greene before Cornwallis across North Carolina from the Catawba to the Dan, in 1781, but soon turned eastward to Fayetteville, where I arrived toward sunset. In the evening I called on Mrs. McL——, an aged and sprightly Scotchwoman, who, I was told, remembered Flora Macdonald. She was enthusiastic in her praises of that noble woman from the Hebrides. She described her as "not very tall, but a very handsome and dignified woman, with fair complexion, sparkling blue eyes, the finest teeth ever seen, and her hair, partly covered with a pretty lace cap, was slightly streaked with gray. Her kindly voice was sweetest music," continued Mrs. McL——, "and oh, how the poor and the church missed her when she went home after seeing much trouble here!" [Pg 594] "Is her dwelling here yet standing?" I asked. "No; it was partly burned in the great fire here about twenty years ago. As you pass from the Market-House to the Court-House, you may see the ruins of it near the creek," she said. Stepping to a quaint chest of drawers, Mrs. McL—— took out a dingy-looking letter written by Flora to her (Mrs. McL——'s) elder sister, then a maiden, of twenty, dated February 1, 1776. It was a brief note, but an exceedingly interesting one, as it was in the bold handwriting of the heroine of Skye. "It was sent," said the old lady, "from her new home in the Barbacue Congregation, and, as you will see, she wrote her name 'Flory.'" "Then she did not live here long?" I said. "No; she soon moved to the Barbacue Congregation, about twenty miles north of here." On the day when that note was written, the royal Governor of North Carolina issued a proclamation calling upon all friends of the King to assemble, with arms, at Cross Creek, and join his standard. The Macdonalds were all loyalists, and now the troubles of Flora in North Carolina began. Her husband and others, to the number of about fifteen hundred, mostly Scotchmen, readily obeyed the call. "Flora came with her husband and friends," said Mrs. McL——. "I remember seeing her riding along the line on a large white horse, and encouraging her countrymen to be faithful to the King. Why, she looked like a queen. But she went no further than here, and when they marched away, she returned to her home." Nearly a month later these Scotch loyalists were routed, dispersed, made prisoners, or killed in battle on Moore's Creek. Flora's husband was among the prisoners, and was sent to Halifax jail. He was soon afterward released, when he left North Carolina with his family for Scotland in a British sloop of war. On the way the vessel was attacked by a French vessel of war. The courage of the English sailors appeared to desert them, and capture seemed inevitable, when Flora ascended to the deck, and by words and deeds so stimulated their spirits that they beat off the enemy, and the Macdonalds were landed safely on their native soil of Skye. During the engagement Flora was severely wounded in the hand. She said, sometimes, when speaking of the peculiarity of her situation. "I have hazarded my life both for the house of Stuart and the house of Hanover, and I do not see that I am a great gainer by it." Flora Macdonald was the mother of five sons and two daughters. She retained much of her beauty and all her dignity and loveliness of character until the last. She was always modest, always kind, always sweet and benevolent in disposition. She died early in March, 1790, and was buried in the cemetery of Kilmuir, in the isle of Skye. Her shroud, as she requested long before her death, was made of the sheets in which Prince Charles Edward reposed on the night he slept at Kingsburg. Her funeral was attended by fully three thousand persons. Two years later the remains of her husband were laid by her side. For eighty years their resting-place was covered only by the greensward. In 1871 a beautiful monument was erected over them. "When the news of Flora Macdonald's death reached the Barbacue Congregation," said Mrs. McL——, "a solemn funeral service was held in the church there, when Dr. Hall, who died in 1826, in the eighty-second year of his age, preached the sermon. He had been a military leader as well as a preacher of righteousness. My husband was then an elder in the church, and we were both present. Flora Macdonald had no more sincere mourners than were found in the Barbacue Congregation at that time." A LITTLE MARAUDER. BY MRS. MARGARET SANGSTER. Oh, Robin, my Robin, so clever and merry, Pray why do you never peck twice at a cherry? You fly at the daintiest one you can see, Eat a morsel yourself, and just spoil it for me. Oh, Robin, sweet Robin, you dear little warden, You're welcome to feast on the fruit in my garden: I know what invaders you're driving away From flower and tree through the long summer day. But, Robin, bright Robin, please listen to reason: You waste lots of cherries, my pet, every season. I finish my cake to the very last crumb— Why can not you finish your cherry or plum? A GOOD EXCHANGE. BY ALEXANDER FRASER. Once upon a time a poor boy, the son of a widow, went out to gather strawberries. He well knew the paths of the forest, and the place where the berries grew thickest and sweetest. Very soon his joyful cry was heard: "Hello, hello Ziegaleck! Ich hoa mei Tippla Bodendeck!" And as he gathered the ripe fruit, he sang in merry tones: "Hello, hello, Koalb! Ich hoa mei Tippla hoalb! Hello, hello Kuhl! Ich hoa mei Tippla vuhl!" Soon his earthen dish was full, and the boy started for home. As he turned his steps into the narrow path, he heard from the rocky side of the pathway a voice saying in entreating tones, "Pray give me thy berries." [Pg 595] Fig. 1. —Sertularia. Fig. 2.—King- Crab. Fig. 3.—Squid. Fig. 4.—Egg Cluster of Squid. Fig. 5.—Natica. Fig. 6.—Natica Egg Case. The lad turned in fright, and saw a little old man with a long gray beard, and worn, faded garments, who looked kindly upon him as he repeated, "Pray give me thy berries." "But," said the lad, "I must take the berries to my mother, who is obliged to sell them to buy us bread." "And I," said the little old man, "have a sick wife at home, who would be greatly comforted and refreshed by them." The lad's heart was filled with pity. He thought to himself, "I will give him the berries for his sick wife, and if I am industrious, I can again fill my dish before night-fall." Then he said to the little man: "Yes, you may have them. Where shall I empty them for you?" "We will exchange dishes," was the answer. "See, you may have mine, which is empty, and I will take yours, which is filled. Mine is brand-new, but no matter." Thereupon the lad gave the little old man his berries, and received in return the new but empty vessel; and the gray-bearded man with a smile uttered his thanks. The boy took the dish, and hastened back to the forest. Soon he came to the place where the berries grew thickest and sweetest, and having replenished his store, again joyfully turned his steps homeward. When he arrived at home he related to his mother what had happened to him in the forest, and with delight displayed the new dish. The mother commended her son for the kindness he had manifested toward the little man, then took the vessel in her hand, and examined it carefully. "Ah! happy are we, my child!" she exclaimed. "The dish is pure gold. See how it sparkles! It is the little old man of the forest who has thus rewarded you for your goodness. Now, thanks to him, we are rich; but we will never forget the poor and the sick in their sorrow." WONDERS OF CONEY ISLAND. BY A. W. ROBERTS. If grown-up folks and young people who are desirous of becoming acquainted with the marine wonder-land of Coney Island will take a stroll along the beach, starting from the Iron Tower and proceeding a mile toward Norton's Point, I'll promise them that their constant exclamations will be, "I wonder what it is!" as they meet with one after another of the many curious marine objects that are to be found along the two upper lines of drift. For years I have seen visitors (both old and young) on the island poke at and destroy with their canes, sticks, and wooden shovels hundreds of beautiful and interesting objects that had been cast up by the ocean, in their efforts to determine what they were. Some time ago I visited the island for the special purpose of writing up and illustrating some of the most common objects that can be obtained in an hour or two's' collecting. One of the handsomest and most abundant of all sertularians to be found on the island is shown in Fig. 1. Sertularians consist of hydroid communities which build up the beautiful structure shown in the illustration, which is generally called by excursionists "sea-moss" and sea-weed, though it is not a moss at all, nor is it a sea-weed, but is an animal product built up by immense numbers of minute and beautifully formed creatures known to naturalists as hydroids. From these hydroids are created the transparent jelly-fish we see floating in the ocean. After gathering the sertularia it should be washed in warm soap suds to clean it; when nearly dry it can be pressed in the leaves of a book just as ferns are treated. I have often gathered it on the island two feet long, and have used it with evergreens for Christmas decorations. It is said to be an excellent material for canaries when building their nests, as it contains both salt and lime. Fig. 2 is the horseshoe-crab, also called the king-crab, from the fact of its being the largest of all crabs on our coast. This crab is common on sandy shores, where it partially buries itself below the surface of the sand when in search of food. In the illustration is shown the egg of the king- crab one-third larger than life. Some few days before the egg of the crab hatches out, the young crab is seen tumbling about inside of the transparent shell of the egg. King-crabs lay their eggs in the sand on sand- bars that are exposed to the action of the sun during the low tide. Fig. 3 is the squid, also called the ink-pot, from the fact that when in danger he ejects a stream of ink-like fluid, which forms a black cloud in the water about him; through this he escapes from his enemies. Fig. 4 is a cluster of squid eggs. The egg masses of the squid are always to be found on the island during the months of May and June. The eggs are inclosed in an elongated pod-shaped mass of jelly which, when held up to the light, reveals the outline of a number of small translucent eggs of a light yellow color. From fifty to one hundred of the pod-shaped jelly masses occur in one cluster. The great wonder is how one small squid can lay so great a mass of eggs. Fig. 5 is one of the commonest shells on Coney Island, particularly after a storm, and is known as the natica. It lives on the sand-bars below low-water mark, where it feeds on the surf or skimmer clam by boring a hole through the hard shell of the clam with its tongue, which is coated with numerous fine teeth. Fig. 6 is the egg case of the natica, of which thousands are cast on the shore every summer. This egg case is often known as the "mermaid collar," on account of its striking resemblance to a collar. This curious object is composed of grains of white and black sand fastened together with a soft and transparent glue, of which the natica seems to possess a very large supply. How the collar is so regularly and smoothly formed out of the sand is still a mystery to naturalists. Fig. 7 is the skimmer clam, or surf clam; it is to be found on the entire length of the outside beach of Coney Island where the water is clear, and exposed to the constant action of the waves. There it constructs a burrow two or three feet deep. Sometimes, after an unusually low tide, it is left exposed one or two inches above the sand, when, if cautiously approached, it may be drawn out with a sudden jerk, but if alarmed, it will penetrate the sand quicker than it can be followed. Thousands of these clams are taken home by visitors to the island for the purpose of cooking, but when opened are found to be so full of fine [Pg 596] Fig. 7.—Coney Island Skimmer Clam. Fig. 8.—Egg of Skate. Fig. 9.—Eggs of Whelk. sand that they are useless. It received the name of skimmer clam from the Dutch settlers, who used the empty shells for skimming their milk. On the beak, or highest point of the shell, is shown (in the drawing) a round hole made by the natica. Fig. 8 is the egg of our common skate; the four hair-like appendages attached to the sides are tangles composed of a fine silk-like material. The skate, after laying an egg, takes it in her mouth and carries it to the nearest broken oyster or clam shell, and entangles or fastens it by means of the silk-like appendages, otherwise it would be driven ashore on the first storm. Fig. 9 is a mass of the eggs of the whelk, one of our deep-water shell-fish, the empty shell of which is seldom cast on the Coney Island shore, but the masses of eggs come ashore in large quantities, particularly after storms, when they are broken from their stone anchorages. Fig. 10 is a string of the egg cases of the periwinkle shell, which is one of the largest shells inhabiting the waters of Coney Island. The eggs are contained in a soft leathery case of a light yellow color, about the size of a two-cent piece, but much thicker. Each case contains from one hundred and fifty to two hundred eggs. These strings of eggs vary from one to two feet in length. Fig. 10. —Eggs of Periwinkle. [Begun in No. 80 of Harper's Young People, May 10.] THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST." BY W. L. ALDEN, Author of "The Moral Pirates," etc. Chapter XI. Charley, leaving his companions near the fore-rigging, went out and loosed the jib and flying-jib, and when this was done, returned and showed them where the halyards were. The flying-jib was hoisted without much difficulty, but the jib was heavier, and the boys found it necessary to take the halyards to a "gypsy," which is something like a small windlass, with the aid of which the obstinate sail was soon hoisted. The sheets were then trimmed flat, and the pressure of the wind on the sails forced the brig's head around so that she no longer lay with her broadside to the wind and sea. The foretopmast stay-sail had evidently been set during the gale, for it had been blown away, and nothing remained of it but a few shreds clinging to the bolt-ropes. Charley next went aloft and loosed the foretopsail. The brig was an old-fashioned affair, and had the old-fashioned single topsails, so the sail was rather a large one for four boys to handle. They, however, succeeded in sheeting it home, and then, with the help of the "gypsy," managed to hoist the yard. All the yards had been squared before the brig was abandoned, and she had swung around so far that the topsail filled, after a fashion, as soon as it was set. Sending Joe aft to the wheel, and telling him to keep the brig directly before the wind, Charley again went aloft and loosed the fore-top-gallant-sail, which was small enough to be sheeted home and hoisted up by Charley, Tom, and Harry, without Joe's help. With the help of these two sails, the vessel began to move slowly through the water. Her rate of speed was certainly not very great, but it was sufficient to give steerage-way to her—at least so Charley thought. But as the brig showed a great apparent unwillingness to keep on her course, and acted very much like a drunken man who staggers from one side of the pavement to the other, he went aft to see what was the matter. "I'm glad you've come," said Joe. "I'm afraid I don't exactly understand steering with the wheel. Which way do you turn it if you want her head to turn to starboard?" "You roll the wheel over to starboard, and that ports the helm," replied Charley. "Then I've been doing just the opposite," exclaimed Joe, "and that's the reason why I couldn't do anything with her. It's lucky I found out what was the matter before any harm was done." "I'll come back presently," said Charley, "and give you a lesson in steering. I must go now and try to get the foresail on her." The foresail was set after a long struggle. The breeze was now very light, but the three square sails drew well, and the brig was certainly making a full knot an hour. The jib and flying-jib were of course of no use now that the vessel was directly before the wind, but Charley decided to let them alone, as they were doing no harm, and as a slight change in the direction of the wind would bring them into use again. The boys were now so tired that they decided to rest and have something to eat before resuming work. A search for provisions did not prove very successful. There was a lot of dried cod-fish in a box in the maintop, where nobody but Charley would have dreamed of looking for it, and there was salt beef of very uninviting appearance in the harness-cask near the foremast. In the galley were a few biscuits, which did not appear to have been spoiled by sea-water, but there was nothing else to eat on board the vessel. Below the deck, the brig seemed to be nearly full of water—so full, at least, that there was no possibility of going below. As nobody was anxious to eat dried cod-fish or raw salt beef, Harry said he would go on board the Ghost and bring a supply of provisions that would give the boys a comfortable lunch. He went to the main-chains, to which the rope that held the Ghost had been made fast, but to his surprise it was not there. Thinking that he had [Pg 597] SETTING SAIL ON THE BRIG. made a mistake, and looked on the wrong side of the vessel, he turned to cross the deck. As he did so, he uttered a cry that startled his companions. "The Ghost has gone!" he cried. "There she is, a mile astern." She had not been fastened securely, and had gone adrift while the boys were making sail. "We must turn right back and get her," exclaimed Harry. "Don't let's lose a minute's time." "Can we go back after her?" asked Tom. Charley thought a moment, and answered: "We can't. That is, I don't think it's possible." "Why not?" asked Harry. "We'll try it; but there's very little wind, and I don't believe we can beat to windward with this water-logged craft, especially as she hasn't any maintopsail. Run forward, boys, and let go the fore-top-gallant halyards, and then try to haul up the foresail. I'll have to come, though, and show you where the ropes are." The foresail was brailed up, and the head-sheets were let go, and then Charley ran aloft as quick as he could, and loosed the main-top-gallant-sail, which the boys set as well as they could with the topsail-yard down on the cap. They then set the spanker, and hoisted the maintopmast stay-sail. "Now come with me," said Charley, "and we'll see if we can brace the head-yards up." They hauled at the port forebrace with all their might, but found they could only swing the yard a short distance. "It's perfectly hopeless, boys," said Charley. "We can't do it." "Can't we take the rope to the gypsy or the capstan?" said Harry. "I'm sure we could get the yard round then." "Perhaps we could," answered Charley, "but we can never tack the brig in that way. It would take us an hour every time, and then it would be of no use. We must give the Ghost up, for it's an absolute impossibility for us to work this vessel two miles to windward, and we are at least two miles from the Ghost now. However, we'll brace the yards up a little, and steer her a little more north. All the sails will draw then, and we'll get on a little faster." With infinite labor the yards were braced up by taking all the lower and topsail braces to the capstan. The fore-top-gallant-yard was once more hoisted, and the foresail set. Joe was told to keep her N.N.W., and with all the sails drawing, she really made a visible wake in the water. The Ghost gradually faded from sight until she completely vanished. Harry went aloft to the maintop and brought down a cod-fish, on which the boys made what was either a late dinner or an early supper. They were so hungry that it did not taste bad, and they agreed that there might be worse things than dried cod-fish eaten raw. Charley hurried through with his meal, for he was anxious to make preparations for the night. He found that there was oil enough in the brig's lamps to burn during one night, and he trimmed them and made them ready for lighting. He went aloft to the main-royal-yard and looked for land, but he could see none, and there was not a sail in sight except two that were dimly visible on the far horizon. Then he came down, and finding that he had some matches in his pocket, he took a big knife that he found in the galley, split up a shelf, and started a fire, with which he meant to boil a piece of beef. The decks had been quite dry ever since the brig had been got before the wind, and the sea was going down every hour. There was nothing more that the young Captain could do for the safety of the vessel which had so strangely come under his command. As he went aft to where the boys were gathered around the wheel, Tom said to him: "Charley, I know it is my fault that we lost the boat. I thought I had her fast, so that it was impossible for her to get away, but I didn't." "I am the one that is most to blame," replied Charley. "I induced you all to stay on the brig, instead of taking the compass and going about our business. But there's no use in worrying ourselves about what can't be helped." "Do you really think now that we can get her into port?" demanded Harry. "I think it depends entirely on the wind. If the wind continues to be fair, and especially if it freshens a little, I believe we can't help getting her as far as Sandy Hook, or somewhere, within hail of a steam-tug. We can't be more than thirty or thirty-five miles from land, and as soon as we get a little nearer the coast, we shall be right in the track of the European steam-ships." "Is there any danger of her sinking?" asked Tom. "Not for a long while yet. We ought to keep a signal of distress flying, though, for I'd like to have some vessel lend us two or three men to help us work her. Look in that locker aft of the wheel, Tom, and see if there isn't an ensign in it." Tom looked as directed, and found a French flag. "Now I'd like to know," said Charley, in a disgusted tone of voice, "how we can set a French ensign upside down. It's a sign of distress to set our ensign union down, but this thing hasn't any union. We'll have to hoist it half way up, and I suppose that will look mournful enough to attract anybody's attention. What I'm afraid of," continued Charley, "is that the wind will change, and come out ahead. It's very light, and it keeps shifting back and forth three or four points, as if it didn't know its own mind. However, if we do have a headwind, somebody will take us off the brig, and carry us to New York." "I'm not complaining, I want you to understand," remarked Joe. "I'm perfectly dry, and I never complain unless I'm wet. But if I'm to do all the steering, I'd like to know it beforehand." "I beg your pardon, Joe," exclaimed Charley. "I forgot that you've been at the wheel nearly four hours. Tom, will you take the wheel, while I hoist the ensign and attend to a few other little things?" Tom took the wheel, and Joe explained to him the difference between steering with a wheel and steering with a tiller. After setting the ensign, Charley went forward and lighted the side lights. Then he put a piece of beef in the kettle to boil, and split up the cook's bench with which to replenish the fire. Finally he coiled all the halyards down on deck, so that there would be no trouble in letting them go in a hurry, and then he rejoined his companions. "We have had no regular watches to-day," he remarked, "for we had to have all hands on deck to make sail. It's now nearly eight o'clock, and as everything seems all right, Joe and I will turn in till twelve o'clock. You will steer, Tom, while Harry will go forward, and keep a look-out. Do you know how to strike the hours on the bell?" "I learned that long ago," replied Tom. "Then take my watch, and strike the bell every half-hour. Harry, when you hear four bells, come aft and take the wheel, and let Tom go on the look-out. By-the-bye, I forgot about the binnacle lamp." There proved to be plenty of oil in it, and it was soon trimmed and lighted. Charley noticed that the brig was heading nearly west. [Pg 598] "The wind is getting round," he said, rather gloomily, "and I'm afraid we shall have it back in the northwest again. Boys, we've got to brace the yards up before anybody turns in." This time the yards were braced up as sharp as the boys could brace them, and a full hour was consumed in this hard labor. It was now possible to keep the brig nearly on her course; but knowing that the wind would probably go still further around, Charley told Tom not to trouble himself about the compass, but to keep her as close to the wind as possible, and to call him in case the wind should get into the northwest. At nine o'clock Charley and Joe went into the galley, and lying down near the fire, went to sleep. At twelve o'clock the starboard watch was called. The wind was now unmistakably ahead, and the brig was heading nearly southwest. Tom explained that he had been able to keep her heading nearly west until about half past eleven, and that he had not thought it worth while to deprive Charley of half an hour of sleep by calling him before twelve. Charley thanked him, but gently reminded him that he had been ordered to call the Captain the moment the wind got into the northwest, and that it was his duty to obey orders strictly. "I shall want you and Harry to help brail up the top-gallant-sails," said Charley. "As long as we can't keep our course, we don't want to carry any more sail than is necessary. We'll haul down the flying-jib, and haul up the top-gallant-sails, but we won't try to furl them till day-light." The top-gallant yards were dropped and squared, and the sails brailed up. Charley went out and furled the flying-jib, and then Tom and Harry went into the galley to sleep. Joe took his station on the forecastle, where he walked up and down to keep himself awake, and Charley was left alone at the wheel. The more he thought the matter over, the more he was convinced that he had not been rash in undertaking to navigate the brig. Had the wind continued fair, the boys could almost certainly have brought her near enough to Sandy Hook to meet a steam-tug. Could they have succeeded in this, they would have made a large sum of money, perhaps as much as eight or ten thousand dollars, and Charley himself would have gained a great deal of credit in the eyes of his naval superiors. The brig, water-logged as she was, seemed to be about as safe as the leaky Ghost, and there was much more chance that the brig would be seen by some passing vessel, and her crew taken off, than there was that so small a boat as the Ghost would meet with help. Unfortunately the change in the wind had made it apparently impossible for the boys to bring the brig into port; but Charley felt sure that in the course of the next day they would be taken off in case they wanted to abandon her. So finding that his conscience acquitted him of having rashly led his companions into danger, he felt peaceful and happy, and steered the brig as cheerfully as if he were steering the Ghost in the Great South Bay. [to be continued.] HOW FAR CAN YOU SWIM? BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD. "Look here, Sime, old Purdy might have told us he'd taken away his oars." "Well, yes; but there was a kind of a grin on his face when he told us we might have it. Not another loose boat!" It was a solemn fact. Every skiff along the beach but "old Purdy's" was fastened by chain and padlock and stake, to express the objections of its owner against its use by stray boys. "No fun going in for a swim in this shallow water. Only a wading place." "Barry, there's a board. That'll do for us. We can paddle her out far enough." It was a lost fragment of clapboard about four feet long, and with no house to it. Nobody could guess how it got there; but in three minutes more the clumsy flat-bottomed skiff was being slowly propelled away from the beach, out toward the deeper water of the lake. Sime Hopkins and Barry Gilmore had reached, to judge from the remarks they made, that precise point in their aquatic practice when your common small boy 'long-shore swimming is a thing to be looked down upon, and a lake of some size, or a section of the Atlantic, was required for any fun of theirs. The day was warm, the water as smooth as a pane of glass, and there was a faint haze over the sky. The very model of a day for a perfect swim. The boat, too, had evidently been built for it. She was broad enough not to tip too easily if you were climbing in, and the wide seat at each end was just the arrangement for diving. "This'll do, Sime. Pity we didn't bring an anchor." "Water's a hundred feet deep out here. How far are we from shore?" "Don't know. Maybe it's half a mile. Maybe it's more. Could you swim it?" "Guess not, Barry. Perhaps I could. But I don't care to try. Not unless the boat came along. A fellow's legs might give out, or he might take a cramp." "My legs would peg out, sure, long before I got there." They were a very good pair for a boy of fifteen, and in a moment more they were in the air, as he sprang from the stern of the boat, and went in, capitally well, head first. "That was a good header," shouted Sime. "I'm coming." Come he did, and they found the water just about right for them. Not a trace of a chill in it, in spite of the fact that the lake was largely supplied by springs from the bottom. Out there, of course, there could be no weeds to catch their feet in, and there was very little to be suggested by way of improvement. "'Fore we get too tired, Barry, let's try a longer swim." "Come on. Only don't let's go too far." They were headed toward the shore, and they were not looking back, when Barry exclaimed: "There's a ripple, Sime. The wind's rising." "Barry, look at the boat!" "She's drifting out. The wind's off shore." The boys looked at each other for a moment with very serious faces; but they were brave fellows, and there was no time for hesitation. "She isn't so very far, Sime." "But she's drifting. No telling how far she'll go. We mustn't risk it." [Pg 599] "Shore's too far. Can't do it. We can catch the boat." "The wind's rising, Barry." "Choose, Sime—shore or boat." "Shore for me. Choose for yourself. See how she drifts!" "You can't reach the shore, Sime. Besides, I want my clothes. I'm going for the boat." "No time to talk. Good-by, Barry." Sime Hopkins felt a great sob rising as he struck out for the shore, and it was every bit as much on Barry's account as on his own, but he had to choke it down. "Straight swimming now, and no nonsense. How plainly I can see the city!" That is, he could see the steeples of it, some two miles from the shore he hoped to reach; and below them, he knew, were the roofs of houses, and under the roofs of two of those houses were Barry Gilmore's mother and his own. Steadily, regularly, without a motion too much or a pull too hard—for he was thinking very closely what it was best to do in such a case—Sime swam on, until a dull feeling in his arms warned him of coming weariness. "On my back now for a few rods. It'll change the work, and rest me. I can see the boat, but I can't see Barry. The wind is blowing harder." All that time, however, Barry had been doing precisely what his friend had done, only that he had watched more anxiously the increasing ripple on the water. "She isn't so very far," he had said to himself at first. "I do wish Sime had come with me. He can't reach that shore, swim his best. It'll be an awful thing to tell." A couple of minutes later he was muttering: "That was a harder puff. How she does drift! Seems to me I don't get an inch nearer. If it blows much worse, I'll have to follow her to the upper end of the lake." That was nearly six miles away, and the thought of it made the warm water he was swimming in seem several degrees colder. Barry's lips closed hard, and his teeth set against each other, and he measured his every stroke to make it tell. Then his turn came to try a "back swim and a rest," and he too said: "I can see the shore and the city, but I can't get a glimpse of Sime. There! isn't that his head?—that black thing? Guess it is; it's moving. Yes, it's him!" It was indeed the back of Sime's head, but the boy under it was saying to himself: "The shore's as far away as it ever was: I'd no idea we had paddled out such a distance. Reach it? I will reach it. Never swam so far in my life, but I must reach it." Still, it was getting to be weary work, and before him lay what seemed an interminable reach of glittering ripples. He was breathing hard, his arms and legs were moving with less force than at first, and his progress through the water was slower and slower. "Can I do it? It's got to be done. I'll tread water a moment for a change. I can't see Barry. Hurrah! it's the shallows!" As he dropped his feet they came down upon smooth sand, for all that end of the lake was a very gentle slope from the beach. The water was up to his neck, but the bottom was there, and Sime's heart bounded with a great throb of relief. "Barry? I must wade in fast now. No boat when I get there; no help." It was a forlorn outlook, and Sime even thought for a moment of all his clothing away out there in the skiff. Then he thought of Barry Gilmore, and hardly anything else, until the increasing shallowness of the water enabled him to wade faster, and then to break into what was almost a run. It was a great splash at all events, and Sime was quickly shouting to some one on the beach a half-breathless account of Barry's danger. "Why didn't ye wait for the oars? I was a-comin' down with 'em. Wanted a swim myself, and thought I'd fool ye a little. What! Barry a-swimmin' after the skiff? There's Jim Burr's boat. Quick! jump in!" "It's locked." "Locked? Well, I'll jest unlock it." The key Purdy used was of limestone, and it may have weighed twenty pounds. It "opened Jim Burr's padlock for good and all," while Sime was getting in; and then how Purdy did row! "We'll be too late." "Shut up, Sime. Don't talk to me. It's jest awful." It came very near it, for Barry Gilmore's brave, earnest face was getting white when he at last discovered that he was really drawing nearer the runaway boat. "The wind is rising. I'm almost gone. Couldn't swim two rods further." Yes, the wind was indeed blowing harder, but the direction of it had been for some time changing, as it is apt to do before a summer storm. The first "surface current" of air had lost its breath, and the stronger blast which was really to bring the cloud and rain was coming from the other way. So was the skiff it caught and carried along, and Barry hardly understood it. "I'm swimming pretty fast yet, in spite of everything. Wish I knew about Sime. Just a little further." Oh, how difficult were those last few strokes! When Barry faintly rested one hand upon the gunwale of the skiff, it required a great effort to lift the other beside it. "I can't climb in, now I've got here. What shall I do?" Of course he could not have climbed in, if he had been obliged to lift himself all the way up, but every ounce of weight he put upon the side of the boat brought it down further and further, until it was hardly two inches above the roughening water. "Now for it!" All the strength he had left went into that last effort, and then Barry was lying on the bottom of the boat, with his wet head on the shining front of Sime Hopkins's shirt bosom. He did not try to guess how long he lay there. Even after he could have moved, he had no heart to lift his head and look toward the shore. At last, just after he had covered his eyes with both hands, there came upon his ears the sound of oars, as if some very zealous rower were pulling for a prize in some regatta, and behind that sound was another, as if some fellow had suddenly burst out crying. A heavy "bump" against the side of the skiff. "Here he is! Oh, Barry!" "Sime, is that you? Don't say a word, Sime—I can't." [Pg 600] It was some little time before either of them could say much, but they had both learned just about how far they could swim; and old Purdy sat there in his stolen boat, his rough face all one redness and radiance. All even he could find to say was, "Ain't I glad! Jim Burr won't mind my bustin' of his lock a mite; but I'll git him another." GOING TO MAKE AN AFTERNOON CALL. SWINGING ON THE GATE.—Drawn by S. G. McCutcheon. PINK'S PROPERTY. BY ELLA M. BAKER. Miles from any church, and miles from any railway station, stood, one summer afternoon, shut up and empty, an old gray house. It had been a handsome house, and there was something comely about it yet, with its fan-light over the broad door, its many windows, its quaint roof, and its fretted cornices. But it looked like a house fast asleep. All the year it had stood just so. Last summer the rose-tree had reached out far enough to tap with prickly fingers on the panes, as if to say, "Wake up and admire me: am I to bloom unseen?" Last autumn, the grape-vine had held waiting, until it was tired, the ripened bunches on its unpruned branches. Last winter the winds had shaken rudely the doors, and casements, and the storms had beat loudly enough to rouse any dreamer, one would think. But still the old house did not stir. A hornet's nest hung undisturbed over the front door. The lilacs and syringas, the wax-ball and snow-ball bushes, cowered closer and closer to the walls, and birds built in them fearlessly. All day the oriole, which, it is said, never sings except in beautiful places, spent there his gift of melody in songs half sad, half tender. At night the whip-poor-will took the oriole's place. Little wild things from the woods went fearlessly about at twilight. They seemed all to have agreed together: "Yes, there is no make-believe about it; the place is really sound asleep. We may do what we please." It was a great surprise, then, when on that same summer afternoon the long slumber of the house broke up. Horses' feet stamped at the gate, [Pg 601] voices laughing and exclaiming frightened the squirrels away, windows flew up, doors were forced noisily and unwillingly open. At night-fall lamps moved flickering past the windows up stairs and down, while a broad swath of golden light swept from the open hall door. A group of people sitting just within the door chattered merrily. They were laughing at mamma about "her property." For this place had been left to mamma as a legacy by her granduncle, who died a year ago, and mamma had chosen for this summer to let the sea-side cottage, shut up the house in town, and spend the season here before deciding about selling the place or letting it. "So here we all are," the tall son was saying, "settling down to enjoy mamma's property like lords. This tumble-down old house—" "Be careful how you speak of my property," smiled his mother, shaking her finger at him, "or you may run some risk of being warned off it." "Like the hornets," said the oldest daughter, archly. "Oh dear! I think it would have been so much nicer at the sea-side!" sighed a child's voice, discontentedly, as a bat flew by her head, and each of the party was betrayed into a shriek more or less shrill, while her brother made wild passes in the air with his hat. "Oh, well, mamma," spoke the father's genial voice, when they had settled back in their seats, "it will be only bats and hornets that will dispute your property with you, at all events. Humanity is too scarce hereabouts to trouble you. No house in sight except those distant chimneys, is there?" "Yes, there is one, papa," replied the youngest, quickly; "it is behind the trees, under that hill; but I shouldn't have noticed it only that I saw a little girl in a pink dress moving about there." "Come, now, Pussy; maybe you'll find a nice friend in little Pink—'a companion of my solitude,' eh?" suggested her father, carelessly. But Laura rather sniffed, and made a mournful remark about "Florence, Ethel, and the rest of the girls at the beach." At that moment "little Pink" was sitting on the door-step of that same house "behind the trees, under the hill," and gazing up, full of excitement, toward the newly opened house on the knoll above her. It was a great event, and great events happened very rarely to Pink. Once since she could remember she had been with her father and mother to pay a visit in the family of an aunt. They had taken the old horse and the green-bodied wagon, and had been a whole day in reaching their destination. Two or three times during every summer, also, they made a similar pilgrimage to attend the church where Pink's mother used to go when she was a girl and lived at "the village." Another great event was the shopping excursion that had to be made every season. While the father bought on one side of the store his seeds, or his new plough, or his axe-helve, the mother, on the other side, selected her calico, groceries, and even the ribbon that was to retrim last year's bonnet. Pink's calico, chosen by herself this time, had been bought on the last of these expeditions. "I wouldn't say a word," she had pleaded, "if it cost any more than the brown, but they don't charge for the color, so mayn't I have the pink, please?" And the pink calico had been bought, made, and worn to grace that other great event, the "examination day." For Pink, with a handful more of scholars, who lived about as far from the scorched-up little school-house as she did, walked her mile and a half every day during term-time, and wrestled with Webster's spelling-book, and Colburn's arithmetic, compositions, and "pieces," until the final grand display of the closing half-day. That was brass band and military procession to Pink. She held her head high, and went through her part with beating heart but machine-like precision. To have missed would have been unendurable mortification and misery. But now all Pink's interest was centred in the changes that were taking place in the handsome old place adjoining her father's farm. The tall, gloomy fence in front was taken down, and the broad greensward, sloping to the road, carefully mowed. Where boughs were too dense they were pruned away. A gay striped awning appeared over the front door. Most interesting of all, some one was always to be seen moving about. It might be the motherly lady with gray hair and soft white lace upon it; it might be girls of different sizes, in dresses wonderful to Pink's country eyes; it might be only a workman making a flower bed. Altogether, Pink had never known so much excitement in her life as this. Laura and her sisters used to notice how continually, when they were looking from their airy windows on the hill-top, the same rosy dot was to be seen, now flitting about, now resting quietly, and they often spoke of "little Pink," as they called her. She took her piece of sewing as usual one morning out on the shady door-step, whence she could watch the great house. She saw Laura come listlessly out of the door and stroll off, as if she cared little where she went. Laura was "sick of everything," she had been declaring—sick of the country, sick of croquet, sick of all her books and trinkets. Her mother had reproved rather gravely the little girl's fretful discontent, and Laura, in no happy frame of mind, had chosen to roam off by herself. She climbed a wall, followed a brook for a short distance, and then struck into a shady lane. Pink followed her with her eyes, reverently admiring the dainty white dress that shone in the sunshine. "I sh...