Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, June 27, 1882, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Harper's Young People, June 27, 1882 An Illustrated Weekly Author: Various Release Date: November 26, 2018 [EBook #58357] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, JUNE *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER. MAX RANDER'S FENCING EXPERIENCE. A LITTLE DUKE. OLD LIGHT'S JOKE. CAPTAIN ORTIS PERIL AND PRIVATION. THESE MY LITTLE ONES. SAVED BY AN ALBATROSS. PREPARING FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. GRANDFATHER KNITTING. OUR POST-OFFICE BOX. HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE vol. iii.—no. 139. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. price four cents. Tuesday, June 27, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. $1.50 per Year, in Advance. [Pg 545] UNROLLING THE SCHOONER'S SAILS. MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1] BY JAMES OTIS. Chapter XIII. THE RESULTS OF LONG TRAINING. Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on, with a view probably to guarding against another sudden fright such as the overture had given him, and the moment Ben commenced to revolve, he leaped from the tree, running with full speed toward the whirling acrobat. Toby started to catch him, but the monkey was too quick in his movements. Before any one could prevent him, he had caught the revolving boy by one leg, and for a few seconds it was difficult to tell which was Ben and which the monkey. Of course such an interruption as that broke up the performance for the time being, and Toby was obliged to exert all his authority to disentangle the monkey from the performer. "I knew it wouldn't do to let him be loose," said Toby, in a half-apologetic tone. "Now I'll set here, an' hold him while you commence over again, Ben." "Well, now, be sure you hold him," said Ben, seriously, "for I don't want him to catch me again when I'm goin' 'round so fast, for it hurts a fellow to tumble the way he made me." Bob offered to help hold the unruly monkey, and when he and Toby had taken a firm grip on the collar, the music was started again, and Ben recommenced his performance. This time he got through with it in a highly successful and creditable manner; he proved to be a really good acrobat, so far as turning hand-springs and standing on his head were concerned, and Toby felt certain that this portion of the entertainment would be pleasing. Bob now went into the ring, and began to sing the "Suwanee River" in a manner which he intended should captivate his audience; but he had neglected to give the band any orders, and the consequence was that when he commenced to sing, Leander began to play "Old Dog Tray," which mixed the musical matters considerably. "You mustn't do that, Leander," Bob said, sharply, after he had done his best to sing the band down, and failed in the attempt. "It won't do for you to play one thing while I'm tryin' to sing something else. Now you be restin' while I'm doin' my part." Leander was so deeply interested in the enterprise that he was perfectly willing to keep on playing without ever thinking of taking a rest; but in deference to Bob's wishes he ceased his efforts, although he did venture to remark that he [Pg 546] noticed particularly, when the real circus was there, that the band always played when the clown sang. Bob got along very well with his portion of the rehearsal after the first mistake had been rectified; and when he finished he bowed gracefully in response to the applause bestowed upon him. "Now's the time when you come in, Toby," said Bob; "an' if you'll see how you can ride the ponies, Joe'll run around the ring with 'em." Toby was willing to do his share of the work, and all the more so because he could see that Abner, from his cozy seat under the bushes, was deeply interested in all that was going on. Joe got one of the ponies while Toby made his preparations; and after the little horse had been led around the circle two or three times to show what was expected of him, Toby got on his back. This was Reddy's opportunity to act the part of ring-master, and he seized his long whip, standing in the centre of the ring in what he believed to be the proper attitude. "Run around with him till I tell you to let go," said Toby, as he tied the reins together to form a bridle, and then stood on the pony's back as Mr. Castle had taught him to do. There was so great a difference between the motion of this horse and that of the one owned by Mr. Douglass that Toby began to understand it might be quite as necessary to train the animal as its rider. Owing to his lack of practice he was a little clumsy; but after one or two attempts he went around the ring standing on one foot almost as well as he had done it when with Ella. The boys, who had never seen Toby ride before, were thoroughly elated by the brief exhibition he gave them; and if he had done as they wanted, he would have tired both himself and the pony completely. "I'll practice some, now Abner can come out," said Toby, as he led his steed to a spot where he could get more grass, but neglected to fasten him; "an' I wouldn't wonder if I could ride two at once, after a little while." His partners in the enterprise were more than delighted with their rider, and they already began to believe they should have such a circus as would in some points eclipse the real one that had lately visited the town. After the excitement caused by Toby's riding had in a measure died away, Ben continued with his feats according to the programme, and then Bob commenced his second song. The audience of partners were listening to it intently, the more because it seemed to them that Bob had made a mistake as to the tune, and they were anxious to see what he was going to do about it, when the pony Toby had been riding suddenly dashed into the ring, with what looked very like a boy on his back. The partners were amazed at this interruption, and Bob continued to sound the note he was wrestling with when he first saw the pony coming toward him, until it ended almost in a shriek. "Who is it?" cried Joe, as the pony dashed across the pasture, urged to full speed by its rider, and in an instant more all saw a long curling tail, which showed unmistakably who the culprit was. "It's Mr. Stubbs's brother!" cried Toby, in alarm, "and how shall we catch him?" It was indeed the monkey, and during the next ten minutes it seemed to the boys that they ran over every square foot of that pasture, scaring the cows, and tiring themselves, until the frightened little horse was penned up in one corner, and his disagreeable rider was taken from him. This last act of the rehearsal had occupied so much time, and the monkey was making himself so troublesome, that Toby decided to go home, the others promising to come to Uncle Daniel's barn that afternoon, when Reddy was to explain how the tent was to be procured—a matter which up to this time he had kept a profound secret from all but Bob. Short as the time spent at the rehearsal seemed to the boys, it was considerably too long for one in Abner's weak condition, as was evident from his face when Aunt Olive came to the door to help him out of the carriage. He seemed thoroughly exhausted, and as soon as he got into the house, asked to be allowed to lie down—a confession of weakness that gave Aunt Olive a great deal of uneasiness, because she considered herself in a great measure responsible for the ride and its results, as she had urged Abner to go before the doctor's advice had been heard in the matter. Toby's fears regarding the invalid were always reflections of Aunt Olive's; but when he saw Abner go to sleep so quickly, he thought she was alarmed without cause, and believed his friend would be quite himself as soon as he should awaken. Dinner-time came and passed, and Abner was still sleeping sweetly. Therefore Toby could see no reason why he should not join his partners, whom he saw going into the barn before dinner was over. "The boys have come up to see 'bout the tent," he said to Aunt Olive, "an' I'm goin' out to the barn, where they're waitin' for me. Will you call me when Abner wakes up?" Aunt Olive promised that he should be informed as soon as the sick boy could see him, and Toby joined his partners with never a fear but that Abner would soon be able to participate in all his sports. That the boys had come to Uncle Daniel's barn on very serious business was evident from their faces, and the two large packages they brought. Two rolls of what looked to be sail-cloth were lying on the barn floor, and around them Bob, Reddy, Joe, Ben, and Leander were seated, with a look on their faces that was very nearly a troubled one. "What's them?" asked Toby, in surprise, as he pointed to the bundles. "The tent," and Reddy gave a big sigh as he spoke. "What, have you got two?" asked Toby, a look of glad surprise showing itself on his face. Reddy shook his head. "What's the matter? If there ain't two tents here, what makes the two bundles?" And Toby was almost impatient because he could not understand the matter. "Well, you see, this is just how it is," said Reddy, as he began to untie the fastenings from the rolls of canvas. "When I told you I could get a tent, I'd asked Captain Whetmore to lend me two of the sails what he took off his schooner, an' he told me yes." "An' you've got 'em, haven't you?" and Toby looked meaningly at the canvas. "Yes, we've got 'em," replied Joe; "but now we don't know how to fix 'em, 'cause you see we've got to put 'em up like a roof, an' we ain't got anything for the ends." Reddy had planned to use each of the sails as a side to the tent, fastening them along the top to a ridge-pole; and it had never occurred to him, in all the time he had had to think the matter over, that as yet he had nothing with which to form the ends. It was a question that puzzled the boys greatly, and caused their faces to grow very long, until Toby said: "I'll tell you how we can fix one end. We can put it right up against the barn, where the little door is, an' then we can have the stalls for a dressin'-room." The faces of the partners lightened at once, and each wondered why he had not thought of such a plan. "An' I'll tell you how we could fix the other end," said Toby, quickly, as another happy thought presented itself. "If Mr. Mansfield would lend us his big flag, it would jest do it." "That's the very thing, an' I'll go an' ask him now;" and Bob started out of the barn at full speed, while Reddy, now that the important question was settled, displayed great alacrity in unrolling his treasures. [to be continued.] MAX RANDER'S FENCING EXPERIENCE. BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN. I don't know whether it was on account of the loss of the eggs or not, but mother still continued in poor health, until at last the doctor advised her to quit Paris and try country air for a week or two. So father went with her to some place with a compound name, leaving Thad and me at Mrs. Freemack's. But we hadn't been there long when he wrote saying that they had decided to remain away a month at least, and asking if I thought we could make the half-day's journey there by ourselves. Feeling that I was indeed experienced above my years, I replied that of course we could, and Mrs. Freemack having bought our tickets for us and put us on the cars, we set out in high spirits, for that same kind lady had just made each of us a present of a toy sword, with belt and scabbard complete, and as the train moved off, leaving us with the first-class compartment to ourselves, we foresaw a splendid opportunity of practicing the manly art of fencing then and there. I had lately been reading up on the subject, and had plied Mrs. Freemack with so many questions about thrusts, foils, longeing and parrying, that I do not wonder she had decided on swords as the most welcome parting gifts she could bestow on us. But she hadn't given us any foils, so I begged Thad to be careful to thrust only "in fun." We waited until after the conductor had looked at our tickets from the window; then I gave the word, whereupon we both whipped out our glistening blades and flourished them about our heads. "Now parry, Thad," I cried, as I brought my weapon down with a whiz; but instead of parrying, he began laying about him like a pirate with his cutlass. Of course I couldn't help laughing, although I had to jump around pretty lively to protect myself. However, I soon made him comprehend that he must obey the rules and stand more on the defensive, and then we sat down to rest a minute before making a fresh start. "Now, ready again!" I exclaimed; and this time things went a little more artistically, although the noise our blades made [Pg 547] as they clashed together reminded me strongly of father and the carving-knife just before dinner at home. Presently we both began to grow excited, and suddenly, to avoid one of my thrusts, Thad jumped up on the seat behind him. Quick as thought I sprang up on the other, and then we fought in gallant style across the chasm, which to our vivid imaginations ran red with blood or white with foaming floods. We quite forgot where we were, and shouted and danced about like a couple of Zulus. On a sudden, ker-chink went my sword right through a little piece of looking-glass, shaped like a triangle, and set in the cushions just behind Thad. "Now you've done it!" he cried, jumping to the floor to escape the falling fragments. "Oh, pshaw!" I returned, "it won't take much to pay for that. I don't see what use such a little bit of a mirror is, anyway. But, hello! what are we stopping here for, I wonder?" for the train was gradually slowing down, and finally came to a stand-still in the open country. Meanwhile, I began calculating how much such a piece of glass as I had broken ought to cost, and had just decided on two francs (forty cents), when the guard appeared at the window again, looked in, then pulled open the door with a jerk, sprang into the compartment, and pointing to the broken glass with one hand, seized me with the other, and then— but of course that was all I could understand. However, I wasn't a bit frightened, although I wondered how he had found out about it so soon. Simply putting my hand in my pocket, I pulled out two francs and offered them to him. But instead of taking them with a polite "merci," as I had expected, he swept them to the floor; then lifting me in no very gentle fashion on to the seat, he planted me squarely in front of a small placard fastened just below where the mirror had been, and which I had never taken the trouble to read before, supposing it to be all in French. It was printed in French, German, and English, and announced that if, in a case of necessity, the presence of the guard was required, the glass was to be broken and a cord pulled inside. Should this be done, however, it went on to state, without good and sufficient reason, a fine would be imposed, the amount of which far exceeded the sum of money I had with me. I understood it all now; my sword had not only broken the glass, but caught in the ring attached to the alarm-rope, thus causing the stoppage of the whole train, and my present predicament. What was to be done? I was not able to pay out that which I did not possess, explain matters I could not, and meantime the conductor continued to storm and rage, curious passengers began to gather about the open door, and Thad grew pale with fright. Suddenly I thought of a possible way out of the scrape, and heroically determined to make the necessary sacrifice. Drawing forth my precious watch, I handed it to the guard. He smiled and nodded as he took it, and the next moment the train started on again. But there was no more fencing for us that day, and I sat gazing drearily out of the window, in grief for my lost time-piece, nearly all the rest of the journey. Father said afterward that it served me right, and would teach me there was a place for everything; but before we left France he redeemed my watch for me. [Pg 548] THE FIRST MUSIC LESSON. A LITTLE DUKE. BY ELIZABETH ABERCROMBIE. In the beautiful old Abbey of Westminster, London, among the tombs of illustrious men and women is a tablet inscribed to "William, Duke of Gloucester, the last surviving son of Queen Anne, together with seventeen of her other infant children." This little boy was born in 1689, and great were the rejoicings thereat. His sponsors were King William and Queen Mary themselves; for having no children of their own, this royal couple looked upon this baby nephew as the future heir of all their greatness. It is no slight thing, however, to be born a royal Prince, and this poor child, owing to ill health, had but a sorry time of it from the first. When he was five years old he was still supporting himself as he went up and down stairs by holding on to people's hands. This his father, burly Prince George of Denmark, declared was a shame and disgrace for any heir of England. Accordingly his mother, who had a tender heart, with a sigh, took her boy apart and tried to reason him out of what was thought to be only a stupid habit; but as this did no good, she put a birch rod into her husband's hand, and he whipped his son till the little fellow from sheer pain was forced into running alone. After that he never asked any help when walking, but it seemed, if possible, as though he was oftener ill than ever. So little was understood about disease in those early days that sometimes odd reasons were assigned for these attacks of the Prince. It had long been the custom of the English court to wear leeks on St. David's Day, out of compliment to the Welsh. One of silk and silver had been given Gloucester for his hat one year, but not satisfied, he insisted on seeing the real thing. Now his tutor's name was Lewis Jenkins, and as he was a Welshman, Lewis was only too happy at the thought of showing off the famous plant of his country to his royal charge. A bunch of the harmless leeks was at once procured, with which Gloucester amused himself for some time, tying them round the masts of a certain toy ship by which he and his boys were taught something of the great British fleet. But suddenly he threw himself down, and went to sleep. When he awoke he was terribly ill, and it was many days before he could leave his bed. There was a great outcry in the palace, and you may think how poor Lewis Jenkins quaked in his shoes, for they said this illness was all the fault of the leeks! Even while Gloucester was in bed, his father's system of education was being carried on, and the plays devised by his attendants were intended to be instructive as well as amusing. Ever since he could walk the Duke had been the leader of a little company of boy soldiers. These were posted as sentinels at his door, tattoos were beat on the drum, while toy fortifications were built by his bed, and once there had nearly taken place a bona-fide fight over the little prostrate body, not laid down; I fancy, in Prince George's rule. Mrs. Buss, the nurse, was the cause of the quarrel. Wishing to amuse the invalid, she sent by an unlucky Mr. Wetherby an automaton representing Prince Louis of Baden fighting the Turks. "As the young Duke had given up toys since the preceding summer, his masculine attendants started the idea that the present was a great affront, and it was forthwith sentenced to be torn in pieces—an execution which was instantly performed by the Duke's small soldiers." Still not satisfied, however, they next declared that Mr. Wetherby himself ought to be punished for daring to bring such a thing as a doll to the heir of England. Wetherby, getting an inkling of how matters stood, ran away, but only to be discovered, captured, and brought into the Duke's presence, who gravely pronounced his sentence. The unhappy man was then bound hand and foot, mounted on a wooden horse, and soused all over with water from enormous syringes and squirts. When nearly half drowned, he was again drawn on his horse into the royal bedroom, and I am sorry to find it on record that the young tyrant enjoyed the sight of the man's sorrowful condition immensely. Still this little boy often showed great kindness of heart. Like most mothers the Princess Anne was anxious that her son should use no vulgar expressions in conversation. She was much shocked one day to hear him say he was "confounded dry." "Who taught you those words?" she asked. "If I say Dick Drury, he will be sent down-stairs," the child whispered to one of the court ladies standing by, then added aloud, "I invented them myself, mamma." And so Dick Drury was saved from punishment for once in his life, if no more. "Papa, I wish you and mamma unity, peace, and concord, not for a time, but forever," was Gloucester's grave address to his father and mother when celebrating one of the anniversaries of their wedding day. "You made a fine compliment to their Royal Highnesses to-day, sir," said Lewis Jenkins, afterward. "Lewis," earnestly returned the boy, "it was no compliment—it was sincere." After the death of Queen Mary, King William on one occasion paid a state visit to his little namesake, and was much gratified at being received by the child under arms, with all the military honors which a great field-marshal would pay to his sovereign. "Have you any horses yet?" asked the King, by way of opening conversation. "Yes," was the answer, "I have one live one and two dead ones." "But soldiers always bury their dead horses out of their sight," said his Majesty, laughing. That laugh could not be forgotten. The moment his visitor had gone, the boy insisted on burying his two dead horses (which, of course, were animals of wood) deep down in the ground. This was done amidst much pomp and ceremony, after which Gloucester wrote an epitaph upon his two poor lamented wooden beasts. Young as he was, this little Duke seems to have known the value of loyalty and truth. Once when a plot was discovered against the King, and it was hard to tell who might not be a traitor at heart, Gloucester sent an address to his uncle which he made every member of his boy regiment and of his household also sign. "We your Majesty's subjects will stand by you while we have a drop of blood," ran this loyal address, upon reading which I doubt not King William ever after felt perfectly secure and at ease. A great many stories are told of the battles, sieges, and adventures of the Duke and his boys, and the palace must have rung with their shouts. Still there was plenty of hard work as well as play. When Gloucester was seven years old, his tutor, whom he loved, Lewis Jenkins, to the great grief of both, was dismissed, and he was placed under the charge of a bishop. Four times a year, too, a strict examination was held by four learned lords of the realm to make sure Bishop Burnet was making his pupil as wise as they thought the future King of England ought to be. Poor child! his answers on jurisprudence, the Gothic laws, and the feudal system were marvels, we are assured, but for all his study, I am afraid he knew really very little about those abstruse subjects, while it is saddening to read how all his happy sprightliness faded away under this severe course. While visiting one of the great college libraries in Oxford, I was much pleased to discover the quaint and most deliriously funny little composition given below. It had grown yellow with age, lying for so many years stored away in its glass case, together with many other interesting hits of penmanship. The writing, I am bound to confess, was beautifully clear and good. The composition was given both in Latin and English, while the corrections by Bishop Burnet could plainly be seen in the margin: "Composition of William, Duke of Gloucester. "A Tyrant is a savage hideous beast. Imagine that you saw a certain monster armed on all sides with 500 horns on all sides dreadfull fatned with humane intrails drunken with humane blood this is the fatal mischiefe whom they call a Tyrant. [Pg 549] "William. "June 13, 1700." The pen of this little scholar was soon after laid aside forever. After a short illness of five days, he died, July 30, 1700. OLD LIGHT'S JOKE. "I say, have your folks got a horse?" "Yes, we have, and I'm a-going to lead him down to water by-and-by." "Is it your own horse?" "Yes, he is. We've had him ever so long. His name's Lightning. What's your name?" "Johnny Craddock; and I heard your mother call you Peter, when she said what she'd do if you went away from the gate before dinner was ready." "That's only because we've just come. She won't be afraid about me after I get used to it." "There's lots of nice boys around here. Me and Joe Somers and Put Medill and a whole crowd. Some of us have got horses. We've got four, but they belong to old Squire Potter, and he keeps 'em. Some day you may go with me and see 'em." A clear ringing voice sounded across the village street just then: "Johnny!—Johnny Craddock!" "Guess your mother wants you. It's dinner-time." Johnny knew it, but he left a promise behind him, as he darted away, that he would come back after dinner and see Pete Burrows ride Lightning down to the river to water. The arrival of a new boy was a great event in Ridgeville, and his new neighbors were as eager to make his acquaintance as they had been shy about coming too near the house while the furniture was unloading and being carried in. Johnny Craddock and two others were pretending to play jackstones in the grass near the big gate when Pete Burrows at last came out through the lane from the barn, with Lightning, at the end of a halter, behind him. "Ain't he a big one?" "He's blind of one eye." "Can he go?" "He's the biggest kind of a hoss," remarked Pete, proudly, "and when he's brushed up he's pretty nigh red." "Did you ever ride him?" asked Put Medill, doubtfully. "Ride him? I'll show you." He led his big, raw-boned, one-eyed sorrel wonder right alongside of the fence, and in another moment he was mounted. "There! He's as gentle as—" "I say, will he carry double?" "Of course he will. I've seen him carry three, and he didn't care any more what they weighed—" That was almost enough, and boy after boy gathered courage to follow Johnny Craddock, for Lightning really seemed to take no notice whatever of his increasing burden. He shook his ears a little when Joe Somers dug his bare heels into him, and then he walked calmly away from the fence. He could see the wide, shallow river spreading out above the bridge, and knew very well what was expected of him. The four boys clung tight to each other at first, for they were on a very high horse as well as a strange one, but before they reached the bridge they had gathered courage enough to "hurrah" two at a time, and to answer questions other fellows asked them from the sidewalk. "Stop him, won't you?" shouted Put Medill, as Lightning's big feet began to splash in the water. "I want to get down." Pete might have tried, if the halter had been in his hand, but the lowering of the great heavy sorrel head toward the cool surface below had jerked the strap from his grasp, and Lightning was a free horse. He was free, and he had at once determined not to do his after-dinner drinking just there at the river's edge. There was more and deeper water further on, and it might be better. Four half-grown boys will fill up the back of any one horse pretty well, however large he may be, and there was not room for any more. When his head was down, there did not seem to be quite enough, and a good push would have sent Pete Burrows down the animal's neck; that is, if the two handfulls of sorrel mane he was grasping should come out. There were boys on the bridge now, and others along-shore, and they were all making remarks, and more were coming, besides three men, and old Grandmother Medill, and Mrs. Craddock, and all three of Joe Somers's aunts, who [Pg 550] lived with his mother, and kept the milliner shop. "LIGHTNING WALKED STRAIGHT AHEAD." Lightning walked straight ahead until the water arose above his knees. Horses were driven through the river right there every day, and he knew there was no danger of his getting drowned; but it was a green-head fly that stung him and made him shiver. It seemed to the boys they were going to be shivered off into the water, and they all dug their heels in hard and shouted, not very loud, "Hold on!" That was pretty nearly in the middle, and Lightning had taken three long drinks and a short one, but his halter was as far out of reach as ever. "He'll go across," said Joe Somers, "and we can get off." "Perhaps he'll turn back," said Put Medill; but Pete Burrows knew better, for he could see which way Lightning turned his head. "He's going up stream. Oh dear!" That was precisely what he began to do, and before he had gone a rod he stumbled dreadfully over a stone on the bottom, and the boys on the bridge gave a shout, and Johnny Craddock could hear his mother calling him to "come right back this minute." Grandmother Medill said something too, and so did Joe Somers's three aunts; but old Lightning had only just settled in Ridgeville, and was not acquainted with either of them. He stumbled right along into still deeper water, and his four riders clung to him and to each other desperately. "There's the island!" gasped Johnny Craddock. "It's awful deep and swift both sides of that." A long, low, bushy affair was the island, and the water poured all over it in flood times; but it was dry now, and the grass had a fresh, green, inviting look to the eyes of Lightning. He had been drinking, and he would now eat. He made straight for the island, and his load held on until he got there. They did not utter a sound while he was pulling his feet out of the mud at the shore, but the moment he was high and dry among the grass and bushes, boy after boy came sliding down, until Lightning's long back was bare again. "Here we are! Hurrah!" Three of those boys had been born and brought up in Ridgeville, but not one of them had ever before been to that island on horseback. There was something almost grand about it until Mrs. Craddock and the rest gathered on the river-bank, within very easy speaking distance, and began to tell what they thought of the performance. There were at least six distinct voices telling Peter Burrows to catch his horse, and bring to the shore the three poor fellows upon whom he had played that wicked trick. Poor Pete! Just at that moment old Lightning had discovered that all the grass on the island was coarse, hard, speary bunch-grass and swamp-grass, unfit for a horse like himself. He turned willingly away from it, and before a grasp could be made at his halter, he was pulling his feet out of the shore mud again, as he waded away from the island into the river. He walked about half-way across, and then stood still, in pretty deep water. He looked at the island and the boys, and then he looked at the bank and the young and old ladies, and he put out his long neck, with a loud whinny. "Hear him!" exclaimed Pete. "That's his way of laughing. It's an awful joke on us. Can we ever get ashore?" "Get ashore?" said Johnny Craddock, looking very miserable. "My mother's going for Jones's boat now. She'll be here less 'n no time." Old Lightning stumbled on, over the stones and through the water, and he reached the bank just in time for Mrs. Burrows to take him by the halter. She did not lead him away at once, for she wanted to see if there would be any room in Mr. Jones's boat for the boys. It looked as if there would not, for all the women were in it, and so was little Vic Doubleday, shoving from the stern with a pole. One old horse had carried the boys to the island, but it took a boat and a mother and a grandmother and three aunts and a second cousin to bring them away from it. When Pete Burrows came at last, and his mother gave him the end of the halter, she said to him: "Pete, did you let any of those Ridgeville boys know how scared you was?" "No, ma'am, I wasn't scared." "That's right, Pete. I wasn't, either, and all those women were. I'll settle with you when we get to the house. Go right along now. Not one of 'em shall say a word to you. Put Lightning in the stable, and come to me." CAPTAIN ORTIS[2] BY MARY A. BARR. Rich was the city of Antwerp, richer than can be told— Full of precious things from the East; full of silver and gold; Full of merchants like princes, and of burghers bold and free, Ready to fight for their faith and rights, proud of their liberty. Alva took it for Philip of Spain with a wild fanatic band— Hungry, desperate, cruel men, each fighting for his own hand; For Alva had vowed, when Antwerp fell, each captain in his host Should have for plunder whatever thing he thought would please him most. Antwerp went down in fire and blood. Each captain, as he pleased, Palace, or guild, or store, or gold for his own profit seized. Then Captain Caspar Ortis spoke, "Duke Alva, for my share I choose the city prison, and for nothing else I care." The prison was full of patriots, of felons of every kind, Of wealthy burgomasters who had dared to speak their mind, Of heretics to Rome's high Church; and monks and priests cried out, "These prisoners are the Pope's and King's: take care what you're about." But Alva coldly made reply: "Ortis shall have his way; He is my soldier, and his sword good work has done to-day. Antwerp is mine; and what care I for Pope, or King, or Cortes? I keep my word—the city prison belongs to Captain Ortis. "If 'tis his whim these heretics to burn, that is his right; You would have done the same, I know. Go quickly from my sight." Then Ortis flung the prison gates as wide as they could be; "Jailer," he said, "loose every bond, and set the prisoners free." Then forth from rack and torture rooms, from darkness and from pain, They trooped into the prison-yard—they saw the light again— Women and children, rich and poor, young men and burghers old. Said Ortis, "Who for liberty can measure me their gold?" The wealthy gave him there their bond; they gave it cheerfully. Unto the poor he only said, "Go forth; you too are free." The women wept about his knees, the pale sick children feared, And Ortis grimly smiled on them, and chewed his long black beard. But not in all of Alva's host was captain, young or old, Who for his share of plunder won such honor and such gold. The ransom fees rolled up and up—he scarce their sum could count— And not one thaler was grudged gold, whatever the amount. [Pg 551] Perhaps you think a hero should have set his prisoners free Without a claim of any kind, without a ransom fee; But good is good, however small; and in those wild dark days His deed was thought most merciful, and worthy of all praise. And, it is said, in after-years, when all his gold was spent, He was with Antwerp's booty roll above all else content, And that when old and weak he kept one single memory— "Jailer, bring forth your prisoners, and let the poor go free." PERIL AND PRIVATION. BY JAMES PAYN. WAGER ISLAND. Part I. In 1740 the English fitted out a fleet against the Spaniards, among which was the Wager, an old East India-man that had been transformed into a man-of-war. In those days there were no iron-plated vessels, and the main difference between traders and ships of war lay in their guns. But the Wager was not a good ship, to begin with, and was now laden and encumbered with every description of military stores. Moreover, her crew consisted chiefly of "pressed men"—men who, having just returned from long voyages on their own account, had been seized, perhaps just as they reached their native land, and made men-of-war's men against their will, as was then the custom. In England and America we should think the system employed by other nations of compelling men to become soldiers, their lot being decided by a number drawn from an urn, most intolerable; but the old system of "pressing" for the navy was far worse. Going to sea was not then looked upon as now as an honorable profession, with its compensations and pleasures, and not more difficult and dangerous than many another way in which the poor man has to earn his living. A sea-faring life, owing to the miserable equipment of the ships and the insolence and brutality of the officers, was considered by many a lot to which death was almost preferable. To obtain sailors for merchant vessels was so difficult that gangs of men were sent out who would overpower and seize any able-bodied man they might find in the streets, carrying him aboard a vessel at night, and keeping him in confinement until away from land, when he would be released and compelled to do his share in managing the vessel. Any attempt at remonstrance would be promptly quelled by blows and injuries of a fouler character. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that among the crew of the Wager, made up as it was in this way, a spirit of insubordination and a hatred of authority existed. This will explain many things that happened on this unhappy voyage that would otherwise be hard to believe. The vessel had always difficulty in keeping up with the rest of the squadron; and meeting with a gale on the 7th of April, was so greatly shattered and disabled that she lost sight of her sister ships altogether, and could obtain no help from them. The place of rendezvous was the island of Socoro; but the weather was too bad to take an observation, as it is called, whereby to judge of her position. There were no charts on board of the neighborhood whither she had been driven, but an "abundance of weeds and the flight of certain birds" indicated her approach toward land of some sort. The gale by this time had reduced the vessel to a mere wreck, and every endeavor was made to keep her from going ashore. It was difficult enough to set the top-sails, since "it was so extremely dark that the people could not see the length of the ship, and no sooner had it been accomplished than the wind blew them from the yards." At four in the morning of the 14th, though she had her head to the west, and was therefore standing off shore, the Wager struck violently on a hidden rock. It helps us to picture the force of waves in storm to learn that the people on board at first took this concussion for the mere striking of a heavy sea. But the next minute the ship was laid on her beam ends, and the sea made a fair breach in her. The consequence of this was an almost universal panic. Those who were not drowned in their berths rushed up on deck, and many appeared deprived of reason. One man, armed with a cutlass, struck at every one about him, and had to be knocked overboard, and another, "though one of the bravest men on board," was so dismayed by the terrible aspect of the breakers that he tried to throw himself over the rails of the quarter-deck. Others abandoned themselves to sullen despair, and were carried to and fro, with every shock of the ship, like inanimate logs. The man at the wheel, however, kept his station, though both rudder and tiller were gone, and Mr. Jones, the mate, cried out, in order to encourage the crew: "What, my men, did you never see a ship among breakers before? Come, lend a hand; here's a sheet, and here's a brace; lay hold. We shall bring her near enough land yet to save our lives." This was the more creditable in him, as he knew what "breakers" were, and had a firm conviction in his own mind, as he afterward confessed, that nothing short of a miracle could save them. But the ship drove on, and contrived to strike just between two large rocks. One of them partially sheltered her from the beating of the sea, which nevertheless threatened every minute to rend her to pieces. As soon as day dawned, the barge, the cutter, and the yawl were launched, though with the greatest difficulty, and so "many leaped into the first that she was greatly overloaded." The bonds of discipline, it will thus be seen, were already relaxed; nor must the saying of the Captain, that "he would be the last man to leave the ship," be set down as very heroic, for Captain Cheap had recently dislocated his shoulder, and would have found getting into a boat a very difficult job indeed. Of all those in authority with whom we have to deal in these scenes of peril and privation, Captain Cheap, of the Wager, was, I think, the most selfish and incompetent. At the same time, as will be seen in the sequel, he had plenty of courage. Even on the present occasion, as Midshipman Byron witnesses, the Captain issued his orders "with as much calmness as ever he had done during the former part of the voyage." But only a very few obeyed him. Many of those who had not gone in the boats "broke open every box and chest they could reach, stove in the heads of the casks of wine and brandy," and got so helplessly intoxicated that "they were drowned on board, and lay floating about the decks for days afterward." Those who had reached land in the boats, the number amounting in all to no less than 140 persons, had but little to congratulate themselves upon. Whichever way they looked, horror and desolation presented themselves: on one side the wreck, containing all they had to subsist upon; on the other, bleak and barren rocks. They found, however, a deserted Indian hut, into which they crowded for shelter from the storm which still raged. In the morning the pangs of hunger seized them. Most of them had fasted for forty-eight hours, yet only three pounds of biscuit dust had been brought ashore with them, while all the land afforded had been a single sea-gull and a handful of wild celery. These they made into a kind of soup, which, little as it was among so many, caused the most violent sickness and swooning. The biscuit dust had been put into a tobacco bag which had not been entirely cleaned out, and thus the whole party was very nearly poisoned to death. The Captain and officers had now come on shore, but many of the crew had refused to do so. The storm continuing worse than ever, however, they got frightened, and since the boats could not be got out to them immediately "they fired one of the quarter-deck guns at the hut" as a gentle reminder. The men on land occupied a rocky promontory so exceedingly steep that they were obliged to cut steps to ascend and descend it, which they called—not inaptly—Mount Misery. The knowledge that their comrades were in a state of open mutiny did not tend to raise their spirits. They would have been willing enough, perhaps, to leave them to their fate, but for the necessity of getting provisions. WITH ONE BLOW CAPTAIN CHEAP FELLED HIM TO THE GROUND. When at last they were brought to land, they presented an extraordinary appearance. They were armed to the teeth, and only by the resolution of the officers, who "held loaded pistols to their breasts," could they be induced to give up their weapons. They had rifled the chests in the cabins, and put the laced clothes they found in them over their own greasy raiment, and the boatswain, their ring-leader, was rigged out in the most splendid attire. One is glad to read that, without respect to the figure he made, Captain Cheap felled him to the ground with his cane, and for a few hours order was restored. [Pg 552] As the hut could only hold a few people, the cutter was turned keel upward, and fixed on props, which made a very tolerable habitation. But food was still so scarce, though the scanty provisions from the ship had been hoarded with great frugality, that the men were glad to eat the carrion crows that preyed on the corpses from the wreck, which every tide cast on shore. The ship was now under water, except the quarter-deck and part of the forecastle, and all that was procurable from it had to be drawn up by large hooks—"an occupation much obstructed by the bodies floating between-decks." It was not until the 25th of May (eleven days after the shipwreck) that provisions began to be regularly issued from the store tent, which was guarded by the officers night and day. On the 28th, three canoes with Indians came alongside the wreck, and from them they purchased "a dog or two and some very fine mussels." The language of these men was utterly unintelligible: their clothing was composed of skins and feathers, and they had evidently never seen a white man before. But the castaways contrived to ascertain from them that they were on some island on the coast of Patagonia, about three hundred miles north of the Straits of Magellan. [to be continued.] THESE MY LITTLE ONES. BY MONA NOEL PATON. II. When young Master Dreamer came out of the store, three radiant faces almost paid him for his self-denial. "Oh, Nellie!" whispered Bill, trembling with delight. "God bless him!" said Nellie. [Pg 553] "What shall we buy?" said Bill. "This will buy heaps." "Billy," said Nell, "don't let us buy candies. They would soon be gone. Let us buy something to amuse Bab when we are away at school." Poor Billy sighed. It was hard to leave the tempting window. But he was not selfish. "Shall we buy a dog?" said he. "No. Mother says they eat too much. Besides, it would run away." "Rabbits?" "No; we could not keep them in the room. What do you say to a bird?" "The very thing!" cried Bill. "Let's go to the bird man's, and see what we can get." Off they started, Bab trotting along bravely. An hour later, as night was falling, up the dark stair of Nellie's home came three pairs of eager feet. Mother came to the door to meet the children. "How late you are, dears!" she said. "I was beginning to be anxious about you." "Mother! mother!—look! look!" was all the answer she received; and a poor rumpled pigeon was pressed so close to her face that she could hardly see it. And then the tired mother heard the story of the wonderful afternoon—how kind the little gentleman had been, how grim and cross the bird man, at first ordering them away without listening to them, then refusing to sell them anything for a shilling, and finally giving them this darling pigeon that he thought was going to die, and giving them back their shilling too. There it was, smooth and shining, and Nellie held it out for mother to see. Before one of the little ones would taste a bite of food, the pigeon had to be fed and warmed. A basket was filled with soft rags, and set near the fire, and in it the sick bird was placed. Then it was fed with delightful bread and milk, each child sparing a part of its own supper. Its bright eyes watched the children go to bed, and before they went there was a prayer softly breathed, in which the little gentleman was not forgotten, nor yet the rough bird man. Long before it wanted to be, the next morning, the pigeon was awakened by tender caresses, and fed before they so much as looked at their own breakfast. Certainly it looked better. The shilling was put carefully away to buy its food. When Nellie and Bill, after a last loving glance, had gone to school, Bab sat down by it on the hearth. "Oh, pigeon, pigeon," she whispered, "do live! I love you so! I do love you so! Oh, pigeon, live!" The pigeon did live. It was drooping for just what the children gave it—a little love. Day by day it grew bigger and stronger. Soon it would hop all over the room, perch on Bab's head, and eat its dinner from her plate. When spring came, and the days grew warm, the window was always left open, only a little bit, lest Bab should fall out, but still enough to let the pigeon hop in and out at its own sweet will. When summer came, though it was much nicer than winter, the close air of the court made poor Bab feel quite ill in the hot mornings. In the afternoons her brother and sister would take her far away on a long walk to the sweet grassy meadows outside the old city walls. They had found out now where their "little gentry" lived; and the great pleasure of the day was in returning from the meadow, and peeping in at the beautiful garden where the two happy children seemed to spend their whole time in play. The grass in this garden was often quite white with daisies, and the poor children used to stretch through and try to gather a few, but they were almost always just out of their reach. One very hot afternoon they were coming home through the square rather tired. There seemed to be something wrong with Bab. She was cross and languid. She cried when Nellie's hand could not reach the daisies. "Hush, hush, dear; the little master will hear you," whispered Nellie, while Bill stretched in his arm, and succeeded at last in getting one of the coveted flowers. The little master had heard and seen. He came up to them, and asked, shyly, "Do you want some daisies?" "If you please, sir," said Bill and Nellie, in a breath. In a moment the little fellow was down on his knees among the daisies gathering busily. "I would 'ike to gaver some myse'f," said Bab to Nellie. The little boy looked up and paused. His companions were at play not far distant. He looked half afraid. "Nellie, me s'ould 'ike to gaver some myse'f," whimpered the tiny voice. He hesitated no longer, but sprang up. "Come to the gate, and I'll let you in," he said, in a low voice; and then added, "but you must go out again as soon as she has got some." The next minute Bab was down in the soft, sweet grass, gathering the daisies with both little hands. "Master Dreamer" did not seem very comfortable, however, and watched his play-fellows cautiously. All at once two of them stopped their game, and came running up. [Pg 554...