Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, May 10, 1881, 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, May 10, 1881 An Illustrated Weekly Author: Various Release Date: December 13, 2014 [EBook #47656] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MAY 10, 1881 *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire HOURS WITH THE OCTOGENARIANS. CANARIES AND OTHER CAGE-BIRDS. JAMES T. FIELDS'S LAST POEM. THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST." THE DRAGON-KILLER. BOB PERKINS'S PARCEL. MEMPHIS. SUSIE KINGMAN'S DECISION. PINAFORE RHYMES. OUR POST-OFFICE BOX. THE ELECTRIC TRICK. HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE Vol. II.—No. 80. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. Price Four Cents. Tuesday, May 10, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by Harper & Brothers. $1.50 per Year, in Advance. [Pg 433] PAUL REVERE AT LEXINGTON.—Drawn by Howard Pyle. HOURS WITH THE OCTOGENARIANS. BY BENSON J. LOSSING. Between thirty and forty years ago I went on a pilgrimage to places hallowed by events of the great and successful struggle of Americans for freedom and independence. I there found many things and persons remaining as mementos of that contest. All were hoary with age, and some were crumbling and tottering ruins. All were rapidly passing within the veil of human forgetfulness, for houses, fortifications, battle-fields, and men and women would soon become only pictures on Memory's wall. From the lips of the venerable men and women whom I saw I heard thrilling narratives of their experience in those days of strife. In hidden recesses of memory and in written notes I preserved those narratives for the entertainment and instruction of the youth of this generation, hoping to be with them to tell the tales myself. Here I am, and I propose to relate to the readers of Young People some of the stories I then received from living lips. I will begin with the story of The Fifer of Lexington. Lexington! Concord! What American boy or girl has not heard of these two little villages in Massachusetts, where the first blow was struck for independence, and where the hot flames of the Revolution first burst out, on the 19th of April, 1775? One of my first pilgrimages was to these villages. It was a bright, sunny morning in October, 1848, when I travelled by railway from Boston to Concord—a distance of seventeen miles northwest of the New England capital. There I spent an hour with Major Barrett and his wife, who "saw the British scamper," and had lived together almost sixty years. The Major was hale at eighty-seven, and his wife, almost as old, seemed as nimble of foot as a matron in middle life. She was a vivacious little woman, well-formed, and retained traces of the beauty of her girlhood. After visiting the place of the skirmish at Concord, I rode in a private vehicle to Lexington, six miles eastward, through a picturesque and fertile country, and entered the famous village at the Green whereon that skirmish occurred, and where a commemorative monument now stands. After a brief interview with two or three aged persons there, we drove to the house of Jonathan Harrington, in East Lexington, who, a lad seventeen years old, had opened the ball of the Revolution on the memorable April morning with the war-notes of the shrill fife. As we halted before the house of Mr. Harrington, at a little past noon, we saw an old man wielding an axe vigorously in splitting fire-wood in his yard. I entered the gate, and introduced myself and my errand. The old man was the venerable fifer. "Come in and rest yourself," he said, kindly, as he led the way into the house. Although he was then past ninety years of age, he appeared no older than many men do at seventy. His form was nearly erect, his voice was firm, his complexion was fair, his placid face was lighted by mild blue eyes, and had but few deep wrinkles, and his hair, not all white, was very abundant. I took a seat on a chintz-covered lounge, and he sat in a Boston rocking-chair. "I have come," I said, "to make some inquiries about the battle of Lexington." "It wasn't a battle," he answered; "only a skirmish." "It was a sharp one," I said. "Yes, pretty sharp, pretty sharp," he replied, thoughtfully. "Eight fine young men out of a hundred were killed; two of them my blood-relations." "I understand you played the fife on that morning," I said. "As well as I could," he replied. "I taught myself to play the year before, when the minute-men were training; and I was the only person in Lexington who knew how to fife. That ain't saying much, though, for then there were only eight or ten houses in the village besides the meeting- house." [Pg 434] "Did you belong to the minute-men?" I asked. "I was a minute-boy. They asked me to fife, to help Joe Burton make music with his drum for Captain Parker's company. Poor Joe! His drum- head was smashed, and he lost a little finger in the fight. Captain Parker's company was drilled the night before the fight, for Sol Brown, our nearest neighbor, came from Boston at sunset, and said he had seen nine British soldiers in overcoats walking toward Lexington. Sam Adams and John Hancock were at Parson Clark's house, where Dorothy Quincy, Hancock's sweetheart, was staying. Gage wanted to catch and hang 'em, and it was believed the soldiers Sol had seen had been sent out to seize 'em that night. A guard of eight men under Sergeant Munroe (who kept a tavern here) was stationed around Parson Clark's house. A little past midnight Paul Revere—you've heard of Revere—came riding like mad from Cambridge, his horse all afoam, for the weather was uncommonly warm. He told Munroe he wanted to see Hancock. 'He didn't want to be disturbed by noise,' said the Sergeant. 'Noise!' said Revere; 'you'll have noise enough soon, for the regulars are coming!' Hancock heard him, and opening a window, called out, 'Revere, I know you; come in.' He went into the house a moment, then came out, mounted his horse, and started on a gallop toward Concord. Very soon everybody in Lexington was astir." "Were you on duty then?" I inquired. "No," he said. "I went to bed at eleven o'clock, and, as all boys should do, slept soundly. My mother (who was a Dunster, and one of the most patriotic women of the time) called out to me at three o'clock: 'Jonathan! Jonathan! get up. The regulars are coming, and something must be done.' I dressed quickly, slung my light gun over my shoulder, took my fife from a chair, and hurried to the parade near the meeting-house, where about fifty men had gathered, and others were arriving every minute. By four o'clock a hundred men were there. We did not wait long wondering whether the regulars were really coming, for a man dashed up to Captain Parker and told him they were close by. The Captain immediately ordered Joe to beat the drum, and I fifed with all my might. Alarm-guns were instantly fired to call distant minute-men to duty. Lights were now seen moving in all the houses. Daylight came at half past four o'clock. Just then the regulars, who had heard the drum-beat, rushed toward us, and their leader shouted, 'Disperse, you rebels!' We stood still. He repeated the order with an oath, fired his pistol, and ordered his men to shoot. Only a few obeyed. Nobody was hurt, and we supposed their guns were loaded only with powder. We had been ordered not to fire first, and so we stood still. The angry leader of the regulars then gave another order for them to fire, when a volley killed or wounded several of our company. Seeing the regulars endeavoring to surround us, Captain Parker ordered us to retreat. As we fled, some shots were sent back. Joe and I climbed a fence near Parson Clark's house, and took to the woods near by. Climbing over, Joe fell upon a heap of stones, and crushed in his drum-head. His hand was bleeding badly, and he found a bullet had carried off a part of his little finger. Eight of our men had lost their lives." "Where were Adams and Hancock all this time?" I inquired. "Not far off," he replied. "When the first shots were heard, they were advised to fly to a place of safety, for their lives were too valuable to the public to be lost. At first they refused to go, but were finally persuaded, and retired to a thick wooded hill not far off. Dorothy Quincy went with her lover. They were married in the fall. It is said Sam Adams, hearing the firing on the Green, exclaimed, 'What a glorious morning for America is this!' I have no doubt he said so, for it was just like him." "You said two of your blood-relations perished in that fight," I observed. "Yes," he replied; "they were Jonathan and Caleb Harrington. Caleb, and Joe Comer, who lived a mile from Lexington, had gone into the meeting-house to get some powder stored in the loft. They had taken it to the gallery when the British reached the meeting-house. They flew to the door, and started on a run for the company. Caleb was shot dead at the west end of the meeting-house, but Joe, though wounded, escaped. Jonathan had stood his ground with the rest. His house was near the meeting-house. He was in front of his own house when the regulars fired the third time. He was shot in the breast, and fell. His wife, Ruth, stood looking out of the window, with their only child, nine years old, by her side. She saw her husband fall, and ran out to help him. He raised up, stretched his arms toward her, fell again, and was dead before she could get to him. Oh, it was too cruel, too cruel!" "There were brave men in that little band of patriots," I remarked. "Brave men!" said the old man, his mild eyes beaming with unusual lustre, "braver men never lived. Not one of them left his post until Captain Parker, seeing it was useless to fight against so many regulars, told them to disperse. There was one man who wouldn't go even then. It was Jonas Parker of this town. He lived near Parson Clark's. He had said he would never run from an enemy, and he didn't. He had loaded his musket, put his hat, containing powder, wadding, and bullets, between his feet, and so faced the regulars. At the second fire he was wounded, and fell on his knees. Then he fired his gun; and, though he was dying, he reached for another charge in his hat, when a big red-coat killed him with a bayonet on the very spot where Jonas first stood. Wasn't that pluck?" "Rare pluck," I answered. "The names of such men should never be forgotten." "They never will be," replied the old patriot, excitedly. "Their names are all cut deep in marble on the little monument down yonder on the Green —Robert Munroe, Jonas Parker, Samuel Hadley, Jonathan Harrington, Jun., Isaac Muzzy, Caleb Harrington, John Brown, and Asahel Porter. Should the marble perish, their names are cut deeper in the memory of Americans." "You said it was a warm night when Paul Revere rode from Cambridge to Lexington," I said. "Yes," he replied; "it was a very early spring. Young leaves appeared on the 1st of April. The grass on the village green was so tall on the morning of the 19th that it waved in the light wind that was blowing. At noon that day, when the British were driven from Concord, the quicksilver was eighty-five degrees in the shade, and the door-yards were bright with dandelions. The minute-men made it hotter than that—full a hundred in the shade—for the British before they got back to Cambridge that evening." "Did you serve in the army afterward?" I inquired. "No," he said; "father went to the war, and I staid at home to help mother take care of things, for I was the oldest boy. I played the fife sometimes after that when the young men in the neighborhood were training for the fight." By permission of Mr. Harrington I drew a likeness of him sitting in his rocking-chair; and under it he wrote, with a trembling hand—which he attributed to the use of the axe that morning— JONATHAN HARRINGTON, Aged 90, the 8th July, 1848. His brother Charles, two years younger than he, came in before I had finished the sketch. I could not but look with wonder and reverence upon these strong old men—children of one mother, who had borne five sons and three daughters—who were nearly grown to manhood when the old war for independence broke out. I bade them farewell, received from the old fifer the benediction "God bless you!" went back to the village green, sketched the monument, and called upon their kinsman, Abijah Harrington, who was a lad fourteen years of age at the time of the skirmish. He saw nearly all of the fight. He had two brothers in it, and had been sent by his mother, trembling on account of her sons, to watch the fray at a safe distance, and obtain for her information concerning her brave boys. They escaped unhurt. From Mr. Harrington's I went to the house of Parson Clark, where I found Mrs. Margaret Chandler, a remarkably intelligent old lady, then eighty-three years of age. She had lived in that house ever since the Revolution, had a clear recollection of events at Lexington on the memorable [Pg 435] April morning, and gave me a version of the escape of Adams and Hancock somewhat different from that given me by the venerable fifer. A few more words about the latter. On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the affair at Lexington and Concord (1850), Jonathan Harrington was invited to participate with his fellow- citizens in the proceedings of the day. In the procession was a carriage containing Jonathan, aged ninety-two, his brother Charles, aged ninety, Amos Baker, aged ninety-four, Thomas Hill, aged ninety-two, and Dr. Preston, aged eighty-four. Jonathan gave as a toast at dinner: "The 19th of April, 1775. All who remember that day will support the Constitution of the United States." The Hon. Edward Everett made a speech on that occasion, in which he remarked that "it pleased his heart to see these venerable men beside him, and he was very much pleased to assist Mr. Jonathan Harrington to put on his top-coat a few minutes ago. In doing so, he was ready to say, with David, 'Very pleasant art thou to me, my brother Jonathan!'" Late in March, 1854, when he was almost ninety-six years of age, Jonathan Harrington died, and was buried with public honors. In the funeral procession was a large body of military as an escort, and the hearse was followed by the committee of arrangements, the Governor of Massachusetts, the Lieutenant-Governor and Council, and a vast multitude of citizens gathered from the neighboring towns. After impressive religious services in the church at Lexington, his remains were deposited in the family tomb. Sacred be the memory of the Fifer of Lexington! CANARIES AND OTHER CAGE-BIRDS. I can not remember the time when we had not a canary or a pet bird of some kind. My brother Ned, when he was a boy at home, had a great fancy for canaries and bullfinches, and he had one of the latter which he taught to whistle very beautifully the tune of "Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon." The bullfinch's cage hung side by side with that of a canary, and after a time the canary caught the trick of whistling too, and although he could not do it so well as the bullfinch, yet he managed one or two lines very well. When the bullfinch died, the canary gradually forgot the art he had learned, and by-and-by he gave up whistling altogether, though he never forgot how to sing. There are many varieties of canaries, some of them very odd-looking birds indeed. There are bright yellow ones and orange-colored ones, and one family, called Lizards, are of a beautiful green color. Then there are canaries with tufts of feathers on their heads just like little caps; these are called Norwich canaries. The Belgian canary is a tall bird, with very high shoulders, and its head, instead of standing erect, bends down and hangs forward a long way below its shoulders. It is one of the most interesting things I know to rear a brood of young birds. Mrs. Canary takes charge of the eggs, and sits upon them patiently day by day, whilst Mr. Canary looks after the food for madame, and then sits down by her side, and sings his loudest, sweetest songs to cheer her in her trying, wearying task. By-and-by the time arrives for the young canaries to appear, and then there is a pretty fluster in the nest, I assure you. The cock looks as important as an alderman, and the hen can hardly be persuaded to leave the nest, even for her food. At last the young birds break through the shells, and the first thing they do is to open their big mouths for something to eat. This the happy parents readily and promptly supply, and if all goes well the youngsters soon grow out of their babyhood, and learn to feed themselves. But things do not always go well, especially if you happen to have a cat or a dog in the house, or, as happened to me on one occasion, both. I had a splendid Norwich canary, with a top-knot, which was the admired of all admirers. He used to sing all day long in my room; but one day, the servant having moved the cage into another room, Carlo and Tom got at it, and frightened my poor pet to death. Carlo was ashamed of himself as soon as he had knocked over the cage, but Tom was a fierce old cat, and made such efforts to get at the canary that the poor little thing died from sheer fright. I do not like to see birds confined to very small cages, especially where more than one is kept. It is best to give them plenty of air, and room to fly about in. The best of all is an aviary where they can move as freely as if they were out-of-doors. I know a gentleman who has by kindness got quite a collection of birds to come into his garden and make their homes there without living in confinement at all. JAMES T. FIELDS'S LIBRARY. JAMES T. FIELDS'S LAST POEM. The following poem was written by Mr. James T. Fields, of Boston, for Harper's Young People, only a few days before his death, which took place on the 25th of April. It is the last poem that he wrote, and will therefore have an interest for our readers apart from its merit. Mr. Fields was for many years a partner in the publishing house of Ticknor & Fields, afterward, on the death of Mr. Ticknor, changed to that of Fields, Osgood, & Co. On retiring from business, several years ago, Mr. Fields devoted himself to literature, and published several popular books. He was a kind-hearted man, and helped many young men and women, who never went to him in vain for encouragement and assistance. Like the English poet Wordsworth, he believed that men should never mix [Pg 436] "their pleasure or their pride With suffering to the meanest thing that feels," and his last poem shows how strongly he could plead for a poor brute creature in distress. ROVER'S PETITION. "Kind traveller, do not pass me by, And thus a poor old dog forsake; But stop a moment on your way, And hear my woe, for pity's sake! "My name is Rover; yonder house Was once my home for many a year; My master loved me; every hand Caressed young Rover, far and near. "The children rode upon my back, And I could hear my praises sung; With joy I licked their pretty feet, As round my shaggy sides they clung. "I watched them while they played or slept; I gave them all I had to give; My strength was theirs from morn till night; For only them I cared to live. "Now I am old, and blind, and lame, They've turned me out to die alone, Without a shelter for my head, Without a scrap of bread or bone. "This morning I can hardly crawl, While shivering in the snow and hail; My teeth are dropping one by one; I scarce have strength to wag my tail. "I'm palsied grown with mortal pains, My withered limbs are useless now; My voice is almost gone, you see, And I can hardly make my bow. "Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed Where I may find some friendly straw On which to lay my aching limbs, And rest my helpless broken paw. "Stranger, excuse this story long, And pardon, pray, my last appeal: You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps, And learned that dogs, like men, can feel." Yes, poor old Rover, come with me; Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply— And Heaven forgive the cruel souls Who drove you forth to starve and die! THE CRUISE OF THE "GHOST." BY W. L. ALDEN, Author of "The Moral Pirates," etc. Chapter I. The boys had talked all winter of the cruise which they hoped to take in a sail-boat during the coming summer, and they spent a great many Saturday afternoons at boat yards and places in New York, Jersey City, and Brooklyn, where sail-boats are laid up for the winter. They found several cat-boats that suited them very well, and that could be bought at a low price; but they did not find it so easy to convince Uncle John that a sail-boat cruise would be a safe enterprise for boys so young as Tom Schuyler, Jim and Joe Sharpe, and Harry Wilson. They did not say much about it to Mr. Schuyler, Mr. Sharpe, or Harry's father, for, as Joe pointed out, when Uncle John Wilson gave his consent, it would be time enough to speak to them. "If I go now," he said, "and ask father if I can go cruising in a cat-boat, he'll say, 'Most certainly not, my son; boys have no business with sail-boats.' But if Uncle John goes to him, and tells him all about it, he'll be perfectly satisfied, and say, 'My son, I think you had better do as Mr. Wilson suggests.'" Joe was quite right, for Mr. Sharpe, while he knew nothing about boats, had entire confidence in Mr. John Wilson's prudence and judgment; and though he would have been very apt to refuse to give his sons permission to go sailing—on any ordinary occasion—he would have consented to any plan proposed by so careful and trustworthy a man as Uncle John was known to be. When the sail-boat cruise was first proposed to Uncle John, he was not inclined to think well of it. "You've been Moral Pirates in a row-boat," said he, "and now you want to try Moral Piracy in a sail-boat. To tell you the truth, boys, I don't half like the idea. To manage a sail-boat requires [Pg 437] "I DON'T LIKE HER AT ALL." more coolness and judgment than boys generally have, so I don't think the Department will be able to put a sail-boat in commission this year." It was not until Uncle John found that the water in the bays on the south side of Long Island, where Tom Schuyler wanted to cruise, was in nearly all places too shallow for drowning purposes, that he consented to say that he would "think about" the sail-boat plan. He thought about it for some time without seeing any good reason to approve of it. He told Tom that while it was true that the water in the bay was deep only in certain narrow steamboat channels, a sail-boat might capsize in one of these very channels. Besides, if one of the boys were to fall overboard, the sail- boat could not pick him up as quickly as he could be picked up were he to fall out of a row-boat. "After all," he added, "the real difficulty is that not one of you is accustomed to manage a sail-boat, and that is a difficulty which we can't get over." The boys still continued to talk among themselves about their desired cruise, without giving up the hope that Uncle John would change his mind, and when spring came something happened that did make him change it. Tom received a letter from his friend Charley Smith, who was in the Naval Academy at Annapolis, saying that he would come and spend the months of July and August with him. Now Charley was a very fine fellow, nearly a year older than Tom. He had been two years at the Academy, and was already a good sailor. Tom immediately wrote to him and asked him how he would like to be captain of a sail-boat, and go on a cruise through the south bays. Charley was delighted with the plan, and wrote to his guardian—for he had no father nor mother—and easily obtained his consent. Now Uncle John knew Charley Smith well, and thought very highly of him, and when Tom came to him and showed him Charley's letter, he said at once that the Department of Moral Piracy would be glad to put Captain Charles Smith in command of a cat-boat. "My dear boy," he continued, "I hated to say no when you proposed your plan, and I am as pleased as you are now that I can conscientiously approve of it. Charley is perfectly competent to manage a sail-boat, and if he will take charge of the boat, and you and the other boys will obey his orders, you shall have your cruise if I can bring it about." And he did bring it about, as Joe said he would. Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Schuyler, and Harry's father all gave their consent when Uncle John explained the matter to them; and when this important business was settled, Uncle John went with the boys to select a boat. They found one at Gowanus which they all agreed was just the boat they wanted. She was twenty feet long, with plenty of beam, and with room under her forward deck to carry a good deal of cargo. She was only two or three years old, and was perfectly sound and very strong. There was a good copper pump fastened to the after-end of the centre-board trunk, and all she seemed to need to fit her for immediate use was a good coat of paint. The boatman from whom she was bought was ordered to deliver her at Harlem, and the boys went home delighted. For the next few weeks the boys went to look at the boat at least twice a week, and devoted most of their spare time in drawing up lists of things to be taken with them on the cruise, and to studying the Coast Survey charts of the south shore of Long Island. Tom contrived a plan for making a cabin to be used at night. He had small iron sockets placed at each end of the cockpit so as to hold two upright sticks. Across these an oar was laid for a ridge-pole, and over the ridge-pole was stretched a piece of canvas, the sides of which were tied to rings fastened on the outside of the washboard. In this way the cockpit was entirely covered, and in the cabin thus formed the boys could lie or sit on the bottom of the boat and keep perfectly dry in the heaviest shower. Of course this cabin, or tent, could be used only when the sail was furled, and the boom hoisted a foot, so as to be out of the way, but it was not intended to use it except at night, when the boat would be at anchor or moored to the shore. The various lists of stores drawn up by the boys showed that their cruise in the Whitewing had taught them what things were necessary and what things were unnecessary for a long boating expedition. Uncle John had cushions made for the seats, not, as he told the boys, because they needed cushions to sit on, but because these cushions could be laid on the bottom of the boat at night and used as mattresses. This particularly pleased Joe Sharpe, who had put down on his list, "Thirty pounds of tenpenny nails for a bed." He said, in explanation of this: "I'm tired of sleeping on coffee-pots and tin cups, as I used to when we slept in the Whitewing, and I thought some good big nails would be a good deal more comfortable. However, if Uncle John supplies mattresses, I'll cross off the nails, for I don't think they would be quite as comfortable as a mattress." As on their former cruise, the boys decided to wear only blue flannel shirts and trousers, and to take neither coats nor waistcoats. Of course each one had a change of clothes, besides a blanket and a rubber blanket, but Harry's proposal that they should take rubber overcoats with them was voted down. When Uncle John came to look over their lists, he found scarcely a single article which could be spared, with the exception of Tom's cannon. This was an iron cannon about a foot long, and with an inch bore, and the boys were so anxious to take it with them that Uncle John consented, telling them that it might prove useful in the way of ballast should any of their sand-bags be lost overboard. It was decided not to paint the boat or to name her until Charley Smith should see her. On the 1st of July he arrived in town, and was met by the boys, who instantly carried him to Harlem to show him the boat. They expected that he would be delighted with her; but what was their dismay when, after looking at her for a few minutes in silence, he answered Tom's question, "How do you like her?" by saying, gravely, "I don't like her at all." "Why, what in the world is the matter with her?" demanded Tom, while the others looked wonderingly at the young sailor who did not like their beautiful boat. "Nothing that can't be cured," answered Charley. "The trouble with her is that she's a cat- boat, and a cat-boat is just the meanest kind of boat in the world." "Can't we turn her into a dog-boat or a horse-boat?" asked Joe. "To tell the truth, boys, I don't believe a cat-boat can be good for much if she is anything like a cat. I wonder if cat- boats can climb back fences and howl?" "I always thought that a cat-boat was the best kind of sail-boat anybody could have," said Tom. "There's only one sail and three ropes to handle." "There are two reasons why a cat-boat isn't fit for a cruise where you are liable to meet all kinds of weather," replied Charley. "One is that you can't run before a gale with her. You've no sail except the mainsail, and even if you close reef it and drop the peak, you will sometimes have more sail than the boat ought to carry. Then, when you're scudding, the boom is apt to roll under, and if this happens when it is blowing hard, and there's a good deal of sea on, you'll capsize so quick that you won't have time to put on your overshoes." "But what good would overshoes do you in deep water?" asked Tom. Charley smiled, but did not answer him. "The other reason why I don't like a cat-boat is that she won't work to windward with her peak dropped. If you are sailing in a wind, no matter how hard it blows, you must keep the peak up, or you can't keep the boat from falling off. I don't care how many rows of reef-points the sailmaker may have put on the sail, you can't reduce it to more than half its original size if you expect the boat to beat to windward. If a cat-boat is caught in a heavy gale blowing directly off shore, she can't carry sail enough to work into the lee of the land, and she is liable to be blown a hundred miles out to sea." "What kind of a boat ought we to have, then?" inquired Tom, who did not understand everything that Charley said, but who knew that he must be right. [Pg 438] BUILDING THE "OVERHANG." "A jib-and-mainsail boat, of course," replied Charley. "If you have to scud, you can scud all day under your jib, and keep as dry as a bone, and you can work her to windward with the mainsail close reefed. If you have your jib sheets led aft, the boat can be handled by one man just as easy as a cat-boat. The only thing a cat-boat is good for is sailing in a dead calm on a mud-bank." "But how can you sail if there's a dead calm?" asked Tom. "What we ought to do with that boat," Charley continued, "is to step her mast about eighteen inches aft of where it is stepped now. Then we can rig out a bowsprit and put a jib on her. She ought to be lengthened at the stern too, so that we could reach the end of the boom and put in a reef without going ashore to do it." "We might make the bowsprit ourselves," said Tom; "but we couldn't lengthen her ourselves, and it would cost a good deal to get it done." "I'll undertake to lengthen her myself," said Charley. "It won't cost us anything but the price of a few nails and some pieces of wood." "How on earth would you go to work?" cried Jim. "Do you mean to saw her in two, put a piece in, and nail her together again?" "Perhaps," said Joe, "he means to steam her, and then stretch her. If you can bend wood by steaming it, you ought to be able to stretch it." "I'll show you what I mean if you fellows will only pay attention," replied Charley. "Now here's her transom, this flat board at her stern, where her name ought to be painted. You see it's all above water, and that the end of every plank is nailed to it. Now the first thing to do is to take four pieces of joist—I believe that's what carpenters call it—about four inches square, and bolt them to the transom. You want to put them about six inches apart, and they must be just as long as the transom is deep." "I don't quite understand," said Tom, "what you mean by saying they must be as long as the transom is deep." "I mean that each piece that you bolt on must reach from the level of the deck, that is, from the top of the transom, to the lower edge of the transom." "Oh, now I understand," exclaimed Tom. "Very well. Now you want to take four pieces of inch plank, two feet eleven inches long, and fasten them with screw-bolts to the side of each piece of joist, so that they will extend in a straight line from the stern. To the ends of these planks you must nail a new transom, which will have to be smaller in every way than the old one, because the lines of the boat, when carried out three feet, will approach each other. After you have put braces between the pieces of plank, so as to keep them firm, you must carry out your planking and your deck to the new transom, and there you have your boat lengthened three feet. The lengthened part will be all 'overhang,' but the boat will be all the prettier for it." "Won't she be very weak?" asked Tom. "Not if you do the work carefully. The new planking mustn't all begin at the old transom, or she wouldn't hold together; but if you cut every other one of the old planks off at the first timber (rib, I suppose you'd call it) forward of the transom, and fasten the end of the new plank to this timber, and follow the same plan in carrying out the deck planks, she'll be strong enough. We'll leave a hole in the deck for the rudder head to come through, and will have to move the iron rod that the sheet-block travels on a couple of feet further aft. I'd like no better fun than to lengthen her, if you fellows would like to have me do it, and we can get the tools." The boys were greatly pleased with Charley's proposal. The boat, when lengthened, and sloop-rigged, would, they thought, be a real yacht, and altogether a much more imposing craft than a cat-boat. The matter was laid before Uncle John that night, and he willingly agreed to pay the cost of carrying out Charley's plans. "He is right," said Uncle John, "about the rig, and I suppose he is right about lengthening the boat. He shall have whatever he needs; but I hope you'll all remember that if the Department spends all its money in fitting out this boat, you'll have to turn round and keep the Department in food and clothes for the rest of its days." [to be continued.] THE DRAGON-KILLER.[1] A STORY OF THE ISLAND OF RHODES. BY DAVID KER. Many, many years ago, when the isle of Rhodes was still unconquered by the Turks, and belonged to the Christian Knights of St. John, a great crowd was gathered one morning in the streets of its capital, before the fortress where the knights and their Grand Master lived. A grave-looking man in the uniform of the Order (a long white frock, with a scarlet cross on the breast) had just issued from one of the gates, side by side with a herald bearing a trumpet. The herald blew three long blasts, and the grave man cried aloud, "Thus saith Helion de Villeneuve, the most noble Grand Master of the Order of St. John: Forasmuch as five knights of the Order have fallen in combat with the dragon [serpent] that dwelleth by the Mount of St. George, this adventure is henceforth forbidden to all who wear the red cross, and he who shall presume to disobey this command shall be disgraced and banished as a rebel." The faces of the crowd grew blank with dismay as they listened; for this serpent was the pest of the whole island, and had already destroyed many of them. Their only hope lay in the Knights of St. John; and when they heard that even these famous warriors were forbidden to fight for them, they gave themselves up for lost, and went sadly home to tell the bad news to their wives and children. Amid the throng there were not a few of the knights themselves who seemed quite as ill pleased as the rest, for these dangerous adventures were just what they delighted in, and every man of them secretly hoped to have the glory of delivering the island from the monster that was laying it waste. But the Grand Master's commands were positive, and what could they do? Biting their lips in stifled rage, the brave men turned slowly away—all but one. That one was a tall, noble-looking knight from Sicily, Dieudonné[2] de Gozon by name. He had proved his courage in many a hard battle with the Turks, and was held to be one of the bravest of the Order; and one might see by his set lips and stern eyes that he had no thought of giving up the dragon adventure even now. Long after all the rest had gone he stood motionless in the midst of the empty market-place, with his arms folded upon his broad breast, buried in thought. At length a sudden light broke over his downcast face, and he moved away with a brisk step, as if he saw his way through the difficulty at last. The next morning De Gozon was nowhere to be found, and some of his comrades said that he had got leave from the Grand Master to go home [Pg 439] to Sicily for a while, and no one thought any more about him. But had they seen what he was doing in the mean time, it would have puzzled them a good deal. The first thing he did on getting home was to make a complete figure of the dragon-serpent with wood and canvas, and to paint it as life-like as he could—scales, forked tongue, fiery eyes, and all. Not much to be done that way, you will say, toward killing the monster; but wait a little. The next thing was to buy two fierce hounds, for whom the killing of a wolf or the pulling down of a full-grown deer (or of an armed man for that matter) was a mere joke. Then he mounted his war-horse, called his dogs, and went right up to the pictured figure of the monster. But at the first glimpse of this hideous creature, uglier and stranger than anything they had ever seen before, the hounds ran yelling away, and the good steed reared so that he all but threw his rider. This, however, was just what De Gozon expected, and he was not a whit disheartened. He tried again and again, and yet again, until horse and hounds were able to face the horrible figure without flinching. Then he trained his dogs to throw themselves under it, and fasten their teeth in its sides, where the flesh was soft and unprotected by scales; and the dogs learned their lesson readily enough—so readily, indeed, that once or twice they all but tore the figure to pieces. Then the knight thought it time to begin his work, and sailed back to Rhodes again. The moment he landed, off he set for the Mount of St. George, accompanied only by the two esquires who served him. As he neared the fatal spot, the hills around seemed to grow darker and steeper, and a cloud came over the sun, and the gloomy gorge through which his path began to wind looked blacker and drearier than ever. It was as if he were going down alive into the grave. No sight, no sound, of life; the whole place seemed smitten with a curse. Now, too, he began to see fearful tokens of the monster's presence: here the skull of a horse, there the half- devoured skeleton of a bullock, yonder a heap of rusty armor, mingled with the crushed bones of some good knight who had gone forth upon the same quest as himself, and never come back. Suddenly he turned a sharp corner, and right before him yawned the black mouth of the dismal cavern in which the destroyer had made its den. Just across the valley, under an overhanging rock, stood a little chapel, now silent and deserted, for those who used to pray there had fled in terror, and the poor old priest who tended it had been devoured by the serpent long ago. Kneeling before the moss-grown altar, the brave man prayed to God to strengthen him in the battle, and help him to destroy the enemy of the land. Just then his horse started, and sent forth a neigh like a trumpet blast. Out of the darkness of the cavern a huge flat head was rearing itself, with its forked tongue quivering, and its sunken eyes glittering fiercely at the sight of prey. "Now, my friends," said De Gozon to his esquires, "draw back, and let me try this fight alone. If it be God's will that I should conquer, He can strengthen my single arm to do the work; if I am to die, better that one life be lost than three." There were tears in the eyes of the strong men as they listened, but they knew better than to dispute their leader's will. They bowed in silence, and drew back, while the knight, couching his lance, charged furiously upon his terrible foe. But the spear slid harmlessly over the slippery scales, and the monster's hot, foul breath and hideous aspect proved too much for the good war-horse. He started back, and neither spur nor call could urge him forward again. There was but one thing to do, and De Gozon did it. Leaping to the ground, he drew his sword, and renewed the attack on foot. A blow fell— another—yet another. But the good blade which had cloven helmet and turban like pasteboard fell vainly upon the tough, slimy body of the reptile. One lash of that mighty tail, and down went De Gozon, stunned and bleeding, with the terrible jaws gaping over him like the mouth of the grave. The knight commended his soul to God, and thought all was over. But just then a fierce yell was heard, and in sprang the dogs, fixing their teeth in the monster's undefended flesh with a grip that all its struggles could not shake off. The pain paralyzed it for a moment, and that moment was enough for the fallen knight to raise himself on his elbow and plunge his sword hilt-deep in the snake's exposed side. One mighty quiver ran through every coil of the huge body, and the terror of the island lay dead upon the trampled grass, overwhelming its conqueror in its fall. Meanwhile the news that another champion had gone forth to meet the dragon had run abroad like wild-fire, and when the fight began, hundreds of trembling lookers-on were watching it from the surrounding hill-tops. There was a groan of dismay when the knight's war-horse failed him, and he had to face the monster on foot. When he was struck to the ground and the huge jaws were seen gaping over him, the in-drawn breath of the terrified crowd sounded like a hiss amid the dead silence; but when the battle ended, and they saw their terrible enemy lying dead before them, up went a shout that seemed to rend the very sky. Strangers embraced each other like brothers; children clapped their hands, and shouted for joy; women hid their faces, and wept aloud; and the whole throng poured downward like a wave into the gloomy valley which they had so long avoided like a plague-spot. When De Gozon opened his eyes again, he found himself in the midst of thousands of people, who were shouting his name, and blessing him as their deliverer. His ride back to the town, with the dead monster in a wagon behind him, was like a triumphal procession. Every one struggled for a sight of him. Flowers and laurel leaves were showered upon him from the windows. Even the stately Knights of St. John lent their voices to swell the cheering; and so the great procession swept on to the hall of the Order, and into the court where the Grand Master was sitting in his chair of state, with his chosen knights around him. As soon as the uproar lulled a little, De Gozon told his story in a quiet, matter-of-fact way which showed that he had no wish to make much of what he had done. Every one expected to see the Grand Master start up and embrace him; but the old knight sat firm as a rock, and his face was very grim. "Thou hast done a great deed," said he at last; "but tell me, what is the first duty of every true knight?" "To obey," answered the dragon-slayer, with a faint flush on his sun-browned cheek. "And how hast thou obeyed?" asked the Grand Master, sternly. "Is it not written in our laws that no knight of the Order shall undertake any adventure without the bidding of his chief? Thou hast acted not only without my bidding, but against it; and in the ranks of our Order there is no place for one who sets his own will before his vow of obedience. Loose that cross from thy breast, and begone!" The crowd stood aghast at hearing this terrible rebuke given to their hero, and all eyes were turned expectantly upon him. For a moment he stood like one thunder-struck; then, without a word, he took the scarlet cross from his breast, laid it meekly at the Grand Master's feet, and turned to depart. Then the old man's iron face yielded suddenly, as ice yields at the coming of spring. He leaped from his chair, and rushing after the banished man, threw his arms round him like a father embracing his child. "Come back, my son," he cried, "and take up again that cross which none is worthier to wear. He who in his hour of triumph could bear without a murmur such a reproof as mine, deserves to be not only a knight of our Order, but its head; and when it shall please God to call me, I shall be well content to have thee my successor." And a very few years later De Gozon did succeed the old warrior as Grand Master of the Order, and is still remembered as the best and kindliest chief who ever ruled it. If you ever go to Rhodes (as I did a few years ago), you will see there, unless the Turks have destroyed it, an old tomb, quaintly carved, bearing this inscription, "Here lies Dieudonné de Gozon, the Dragon-killer." [Pg 440] [Pg 441] [Pg 442] A MAY PARTY.—Drawn by W. M. Cary. THE KNITTING BEE.—Engraved by J. Tinkey, from a Painting by G. H. Story. BOB PERKINS'S PARCEL. A STORY FROM CHICAGO. BY A. A. HAYES, JUN. A good many boys who read this story may live in Chicago, or have made a visit to that great Western city, but those who have never been there must hope to see it some day. It lies on one of the great lakes, so much like the ocean that one can hardly believe that he has not been transported, on the back of the Enchanted Horse, over a thousand miles of land, and is looking at the broad Atlantic. Certainly that is what young Bob Perkins thought as he entered the city one pleasant morning about ten years ago. He had come from New York with his father, who had business in Chicago which would probably detain him for a year or more, and had therefore taken his family with him to reside there. They left New York at night, and Bob saw Niagara Falls for the first time as the train crossed the famed Suspension-Bridge the next day. In the morning he had seen the Falls of the Genesee at Rochester, and been told of the useless feat in which Sam Patch lost his life, saying that "some things could be done as well as others," and then leaping to his death. He was thus better prepared to appreciate the splendid achievement of which his father told him as the train, weighing many, many tons, rolled slowly across the bridge hung by wire cables over the roaring and foaming rapids. It seems that when Mr. Roebling, the engineer, made known his plans, people declared that they were foolish and dangerous, and that such a bridge could not be made safe enough to support carriages, much less a train. He did not argue with them, but he did something which, while quite convincing to the public, showed a rare faith in his own skill and care. When he had stretched one wire across, he suspended a basket on it, and in this basket he, his wife, and his child were drawn from bank to bank. Next morning, when Bob had dressed himself and looked out of the window of the sleeping-car, he saw the waves dashing up from Lake Michigan high enough to wet the wheels of the train as it ran swiftly along the shore. A few minutes more saw him in the station, and with that day his life in Chicago began. The city seemed even busier to him than New York. The people moved faster through the streets, and were apparently more absorbed in the pursuit of their various occupations. It was early autumn, and very dry, as the summer had been. Bob heard his father say that the farmers were complaining greatly of the want of rain, and when he rode out on the prairie, everything looked yellow and parched. He preferred to walk along the shore of the lake, and out to the mouth of the river, where he could see the lumber vessels coming in from Wisconsin and Michigan, and enjoy the cool breezes. One Sunday evening, while reading, he heard the bells ring, and, like almost all boys, wanted to run to the fire. His father told him that he himself would like a walk, and that they might go a certain distance, but would probably find that the fire was extinguished. Bob remembered, however, that the wind was blowing hard when they were coming home from church, and then it suddenly occurred to him that in that absence of rain of which he had heard, the wooden buildings so common in the city must be as dry as tinder. When they turned the corner of the street, both uttered a cry of surprise. The sky was all aflame, and dense clouds of smoke, in which cinders were thickly mingled, were driven by the wind over their heads. "I do not think that it is near my office, Bob," said his father; "but it seems a great conflagration, and we had better find out if it is likely to spread." They walked rapidly toward one of the bridges over the Chicago River, and crossed it. As they passed on they met a gradually increasing throng, apparently fleeing from the fire and seeking a place of safety. The smoke and cinders grew more plentiful, and the sky was now lit from horizon to horizon. At last they reached the office, and Mr. Perkins opened it with his key. Everything inside was quiet and...