Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, November 30, 1880, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Harper's Young People, November 30, 1880 An Illustrated Monthly Author: Various Release Date: August 15, 2013 [EBook #43474] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire A GOOD DAY'S WORK; OR, HOW THE WIDOW'S APPLES WERE GATHERED. THE BOY-GENERAL. AN ADVENTURE WITH AN ALLIGATOR. WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON? LITTLE FOES OF LITTLE BOYS. BARNEY'S FOOT. A HAPPY PAIR. HOW THE BEAVER BUILDS. SEA-BREEZES. PARLOR MAGIC. EMBROIDERY FOR GIRLS. BURGLARS. Kissing through the Chair. OUR POST-OFFICE BOX THE FIRST SNOW-STORM. THE NUN. A RARE STONE. Banner: Harper's Young People Vol. II.—No. 57. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. Price Four Cents. Tuesday, November 30, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by Harper & Brothers. $1.50 per Year, in Advance. [Pg 65] A GOOD DAY'S WORK; OR, HOW THE WIDOW'S APPLES WERE GATHERED. BY FRANK H. TAYLOR. "I say, mother, Bill Joyce has run away!" cried Eddie Stevens, rushing into the kitchen swinging his school-bag over his arm. "Has he, indeed? Well, I'm not very much surprised, for he has behaved very badly ever since his father died. I'm sorry, though, for poor Mrs. Joyce. She'll be all alone now, and I don't know how she'll get through the winter." "She wanted Bill to pick the apples, an' he wouldn't, an' so he jes' got his best clothes, an' went down the road to Moorfield Station, an' he told Sammy Brown he was a-goin to sea; an' he had lots of money, for Sammy Brown seen it, an' I seen Mrs. Joyce a-sittin' by the—" "Stop! stop! Eddie, say 'saw,' not 'seen,'" said his mother. "Well, I saw Mrs. Joyce a-sittin' by the winder, an' a-cryin' like a house a-fire, an' I guess Bill stoled—" "Stop again," interposed Mrs. Stevens. "Say 'I think' and 'stole.'" "Well, anyhow I guess—I mean, I think—he's got her money." "Poor woman, she has trouble indeed. A drunken husband, who dies and leaves the place mortgaged for more than it's worth; a fire that burns her barn; and now a bad son, who runs away with what little she has saved to get through the winter with. I'll go and see her tomorrow." The next afternoon when Eddie came home his mother looked very thoughtful. She said, "Don't you think you could persuade the boys to pick Widow Joyce's apples on Saturday?" Eddie said nothing, but looked very dubious, for the widow was not liked by the boys. "Do you think you will ever become so bad that you will want to run away, Eddie?" and his mother looked into his eyes anxiously. "No, indeed, mother. But you ain't like Bill's mother. She used to lick him awful," replied Eddie. "Say 'whip,' and 'very hard,' my son." "Yes, mother." "Well, will you ask the boys?" "I'll try 'em, ma." When Eddie started for school the next day his mind was full of the mission his mother had given him to the boys. "What ye lookin' so serus about, Ed? 'Pears like ye'd lost all yer best friends," exclaimed the blacksmith, as Eddie passed his open door. Tom the smith and the little boy were excellent friends, despite the former's remark, and Eddie told him all about Bill, and the widow, and his mother's wish. "Well, now, ef that ain't a right good idee! You tell the boys ef they'll git the apples onto the ground in piles, I'll hitch up to one of these wagons an' fetch 'em to the mill." "Can we all go an' see 'em grinded into cider?" "See here, Ed, your mother'll scold you for usin' sech langwige. What makes ye say 'grinded'? I have to despise folks as don't treat their grammar proper." [Pg 66] "No, mother won't scold me, neither, Tom. She says she rules with love; an' when she talks to me after I've done anythin' bad, it's worse 'n bein' licked. Did your mother lick you when you was little, Tom?" Somehow the sturdy smith was the sober one now, and he only answered, "Jest you get along to school, and mind you let me know ef the boys are agreed." Before Eddie had gone far, however, the smith whistled and beckoned him back. "Sit here a minnit, Ed, I want to tell you somethin'. When I was a little feller I lived on t'other side of the sea, an' one day my mother kept me in, an' that night I did jest what Bill Joyce's done—I run away. I went to sea, too, jest like most little fools as believe all the stuff they read about 'life on the ocean wave.' I had mighty hard times, and often wished I could die. It was nigh eight years afore I got money enough to git home with, an' then I found strangers in the house, Ed, who thought I was a tramp. My mother was in her grave, an' the rest was scattered. I never seen none of 'em since." "Say 'saw,' not 'seen,' Tom," said Eddie, mindful of his own teaching at home. Tom did not heed, however, but continued. "I want you to look me in the eye, an' promise to never run away." "I promise, Tom," said the boy, promptly. When Eddie looked up he saw a big crock mark over one of Tom's eyes. "That's square; an' now mind, Ed, ef the boys won't help, why, I'll shet the shop, an' you an' I'll tackle them apples ourselves." The next moment Tom's hammer was making lively music upon his anvil, and Eddie was again on his way to school. The disappearance of Bill Joyce was the one topic of interest at the school-house. Jim Pennell, the biggest boy, did most of the talking. "You bet, I wish I was in Bill's boots. He served the old woman right. He'll have a bully time, and in a couple of years he'll come back a captain of a ship; you see if he don't." Eddie had just joined the group in front of the school steps. "My mother says—she says—" Poor Ed! here his tongue stuck fast. "Well, she says she'll put you to bed before supper, and switch you well if you run away, don't she?" sneered Jim. "No, she don't!" exclaimed Eddie, hotly. "I tell you what it is, fellers, I say it's mean an' unfair to make fun of Bill's mother; an' he'll be sure to wish himself back pretty quick. What's more, Tom the smith an' I are goin' to pick Mrs. Joyce's apples on Saturday, and take 'em to the cider mill. You can help if you want to. We'll have lots of fun, an' be doin' a good—" Just at this moment the school bell rang, and the boys hastened to their desks. When the roll had been called, Miss Winslow, the teacher, told Jim Pennell to go to the blackboard. "Now," said she, "write 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.' That will do. Now, Eddie, you put under it 'Do right, and fear not.'" Jim and Eddie each wondered if Miss Winslow had overheard the talk at the door. Jim's cheeks turned very red, and so did Eddie's, but it was when he looked up and met his teacher's smile. After school the subject was renewed. "I won't go," said one. "Didn't she set the dog onto us one day?" "Neither will I," insisted another. "Don't I remember how she sassed us for gettin' chestnuts in the wood patch back of her corn lot?" Three boys, however, were waiting for Eddie a little way down the road, who promised to help him, but were very anxious that Jim Pennell should not know about it. Eddie reported his experience to Tom and to his mother. At eight o'clock on Saturday morning, Tom, as good as his word, locked his shop, and hung out an old sign which read, "Gone a-fishin'," and drove away with four boys in the wagon. Five others ran and clambered in as the party went merrily down the village street, and finally Tom protested that he would not have any more along. What a time they had, to be sure, in the orchard! Some climbed out on the limbs and shook them vigorously, while others held sheets to catch the apples. At two o'clock they were all collected in heaps—big red Spitzenbergs, plump greenings, brown russets, and luscious Baldwins. "Seventy bushels of 'em if there's one," said Tom. Two trips were made to the cider mill, the boys going along and helping to unload, though it must be confessed some of them were a great deal better pleased to put long straws into the open bungs of the barrels, and suck the fresh sweet cider until they could not hold another drop. There is nothing the country boy likes more than to watch the men at work in a cider mill. If you, my reader, live in the city, it is likely that you have never seen such a place, so I will venture to tell you how it looks. A great ponderous frame stands under a shed, with two heavy screws of oak standing upright in a cross-piece. The apples are heaped on all sides, and are first crushed between wooden cog-wheels and caught in tubs. This is called "cheese." Then a layer of straw is put upon the base of the screw press, and next a layer of "cheese," and upon this more straw, and then again "cheese" and straw clear up; after which planks are put on top, and the "cheese" is "built." Now the screws are turned alternately with a long sweep. Then the cider begins to trickle out, and runs around the little channel cut in the base, and finally into a large tub, from which it is dipped into the waiting barrels. The leavings, after the juice has all been expressed, is called "pummy," which I suppose is from pomum, a Latin word meaning an "apple." The "pummy" is fed to horses and cattle, and they are very fond of it. A barrel of cider requires about twelve bushels of apples, and is generally worth about a dollar and a half, and the barrel as much more. The owner of the cider mill paid Tom for the apples, and the party started back. Upon the way Tom put the money into Eddie's hands, insisting that he should carry it in to the widow, while he put a barrel of cider he had bought with his own cash into the cellar. Eddie agreed, upon the condition that all the boys would go in. When they left the house, after this had been done, somehow they were all very quiet, until Sammy Brown exclaimed, "Tell you what 'tis, boys, I wish the orchard was bigger, or else there was more poor widows like Bill's mother round here, don't you?" And no one answered "No." [Begun in Harper's Young People No. 53, November 2.] [Pg 67] THE BOY-GENERAL. BY EDWARD CARY. Chapter V. Although Lafayette and Washington both thought that the capture of Lord Cornwallis and his army, and the failure of the British to take the State of Virginia, would prove a death-blow to the King's cause in America, neither of them ceased for a moment his efforts to keep up the war. They knew that if peace were indeed coming, much better terms could be had if the Americans showed that they could and would still fight. So while Washington was trying to arouse the people at home, and to get a still larger army, Lafayette sailed for France to seek fresh aid from the government of that country. He succeeded bravely, and was put at the head of an expedition of sixty war vessels and 24,000 men, who were to sail for the United States early in 1783. But while these splendid efforts were being put forth peace was declared; the independence of the United States was recognized by Great Britain; the long struggle was over, and Lafayette was able by his own hand to send the first tidings of its glorious ending to Congress. The next year, on the invitation of Washington, he visited the United States, and was everywhere received with the most joyous signs of love and respect. When he returned to France he straightway engaged in new efforts for the cause of liberty. Slavery then existed in the French colonies. Lafayette, who had spent over a quarter of a million dollars for the United States, now devoted another large part of his fortune to the freedom of the negroes. He bought a large plantation in Cayenne, and made the slaves free, and founded schools to teach them. In the same way he labored for liberty at home. The French people were sorely oppressed, far worse than the Americans had ever been. Lafayette joined with large numbers of his countrymen in demanding that this oppression should cease, and he did gain great concessions for them. But one July night in 1789 the people of Paris, restless with their slow progress toward liberty, rose and stormed the Bastile, the great royal prison, where many political prisoners had been shut up, and asked of the Assembly, which was in session, that they should be armed. The prayer was granted, and a popular army was raised, called the National Guard, three millions strong. Lafayette was made their commander-in-chief. He used his enormous power with great patience and courage and skill, and to him France largely owed the wonderful victories which she afterward won. The revolution went on. The King was dethroned and beheaded. A government republican in form but very despotic in spirit followed. Lafayette, who was on the border of Austria fighting his country's foreign foes, was hated by the men in power because he opposed their cruelty, their thirst for blood, and their gross injustice. They conspired to seize and kill him. In 1793 he saw that his life was no longer safe, and fled in disguise across the Austrian frontier. But here he was seized by the Austrian government, at that time one of the most despotic in the world, and put in prison, first in one place and then in another, and finally in a fortress at Olmütz. The Austrian rulers saw in him their most dangerous enemy, for he was not only an able soldier, but a skillful statesman, and no man in Europe could so well guide the peoples to a complete overthrow of tyranny. So it was resolved to break down his spirit once for all. He was put in a deep, damp cell alone. No books or papers were allowed him. He was told that his whereabouts should be held secret, that no one of his family or friends should know whether he were living or dead, and that so long as he lived no word of what was doing in the world outside should reach him. But though he wasted to a skeleton, and his hair whitened and fell from his head, he never lost heart of hope and daring for a moment. The Austrian tyrants had over-rated their power. Love was stronger than hate. A gallant friend, a Bavarian doctor, found out where Lafayette was, and planned his escape, assisted by a young American, the son of the Major Huger who had welcomed Lafayette when he first set foot on American soil. But the attempt failed. Lafayette and his friends were betrayed and captured and thrown into prison. The world, however, had learned where Lafayette was. Washington, now President of the United States, wrote an appealing letter to the Emperor of Austria, beseeching him to release the almost dying prisoner. In the English House of Commons, members who had fought Lafayette in Virginia and been defeated by him, denounced the cruelty of Austria, and implored the British government to intercede for him. Lafayette's wife, who had narrowly escaped death on the scaffold from the enemies of her husband in France, went to Vienna, and with prayers and tears got the privilege of sharing her husband's cell. Finally, Napoleon Bonaparte, who had become the ruler of France, and had badly beaten the Austrians at many points, compelled them to free Lafayette before he would grant them peace. After five years of a prison almost worse than death he returned to find his beloved land oppressed by the iron rule of Napoleon. This great despot sought to win the support of Lafayette, and offered him wealth, honor, and power; but the steadfast friend of freedom refused everything, and retired, almost in want, to a farm near Paris, where he lived in quiet until Napoleon's reign was over. When the Emperor fell, and a new government was set up in France, Lafayette again entered public life, and labored hard to persuade the new government to treat the people justly, but in vain. In 1830 the people again arose in revolution, and the King fled. The National Guard was again set on foot, and again Lafayette was put at its head. Still another new government came into power, this time with Louis Philippe as King, who was pledged to do whatever the people through their representatives should demand. Lafayette was seventy-three years old when he led this last revolution. His life was near its close, but he was destined to see much of what he had worked for and fought for and suffered for brought about. The government of King Louis Philippe brought with it almost complete liberty for France. In a short visit made to America in 1824 Lafayette had found the country peaceful and prosperous, and free government firmly set up. He died in 1834, being seventy-seven years of age. Surely no life was ever better spent. From his boyhood to his old age he had always striven to reform abuses, to overthrow injustice, to win liberty for all mankind, and at the same time to teach his fellow-men to use justly and kindly the liberty which they secured. In our own history his name will always be linked with that of Washington. They were both brave, faithful, just, and generous, and both honored the name of American citizen—a name which Lafayette proudly claimed so long as he lived. the end. [Pg 68] "UP WENT THE CANOE." AN ADVENTURE WITH AN ALLIGATOR. A correspondent writes: "There is a deep pool near Kalmunai, in the Batticaloa district of Ceylon, famed for its alligators, so much so in fact that a friend and I shot eighteen there in the course of a week without apparently diminishing the number. "There was one enormous brute that had the reputation of having devoured four natives, and cattle without end. The villagers begged us to shoot him, and for some time we watched for him, and often saw him as he came up to breathe; but so cunning was he that the instant he saw either of us raise a rifle, down he would sink, with scarcely a ripple to mark the place of his disappearance. "Now this pool swarmed with fish, but the dread of the alligators kept the natives from netting them; at length, however, emboldened by our presence, three men paddled in from the stream and began operations. At first they kept close to the bridge, but growing bolder they moved up to some reeds which bade fair to reward their boldness, when all of a sudden, splash! up went the canoe; and but for the outrigger it would have capsized, men and all. "They had run upon the alligator, which was lying on a sand-bank just below the surface. The yells of the lookers-on and the smack with which the brute's tail struck the canoe showed how narrow an escape the men had had. However, this was my opportunity, and a moment afterward I had the satisfaction of killing the alligator with a bullet in the brain." [Begun in No. 46 of Harper's Young People, September 14.] WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON? BY JOHN HABBERTON, Author of "Helen's Babies." Chapter XII. THE END OF IT. So Paul Grayson's secret was out at last, and now the boys wished there never had been any secret at all. "I've had lots of fun trying to puzzle it out," said Ned Johnston to Napoleon Nott on the afternoon of the day of the trial, "but now I wish that I hadn't. Think of poor Paul!" "I wish he had been a prince in exile," said Napoleon Nott, "for then he wouldn't have had a chance to tell on himself. Princes' sons never have their fathers tried for passing counterfeit money. But I'll tell you what; the way that Paul looked when he said 'Father!' that day was just like a picture in a book I've got, named Doomed to Death; or, the Pirate's Protégé. I'll bring it to school some day and show it to you all." "I'll break every bone in your body if you do," said Will Palmer. Notty suddenly remembered that his mother had sent him to the market to order something, so he hurried away from society that he had mistakenly supposed might be congenial, while Ned Johnston made the round of the residences of the various boys who had been at school with Paul. The end of it all was that the entire school met in the school-yard that evening after supper for the purpose of formally drafting resolutions of sympathy. Condolence also was suggested by Sam Wardwell, but Canning Forbes said that the meeting should not make a fool of itself if he could prevent it. If the roll of Mr. Morton's school had been called that evening at that meeting, not a single absentee would have been reported. Even Charlie Gunter, who had begun half an hour before to shake with a chill, was present; and although his remarks were somewhat jerky, and his sentences bitten all to pieces by his chattering teeth, he spoke so feelingly that no one manifested the slightest inclination to laugh. It had been intended that the meeting should be organized in as grand style as any town-meeting to consider the dog-tax question had ever been, but somehow there was a general unloosening of tongues, and no one thought to move that the assemblage should be called to order. "It's easy enough now to see why Paul played so splendidly in that tableau of 'Civilization,'" said Will Palmer. "Yes, indeed, it is," said Canning Forbes, "and easy too to understand why he fought so hard against taking the part when every one asked him to do it." "No wonder he wasn't afraid to walk beside the prisoner after the Deputy-Sheriff had captured him," said Sam Wardwell. "I don't believe I'd have been afraid myself, if my father had been the counterfeiter. And, say, Mr. Morton came into the store this morning and offered father a five- dollar bill to make up his loss by the bad bill that Paul's father passed on him, and what do you think father said?" "We give it up," said Canning Forbes, quickly. "Tell us what it was." [Pg 69] THE MEETING IN THE SCHOOL-YARD. "Why," Sam answered, "he said that he wouldn't touch it for a thousand dollars, and if ever the prisoner needed money or anything during his six months, all he needed to do was to send to him. Father was telling mother about the whole thing last night when I went home, and when I went in he jumped up and hugged me and kissed me. He hasn't done that before since I was a little boy." "Now I know why Paul used to forget his game and stare at the jail windows so hard," said Benny Mallow. "Ye—es," chattered Charlie Gunter, "and why he—he was al—always wh—wh —wh—whistling when he passed the jail." "And why he never could be happy unless a game of ball was going on in the lot by the jail," resumed Benny. "If I'd only known all about it, I would have sweated to death on the hottest day of the summer rather than not have obliged him." "Some of the girls thought it was very unmannerly for Paul to have been the first to leave Benny's party the night of the escape," said Will Palmer. "I'm going to call specially on each one of those girls and make her take it back." "And if any of them refuse," said Sam Wardwell, "just you tell me. She sha'n't ever eat another philopena with me while she lives; not if she lives for a thousand years." "He begged me to tell all of you boys that he hadn't anything to do with the catching of the prisoner," confessed Benny, for the first time. "I wish I'd gone and done it right away! Oh dear; I do think I'm the very wickedest boy that ever lived—except Cain." "I wonder who told the Judge so much about Paul's father?" asked Ned Johnston. "Why, Mr. Morton, of course," replied Canning Forbes. "Haven't you seen through that yet? Mr. Morton told in school one day, you know, that Paul was the son of an old friend of his." At least half of the boys had not put the two ends of this thread together before, but they all admitted that Canning had done it correctly. "Certainly," said Will Palmer, "and that explains why Mr. Morton was so frequent in his visits to the prison." "Yes, and why Paul felt so dreadful after he had been there the first time," said Benny. "It just used him up completely; you'd hardly have thought him the same boy." Mention of that incident recalled to the boys the manner in which Paul had come to go to the prison, so one after another looked at Joe Appleby, who had not yet said a word, but Joe did not seem angry; on the contrary, he said, "Boys, of course I didn't know how what I said was affecting Paul, but I know now, and I'm going to apologize to him the first chance I get. I'm going to ask him to forgive me, or to take it out of me, if he'd rather; and," continued Joe, after a short pause, "I'm not going to wait for the chance, but I'm going to make it." "Hurrah for Appleby!" shouted Will Palmer, and as three cheers were given Will crossed over to the big boy of whom he had long been jealous, and shook hands with him, and all the other boys understood it, so when Canning Forbes cried "Three cheers for Palmer!" they too were given with a will. "I want to make a suggestion," said Canning Forbes, when the cheering had ended. "We came here to adopt resolutions for Paul Grayson, but I'm sure he'd be better pleased if we would say nothing about the matter; any reference to it would be certain to give him pain. The best we can do is to treat him with special kindness hereafter, if he stays, and never, by any word or deed, make reference to the past. If there is any one who insists on resolutions, let him adopt them for himself and about himself. In spite of having had a father who was a gambler and a criminal, Paul is the most sensible, honest, honorable, pleasant fellow in this town. Let each one of us make a resolution that if a boy can become what Paul is, in spite of such dreadful trouble, those of us who have honest fathers and happy homes ought to do at least as well." "I'll do that," said Benny Mallow, "right straight away, and I'll write it down in a book as soon as I get home, so as to be sure never to forget it." "So will I," said Napoleon Nott. "I'll write on the first page of The Exiled Prince, so I'll be sure to see it often." Such of the boys as did not agree verbally to Canning's suggestion seemed to be making the resolution quietly, and the meeting soon broke up. As Benny started for home it suddenly occurred to him that, now the secret was out, Paul might go away; he certainly would if Mr. Morton did not open school. This was too dreadful an uncertainty to be endured, so Benny hurried to old Mrs. Battle's and asked to see the teacher. Mr. Morton quickly quieted his mind by saying that the school would continue for at least the half-year that Paul's father remained in the jail. Of course Paul would be one of the class; indeed, Mr. Morton was willing that Benny should tell every one that the only reason he had opened school at Laketon at all was his desire to be near the old friend whom he could not desert in his trouble, and to have near the prisoner, whose real name was Paul Gray, the son for whom, since the death of his wife, Paul Gray had felt an affection that Mr. Morton knew would make a good man of him when again he had a chance to start in the world. When Paul Gray's term of imprisonment expired he and Paul went away together, and no one was so unmannerly as to ask them where they were going. Some of the people of the town talked of taking up a subscription for the unfortunate man, but Mr. Morton said it would not be necessary, as Gray's old friends had arranged to start him in business. All of the boys were as sorry to part with Paul as if the boy had been going to his grave, particularly because Canning Forbes had reminded them that it would not do to ask him to write to them, because his father would prefer that no one who had known his old history should know where he began his new life. But every one begged Paul's picture, which pleased Paul greatly, and after a supper given expressly in Paul's honor by Joe Appleby, Canning Forbes arose and presented Paul an album containing the portraits of all the members of the old class. The pictures were not remarkably good, having been done by a carpenter who sometimes took "tin types" merely to oblige people, he said, but the album was handsome, having been ordered from New York, regardless of expense, by Sam Wardwell's father, and on the cover was the inscription, in gold letters, "Don't forget us, for we can't forget you." the end. LITTLE FOES OF LITTLE BOYS. [Pg 70] "By-and-by" is a very bad boy: Shun him at once and forever; For they who travel with "By-and-by" Soon come to the house of "Never." "I Can't" is a mean little coward: A boy that is half of a man Set on him a plucky wee terrier That the world knows and honors—"I Can." "No Use in Trying"—nonsense, I say: Keep trying until you succeed; But if you should meet "I Forgot" by the way, He's a cheat, and you'd better take heed. "Don't Care" and "No Matter," boys, they're a pair, And whenever you see the poor dolts, Say, "Yes, we do care," and would be "Great matter," If our lives should be spoiled by small faults. BARNEY'S FOOT. BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD. "Come on, Barney." "You're on our side. We knew you'd get here, and we counted you." "And Sid Thayer, he said you belonged with them this time, but we said you wasn't an up-town boy, and we wouldn't stand it." There was something rueful in the face of Barney Powell as he stood there with his hands in his pockets looking across the village green. There was a game of foot-ball just about to begin, and Barney was conceded to be the best kicker for his size in all Hackerton. Then he had always played as a down-town boy, although his father kept the drug store in the middle of the village, and lived next door to it, and the up-town boys said the drug store was on their land. It was two rods north of the middle stone-walk across the green. "Well, no, boys, I guess I won't play foot-ball to-day." "Not play!" exclaimed Wash Handy, opening his mouth unusually wide. "Anything the matter? Got new boots on?" "Guess he's got a sore toe," remarked Sid Thayer. "He did kick like everything Saturday." "I don't know as I want to kick any more all this vacation. Not unless my foot gets over it." "Gets over what, Barney?" "What? why, kicking." "Which foot is it?" "I don't seem to know exactly. Mebbe it's one, and then I ain't half sure it isn't the other." "Queer you can't tell." "Well, you know how we played last Saturday, nigh all day?" "Best day for foot-ball there ever was in this town." "Well, I kicked and I kicked, and I was awful tired when I got home; but I didn't know anything was the matter with my feet till after I got to bed." "Did they hurt you then?" "Hurt? no, not a mite. But little Phin, he sleeps with me, and I don't know just how long it was before I was waked up by a great squall. It was dark as pitch, but I knew it was Phin's voice, and I felt around the bed for him." "Did you find him?" "No, sir! He wasn't there; he was drawing his breath for another squall away out on the floor. And mother, she came running in, and so did grandmother, and Aunt Jane, and old Mrs. Wiggles. She's a-visiting at our house, and she does eat! You never saw anything like it, and she's as long as a bean-pole, and just about as fat. And father, he waked up, and he wanted to know what the matter was, but he didn't come in." "Well," said Wash Handy, "what was the matter?" "Matter? I guess you'd ha' said so. I'd just took Phin for a foot-ball, and I'd kicked him half way across the room. He's round and fat, and he lit on a soft place, I guess, for he didn't squall any more, except when old Mrs. Wiggles hugged him. He was more scared than hurt, for I'd taken my boots off before I went to bed." "Oh, pshaw! Barney, what of all that? Let's go in. We'll have the tallest kind of a game." "Well, no, Wash, I guess not. I haven't got through yet. Mother let Aunt Jane take little Phin into her bed, and father he said something about hobbling me if I couldn't mind my hoofs any better'n that; but I guess I didn't do anything worse'n kick the clothes off till morning. But you see, boys, I was pretty sure they'd all be laughing at me at breakfast, and I guess I wasn't in any too good a humor, and there was the big rug at the dining-room door all rolled up in a wad. You couldn't ha' guessed that Aunt Jane's brindle-yellow tomcat was inside of it. That is, you wouldn't have guessed it before you heard the yowl he gave when he dropped into the big rose-bush in front of the dining-room door." "Did you kick him as far as that?" asked Sid Thayer, doubtfully. "Come, now, Barney, play on our side to-day." "No, sir! But you ought to have seen Aunt Jane run out to pick up her cat, and he making a brindle-yellow streak for the back fence." "Didn't kill him, then?" "Kill him? No, sir! You don't kick anything more'n a howl out of a cat with a big rug wrapped 'round him. But you see, boys, after that I hadn't a [Pg 71] word to say, and the rest of them could say just what they wanted to. I kept an eye on my feet, and I couldn't say which was which, only there's more leather worn off the right toe than the left. "By-and-by it was time to go to meeting, and I went, and our pew was jam-full, and I had to sit as straight as a ramrod, and I had both my feet right before me on the foot-bar. Nothing happened all the morning, but when we went again in the afternoon Mrs. Wiggles, she came along, and there wasn't room for me in our pew. So I slipped into Deacon Clark's, just ahead of ours, and none of his folks came, and I had it all to myself." "But you didn't dare to lie down?" said Wash. "I guess not; but it was dreadfully warm, and I'd heard Mr. Simmons preach that sermon three times, only with different texts, and it kind o' made me feel sleepy to hear it again; but I can't guess what sort of wood they made that pew out of." "Why, of course not; it's all painted black walnut," said Sid Thayer. "'Tisn't the paint, Sid; and there isn't any wood I know of that has that amount of racket in it." "Now, Barney Powell, what on earth do you mean?" "Mean? You'd have said it was mean if you'd been waked up in the middle of a sermon the way I was. I must have been dreaming of foot-ball seems to me, for I'd tried to put one of my toes right through the back of the next pew, and the noise it made was—well, boys, I can't say how much there was of it, but they must have started that pew for a drum. I sat straight up and looked at Mr. Simmons, but he'd stopped preaching, and he was looking at me, and I heard father coughing fit to kill himself; and ma, she had her head down, and Mrs. Wiggles whispered, 'Sakes alive!' to Aunt Jane, and she said, 'Any boy that'll abuse a cat like mine'; and if I didn't wish that pew was curtained in you may eat me." "Did they turn you out?" "Well, no; but on the way home I heard Mrs. Wiggles tell ma she was afraid how I would turn out if I grew up the way I'd begun. I walked slow all the rest of the day, for fear one of my feet would get away from me again." "Oh, pshaw!" said Sid Thayer. "Foot-ball didn't do it. I tell you what's the matter. There's too much kick in you naturally. You can't help it. And if you don't play foot-ball or something of that sort you'll never work it out, and it'll be always making some sort of trouble for you." "Do you s'pose that's it?" "Of course it is. I've heard people say such things ever so many times. Just you come right along now, on our side, and there won't be half so much kicking in you when you get through." "No, sir!" shouted Wash Handy. "Barney's on our side. We've got the ball mended, Barney. It kicks beautiful!" "If I thought Phin'd be any safer to-night," hesitated Barney. "But then there's that pew! You never heard such a bang. I don't think the cat'll let me come near enough again unless he's rolled up in something. Did you sew up the rip in the ball, Sid?" "I? Sew that seam? Look at it! Old Quin did it, the harness-maker. Isn't it lovely? Every stitch as hard as wire! Come on, Barney." "Well, Sid, the way my feet feel just now I must kick at something, and the down-town boys chose me on their side. We can choose sides over again after the first game. I don't know but it might be good for me." "Of course it would," shouted Wash Handy. "Hurrah, boys, Barney'll play, and he's on our side. Let's go in and give 'em a whitewashing!" A HAPPY PAIR. BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK. There was a bull-dog and a cat Who, strange as it may seem. Together by the shining stove Would fall asleep and dream. Whene'er in fun he'd rush at her, Her eyes would never glare; Nor would she scratch his honest face, Or elevate her hair. And when the sky was bright with stars, His comforts to begin, Upon her back, so warm and soft, He'd lay his shaggy chin. And in this way he'd fall asleep, And all his cares would cease; While Tabby, most good-naturedly, Would purr and dream in peace. They were the very best of friends, They never had a fray; And probably they are the same Unto this very day. HOW THE BEAVER BUILDS. If our little readers would learn something of the ways of this four-footed builder, let them in imagination accompany a beaver family, on some fine evening in May, when they start in search of a new home. The papa beaver, with his sons and sons-in-law, wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law, and, it may be, grandchildren, sallies forth "prospecting" the country for a good location; that is, a stream of easy navigation, and having an abundant supply of their favorite food, the silver-birch and poplar, growing as near the river as possible. Having selected these limits, the next step [Pg 72] is to place their dwelling so as to command the greatest amount of food. For this purpose they go as far below the supplies as the character of the stream will permit. A pond of deep, still water being an indispensable adjunct to their dwelling, this is obtained by the construction of a dam, and few engineers could select a site to produce the required result so efficiently and economically. The dam and dwelling are forthwith commenced, the materials employed in both being roots, mud, and stones, the former two being dragged by the teeth, the latter carried between the fore-paws and the chin. If the dam is extensive, whole trees are gnawed down, the largest of which are of the diameter of an ordinary stove-pipe, the stump being cut standing about eighteen inches above the ground, and pointed like a crayon. Those trees which stand upon the bank of the stream they contrive to drop into the water as cleverly as the most experienced woodman; those which are more distant are cut up by their teeth into pieces which can be dragged to the water. These trees and branches are floated down to the site of the dam, where they are dragged ashore, and placed so that the tops shall be borne down by the current, and thus arrest the descending drift, and form a strong and tight dam. Critical parts are built "by hand," the sticks and mud when placed receiving a smart blow from the beaver's tail, just as a bricklayer settles his work with the handle of his trowel. The habitation or hut of the beaver is almost bomb-proof, rising like a dome from the ground on the margin of the pond, and sometimes six or eight feet in thickness in the crown. The only entrance is from a level of three or four feet under the water of the pond. These precautions are necessary, because, like all enterprising animals, the beaver is not without enemies. The wolverine, which is as fond of beaver tail as an old Nor'wester, would walk into his hut if he could only get there; but having the same distaste for water as the cat, he must forego the luxury. It is not, however, for safety that the beaver adopts the submarine communication with his dwelling, though it is for this that he restricts himself to it. The same necessity which compels him to build a dam, and thus create a pond of water, obliges him to obtain communication with that pond when the ice is three feet thick upon its surface. Living upon the bark of trees, he is obliged to provide a comparatively great bulk for his winter's consumption; and he must secure it at the season when the bark is formed, and before it commences to dry; he must also store it up where it will not become frozen or dried up. He could not reasonably be expected to build a frost-proof house large enough to contain his family supply; but if he did, it would wither, and lose its nutriment: therefore he preserves it in water. But the most remarkable evidence of his instinct, sagacity, or reason is one which is not commonly mentioned by naturalists. His pond, we have seen, must be deep, so that it will not freeze to the bottom, and so that he can communicate with his food and his dam, in case of any accident to the latter requiring repairs; but how does he keep his food— which has been floated down to his pond—from floating, and thus becoming frozen in with the ice? Now in gnawing down a tree, the top of the stump was left pointed like a crayon; the fallen tree has the same form, for the beaver cuts like a woodman—wide at the surface, and meeting in an angle in the centre—with this distinction: the four-legged animal does his work more uniformly, cutting equally all around the log, while the two-legged one cuts only from two opposite sides. Thus every stick of provender cut by the animal is pointed at both ends; and when brought opposite his dwelling, he thrusts the pointed ends into the mud bottom of his pond sufficiently firm to prevent their being floated out, at the same time placing them in a position in which the water has the least lift upon them; while he carefully apportions his different lengths of timber to the different depths of water in his pond, so that the upper point of none of them shall approach near enough to the surface to be caught by the winter ice. From what has been said, it will be readily seen that the maintenance of the dam is a matter of vital importance to the beaver. Some say that the pilot beaver sleeps with his tail in the water, in order to be warned of the first mishap to the dam; but as there is no foundation for such an assertion, it may be set down as a very improbable tale. The Indians avail themselves of this well-known solicitude to catch them; having broken the dam, the risk is immediately perceived by the lowering of the water in the hut, and the beaver, sallying forth to repair the break, is slaughtered in the breaches. As the supply of food in the vicinity of the dam becomes diminished, the beaver is obliged to go higher up the stream and more distant from its banks to procure his winter stores, and this necessity gives rise to fresh displays of his lumbering and engineering resources. In consequence of the distance and the limited duration of the high-water period favorable to transport, the wood is collected into a sort of raft, which, as lumber-men assert, is manned by the beaver, and steered by its tail, in the same manner as Norway rats are known to cross streams of water. When the raft grounds, a temporary dam is immediately thrown across the stream below the jam, by which the waters are raised and the raft floated off and brought down to the dam, which is then suddenly torn away, and on the crest of the accumulated body of water the raft is carried safely down to where it is to be used. [Pg 73] SO NEAR, AND YET SO FAR. SEA-BREEZES. LETTER No. 6 FROM BESSIE MAYNARD TO HER DOLL. On Board Steamer "Main," October, 1880. I like to think of you, my dear little Clytie, as safe at home in your own corner of the baby-house, instead of rolling about on the briny deep with me, though of course I felt awfully when I found that I couldn't take you abroad. 'Way out here on the ocean we do not call it the sad sea waves, but the briny deep. Isn't it a kind of an awful name? It made me shiver when I first heard it. It was Mr. Stevens said it when we were all going to our state-rooms that first night. "Well," he said, "there's no doubt but we're launched, for good or bad, out on the briny deep." You know how I hated to leave you at home, and how it seemed at the last minute as if I must take you! If you could have seen me the next morning you would have been as glad as I was that you had been left behind. I felt very queer even before I went to bed that first night, but when I woke up in the morning I felt queerer still. It was worse than mumps, and full as bad as measles. Poor mamma could not get up at all, and for a whole week had one of her awful sick-headaches. You know we sailed Saturday. Well, all day Sunday I had to lie still in my berth, and couldn't so much as peek over the edge at mamma without feeling as if my head was full of bees! Everything seemed perfectly terrible, and I almost wished I hadn't come. Just after breakfast some one tapped at our state-room door, and I heard Randolph's voice saying: "Why don't you get up, Bess? Come out here in the saloon. You never saw such a boss place to play 'I spy'; and there's four children besides us, so hurry up." I could hardly answer him, but managed to say: "Oh, Ranny, I can't come. I sha'n't ever play 'I spy' any more. I'm going to die, Ranny, and you'll [Pg 74] play with that black-haired Nettie that sat next us at dinner last night, and you'll forget all about me. Oh, Ranny! Ranny!" I couldn't keep the tears back any longer, but cried as hard as I could cry. "Pooh!" he answered, "you ain't so bad as that. You're only seasick. Lots of 'em are, but they don't cry about it. I hope you ain't a-going to be a girl-baby, that cries at everything, 'cause if you are I shall have to play with Nettie, for I hate girl-babies! Nettie laughs all the time, and is awfully jolly. Good-by, Bess; get well as quick as you can, and for mercy's sake don't be a baby!" Wasn't it cruel of him to speak so to me, Clytie? I was too missable to answer him, and he wouldn't have heard me if I had, for he ran away as fast as he could to play with Nettie. Mamma reached up her hand to me, and talked till I felt better. Dear mamma! she always makes me better. In the evening I was lying there wide-awake, wondering what they were doing out in the saloon. I could hear some one playing on the piano, and I thought maybe they were dancing. I was getting real missable again, when I saw a card slipping in under our state-room door. Mamma was asleep, so I slid down out of my berth as easy as I could, and picked it up. My head was so dizzy I had to lie still two or three minutes before I could make out a single word that was written on it, but at last this is what I read: "Didn't mean to be cross. Hate girl-babies, that's all. Course you ain't one. Didn't mean you was. Get well quick. I've got a cocoa-nut cake in my pocket for you, and a fillupene. Hurry up!" I didn't feel missable any more, Clytie; and the next morning papa wrapped me up in mamma's blue and white afghan, and carried me up stairs, and put me in his big sea chair on deck. Then, my Clytie, I wished you were with me, for it was so lovely with the water all round us, and the sunshine, and the blue sky seeming to touch the ocean all round. Randolph and Nettie and two other boys came and sat on the floor by me, and talked so fast I couldn't understand a word they said. Ranny fillupened with me, and Nettie gave me a big bunch of grapes; and before I knew it almost I was as well as anybody. This all happened a week ago, and now nobody is seasick, and we have perfectly elegant times every single minute. There is a band on board, and they play splendid things every day when we are at dinner, and every evening on deck; and sometimes we dance, and it is just like a garden party or a picnic all the time. To-morrow is the Captain's birthday, and we're going to have a real Thanksgiving dinner, and a concert in the evening, and a ball at the end of it, and we children are going to dance as well as the grown-up people. If I can, I will write you about it afterward, but must say good-by for to-day, my sweet child. It is such a comfort to me to be able to trust all the other dolls to you. I know you will take good care of them. Be sure to have an eye to Mopsy with her broken arm, and Jack with his cracked nose. Above all, don't let Leonora snub Chloe—poor little black Chloe, who is just as dear to me as Leonora with her lily-white hands and rosy cheeks. See that she lets her alone, won't you, Clytie? Give my love to them all. Your affectionate and anxious mamma, Bessie Maynard. PARLOR MAGIC. During the long winter evenings our readers may find some of these simple tricks amusing to themselves and their friends: TO MAKE A CIRCLE OUT OF WHICH IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO JUMP. Take a piece of chalk, and ask, if you make a circle, whether any boy standing in it thinks he can jump out of it. As soon as one proposes to do so, bring him into the centre of the room, draw a circle with the chalk around his jacket, and say, "Now jump out of it!" AN IMPOSSIBLE WALK. Ask one young lady in the company whether she thinks, if she clasped her hands, she could walk out of the room. On her saying she could, request her to pass her arm round the leg of the table or piano, join her hands, and walk away. THE HAT TRICK. Fill a small glass with water, cover it with a hat, and profess your readiness to drink it without touching the hat. Put your head under the table, make a noise as if drinking, rise, and wipe your lips. The company thinking you have drunk the water, one of them will certainly take up the hat to see. As soon as the hat is removed, take up the glass and drink its contents. "There!" say you, "you see I have not touched the hat." THE INCOMBUSTIBLE THREAD. Wind some linen thread tightly round a smooth pebble, and secure the end; then, if you expose it to the flame of a lamp or candle, the thread will not burn; for the caloric (or heat) traverses the thread, without remaining in it, and attacks the stone. The same sort of trick may be performed with a poker, round which is evenly pasted a sheet of paper. You can poke the fire with it without burning the paper. AN IMPOSSIBLE JUMP. Take a ruler, or any other piece of wood, and ask whether, if you laid it down on the ground,...