Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, October 10, 1882, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Harper's Young People, October 10, 1882 An Illustrated Weekly Author: Various Release Date: May 31, 2019 [EBook #59644] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE *** Produced by Annie R. McGuire A VERY NEW COW. CLIMBING PLANTS. PLAYING CIRCUS. CHILDREN'S CHURCH. BITS OF ADVICE. THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB. THE STEAMBOAT.—ROBERT FULTON. THE MAGIC SACK. "THEIR GIRL." OUR POST-OFFICE BOX. HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE vol. iii.—no. 154. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. price four cents. Tuesday October 10, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. $1.50 per Year, in Advance. [Pg 785] "SHE'S HEADING RIGHT UP STREAM." A VERY NEW COW. BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD. "Father," exclaimed Katy Chittenden, the moment the buggy stopped in front of the gate, "Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser were here this morning just after you went away, and they said all our cows were in Mr. Gates's pasture lot." Deacon Chittenden and his wife and his son William were all in the buggy, and the seat did not look uncomfortably full either. All three of them answered Katy in the same breath, with, "How did they get in?" "Oh, I don't know. They didn't say. Rube didn't say anything. It was Bun. He wanted me to tell you." "It's all that new cow's doings," groaned her father, and the news seemed to make him slow in getting out of the buggy. "Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser are the roughest pair of fellows," began William, but his father checked him. "They drive my cows for me half the time, William. They drove 'em up to the lot this morning. I'd never have trusted you with that new cow." It was a serious matter, and it had been on Katy Chittenden's mind all the morning. She had formed an extraordinary idea concerning the "new cow" for which her father had paid so much. So costly a creature, with such horns, and so dreadfully brindled, and that kicked the milk-pail at least three feet, was to be regarded with awe. Dinner was hardly over before the Deacon solemnly remarked: "William, put on your apron. I will put on mine. You take the axe and I will carry the maul and some nails. We must fix that fence." The day was warm, and it was a good walk, over the bridge, along past the wagon shop, and away up the hill road to the bars that let down into the pasture lot. It was only twenty yards from these to the bars that led into Mr. Gates's lot, and Mr. Hollenhouser pastured his cows there also. The bars were all up, and the fence looked all right as far as they could see. "We must follow it up," said the Deacon. "The break is further on." It was a large, roomy pasture, and so was that of Mr. Gates at the side of it, but it was because they were both very long, for they were not very wide. They reached up and over the hill, away to the cross-roads on the upper level, so that there was a great deal of fence between them. It was good fence, too, and in perfect order, but for all that, before they reached the top of the slope, William suddenly exclaimed: [Pg 786] "Father, there are Mr. Gates's cows in our lot. Both of them." "I declare! So they are. And there are both of Mr. Hollenhouser's beyond them. There must be a bad gap somewhere." "Wonder where our cows are?" "It's a wonder. I haven't seen one of them, and that new cow—" He stopped there, as if he did not wish to say anything against her just then; but the mystery was getting deeper. There was no hole in the fence, nor any sign of his own cattle until they had nearly reached the cross-roads at the upper end of the pasture. "There they are, father. All three of 'em. In the corner." "Yes, my son. I see them. But how did they get there? They're in Mr. Gates's lot." "Guess he or Mr. Hollenhouser's been up here and fixed the fence before we got home. Rube and Bun would have told them, sure." "Of course they would. I never thought of that. I should have asked them about it before we came. I can't understand it exactly now." There certainly was a mystery about it, and one that only Rube and Bun could have explained. Early that morning the Deacon had roused himself out of bed, so as not to miss Rube and Bun when they let out their cows. He would not have trusted his new cow with any other boys in that neighborhood. They were up good and early too, and were just fairly out in the road, with two cows apiece, when Deacon Chittenden came along, and Bun's first remark was, "That's his new cow. Hasn't she got a pair of horns, though!" "She's a brindle. Wonder if she's a good milker?" However that might be, they were quickly informed that she was an animal of uncommon value, and that they could have the privilege of driving her that morning. "All right," said Bun. "She'll go right along with ours. We'll turn her into the lot for you." The Deacon explained that he had a trip to make which would keep him away until dinner-time, and hurried away. The new cow must have kept an eye on him, for she behaved very well until he was out of sight. Even a cow might feel more orderly for looking at Deacon Chittenden. This one, moreover, might have done very well after he disappeared, and gone along under good influences, if it had not been for Watch Hollenhouser. That dog was always doing more than anybody asked of him. The other cows were so well used to having him bark at them, from their own yard gates down to the bridge over the creek, that if he had not been there they would have missed him. It was all a matter of course, therefore, with Rube's cows and Bun's and the old two of Deacon Chittenden's; but Watch was as new to the new cow as she was to him. The distance to the creek was made in safety, a rod or so at a time, and then the little drove had all its seven noses in the water at once. It was only for a moment, indeed, and it was a good deal a matter of custom. All the cows of Prome Centre preferred to take a drink and wade across in warm weather. The creek was very wide there, and so it was very shallow, and half the teams from both ways drove right through. The six cows that were used to it were quickly on their way over, and Watch had already crossed the bridge, and stood now on the opposite shore waiting for them, with his bark in full operation. "Rube," suddenly exclaimed Bun, "there goes the Deacon's new cow!" "Yes, sir, and she's heading right up stream." "You stand here, Rube, and pelt her if she tries to come ashore on this side. I'll run for old Harms's boat and head her off. The water's too cold yet for wading." Bun Gates could do a thing about as quickly as some people could say they were going to do it, and in half a minute more he was shoving an old narrow-built punt of a boat after the slow but very wrong-headed wading of the new cow. She had the whole length of the creek before her when she started, but now Bun Gates and his boat were ahead of her in no time, and Bun's troubles were just ahead of him. The cow seemed determined to dodge past that boat. The water ran very fast, and it was so shallow that even the punt ran aground every two minutes. It was by no means easy to push a boat in a swift current and drive a new cow at the same time. "Run right against her," shouted Rube. "She'll have to turn then." Bun did so, and the cow did turn down stream. It looked as if the battle were half won, but the water was nearly three feet deep a little below. Right there the cow slipped and floundered, and the punt received so sudden a shove at one end from her, just as Bun gave it a sharp push at the other end, that it also "turned." It turned so nearly over that the best thing Bun could do was to jump. After that he did not care so much whether he was in the boat or out of it, but he could drive the cow better. He had a good deal of driving to do, but he got her out at last on the right side of the creek. "Is the water cold?" asked Rube. "Awful cold. But I guess I'll keep that cow warm the rest of the way to the pasture." He pulled the boat ashore, and then Rube helped him, and so did Watch, but it looked as if an unruly temper was spreading from Deacon Chittenden's costly brindle all around among the other cows. They did very well, but it was harder work than common, especially for Watch, until they got within a few rods of the two sets of bars of the pasture lots. "Rube," said Bun, "I'll run ahead and let down the Deacon's bars and ours. Don't you let that new cow get away from you." The bars were down in a twinkling, and beyond them were acres and acres of tempting green grass. Surely no cow in her senses would prefer the dusty road to all that hill-side of breakfast. Still, it might have occurred to Rube and Bun that cows could have preferences. Their own, indeed, had always marched on into the right lot without a blunder, and so had the Deacon's old ones. Even the new cow might now have been rightly guided if it had not been for her disturbed state of mind. So might all the rest but for the "worry" they were in. As it was, however, Watch had no sooner made his last dash at the head of the brindle than she made her last rush at him, and when she was met by Bun Gates and a long stick, she wheeled sharply to the right. There was the open gap before her. All the bars were down, and on she went into Mr. Gates's pasture at a gallop that was full of angry head- shaking. Both of Deacon Chittenden's orderly and sedate old cows followed as if she had called them. "There they go!" shouted Rube. "Run in, Bun, and drive 'em out." It would have been better if he had attended only to his other cattle, for Watch saw at once how badly things were going, and charged upon his old acquaintances in the road as if the confusion were driving him crazy. The storm of bark he raised was enough to have made any cow nervous at any time, and those four were already "so worried." Well, in ever so few seconds Mr. Hollenhouser's cows and Mr. Gates's, all four of them, were scampering up the hill-side in Deacon Chittenden's lot. All Bun Gates could do over there beyond the partition fence only served to make the Deacon's new prize and the two others scatter in three different directions. "What'll we do now?" shouted Rube. "Put up the bars and go home," responded Bun, at the top of his voice. "I want to get some breakfast, and dry myself. We'll swap grass with Deacon Chittenden to-day." That seemed fair; but after they had been to breakfast it looked like a duty to leave word at Deacon Chittenden's where his cows were, and Bun Gates did it. Rube did not see but what the news was told correctly, and so Katy Chittenden's forenoon was just spoiled for her, and her father and brother spent their afternoon looking for a gap that was not in the pasture fence. Even when the Deacon on his way home stopped to ask Mr. Gates about it, all he learned was that Bun had complained that the new cow drove him all around the creek in a boat, and upset him. "But that does not account for her being in your lot." "Yes," said Mr. Gates; "a cow that would do that would take down a fence and let the other cows through, and then put it up after them." It was a great mystery, and when Rube and Bun came along from school that afternoon there was Katy Chittenden at the gate, and Bill Chittenden was in the yard, and the Deacon was on the stoop, and Mrs. Chittenden was at the window. "Katy," asked Bun, "did you tell your father what I told you?" "Yes; and he and William have been up there all the afternoon mending the pasture." "Audubon," exclaimed the Deacon, "how did those cows get mixed?" "No, sir," said Bun; "the cows ain't mixed, it's the lots." "How did they get in?" "Through the bars. It's all that new cow. She tipped me into the creek, and Watch Hollenhouser can't but just bark; but we can get 'em all right when we go for 'em." The Deacon looked puzzled even after that explanation, and so did Katy and the rest; but it was soon made plain to them, and, after all, as Rube Hollenhouser remarked, "It's only trading grass for one day." CLIMBING PLANTS. BY MRS. S. B. HERRICK. [Pg 787] Fig. 1.—The Bean. First Leaves in different Stages. Fig. 2.—Movement of Root of Black Bean. A, Position at nine o'clock. B, Position half an hour later. Fig. 3.—Morning-Glories. Have you never wondered, when you looked at a tangle of grape-vine or morning-glory stems, how they came to twist themselves together so? Perhaps you had some sort of a notion that they got tangled up as a bunch of silk or a skein of worsted lying loose might do. Examine any vine which you can find growing near you, and see how different the tangle is from a snarl of thread, there is a regular twist, the branches coiling in the same direction. In some plants the turn is from right to left, in others from left to right. There must, of course, be some reason for this, and we can best find it out by taking a young plant, a seedling, and watching what it does from the start. It would be very natural to think that plants moved only as stones do, because something pulled or pushed them; but this would not be a true conclusion. Every plant that we know much about is firmly fastened by its root in the ground; the movements of its leaves and flowers seem only caused by the blowing of the wind or the beating of the rain. But though plants are anchored fast to the earth, they are all the while moving as they grow. Take some seed—beans will do—and after soaking them, plant them in the ground about two inches deep. In a week or ten days you will see the earth cracked all about. This is not because the growing plant acts like a wedge and splits the earth open, but because in growing the first little leaves move round and round, boring their way out of the ground very much as a corkscrew works its way into a cork. The first leaves of most plants—a bean, for instance—do not come straight up out of the seed; but when the seed coat bursts from the swelling of the inner part a little arch projects, which raises itself up. This arch is the stem, and after a while the leaves are pulled out of the sheath, and the arch widens out, and finally straightens up. You have often seen a man who had a heavy weight to lift bow himself over and receive the weight, and then lift it by straightening himself, as the stem does to lift the leaves (Fig. 1, first leaves). The root burrows into the earth in very much the same way as the stem revolves, by going around and around as it grows (Fig. 2). Take a morning-glory vine, and let it lie without any wire or trellis to catch hold of. After a while you will find the stems and tendrils coiled round each other in a tight twist (Fig. 3); you could not begin to twist them so tightly yourself without breaking the stem. The tips of all growing plants, like the first leaves that pierce the ground, move around; they are forever weaving their magic circles in the air; they take many hours sometimes to make a single turn, but they are as regular as the hands of a clock, and never forget and go backward. I have been watching some wistaria branches lately, and have been very much interested to see the new shoots, as they grew rapidly in the soft warm air, taking a slow turn around the wire placed to support them very much as you might wrap your arm about a swing rope to take a better hold. If there is a post or a wire near, you do not have to give your vines the twist they need to climb; they do their own twisting as they grow, and always in this quiet, deliberate way. You have no doubt noticed that a Virginia creeper does not need a wire to climb by; it grows beautifully up any wall which has little unevennesses. Now look, if you can get hold of a new shoot, what the creeper has to help it along. It sends out tendrils that branch into many ends, and each one of these ends swells and becomes a sort of sticky pad, which glues itself to the wall (Fig. 4). These little pads, when they find no wall to fasten themselves upon, remain small, and finally wither away. Those on the vine in Fig. 4, which was trailing from a vine, are so, some small and some quite gone; but look at the pads in Fig. 5, which were detached from a painted board, and see how they look through the microscope. Very much [Pg 788] Fig. 4.—Virginia Creeper. Fig. 5.—Pads through the Microscope. Fig. 6.—Diagram of Straight and Curved Stems. a, Stretched cells; b, crowded cells. like a boy's India rubber sucker, are not they? Some of these have the paint from the board still sticking fast on them. Others are all sparkling with the dried mucilage, which makes them look as if they had been sprinkled with sugar. These little many-armed suckers give the plant a firm hold, while its head waves around until it touches some surface again, and again the pads lay hold for another upward stretch. There must be some curious arrangement by which plants, that can not feel and will as animals do, can move. They have no brains to think with, no nerves to feel with; it is strange to believe that they really do move with a reason. Mr. Darwin has examined the subject so closely that he has taken nearly six hundred good-sized pages to tell all he has found out about it. His ways of finding out are many. One method is this: he takes a small stiff bristle and glues it on the growing part of a shoot. By watching this shoot and comparing it with other shoots which had no bristle attached, he could not detect any difference in the movements. Above the little branch with the bristle attached he placed a piece of glass that had been smoked, so that the bristle, as it moved with the movement of the tip, would travel over the glass. He did not need to stand by and watch the branch; he could go away and attend to anything he chose, and when he came back there on the glass was a history of the travels the shoot had made, written by itself. He managed to hang up a sprouting bean or pea so that the root recorded its own movements in the same way. There were other ways which he used, all of them being ingenious, and requiring the greatest attention to get a correct map of their movements. He found that every plant in growing moved around as well as upward, but that some moved far more than others; the ones that grew tall and slender and needed support would send out shoots that swayed round in bigger and bigger circles until they could reach something to sustain themselves by, or else they would fall in helpless heaps on the ground. Mr. Darwin was not a man to be satisfied with finding that a thing is so. He never rested until he found just how it came about. I do not mean to say that he was the only man who studied these things, for there were many others who did; but he wrote about what he had studied in such a clear and simple and interesting way that anybody could understand him, and so people who don't pretend to be very wise in such matters read Mr. Darwin's account and nobody's else, and are apt to forget, though he is always careful to mention their names and what they have done, that any one else deserves any of the credit. By closely studying the little cells of which the leaf or stem is made up, he found that when, for any reason, a plant needed to turn in a certain direction, the water in the stem rushed from the inner to the outer part of the curve, making the cells on the inner side of the stem a little smaller and those on the outer a little larger than usual. After a while the stretching of the outer cells makes them grow and stay larger (see in the figure how it must be, Fig. 6), and so the curve remains. You can not straighten a stem curved in this way without breaking it. Every movement of stems and leaves comes from the movement of the water that fills their cells. But besides the water, there is something else just as important, and that is the sun. The water is only a servant, which obeys the light as its master. Many flowers turn their bright faces always to the light. They follow the sun as he moves through the heavens all the day long from his rising to his setting. This comes from the effect the sun has on the water in the stem, and not because the flower is beginning to "take notice," as the baby's bright eyes do of a lamp when it is moved about a room, though it does remind one of it. The movement of climbing plants is only one of many curious movements that are made by stems and roots and leaves and flowers, though the cause is the same in all cases. [Pg 789] THE TRAPEZE PERFORMANCE. PLAYING CIRCUS. BY JIMMY BROWN. The circus came through our town three weeks ago, and me and Tom McGinnis went to it. We didn't go together, for I went with father, and Tom helped the circus men water the horses, and they let him in for nothing. Father said that circuses were dreadfully demoralizing, unless they were mixed with wild animals, and that the reason why he took me to this particular circus was that there were elephants in it, and the elephant is a Scripture animal, Jimmy, and it can not help but improve your mind to see him. I agreed with father. If my mind had to be improved, I thought going to the circus would be a good way to do it. We had just an elegant time. I rode on the elephant, but it wasn't much fun, for they wouldn't let me drive him. The trapeze was better than anything else, though the Central African Chariot Races and the Queen of the Arena, who rode on one foot, were gorgeous. The trapeze performances were done by the Patagonian Brothers, and you'd think every minute they were going to break their necks. Father said it was a most revolting sight and do sit down and keep still Jimmy or I can't see what's going on. I think father had a pretty good time, and improved his mind a good deal, for he was just as nice as he could be, and gave me a whole pint of pea-nuts. Mr. Travers says that the Patagonian Brothers live on their trapezes, and never come down to the ground except when a performance is going to begin. They hook their legs around it at night, and sleep hanging with their heads down, just like the bats, and they take their meals and study their lessons sitting on the bar, without anything to lean against. I don't believe it; for how could they get their food brought up to them? and it's ridiculous to suppose that they have to study lessons. It grieves me very much to say so, but I am beginning to think that Mr. Travers doesn't always tell the truth. What did he mean by telling Sue the other night that he loved cats, and that her cat was perfectly beautiful, and then when she went into the other room he slung the cat out of the window, clear over into the asparagus bed, and said get out you brute? We can not be too careful about always telling the truth, and never doing anything wrong. Tom and I talked about the circus all the next day, and we agreed we'd have a circus of our own, and travel all over the country, and make heaps of money. We said we wouldn't let any of the other boys belong to it, but we would do everything ourselves, except the elephants. So we began to practice in Mr. McGinnis's barn every afternoon after school. I was the Queen of the Arena, and dressed up in one of Sue's skirts, and won't she be mad when she finds that I cut the bottom off of it!—only I certainly meant to get her a new one with the very first money I made. I wore an old umbrella under the skirt, which made it stick out beautifully, and I know I should have looked splendid standing on Mr. McGinnis's old horse, only he was so slippery that I couldn't stand on him without falling off and sticking all the umbrella ribs into me. Tom and I were the Madagascar Brothers, and we were going to do everything that the Patagonian Brothers did. We practiced standing on each other's head hours at a time, and I did it pretty well, only Tom he slipped once when he was standing on my head, and sat down on it so hard that I don't much believe that my hair will ever grow any more. The barn floor was most too hard to practice on, so last Saturday Tom said we'd go into the parlor, where there was a soft carpet, and we'd put some pillows on the floor besides. All Tom's folks had gone out, and there wasn't anybody in the house except the girl in the kitchen. So we went into the parlor, and put about a dozen pillows and a feather-bed on the floor. It was elegant fun turning somersaults backward from the top of the table; but I say it ought to be spelled summersets, though Sue says the other way is right. We tried balancing things on our feet while we laid on our backs on the floor. Tom balanced the musical box for ever so long before it fell; but I don't think it was hurt much, for nothing except two or three little wheels were smashed. And I balanced the water pitcher, and I shouldn't have broken it if Tom hadn't spoken to me at the wrong minute. We were getting tired, when I thought how nice it would be to do the trapeze performance on the chandeliers. There was one in the front parlor and one in the back parlor, and I meant to swing on one of them, and let go and catch the other. I swung beautifully on the front-parlor chandelier, when, just as I was going to let go of it, down it came with an awful crash, and that parlor was just filled with broken glass, and the gas began to smell dreadfully. As it was about supper-time, and Tom's folks were expected home, I thought I would say good-by to Tom, and not practice any more that day. So we shut the parlor doors, and I went home, wondering what would become of Tom, and whether I had done altogether right in practicing with him in his parlor. There was an awful smell of gas in the house that night, and when Mr. McGinnis opened the parlor door he found what was the matter. He found the cat too. She [Pg 789] was lying on the floor, just as dead as she could be. I'm going to see Mr. McGinnis to-day and tell him I broke the chandelier. I suppose he will tell father, and then I shall wish that everybody had never been born; but I did break that chandelier, though I didn't mean to, and I've got to tell about it. CHILDREN'S CHURCH. BY E. M. TRAQUAIR. The church-bells for service are ringing, The parents gone forth on their way, And here on the door-step are sitting Three golden-haired children at play. The darlings, untiring and restless, Are still for the service too small; But yet they would fain be as pious As parents and uncles and all. So each from a hymn-book is singing— 'Tis held upside down, it is true; Their sweet roguish voices are ringing As if every number they knew. But what they are singing they know not; Each sings in a different tone. Sing on, little children; your voices Will reach to the Heavenly Throne; For yonder your angels are standing, Who sing to the Father of all; He loves best the sound of His praises From children, though ever so small. Sing on! How the birds in the garden Are vying with you in your song, As, hopping among the young branches, They twitter on all the day long! Sing on! For in faith ye are singing, And that is enough in God's sight: A heart like the dove's, pure and guileless, Wings early to heaven its flight. Sing ever! We elders sing also; We read, and the words understand; Yet oft, too, alas! we are holding Our books upside down in the hand. Sing ever! We sing, as is fitting, From notes written carefully down; But ah! from the strife of the brethren How often has harmony flown! Sing on! From our lofty cathedrals What melodies glorious we hear! What are they?—a sweet childish lisping, A breath in the Mighty One's ear. [Pg 790] BITS OF ADVICE. BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT. HOW TO MANAGE THE LITTLE ONES. "I wouldn't mind being left to take care of the little ones," said Fannie the other day, "if they would only mind me. But when mamma is away they think they may do as they please, and they behave like little witches." "Mollie manages the nursery splendidly," said Kittie; "the children are quite angelic under her, but I have not her magic. I seem to stir up the naughtiness, and the more I tell them to be good, the worse they act." Now, Fannie and Kittie and other worried elder sisters, let me tell you the trouble with your management. When you can find the key to a problem in arithmetic, the rest is easy work. I think I can whisper in your ear the name of a certain key to your home problem, when the small brothers and sisters say, as they sometimes do, "You are not my mamma, you are only Fannie; I want to make a noise, and you must not bother me." The key is a word of four letters—tact. It is a golden key, and is warranted to fit any lock. You can not get along very well in life without it. I am very sure that Mollie possesses this shining key. You remember what a time you had with Willie, who was determined to have Rosie's French doll as the passenger in his train of cars. Those cars rush around the parlor at so rapid a rate that everything must get out of their way or be crushed. Rosie was in great distress lest her pet's head should be broken, but Willie shouted, blew his whistle, and started his train just as usual. You snatched the doll away, and put her in the closet, high out of reach of both children, saying, "When you two can play without quarrelling, you shall have the doll again, and not until then." Of course Willie stamped his feet, and Rosie screamed, and there was a tempest. You might have managed your little folks, had you only known how, so that they would have been as obedient as well- trained soldiers, and as peaceable as two doves in a nest. I would have said, in your place: "Oh, Willie, what a nice train of cars you have there, and what a good conductor you are! Is Cécile your passenger? Oh no, I see she is not dressed for a journey. She has on an evening dress. Here is Laura"—producing an older and less important doll—"and she really needs a change of air. I'll slip on her Ulster in a second, and she will be all ready. She's pining for the country. Here, Rosie, you may take care of Cécile." Both children would have been satisfied had you spoken to them in this way, and the hour would not have been spoiled by crying and fretting. In managing little ones, when you are not possessed of any real authority, you must use a great deal of judgment. Humor the children by entering into their plays. They "make believe" a great deal. You must "make believe" too. Many wee people can be led along by gentle words and merry looks, when they can not be driven without very great trouble. If Susie has a handsome book which you fear she will spoil, do not hurt her self-respect by taking it suddenly from her, but bring a scrap-book, and divert her attention to that. Then she will resign the other very pleasantly. Elder sisters and brothers should never be above coaxing the little ones. THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1] BY W. L. ALDEN, Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc. Chapter IX. It was an easy matter to help Joe out of the old well. He had fallen into it while running after the wild-cat, but a heap of decayed leaves at the bottom broke the fall, and saved him from any serious injury. Nevertheless, he must have been a little stunned at first, for he made no outcry for some time, and it was his first call for help that was heard by Charley. The boys returned to their canoes, and as it was not yet midnight, prepared to resume the sleep from which they had been so unceremoniously awakened. They had little fear that the wild-cat would pay them another visit, for it had undoubtedly been badly frightened. Still, it was not pleasant to think that there was a wild beast within a few rods of them, and the thought kept the canoeists awake for a long time. The wild-cat did not pay them a second visit, and when they awoke the next morning they were half inclined to think that their night's adventure had been only a dream. There were, however, the marks made by its claws on the varnished deck of Joe's canoe, and Joe's clothing was torn and stained by his fall. With the daylight they became very courageous, and decided that they had never been in the least afraid of the animal. The so-called wild-cat of Canada, which is really [Pg 791] a lynx, is, however, a fierce and vicious animal, and is sometimes more than a match for an unarmed man. There was a strong west wind blowing when the fleet started, and Chambly Basin was covered with white-caps. As the canoes were sailing in the trough of the sea, they took in considerable water while skirting the east shore of the Basin, but once in the narrow river, they found the water perfectly smooth. This day the fleet made better progress than on any previous day. Nothing could be more delightful than the scenery, and the quaint little French towns along the river, every one of which was named after some saint, were very interesting. The boys landed at one of them, and got their dinner at a little tavern where no one spoke English, and where Charley, who had studied French at Annapolis, won the admiration of his comrades by the success with which he ordered the dinner. SAILING DOWN THE RICHELIEU RIVER. With the exception of the hour spent at dinner, the canoeists sailed, from six o'clock in the morning until seven at night, at the rate of nearly six miles an hour. The clocks of Sorel, the town at the mouth of the Richelieu, were striking six as the canoes glided into the broad St. Lawrence, and steered for a group of islands distant about a mile from the south shore. It was while crossing the St. Lawrence that they first made the acquaintance of screw-steamers, and learned how dangerous they are to the careless canoeist. A big steamship, on her way to Montreal, came up the river so noiselessly that the boys did not notice her until they heard her hoarse whistle warning them to keep out of her way. A paddle- wheel steamer can be heard while she is a long way off, but screw-steamers glide along so stealthily that the English canoeists, who constantly meet them on the Mersey, the Clyde, and the lower Thames, have nicknamed them "sudden death." Cramped and tired were the canoeists when they reached the nearest island and went ashore to prepare a camp, but they were proud of having sailed sixty miles in one day. As they sat around the fire after supper, Harry said: "Boys, we've had experience enough by this time to test our different rigs. Let's talk about them a little." "All right," said Joe. "I want it understood, however, that my lateen is by all odds the best rig in the fleet." "Charley," remarked Tom, "you said the other day that you liked Joe's rig better than any other. Do you think so still?" "Of course I do," answered Charley. "Joe's sails set flatter than any lug-sail; he can set them and take them in quicker than we can handle ours, and as they are triangular he has the most of his canvas at the foot of the sail instead of at the head. But they're going to spill him before the cruise is over, or I'm mistaken." "In what way?" asked Joe. "You are going to get yourself into a scrape some day by trying to take in your sail when you are running before a stiff breeze. If you try to get the sail down without coming up into the wind it will get overboard, and either you will lose it or it will capsize you; you tried it yesterday when a squall came up, and you very nearly came to grief." "But you can say the same about any other rig," exclaimed Joe. "Of course you can't very well get any sail down while the wind is in it; but Tom can take in his sharpie-sail without much danger even when he's running directly before the wind, and Harry and I can let go our halyards and get our lugs down, after a fashion, if it is necessary. Still, your lateen is the best cruising rig I've ever seen, though for racing Harry's big, square-headed balance-lug is better." "You may say what you will," said Tom, "but give me my sharpie-sails. They set as flat as a board, and I can handle them easily enough to suit me." "The trouble with your rig," said Charley, "is that you have a mast nearly fifteen feet high. Now, when Joe takes in his mainsail, he has only two feet of mast left standing." "How do you like your own rig?" asked Harry. "Oh, it is good enough. I'm not sure that it isn't better than either yours or Tom's; but it certainly isn't as handy as Joe's lateen." "Now that you've settled that I've the best rig," said Joe, "you'd better admit that I've the best canoe, and then turn in for the night. After the work we've done to-day, and the fun we had last night, I'm sleepy." "Do you call sitting still in a canoe hard work?" inquired Tom. "Is falling down a well your idea of fun?" asked Harry. "It's too soon," said Charley, "to decide who has the best canoe. We'll find that out by the time the cruise is over." The island where the boys camped during their first night on the St. Lawrence was situated at the head of Lake St. Peter. This lake is simply an expansion of the St. Lawrence, and though it is thirty miles long, and about ten miles wide at its widest part, it is so shallow that steamboats can only pass through it by following an artificial channel dredged out by the government at a vast expense. Its shores are lined with a thick growth of reeds, which extend in many places fully a mile into the lake, and are absolutely impassable, except where streams flowing into the lake have kept channels open through the reeds. On leaving the island in the morning the canoeists paddled down the lake, for there was not a breath of wind. The sun was intensely hot, and the heat reflected from the surface of the water and the varnished decks of the canoes assisted in making the boys feel as if they were roasting before a fire. Toward noon the heat became really intolerable, and the Commodore gave the order to paddle over to the north shore in search of shade. It was disappointing to find instead of a shady shore an impenetrable barrier of reeds. After resting a little while in the canoes, the boys started to skirt the reeds, in hope of finding an opening; and the sun, apparently taking pity on them, went under a cloud, so that they paddled a mile or two in comparative comfort. The friendly cloud was followed before long by a mass of thick black clouds coming up from the south. Soon the thunder was heard in the distance, and it dawned upon the tired boys that they were about to have a thunder-storm without any opportunity of obtaining shelter. They paddled steadily on, looking in vain for a path through the reeds, and making up their minds to a good wetting. They found, however, that the rain did not come alone. With it came a fierce gust of wind, which quickly raised white- caps on the lake. Instead of dying out as soon as the rain fell, the wind blew harder and harder, and in the course of half an hour there was a heavy sea running. The wind and sea coming from the south, while the canoes were steering east, placed the boys in a very dangerous position. The seas struck the canoes on the side and broke over them, and in spite of the aprons, which to some extent protected the cockpits of all except the Twilight, the water found its way below. It was soon no longer possible to continue in the trough of the sea, and the canoes were compelled to turn their bows to the wind and sea, the boys paddling just sufficiently to keep themselves from drifting back into the reeds. The Sunshine and the Midnight behaved admirably, taking very little water over their decks. The Twilight "slapped" heavily, and threw showers of spray over herself, while the Dawn showed a tendency to dive bodily into the seas, and several times the whole of her forward of the cockpit was under the water. "What had we better do?" asked Harry, who, although Commodore, had the good sense always to consult Charley in matters of seamanship. "It's going to blow hard, and we can't sit here and paddle against it all day without getting exhausted." "But how are we going to help ourselves?" continued Harry. "Your canoe and mine," replied Charley, "can live out the gale well enough under sail. If we set our main-sails close- reefed, and keep the canoes close to the wind, we shall be all right. It's the two other canoes that I'm troubled about." "My canoe suits me well enough," said Joe, "so long as she keeps on the top of the water, but she seems to have made up her mind to dive under it." "Mine would be all right if I could stop paddling long enough to bail her out, but I can't," remarked Tom. "She's nearly half full of water now." "We can't leave the other fellows," said Harry, "so what's the use of our talking about getting sail on our canoes?" "It's just possible that Tom's canoe would live under sail," resumed Charley; "but it's certain that Joe's won't. What do you think about those reeds, Tom? Can you get your canoe into them?" "Of course I can, and that's what we'd better all do," exclaimed Tom. "The reeds will break the force of the seas, and we can stay among them till the wind goes down." "Suppose you try it," suggested Charley, "and let us see how far you can get into the reeds? I think they're going to help us out of a very bad scrape." [Pg 792] Tom did not dare to turn his canoe around, so he backed water, and went at the reeds stern first. They parted readily, and his canoe penetrated without much difficulty some half-dozen yards into the reeds, where the water was almost quiet. Unfortunately he shipped one heavy sea just as he entered the reeds, which filled his canoe so full that another such sea would certainly have sunk her, had she not been provided with the bladders bought at Chambly. Joe followed Tom's example, but the Dawn perversely stuck in the reeds just as she was entering them, and sea after sea broke over her before Joe could drive her far enough into the reeds to be protected by them. Joe and Tom were now perfectly safe, though miserably wet; but as the rain had ceased, there was nothing to prevent them from getting dry clothes out of their water-proof bags, and putting them on as soon as they could bail the water out of their canoes. Harry and Charley, seeing their comrades in safety, made haste to get up sail, and to stand out into the lake, partly because they did not want to run the risk of being swamped when entering the reeds, and partly because they wanted the excitement of sailing in a gale of wind. When the masts were stepped, the sails hoisted, and the sheets trimmed, the two canoes, sailing close to the wind, began to creep away from the reeds. They behaved wonderfully well. The boys had to watch them closely, and to lean out to windward from time to time to hold them right side up. The rudders were occasionally thrown out of the water, but the boys took the precaution to steer with their paddles. The excitement of sailing was so great that Charley and Harry forgot all about the time, and sailed on for hours. Suddenly they discovered that it was three o'clock, that they had had no lunch, and that the two canoeists who had sought refuge in the reeds had absolutely nothing to eat with them. Filled with pity, they resolved to return to them without a moment's delay. It was then that it occurred to them that in order to sail back they must turn their canoes around, bringing them while so doing in the trough of the sea. Could they possibly do this without being swamped? The question was a serious one, for they were fully four miles from the shore, and the wind and sea were as high as ever. [to be continued.] "BESIEGED." THE STEAMBOAT.—ROBERT FULTON. Robert Fulton, the inventor of steamboats, was born on a farm in Pennsylvania. His parents were Irish Protestants—a strong, laborious race. Robert was a delicate, handsome boy, with a fine forehead and brilliant eyes. Almost as a child he became a mechanic, inventing machines and lingering around workshops. He was thought dull at school, and made slow progress in the usual studies. But he was always inventing. One day, when Robert was about nine years old, he came late to school, and when his teacher reproved him, produced [Pg 793] [Pg 794] a new lead-pencil which he had been making while playing truant. The boys were all anxious to have one of Fulton's pencils—they were better than any they had seen. In his school days he made rockets to celebrate the Fourth of July, and in 1778, in the midst of the war, set them off in his native town. About this time he made an air-gun and a boat moved by wheels. He had a strong taste for drawing. His mother, who was now a widow and poor, wanted his help. Fulton was only seventeen, but he went up to Philadelphia, made money, became acquainted with Dr. Franklin, and when he was twenty-one came back to his mother with his earnings, and bought her a farm. Here she lived happily for some years, watching and enjoying the rising prosperity of her son. The deed by which Fulton at twenty-one gave the farm to his mother is still preserved. There are persons living who might have seen the first steamboat that sailed on the Hudson. Many remember when the famous De Witt Clinton and North America were thought the wonders of navigation; when they sailed over the tranquil river at the rate of sixteen miles an hour, and left behind them thick clouds of black smoke that hung over the landscape for miles. The North America was long the pride of the river navigation, the swiftest vessel in the world. The Hudson has always been the favorite scene of steam navigation and enterprise. It is the birth-place of the steamboat. Here, in 1807, Robert Fulton, on board of the Clermont, his first vessel, sailed in a day and a half from New York to Albany. He stopped for a few hours at Clermont, and then in four more finished his voyage. It was the signal for an entire change in the whole art of navigation. From that time the steamboat has been slowly advancing, its size has increased to immense proportions, its engines have become animated giants, and Fulton's little vessel of one hundred and sixty tons is converted into the Furnessia, the Alaska, and the Great Eastern. Fulton, a fair, delicate, thoughtful young man, had gone to England, to France, had become acquainted with many eminent inventors, and had already planned a steamboat. He was the first to make one successful. He came back to New York, and, aided by his friend Livingston, in 1806 began to build his boat. It was only a small vessel, rudely built; in it he placed an engine made by James Watt, the English inventor; the paddle-wheels he planned himself, and the imperfect machinery. It seems now a very easy thing to build a steamboat, but it was then thought impossible. Men called the boat Fulton's Folly. Hardly any one supposed that a new era in navigation was about to begin, and that Fulton's machine would at last cover the world with its discoveries. At last the boat was finished. The fires were lighted, the boilers hissed, the crank turned, the wheels began to move, and the Clermont made its way, at about five miles an hour, from Charles Brown's dock-yard on the East River to Jersey City. Once she stopped, and men cried, "There, it has failed!" But it was only because Fulton was anxious to alter some part of his machine. The great voyage was successful. The steamer reached Jersey City, and Fulton's victory was won. Soon the Hudson began to abound with Fulton's steamboats, the wonders of the world. There was the famous Paragon, a vessel of the enormous size of three hundred tons. One built for the Czar was called the Emperor of Russia. A ferry-boat ran from New York to Jersey City. In the midst of the war with England Fulton built the first war steamer. It was two thousand tons burden, a fine shot-proof vessel, and sailed at the rate of three miles an hour as far as Sandy Hook. Its size seemed immense, its power irresistible, and it was told with alarm in London that Fulton and New York had produced the most dangerous of warlike machines. America now abounded in steamboats, but they were only slowly adopted in Europe. London, Carlyle relates, was long without them. The fair, pale, delicate inventor did not live long to enjoy his success. His lungs were always weak. He was always at work. His patents were infringed, and his invention only involved him in endless lawsuits. At last he caught cold crossing the Hudson on a chill February day, and died 1815, a good son, an inventor who has been useful to every one. He has founded nations, and opened the distant seas to trade. THE MAGIC SACK. BY HENRY HATTON, MAGICIAN AND VENTRILOQUIST. Yes, boys, real Simon-pure "magic." Just such tricks as you have seen the "magician" do; just such tricks as some of you may have seen your humble servant do. Many of these you can do yourselves—when you know how; others require more practice than you ought to give to such nonsense, and others again are too expensive. But there are some that any boy—or girl, for that matter—can do with little rehearsing and at slight expense. The magic sack trick, which I had the honor of introducing to America in 1873, is as clever as it is simple. A muslin sack large enough to contain a boy of fourteen is handed out for examination, and after the audience are satisfied that the seams are not only secure and perfect, but that its only opening is at the mouth, the performer's assistant gets inside. The sack is gathered over his head, and the mouth tied fast with a silk handkerchief, and then with a tape, the knots of the latter being not only sealed...