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ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers, Boston, jas.
An account of a trip on the coast of the Dark Continent, caravan journeys, and a visit to a pirate city, with stories _
â€˜â€˜ He jumped on the counter and caught up his penny.â€™â€™
PRINTED BY GEO A.WALIER & CO. BOSTON.
MY BiG BROTHER.
ALDINE BOOK PUBLISHING CO.
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By THE ALDINE Book Pur.Lisutne Co,
S. J. Parxuitt & Co., Bosron.
HM i OAT
iN oe a
NY NCIs upon a time a certain Baron
q bold, named St. Clair, lived in a
strong castle, perched on a height
above a beautiful stream in Scotland.
It was called Roslin, and may still
be seen. When the Baron looked
out of his windows he saw the Esk
river flowing far below, and babbling
with a musical sound over its rocky
bed. On either side of the river at
Roslin there are high, steep banks,
THE PRENTICE PILLAR.
well clothed with wood, and rich in-
cliffs and caves. In fact, Roslin Castle hangs over
one of the most lovely dales you can see anywhere.
At the other end of the dale is another dwelling-
place, and they call it Hawthornden. Near Haw-
thornden is a cave called â€˜ Robert-the-Bruceâ€™s Cave.â€™
It has a well; a mighty sword, once wielded by the
brave hero; a bookcase scooped out of the rock;
and windows through which you look out upon a
most enchanting scene of wood, and crag, and water.
But to my story. One of the barons of Roslin
was minded to build a chapel near his castle which
should eclipse all others in beauty. The site was
chosen, the plans prepared, the foundation-stone laid.
Now the Baron wished the pillars of his chapel to
be wreathed about with flowers of stone, like those of
a certain chapel which he had either seen or heard of
abroad. But the master-builder, having attempted
several times to make a pillar such as the Baron
desired, was obliged to confess that he could not do the
work without paying a visit to the foreign chapel.
He therefore took ship for France, and was a long
while absent. In those days travelling was slow
work. Contrary winds hindered sailing vÃ©ssels ; roads
were miry; coaches were cumbrous things. Trav-
elling, too, was perilous, for. men of violence were
abroad, and did pretty much as they liked. So the
master-builder of Roslin Chapel was long absent, and
the works were stayed.
Now there chanced to be among the builder's
prentices an exceedingly clever lad. He had heard,
with deep interest, all that was said about the wreathed
pulars, and had witnessed his masterâ€™s perplexity and
fulure. Night after night his thoughts were busy
on the problemâ€”how to wreathe a pillar with stone.
Day by day he laboured at it. At length the pillar,
in exquisite beauty, stood before the sparkling eyes
of the happy youth.
When his work was complete, the news spread,
and the Baron came to see the pillar. He admired
the work very much, and warmly praised the prentice.
â€˜The pillar was deemed quite worthy of a place in the
chapel, and at the Baronâ€™s orders it was set up where
you see it now. Soon afterwards the master-builder
returned, with his portfolio full of drawings and his
head crammed with knowledge. But what were his
feelings when he entered the yet unroofed walls and
saw a pillar standing before him fully as beautiful as
those he had been many hundred miles to visit and
â€˜Who has done this?â€™ shouted the amazed master-
builder to the prentice, who stood beside him.
â€˜Master, it was Iâ€™ replied the youth modestly. Â«I
thought I would try and make such a pillar as my
Lord the Baron spoke of, andâ€” ~
What ine prentice would have said further was cut
short by the violent rage of his master.
â€˜Wretch!â€™ shrieked he, â€˜thou hast made mea
laughing-stock for all generations! What! must I
cross the sea to learn from others a secret which the
devil surely has taught thee at home? Thy cursed
pillar shall be broken to pieces, and thou shalt not
With that the furious man advanced to the pillay,
intending to destroy the carved work with a hammer
which he had snatched up from the ground. The
prentice interposed, and received on his head the
fearful blow. He fell, covered with blood, and the
sight sobered the unhappy builder at once. But the
poor prentice was setiseless, and no mortal skill could
restore him to life.
Sad, indeed, was the Baron of Roslin when he
heard of this tragic event. Even in that rude age
of bloodshed, the fate of the prentice excited
much pity. Whither the murderer fled we know
not; but we do know that the Baron was obliged to
abandon his design as to the pillars of his chapel. He
made no further attempt to haye them all wreathed,
but he left the â€˜Prentice Pillarâ€™ standing alone in
its beauty amongst its plainer brethren, that people, |
to the end of time, might be arrested, and ask the
The â€˜ Prentice Pillarâ€™ is, in fact, a sermon in stone,
warning all who know its sad history to beware
of the deadly passion of Envy, which, from the
days of Cain, has marked its progress in the world
with a trail of blood. G. 5. O.
THE IDLE BOY.
T was a whole holiday. The Mayor
of Beaconstow had triumphed over
Dr. Goggles, the head-muster. After
a fierce fight, his Worship had
wrested from the Doctor a whole
holiday. When the Mayor an-
nounced his victory the huzzahs were
immense, and he became a â€˜brickâ€™
The Doctor made a speech before the holiday,
and said he had yielded to pressure, and there
was a whole holiday against his will, The boys must,
however, do certain tasks, which were then and
there announced, together with dark hints of birch-
ings and other severities in cases where the lessons
were unlearnt. There was, of course, great indig-
nation outside, and a committee went to complain to
the Mayor, who, however, wisely let matters alone,
How the holiday was spent by the boys I donâ€™t
pretend to know. And what the head-master did
with himself is no concern of mine. I am going to
follow the footsteps of Sydney Macduffer. If any of
my young friends wish to accompany me, they may
Sydney was a boy who always said â€˜ Yes, sir,â€™ to
everything, but never did it. He was one of the very
few who made light of the Doctorâ€™s burdens on the
eve of the holiday. â€˜Oh,â€™ said he to his friend, â€˜itâ€™s not
worth making any row about. I can do everything
in an hour and a half, and I mean to get up and do
1t before breakfast.â€™ And Sydney quite meant what
he said. That night, when he went home, he made
Joe the ploughman promise to calihim at five oâ€™clock
next morning. At the summons Syd got up, and
nodded through the window to Joe; but the morn
looked misty, and Sydney thought there could be no
harm in lying until he felt a little more wakeful. A
fatal measure, Syd! Sleep pounced upon him in that
moment of delay, and tied him in its strong bands;
and the slumberer heard no more, until a thundering
knock, and â€˜Syd!â€™ â€˜Getup!â€™ â€˜It is nine o'clock!â€
fairly aroused him. He sprang out of bed, giving
vent to sundry expressions of disgust. â€˜What a
bother!â€™ â€˜What can have made me so sleepy?â€™
But then, more comfortable thoughts arose.. â€˜It
is early yet, after all. Ican do my task, and have
lots of fun.â€™ And then he quoted the saying of
Barnaby Rudgeâ€™s famous raven, â€˜Never say die!
Polly put the kettle on, and letâ€™s have tea!â€™
â€˜Itâ€™s cold enough by this time,â€™ said his mother,
who had heard the last words. â€˜Are you never
coming to breakfast, Syd ?â€™
Few boys were hardy enough to defy the Doctor,
and Syd was not one of them. -Always full of good
intentions, and profuse of his promises, Syd was in
continual scrapes, like all such random amiables.
He seemed to think he had an inexhaustible balance
in the bank of time, and abilities that could achieve
anything, If the Doctor had given him ten times
as much to do, he would have said, â€˜ Very well, sir,â€™
with a smiling face and untroubled heart. Sydney
Macduffer never counted the cost till it was too late.
After breakfast, the task of course came upper-
most. Jhat must be done, arid soon. He would
allow himself a saunter in the sunny garden first,
but it should not be a long one. Tle would then go
up into the little room over the porch, and stay, there
till his task was mastered. It would be done long
before dinner-time, and he would then have all the
afternoon for games. â€˜ :
After Sydâ€™s mother had promised to come at dinner-
time and call him from his books, he went up-stairs,
with his mind fully made up to do his duty. But,
unwisely, he posted himself with his Ovid at the
window, from which the eye could reve over a very
In the foreground, a maid was in the garden,
hanging out the clothes. I fear Syd gave her some
school-hoy chaff about a certain magpie who was
round the corner, watching his opportunity. As ill
luck would have it, too, Tom the boy was hoeing the
gravel walk just under the window, and Sydâ€™s ear
heard the tool grating away among the moss and
weeds and pebbles.
*Tom,â€™ said Syd, â€˜whatâ€™s Latin for hoe??
looked up and grinned. One idle boy makes another,
and for the next half-hour the hoeing was as irregular
as the verbs which Syd had to learn for the Doctor.
At last the window was shut, for Tomâ€™s shortcomings
were noticed, and the hoe was worked with terrific
fury. But there was still the distant landscape to
look at; the far-off hills to which Syd longed to sail ;
the trains on the railway ; the stream where two men
were angling, and many other things more pleasant
than Latin poetry. Moreover, there was the wind!
â€˜Hurrah!â€™ cried Syd, letting Ovid fall. â€˜Look at
that dust on the turnpike! Why, the kite will fly,
Iâ€™m sure!â€™ The temptation was overpowering, and
the kite was taken into the field near the house; but
the wind, though it now and then made little dust
spouts on the road, was not in a kite-flying humour.
In fact, it was inclined to blow by fits and starts, and
the kite, borne up rapidly, as rapidly fell, with its
tail in a tangle. There was nothing for it, but to
carry the aerial machine back again, and get the
tail unravelled. And then Syd sat in his favourite
seat, dreaming the happy hours away. All reveries
are not fruitless. Sir Isaac Newton once looked as -
Syd looks, his eyes gazing into infinite distance, and
his wonderful mind grasping the question, Why does
an apple fall to the ground? But then, Sir Isaac
had a right to speculate, for he had done his Ovid
and irregular verbs. I fear Sydâ€™s reverie is as idle
as his labours.
Whilst thus dreaming, a hand touched him, and a
voice said, â€˜Dinnerâ€™s ready. Are the lessons done ??
â€˜No, mother; I have not done my Ovid yet.â€™ â€˜Oh,
Syd, Syd!â€™ replied his mother, â€˜they were to have
been done before breakfast, and are they not done
yet? What have you been doing all the morning ??
Sydney could not answer the question. And many
of us would find it difficult to discover how we have
spent our morning. Here was poor Syd, who meant
to be on the peak soon after sunrise, still loitering at
the bottom of the mountain, and the noontide past!
The best hours for study are gone, Syd; if you are
resolute, you may yet succeed, before the stars are
shining; but the chances are against you, my boy! .
Of course, that afternoon several chaps came, who
had done their Ovid and irregular verbs, and Syd
â€˜was obliged to shunt his into candlelight hours.
And after a tiring a.m. of idleness, and a tiring p.m.
of ericket, the lines of Ovidius Naso seemed to run
into each other, and Syd fell asleep over the word
prosiluisse. However, he aroused himself, and when
bedtime came he had an imperfect knowledge of the
passage; but the terra incognita of the imperfect
verbs reposed under his troubled pillow. What took
place before the awful Doctor I donâ€™t know, for I
was afraid to inquire; but I rather think Macduffer
was in for it, from what I chanced to gather as I
passed the little pastrycookâ€™s shop where the boys
are allowed to spend their coppers in tarts and
nectar. G.S8. 0.
THE LARGEST VINE IN THE
TL largest vine in the world is in the neighbour.
hood of Santa Barbara, in California, 1b was
planted about seventy years ago by Doma Marcellina
Dominguez. Its branches cover 5000 square feet,
and bear annually over 10,000 Ibs. of grapes. The
stem In its thickest part is 4 feet 4 inches in cireum-
ference. The lady who planted this vine was 105
years old when she did so, and left behind her a
posterity of 800 persons, children, grandchildren,
and great-grandchildren. J.F.C.
By the Author of â€˜ Earth's Many Voices.â€™
OCG ITH care and cunning we shaped a boat,
G a My brother Robbie and I; .
We rigged it next with sail and mast,
We said it should be quite safe and fast,
My brother Robbie and I.
We made fast to it a slender rope,
My brother Robbie and I;
A rope by which we might guide its way,
When we launched our boat in our tiny bay,
My brother Robbie and I.
The bay was set with perils, we knew,
My brother Robbie and 1;
We knew them wellâ€”the thickets of reeds,
And water-lilies, and tangled weedsâ€”
My brother Robbie and I.
The day when we launched our little boat,
My brether Robbie and I,
Our playmates watched on the other bank :
Oh! what if it sailed, and what if it sank !
â€˜Thought brother Robbie and I.
We sailed our boat right safely across,
My brother Robbie and I;
And when our boat to the shore drew near,
We heard our comrades raise a cheer,
My brother Robbie and 1.
Now we are old and grey with years,
My brother Robbie and I;
Many a venture weâ€™ve sent afloat,
Many a one since our tiny boat,
My brother Robbie and L.
Many a time we have wrought with care,
My brother Robbie and I;
But never success has seemed more dear
Than the day when we heard our comrades cheer,
My brother Robbie and I.
Yes, we are old and grey with years,
My brother Robbie and I;
And we tell this story for those who say
Of some careless task, â€˜ It is mere childâ€™s play!â€™
My brother Robbie and I.
When folk say so, we shake our heads,
My brother Robbie and I.
And â€˜Oh, not so! not so!â€™ cry we;
â€˜Tor childâ€™s play, it is done earnestly,â€™
Say brother Robbie and I.
tea (so the bard has shown us)
Lends enchantment to the view;
And what seems a splendid bonus,
Somctimes is not worth a sou.
Sunny peaks prove drear and icy
When weâ€™ve scaled the rocky stair;
Yonder isle, so green and spicy,
Ts as fatal as itâ€™s fair.
In our thoughts we may be greeting
Friends we here shall see no more;
As we dream, their souls are fleeting
Upward, to a brighter shore.
While his body is abiding
In the prison-house of school,
In his spirit Jack is sliding
On the jolly Christmas pool.
Long before the half is over,
Long ere May has drest the land,
Ned is on the beach at Dover,
Digging sluices in the sand.
Ere the jam and flour are blended
By his motherâ€™s loving art,
Jones has eaten, and commended
All his cake and currant tart!
Meanwhile father Jones is building
Airy castles and renownâ€”
Laying on the paint and gildingâ€”
How he will astonish Brown!
Mary, by the fireside stitching,
Walks the summer lanes with Phil;
Or at church, a bride bewitching,
Plights* her troth for good and ill.
Rover, like his lord is giftedâ€”
He can eat his dinner twice ;
When it hangs on high uplifted,
Looking, oh, so very nice!
And whenâ€”mutton, beef, or baconâ€”
(As his doggish tastes may run,)
In his mouth capacious taken,
Proves a sorry scrap of bun.
As you eye old Rover dining
Off the little bits that fall,
Sweetly-tempered, unrepining, \
Be contented, one and all! G. 8. GC.
iN 2 HE Â« Scientific Americanâ€ publishes a
7, Story of the strugeles and triumphs of
an inventor, which is worth preserva-
The substance of it is as follows: â€”
Â° In 1858 Mr. Thomas Sheehan, of
Dunkirk, New York, foreman in the blacksmith de-
partment of the Erie Railway shops at that place,
patented a submarine grapple, which, though an in-
genious invention, proved to be one for which there
was little demand. This was his first invention;
and -the eost of its completion, together with one
yearâ€™s strugzle to manufacture and introduce â€˜it,
completely exhausted Mr. Sheehanâ€™s means, and re-
duced him to extreme poverty. Just at this crisis
Mr. $. D. Colwell, general freight agent of the Erie
Railroad at Dunkirk, chanced to meet Mr. Sheehan
in the streets, and accosted hin with, â€”
â€˜Well, Thomas, how are the grapples? I hear
they have used you up.â€
â€œYes,â€ was the answer, â€œthe grapples have done
my business; I wish I had never seen them.â€ |
â€œ Throw â€™em away,â€ advised Mr. Colwell. â€œ Have
you any now finished ?â€
â€˜Â«T have one almost done,â€ said Thomas.
â€œFinish that; I will pay you $40 for it. and have
it used for picking up coal at the dock. The money
will help you in your present emergency, and you
can go back to your old place in the shop, and earn
a good living for your family.â€
â€œJ will, said Thomas.
Back to his humble home went the inventor with
new hope in his breast, and set himself to finish the
grapple with all due speed. Bat upon what slender
threads do the fortunes of men hang! A tap, the
only one our inventor had of the size required, sud-
denly snapped asunder, and, as it was essential to
the procress of the work, he must have a new one
or he could not go on,
In this strait he appealed to his wife to lend him
twenty-five cents to buy the necessary steel to forge
the tap. But she, having no faith in the grapple,
refused, for two yery good reasons: first, that she
believed that the money would be thrown away if
she gave it to her husband; and second, that she
had not the money to give him, even if so disposed.
He bethought hin of a merchant, who, in brighter
days, had seen the color of his money, and who, per-
haps, would give him credit for the small modicum
of steel he reqnived for the tap.
To this merchant he went. to prefer hisâ€™ request;
but beating about the bush and finally straying into
politics, hot words passed between them, and our
friend, feeling his manliness would suffer too keenly
by asking evedit for the steel, came away without it.
When he reached home he found his wife making
lye for soft soap, but her acidity in no way neutral-
ized by the alkaline reaction. Despondent and dis-
couraged, he sat down in no enviable mood, when he
chanced to spy a piece of iron lying near the tubs
at which his spouse was working. Meditating upon
how he could make that piece of iron hard enough
for a tap, he was led to a rather rude experiment,
the results of which have in the end made him a
richer man than he ever dreamed of being.
It so happened that from a distant relative, a
Roman Catholic priest in Ireland, our friend had
inherited quite a library of works on chemistry, He
had read some of these books to very good purpose.
â€˜Â« There is surely carbon in that lye,â€ thought he.
â€œTf I could only get that into this iron in the proper
proportion, I should have steel, and from that my
tap, and so finish my grapple.â€
With little faith or hope that he should succeed,
he took some of the lye, and adding, without any
particular reason for doing so, some saltpetre and
common salt, made a paste with this solution and a
hard-grudged saucerful of the little remaining flour
there was in the house. He then forged the tap,
and, enveloping it in the paste, put the whole into
an iron box and exposed it to the heat for two hours
in a blacksmithâ€™s fire. To his joy and surprise,
when he took it out, it was hard enough to cut cast
steel. The erapple was finished, and forty dollars
flowed into the family treasury of Thomas Shechan.
He went back to his old work disgusted with pat-
ents, and resolved never to have anything to do
with one again. But the remembrance of the tap,
hardened in so unique a manner, still haunted him.
Having a great deal of casce-hardening to do, he
thought one day he would repeat the experiment
upon a larger scale, which he did with perfect
For twelve months he went on experimenting, pur-
chasing the materials with his own money; and
working in secret by night and at odd hours. At
the end of a year he reconsidered his sentence of
condemnation on patents, and applied for one on his
process, which was granted in 1860, the claim being
for a combination of damaged flour, potash-lye, or
lye from hard-wood ashes, nitre, common salt, and
sulphate of zinc, for case-hardening iron.
In 1867 he patented an improvement on the above- .
named process. In 1868 he took out another
patent for an entirely new process, which consists in
the use of raw limestone, charcoal, black oxide of
manganese, sal soda, common salt, and pulverized
rosin combined, for converting iron into steel, which
is now widely used, and from which he has reaped
quite a fortune.
I ONâ€™T depend wholly on Spauldingâ€™s prepared
elue; it wonâ€™t mend broken promises.
Donâ€™t attempt to panish all your enemies; you
canâ€™t do a large business on a small capital.
The Idle Boy.
SS SS St SS SIMARESS FEROS WN
SN aS SS See SNS
i [FEZ Sia
AG HS Hi a)
â€˜* But it speaks with a shout where it leaps the rocks
That lie in its onward way ;
Where it leaps the rocks with a headlong bound,
And scatters the damp white foam around,
With a terrible mock of play.â€
HARACTIER gives splendor to youth and awe
to wrinkled skin and gray hairs.â€” R. W.
Death is like the thunder; we are alarmed at the
sound of it, but it is only formidable from that which
Talent is power; tact is skill. Talent makes a
man respectable; tact makes him respected. Tal-
ent convinces; tact converts. Talent commands;
tact is obeyed. Talent is. something; tact is every-
A DISCONTENTED DOG.
HE kitchen, indeed! And they think I shall
To ee fine tail at the servants all day!â€™
I've been pampered and spoiled and I cannot be
Now how could they fancy a dog of my race
Could ever prefer such a saucepany place ?
I'll bark till they give me a better estate ;
Til bark, whosoever should come to the gate,;â€”
The baker, the milkman, the bad butcher boys ;
Tl bark till T die, if I die of the noise.
The dining-roomâ€™s better â€”more joy to be found ;
The guests are all seated, and I walk around.
They turn, but*they meet me half way with a
_ And all that they say is, â€œ Go down, dog, go down!â€
If theyâ€™d wish me to beg, or to dance on one leg,
I should feel more content, for Iâ€™m fond of a show,
And like to be chief one wherever I go.
You must own that the patience of stone is oâ€™er-
JÂ£ you know you sing well and you never are asked.
The dvawing-roomâ€™s nicer, â€” the wax tapers gleam,
Thereâ€™s a cosey arm-chair-for a muffled-up dream.
(Does the tea-maker know that Iâ€™m used to the
But just. as â€™'m dozing, the couch of my rest
Is seized by a maiden all satin and jewels
Yor herself and a dog she is working in crewels.
Oh, memory sweet, of the things I had best â€”
The fluffiest corner, the downiest chair!
And now Iâ€™m expected to sit anywhere.
I was constantly called â€œ Sweetest darling !â€ â€œ Old
And now not a word â€” do they know I am here ?
â€˜To-day Lam up on the nursery floor,
Children I like, I may say adore!
They think of oneâ€™s ease, and they always say
Here, Sophy, and Harry, and nice little Sam,
Come and see what a beautiful dogeie I am. -
What sweet trusting smiles! I must really unbend;
Come closer, and each shake a paw like a friend.
You may pull my left ear just a little as well.
The dinner plates rattle â€”phaugh! Mutton I
smell : ;
_ I shall not have dinner at all as I wish.
. Does she dare to creep over my royal demesne?
I suppose itâ€™s the thing for these nursery chicks.
Three children, myself, and the nurses make six,
But the clothâ€™s laid for fiveâ€”pray where is my
Iâ€™m accustomed to sit upon cushions in state ;
And now a chance morsel just thrown from a dish |
What ! charity bits from a set of tomtits ? '
Thanks, no ! when bad manners so clearly prevail
I know how to carry my head and my tail.
I'll go up to the roof â€” I shall live quite aloof â€”
There will I dwell with my comforts increased,
There I have freedom and starlight at least.
J shall not be needy though living alone,
Iâ€™m a world to myself, and Iâ€™ve brought up a bone;
When Iâ€™m wanting a tune, J can bay to the moon.
Perhaps, when they look at me down in the street,
They will think Iâ€™m a monument sculptured in
A crown to the house, for my virtues completet .
Aha! what is that? Animpertinent cat! |
Are the chimneys aware that I do not like smoking ?
The stars are all hidden, the mist it comes soaking,
Discomfort and cats and a fine drizzling rain! :
Oh, dear! what a life Pim beginning again !
Blow the bright, golden orange from their lips,
And while from the sweet jasmineâ€™s amber mouth
The honey-bee its subtle nectar sips â€”
the fragrant blossoms of the
She hastens, in thÃ© dewy early hours,
To tend the buds beneath the garden wall,
And lead them gently into full-blown flowers,
Although, the while, the fairest of them all.
How sweet the blending of those youthful charms
With the soft crimson of the opening rose!
And, as she stretches forth her beauteous arms,
How pink the lily in her fingers glows.
Which is the fairest gem â€™tis hard to say, â€” |
The chaliced snowy flower or blushing girl ;
Or eâ€™en the brightest bud that strews her way,
For she, too, is all balm â€” all rose and pearl.
HERE are splendid steam-
ships which regularly cross
the Atlantic, with the many
Americans who,like to visit
the old country. These
steamships are like floating
mansions, if not palaces,
with every luxury on board,
and with everything to make
who are good sailors, and
nothing can make those
comfortable. on ship-board who are not. But there
have been some bold men who, despising the comforts
and safety of the big ships, choose to risk their lives
in mere â€˜ccckle-shells.â€™ .
â€˜s About ten years ago a little vessel called the Red,
White, and Blue, of less than two tons and a half,
crossed the Atlantic in thirty-four days from New
York to the chops of the Channel, with two men and
a dog for her crew. â€˜This boat was a life-boat, ship-
rigged and decked over; her length only 26 ft.;
breadth, 6 ft.; depth of hold, 2 ft. 8 in.; from deck
to keel, 3 ft. Her sails were fore-topmast, stay-sail,
jib, and flying-jib ; fore, main, and mizen courses ;
top-sails, top-gallant sails, royal, and spanker. In
addition to these plain sails she was provided with
fore-topmast stunsails, fore and main top-gallant
stunsails, storm fore-staysail, and trysail. A picture
of this little vessel is given in the JUlustrated London
News of 1866, No. 1389.
Next year a still smaller boat, named the John T.
Ford, started from Halifax on July 16th, having on
board three men and a boy. She was struck by
a heavy sea off Cork on August 19th, and over-
turned, and only one sailor escaped drowning, being
picked up by a passing ship on August 23rd.
In 1870 the City of Ragusa, a decked boat of less
than two tons burden, 20 ft. in length and 6 ft. in
breadth of beam, left the port of Liverpool for New
York, manned by the owner, Captain Buckley, and
perienced sailors. This little ship was rigged as a
awl, and could set square-sails on both masts, spread-
ing altogether seventy yards of canvas in eight or
more sails. She was also furnished with a two-
bladed screw propeller, which could be worked either
by hand or by a windmill erected just before the
Ip 1876 another of these perilous voyages was
made by Alfred Johnsen, a Dane, who had
settled as a fisherman in America. Ile is a smart,
hardy man of thirty-five. His boat, called the
Gloucester, from Gloucester, in Massachusetts, is
about 20 ft. long, decked over, and built in three
water-tight compartments. She carries one mast,
and can set a main-sail, two jibs, and a square-sail.
-Aft the hatchway is an opening in the form of a
tank, where Johnsen sat during the whole of his two
monthsâ€™ voyage. Behind this is a small locker,:
where he kept his compass, quadrants, charts, and
ether articles. The sleepmg-place is in the fore-
those people comfortable -
hatchway. Johnsen had been thinking of the trip.
for about two years, and reckoned that it would take
him about ninety days to make the voyage from
America to England, and he laid in provisions for
that time, consisting of preserved meats, condensed
milk, fruits, hard bread, tea and coffee, and sixty
gallons of water. He had a kerosine stove on board,
and a lamp of high illuminating power. He left
Gloucester on June 18th, the people cheering him as
he sailed away. He had fine weather at first, but
afterwards met heavy gales. In one of these he met
a barque bound for Liverpool, and the captain offered
to take him and his boat on board and drop him off
Cape Clear and say nothing about the lift he had
given him, but Johnsen declined.
Ale afterwards fell in with another ship, when in a
â€œgale about 300 miles from Cape Clear. The captain
of this brig urged Johnsen to come on board, and
told him that the big seas would have him if he did
not. The captain shortened sail, and kept company
with the little Gloucester for about two hours. After
this the little ship could not â€˜run,â€™ as the sea got
very heavy, and Johnsen â€˜hove-to,â€™ and the brig
went on her course. Half-an-hour after he hove-to
a breaker struck the boat broadside, and it turned
bottom up. For about twenty minutes the sailor was
on the bottom of the boat, and wished, he tells us,
that he had got on board the brig when he was asked
to do so, By desperate work he at last got his boat
righted and himself on boardâ€”not a minute too soon,
for he saw a shark in the water close to him. As he
did not care for such company, he fastened a knife
to an oar, and stabbed the shark, and it left him.
When the boat righted she was half full of water.
His provisions were much damaged, and he had no
means of drying his clothes, for the gale lasted till
next day. On August 7th the lonely voyager spcke
a brig from Liverpool, and got bread and bottled
porter from her. On August 8th he was off Cape
Clear. Next day he sighted Pembroke on the Welsh
coast, this beingâ€™ his first sight of land since he left
America. He put in at Abercastle, and provisioned
his little craft. Next day he had a head-wind and
a calm sea till he got to Holyhead, where he arrived
on August 18th, and reached Liverpool on the 21st.
He was in good health,-but suffered for a time from
cramp and stiffness in his limbs, from being two
months in so confined aspace. He also suffered from
sore eyes, because he had had to keep awake always
at night during his voyage, and kept his light burning
Jest he should be run down, as he was in the track
of the ocean steamers. He slept by day, taking off
his rudder and sails, and letting his craft drift with
When Johnsen arrived in the Mersey, he and his
little ship were viewed with much interest. When
he was asked if he would care to repeat the voyage,
he replied that he * thought he had had about enough
of it,â€™ and he returned to America in one of the mail
steamers which would do the distance in about ten
days on which he had spent sixty, with no special
advantage, except to show that he was a very plucky,
not to say foolhardy, fellow, who has been protected
by the Almighty in his perilous voyage, and pre-
served, we hope, to do some good and useful work
in the world.
DS iy Ny %
SRV \ f
The dog that crossed the Atlantic in the Red, White, and Blue. }
A MOTHER WATER-RAT.
WAS standing on a bridge oyer a
small Hampshire brook with a trout-
rod in my hand, when I saw a water-
rat swimming up the stream to-
wards: me, and making for the
archway. The animal did not see
me, for I lowered my rod and
touched it with the top, when it
dived and disappeared ; but, on re-
turning towards the same spot shortly afterwards,
L caught sight of the rat coming from under
the arch with something in its mouth, and swim-
ming quickly towards me. Close at hand was a
rail with an upright post, around which clung a good
deal of floating weed. To this the rat made her way,
still carrying her burden, which she laid upon it, and
then began to climb up herself. When she was
fairly up I saw that her burden was a young one
of about three inches long, which nestled under the
mother, till, a slight shower coming on, they both
made for the rail, the mother pushing her child up
on to it first in safety, and then getting up on the
rail herself and nursing it as before. I crept so close
to them that I could nearly put my hand on them,
and could see the sharp black eyes of the little one
watching me intently; but as I was now drawing too
near, the mother at once took a header into the brook,
and the little one flopped in after her, swimming down
stream a short way to another piece of floating weed, _
and then the anxious mother came back, and again
took her little one in her mouth, and swam away with
it down stream. I walked by the side of the brook
for more than a hundred yards, watching the
mother carrying her child in her mouth, and when I
lost sight of her she was still swimming onward with
her babe. Is it possible that she was moving her
family one by one to a more favourable spot ?
â€˜Tne following words are contained in the letters
spelling â€˜ Parliament.â€™
Aim Impale Mar Neap Plat Rental
Apart In Mail Nare Plain Real
Amen Tre Mint Nile Plane Rapine
At frate Mite Napier Planter Rapier
Ae Inert Mile Natal Primate Rampant~
Alarm Lamp Main Pie Plate Riplet
Ape Lair Mane Pen Panel Tap
Arm Liar Map Pear Prate Tare
2 Lame Mean Pare Penal Tear
Lain Meant Pair Petal Ten
Lane Meal Pliant Pert Tail
Air Lime Met Palm Pane Tale
Ale Tine Man Pan Pain Tea
Ail Lien Melt Pat Par Tin
Alien Leap Milt Pail Pearl Team
Art Limp Me Pale Pant Tip
Ailment Lap Mitre Pin Plaint Tape
Alert Lleman Miner Pile Rap Tame
Antler Lint Malt Pine Rant Tile
Area â€” Lent Mat Pint Reap Tiler
Alpine Late Mate â€˜Pent Rain Tier
April Lip Mire Plant Rail Teal
Alter Lean Mien Part Rent Tire
Altar Lie Merit Pier Ram Tine
Aliment Lea Mantle Plea Rein Tie
Arena Learn Mantel Pea Rat Trim
Entail Learnt Metal Peal Rite Trip
Eat Leant Martin Pate Ripe Trail
Earn = Let Marten Plan Rip Time
Ear Lit Mine Pit Rim Tar
Elm Later Neat Prim Rime Train
Emir Linear Nape Prime Ran Tramp
Entrap Lampern Nail Paint Rate Tripe
Era Meat Nap Painter Rape Tan
Earl Men Net Palmer Remain Trial
Impair Mart Near Print Retain â€˜larn
Impart Mare Nip Pet Retail Tamper
Imp Male Name Peat Ream Taper
It Mental Nitre Plait Rile Triple
JOHN FLINTâ€™S DREAM.
. NE cold evening in December,
2 John Flint was returning
Ver heme with his donkey and
ie cart from the town of Old-
bury, where he had been all
day hawking firewood, and
as his customwas hedropped
in at the â€˜Fox and Houndsâ€™
to drink and gossip, leaving
his donkey outside thedoor.
There was a keen east wind
blowing right against the front of the house, and
a scud of rain dashed now and then upon the rough
pavement, freezing as it fell, and covering every-
thing that it touched with a coat of ice. The poor
animal had been in harness for eight hours, and
had not eaten a morsel of food since the morning,
so he moved anxiously from side to side in search of
something to satisfy his hunger ; but, finding nothing,
he turned his tail to the wind, dropped his ears almost
to a level with his eyes,.and began to groan and.
â€˜Your donkeyâ€™s got the ague, John,â€™ said an
acquaintance of his, who entered the house just as
John was ordering his second pint of beer; â€˜his very
bones were rattling and shaking as I passed him just
now, and the poor brute groaned as if heâ€™d got seme
heavy trouble on his mind.â€™
â€˜Itâ€™s bruises on his body instead of troubles on his
mind that makes him groan, replied John, with a
savage grin, â€˜Look at that stinger ;â€™ and he held
up a thick ashen stick, tipped with a sharp iron point.
â€˜ Heâ€™s had a touch or two to-day that he wort forget,
the lazy brute !?
Thereupon John drained his mug, lighted his pipe,
and left the house. Presently heavy blows from the
aforesaid â€˜stingerâ€™ were heard above the noise of the
wheels, as John drove off from the door of the â€˜ Fox
and Hounds,â€™ belabouring his jaded beast almost at
every step. Then there was silence suddenly, and
the donkey stood still in the road. John had fallen
as he was attempting to take his seat in the cart, and
fractured his leg, so it was now his turn to groan.
Whether the donkey kicked him down in return for
â€˜headlong into it.
an application of the â€˜stinger, or whether the slip-
pery condition of the road was the cause of his fall, -
or whether, as he himself afterwards asserted, a blow _
from an unseen hand smote him to the ground, no
one can tell. Anyhow he was found lying in the
road about a hundred yards from the public-house,
groaning in chorus with the donkey, the one be-
moaning his bruises and the other his broken leg.
He was lifted into his cart, and conveyed as quickly
as possible to his own cottage, where a surgeon was
soon in attendance upon him.
been set he fell asleep, and dreamed the following
He was on his way to Oldbury with a heavy load
of firewood, and in the act of smiting his donkey,
because he stopped to take breath halfway up aâ€™ steep
hill, when the animal-raised his nose towards the
sky and brayed three times. Thereupon two hideous
gorillas, one red and the other black, stood before
him. John was terror-stricken at the strange crea-
tures, for he saw by their looks that they meant
mischief, and that flight or resistance would be im-â€™
possible: so he began to shout â€˜Murder!â€™ with all
his might. Regardless of his cries, however, the
black gorilla snatched the stick from his hand, and
gave his back a bitter taste of the â€˜stinger,â€™ whilst
the red monster unharnessed the donkey. Then
tying one end of the halter round Johnâ€™s neck, and
holding the other in his hand, he set off at a swinging
trot. The black gorilla followed close behind, now
and then quickening Johnâ€™s pace by a prod with the
point of the â€˜stingerâ€™ and behind all came the
donkey, capering with delight, and now and then, at
the sight of his masterâ€™s contortions, giving a whinny
which sounded very like a titter, The road which
they took led them into a forest, which grew thicker
and darker as they advanced; but they held on a
straight course through it regardless of all obstruc-
â€˜tions, and whenever John relaxed his pace in dashing
through a swamp or a thicket, the black gorilla used
the â€˜stingerâ€™ with a wonderfully stimulating effect.
After a run of four hours they reached a wide
â€˜river, and without a momentâ€™s hesitation plunged
Poor John, who had never in his Â©
â€˜life attempted to swim, thought his end was now cer-
â€˜tainly come, and howled with fright; but his leader
kept firm hold of the halter, and dragged him safely
across to the opposite bank.
dogs, and donkeys, galloped up to meet them, and, to
Johnâ€™s consternation, he found that they were all
gifted with the power of spcech, whilst he himself
had become dumb. Even his own ass, once so
patient and silent, could talk as glibly as the rest;
and the topic of his discourse was anything but
pleasant to John, fer he desevibed how, from the
time when he was a little helpless foal, he had had
nothing but excessive work, scanty food, kicks, and
curses; and, moreover, he called attention to the
iron-pointed stick which had been the instrument
of his daily torture, and to the scars which covered
his body.. This produced such a sensation among the
assembled animals, that the pathetic narrative was
stopped by a murmur of indignation. So great was
the rage of the dogs, that they made a rush towards
John, and would have torn him to pieces if the
gorillas had not interfered.
After his leg had -
A number of horses, .
When his companions had rested and refreshed
themselves, the rapid march began anew, and the
crowd of animals went with them; some to show
their sympathy for the injured donkey, and others
to exuls over the sufferings of his contemptible master,
From the remarks which John overheard, he fancied
he was being led to the gallows, and that his donkey
was to be the executioner. It was a great relief,
therefore, when they stopped at the entrance-gate of
a spacious court, and the attendant crowd fell back,
and John saw no preparations for any such doom as
he had been expecting. An-enormous white elephant
was pacing to and fro on a grass-plot in the centre
of the court; and when the gate was thrown open
the gorillas advanced with their captive to the edge
of the grass-plot, and the elephant came forward to
â€˜We have brought a human brute from the other
side of the river,â€™ exclaimed the red gorilla, â€˜that
your majesty may pass sentence upon him for
cruelty to animals. He has shamefully maltreated
a faithful servant, who is here to give evidence
â€˜Let the servant state his complaint,â€™ said the
elephant. Thereupon the donkey again told his tale
of woe, exhibited his bruises, and bade the gorilla
hold up the terriblÃ© weapon which had caused them.
Then the elephant, lifting his trunk erect in the
air to signify his anger, thus addressed the wretched
â€˜Thou, to whom lordship has been given over all
the beasts of the field, hast shown thyself utterly
unworthy of the power entrusted to thee. Thou hast
made the life of this animal, who served thee faith.
fully, a dreary bondege of slavery and suffering.
The same Divine Being who created thee created
him also, and gave him feelings and affections as
tender as thine own. He is as much a member of
Godâ€™s family, and an object of Godâ€™s care, as thou
art; and the sun shines and the grass grows as much
for him as for thee. He had as much right as thou
to the pleasures of existence ; but thou hast deprived
him of all enjoyment. Thou hast treated him as
though he had no place nor nortion assigned to him
.by Providence, except to do thy bidding. Moreover
thou hast compelled him to minister to thy selfish
gains beyond his strength, and instead of kind-
ness thou hast given him in return for his labour
stinted provender and savage blows. Wherefore my
sentence is, that henceforth he shall be thy master
and thou shalt be his slave. He shall have the
power to command, and thou shalt be compelled in
silence to obey. So shalt thou be punished for thy
wickedness, and be taught by actual experience that
dumb animals suffer from unkindness, hunger, and
cold, just as these do who haye the power of
Then turning to the gorillas, he bade them lead
their prisoner to an adjoining field, and there compel
him, with his own weapon, to obey the commands of
his former servant.
Away started the monsters again, grinning with
delight,â€”the one dragging and the other driving
their victim ; and on their arrival at the field, Joha
shuddered more than he had yet done at the prospect
of his miseryâ€”for there were hundreds of his fellow-
Pictures from Australia.
_ WSS ean \ }
~ STORY OF
om LOUIS NAPOLEON.
rN early morning in Parisâ€”the
roar of cannon announcing some
glad tidings, general rejoicing,
- not only in the gay city but
throughout the length and
breadth of France.
A January day in England
â€”a group of silent, weeping
mourners, standing round the
dying bed of one who was an
exile from the land of his birth,
the land which he had so long
Such was the opening and such the closing scene of
the life of Louis Napoleonâ€”son of the much-beloved
Hortense and Louis Bonaparte, who was born.at the
Palace of Fontainebleau on the 20th April, 1808.
From his earliest childhood the boy was remark-
ably attached to his uncle, the Emperor, who delighted
in the young Princeâ€™s intelligence.
Not long after the birth of Louis Napoleon his
father resigned the throne of Holland, which had
been his for some years, living first in Styria, and
afterwards in Italy, as a private gentleman.
Hortense resided chiefly in Paris, where she was
known by the title of the Duchesse de St. Leu.
When the Emperor escaped from Elba to appear
again for the â€˜ Hundred. Days,â€™ his Empress had fled
from France to the protection of her father, and it
was Hortense and her children who were with
Napoleon then, taking part in the gay scene of his
departure for Waterloo.
When the unfortunate Emperor said farewell be-
fore starting on the journey which ended in his
captivity at St. Helena, the little Louis Napoleon
climbed on his knees and implored him to stay at
home. â€˜ Your enemies will take you, and we shall see
ou no more,â€™ he cried. The Emperor embraced
im, and then put him in his motherâ€™s arms. â€˜ Look
well to your son Hortense,â€™ replied he. â€˜Perhaps
after all he is the hope of my race.â€™
But the Bonapartes had to retire from Paris, and
the ex-King of Holland took his wife and children to
Bavaria, where Louis studied at the Gymnasium of
Augsburg ; but they were soon forced to seek another
shelter, and after a short stay in Switzerland they
went to Rome.
At length Hortense found it possible to fix her
abode at the Castle of Arenenberg, looking down
upon the Lake of Constance, and here she devoted
herself to care for her childrenâ€™s education.
Louis Napoleon early became remarkably skilled
in mathematics and fortification ; he loved the study of
both ancient and modern history, and if he read much,
he thought more.
It was in the military camp at Thun that the son
of Hortense learned the duties of a private soldier,
carrying his knapsack on his back, using the pickaxe
and the barrow, scaling the mountain heights, eating
soldierâ€™s fare, and sleeping in a soldierâ€™s tent. It was
by his motheiâ€™s wish that Louis accustomed himself
thus to toil and hardship, so that if Providence should
call him to a high position he might be fitted to com-
mand all the better because he had first learned to
When in 1830 the news of the Revolution reached
the Castle of Arenenberg, it seemed as if the quiet
life he had been leading would no longer satisfy
Louis Napoleon ; he burned with desire to return to
his native land, and both he and his mother thought
that the necessity for their exile would be at an end.
For a time they were to be disappointed: by an
order from the Tuileries the Prince was conducted
by a military escort beyond the Papal territory ;
but when a revolution broke out in Italy also, both
he and his brother took part with the people, although
they were afterwards deprived of their command and
banished. It was at this time that the elder son of
Hortense died, and Louis was left her only surviving
His was a dangerous position, for he was surrounded
by enemies; the Austrian soldiers were seeking to
capture him, but his mother helped him to escape in
the disguise of a servant, and together they landed at
Cannes and made their way to Paris.
Outlawed and proscribed as the Bonapartists were,
the Prince resolved to implore Louis Philippe, to let
his mother live on French soil and himself to serve
as a private soldier; but the only answer to the
appeal was an order to leave France at once.
â€˜There was no choice, therefore, but for Louis to
retire to Switzerland, and about this time he became
known as an author, and put forth a work in which
he declared his firm belief that the restoration of
France would be found in combining the Empire and
In 1536 the Prince arranged measures with a few
of his friends, and upon the.80th October he presented
himself with a small party of officers at Strasburg,
and displaying the Imperial Eagle, called upon the
soldiers to follow his standard. They obeyed, and
Louis would probably have been successful in his
great Napoleonâ€™s nephew, and not even a Bonaparte
â€”the result was that he was made a prisoner, and
conveyed to Paris under the charge of treason.
Not permitted to have a trial, he was found guilty ;
and though his life was spared he was ordered to
America, for Louis Philippe deemed his residence in
Europe to be a source of constant danger.
seized and â€˜deportedâ€™ to America, where for a few
months he remained, carefully noting the practical
working of the Republican system. Returning to
Europe the following year, Louis Napoleon was just
in time to take leave of his mother before she died,
and he then remained in SwitzÃ©rland until the publi-
cation of some statement by one of his friends as
to the affair of Strasburg brought him once more
under the suspicion of the King. It was then that
the princely exile resolved to exchange his retreat at
Arenenberg for England, where he lived for more
than a year in King Street, St. Jamesâ€™s Square.
Though Louis Napoleon did not appear at Court,
he mixed a good deal in society during his residence
in London, and found many friends who admired his
energetic and dauntless character.
In August, 1840, the Prince crossed to Boulogne
j and landed in France. His little company: of ad-
plan if a report had not spread that he was not the *
In vain. he protested against this sentenceâ€”he was Â»
herents cried â€˜Vive |â€™Empereur!? and the soldiers
were called on to follow his standard, but they
Louis then planted his Imperial flag by the Column
of Napoleon, for it was yet early morning, and there
were but few people moving in the streets; however,
he was quickly surrounded by the soldiers who mad
him and his two companions prisoners.
When the Prince was tried for this offence he was
of course found guilty and sentenced to life-long im-
prisonment in a French fortress; Count Montholon
was doomed to twenty yearsâ€™ imprisonment, and the
other offender to transportation.
However bitter might be his disappointment,
however hard his sentence, Louis Napoleon kept
all such feelings hidden. When he was taken
to two dreary rooms in the fortress of Ham, in
Picardy, he declared that the knowledge that he was
breathing French air was a sufficient consolation,
and he employed his solitude in writing and other
In some way he found means to communicate
â€œwith his friends, but four years passed without any
change in his condition.
In 1845 he begged leave to go to the bedside of
his father in Florence, promising on his word of
honourâ€™ to return to his prison; but he was refused,
and then his desire to pay this visit caused him to
plan an escape. His valet obtained a pair of sabots
and a smockfrock, and the Prince assumed the dress
of a workman, and he safely gained the Belgian
frontier and took ship for England.
Having lost their prisoner, the If ench Government
used their influence to prevent his obtaining the
necessary passports for a journey to his dying father,
so that the much-desired visit was never paid.
The Prince remained in England for nearly two
years, staying sometimes in London and sometimes
at a place near Sevenoaks, which he had taken while
he waited to see how things went on in France.
Then came the overthrow of Louis Philippe in
February, 1848; the barricaded streets of Paris, the
flight of the king to England, and the return of
Louis Napoleon to Paris.
When Louis Napoleon was elected President of
the new Republic he had immense difficulties to con-
tend with, but with great prudence and tact he showed
his desire to promote the glory and prosperity. of
France, and so he won favour among the people.
At length, finding that it was not possible to rule
his country as a Republic, he called upon the nation
to restore the Empire, and this measure was approved
by a large majority of votes. As soon as the Imperial
system was established, Louis Napoleon lost no op-
portunity of encouraging and promoting public works,
and commerce gradually revived.
On the 22nd January, 1853, the Emperor an-
nounced to the Senate his proposed marriage with
the Countess EugÃ©nie de Theba, a Spanish lady of
noble birth, and on the 29th of the same month the
ceremony took place at Notre Dame, amidst general
For. upwards of eighteen years Louis Napoleon
ruled as Emperor, during which time he raised
France to a high. position, and made Paris the most
attractive city in the world.
which resulted in a declaration of war.
But in the height of his prosperity came the hostile
feeling between the French and German nations,
It is said
that by this act Louis Napoleon wrecked his own
fortune, and that patience and tact would have
arranged difficulties ; others maintain that the Eim-
peror was forced to yield to the warlike impulse of
his people. However this may be, he departed for
the seat of war at the head of his army, taking with
him his young son the Prince Imperial. As is well
remembered, the French army was outnumbered,
Louis Napoleon yielded himself a prisoner to the
King of Prussia, and the Empress and Prince
Imperial took refuge in England, when a Republic
was once more declared in Paris.
In 1871 a treaty of peace was concluded, and the
Emperor being released came once more to the land
where in earlier years he had been an exil:, and
upon the 9th January, 1873, he died in his retired
home at Chislehurst, still faithful in the love that he
bore to France. :
OLD AND YOUNG; or, NOW AND
SONTHLY dance our joyous eyes,
Watching for our cherished â€˜ Prize ;?
Gaily fly our streaming locks,
Rushing for our â€˜ Chatterbox.â€™
See, the Newsman in the walk,
Broken off his play or talk,
Rushingâ€”racingâ€”now we meet him,
Scantly do we care to greet him.
Who the first will gain the â€˜ Prizeâ€™
And run it through with greedy eyes ?
That for you and this for meâ€”
But all at once we want to see.
What the talesâ€”and what the printsâ€”
We hardly heed the poor manâ€™s hints
That we should take the papers there,
His fout-sore, weary steps to spare.
â€˜Lucky children are you all
Such lovely books your own to eail!
Nothing of the sort had we,â€”
No such pictures could we see-â€”
No such tales, and verse, and song
When we, who now are old, were young !
A few dry books were all we had,
The pictures few, and oh, so bad!
â€˜Yo you, my children, much is given,
And much will be required by Heaven.
Then pray and strive with all your might
Your books may help you to do right.
And sometimes ask a blessing too,
For those who thus have toiled for you;
Whoâ€™ve spent their time, and pains, and thought,
That you may be amused or taught.
And now, you sprite with dancing. locks,
Come, shew your Grannie â€œ Chatterbox.
J. E. C.F.
A Mother Water-rat.
By Harrison Wetr.
AS y it
MAY Ae Hy
Z, eo ee
; Daisy giving the monkey a piece of cake, i
HOW â€˜SNOBâ€™ SAVED
~Â» \. UR favourite dog Snob, being a great
KYa pet, is allowed to follow us all over
HN the house, and sometimes even into
our dressing-rooms. I must tell you
that we live-in India, where there
are many dangerous snakes and scor-
pions, which sometimes (in the hot
weather) get into your house through
some hole or crevice, so that you are
compelled to be always on your guard
that they do not hide in your clothes.
= It is almost necessary to examine
each article of clothing before putting it on. One
day, Snobâ€™s master had gone into_ his dressing-room
to put on his boots before going out, and he was
followed into the room by the dog. He sat down,
and placing the boots he was about to put on near
him, he took one of them up, and was in the act of
putting it on, when Snob seized hold of it in his mouth
and dragging it away would not allow his master to
come near it. He thought this very strange, and
tried to get it from him, but the more he tried the
more Snob barked, and stood between him and the
boot. At last his master began to wonder if there
really was anything in the boot, and approaching as
near as theâ€™ dog would let him he examined it well,
and after a short time he thought he saw some-
thing move inside, when out came a small snake,
which had no doubt been coiled up fast asleep all the
time. He killed it immediately, and upon looking
closely he found it to be one of a very poisonous
nature, and he had every reason to believe that had
the creature bitten him he would have had but a
short time to live.
When I heard the story I was much disposed
to give Snob a gold medal for saving his masterâ€™s
life; only I donâ€™t know what he would do with it.
/ AUNTIE EMILy.
N the merry month of May
& I was stolen, I was taken,
I was taken far awayâ€”
Far away ! and thus forsaken,
My poor parents called and sought me,
Sought and called me, all in vain ;
Praised the grubs and worms they brought me,
Called and sought me yet again :
Weary, weary was the nest;
All that night they had no rest. |
Not for silver or gold,
But for a few odd pence,
I was bartered, sold,
After a short suspense ;
Sold to a boy of heart, called FrÃ©d,
Who treated me as well as he could,
As well as he knew, with cake and bread,
Pudding and meat, roast, boiled, and raw,
And all such things as he thought good;
But he knew not how to feed a daw,
As well as its dam in the wood.
' steadily that he became the head scholay.
Fred likes beef and bread,
But Jack has other needs:
â€˜Give me,â€™ says he, â€˜an uncooked spread,
Earwigs, spiders, or centipedes.â€™
Quick is Fred at his tarts,
He eats, he drinks, and departs ;
â€˜Thatâ€™s not the way,â€™ says Jack, â€˜ with me.
If you love me, O let there be
Always a platter before my bill.
Let it be always dinner or tea,
Luncheon or breakfast, what you willâ€”
Not too much ata time, you see;
Little and often and all day long,
That will make a Jackdaw strong.
And give me, I pray, for I must be clean,
A basin of water each morn ;
A Jackdaw unbathed is not fit to be seen,
And his comrades all hold him in scorn.
He is but a fowl, and he has a black face,
But his feathers are glossy and sweet;
Then learn from your Jackdaw that dirt is
And wash well your body and feet.â€™
G. 8. O.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
Â®) N an old manor-house situated in a
little valley upon the western side of
the river Witham, in Lincolnshire,
the family of Newton had dwelt for
many generations; and here, upon
the 25th December (O. S.), 1642,
the little weakly infant was born who
was destined to grow up so great
and learned a man. As a young
: child he was sent to a day-school,
ee but at twelve years of age he at-
tended a grammar-school in the town of Grantham,
boarding at the house of an apothecary who lived
Sir Isaac reports himself as a very careless and
inattentive boy at his studies, until an accident
happened which roused him to apply himself with all
his might, so that he should rise above the lad who
had caused it, and from that time he persevered so
not join in the play of the other boysâ€”perhaps the
pain he had to suffer from the kick he had received -
hindered his sports, or it may be that his taste did
not incline him to amusement; however, he got
little hammers. and saws, and other tools, and con-
structed a water-clock, a windmill, and a carriage,
which was put in motion by the person who sat in it.
A windmill was being erected near Grantham, in
which young Newton took the greatest interest, and
from observing its mechanism he made a working
model of it, which he placed on the top of tke house
where he lodged; and it was set in motion by the
wind, to the great admiration of the passers-by.
But a fresh idea struck the ingenious mind of
Isaacâ€”why should he not drive it by animal power?
Accordingly he shut up a wretched little mouse
within it, which he called the miller, and which, by
acting on a kind of tread-wheel, set the mill in
motion. Some say the mouse was kept going by
pulling a string fastened to its tail, but others declare
that a grain of corn was put above the wheel, and
the little animal kept making vain attempts to reach
it, and thus accomplished the boyâ€™s purpose.
It was Isaac Newton who brought the fashion into
his school of flying paper kites; he also made paper
lanterns to light him to school on winter mornings,
and attached these to his kite-tails at night to make
the country-folk believe they were comets. The boy
was very fond of drawing, and he ornamented his
room with these performances; he was also clever
at writing verses,
When Newton was fifteen years old his mother
thought he had received sufficient school education,
and she had him at home to manage the farm at
Woolsthorpe, and he had to go to market on Satur-
days to sell grain and other things. As soon as
â€˜Isaac had transacted this business he used, we are
told, to go off to his former lodging in Grantham
town, to pore over the books which Mr. Stokes
possessed. But the lad made a bad farmer; he
would let the sheep stray and the cattle devour the
corn while he was taken up with plans for con-
structing a water-wheel or some other model, and at
last his mother resolved to leave him to his studies;
and accordingly he was sent back to Grantham, to
prepare for Cambridge. '
It was in June, 1660, in his eighteenth year, that
Newton was received into Trinity College ; five years
after he took his degree of Bachelor of Arts, and in
1668 he was Master of Arts, and appointed in the
same year to the Senior Fellowship, and then he
began to enter upon his career of discovery which
has made his name so famousâ€”the invention of
the telescope, his optical researches, and the first
knowledge of gravitation of which we have heard so
Since those days many men have made new and
wonderful researches in scientific things, butnone have
dimmed the lustre which beams around the name of
Newton; and yet his modesty and humility have hardly
ever beensurpassed. â€˜Ido not know what I may appear
to the world,â€™ he said, a little while before his death ;
y â€˜in myself I seem to have been only like a boy
playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in
now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier
shell than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth
lay all undiscovered before me.â€™ When Sir Isaac was
a great man living in London, in a style necessary to
his position, he was always simple in his own personal
tastes and habits, and his generosity to others was
He died on the 20th of March, 1727, in the eighty-
fifth year of his age, and was buried in Westminster
Abbey, where a handsome monument was raised to
A FABLE AGAINST DISCONTENT.
From the German.
ITHIN a green and shady wood
A young and slender fir-tree stood ;
He wore no leaves like other trees,
To wave in every passing breeze:
Â¥or narrow needles, rough and keen,
Are all the leaves on fir-boughs seen.
Full often said he to his brothers,
â€˜I wish that I had leaves like others !â€™
*Twas night, and all the forest slept,
But in his dreams the fir-tree wept;
He saidâ€”â€˜ My neighbours look so fine,
I wish that golden leaves were mine !â€™
But in the night there passed a change,
At morn the tree felt somewhat strange :
He wokeâ€”O joy! O bliss untold!
He found his leaves were made of gold!
Throughout that morn, and all the day,
The fir-tree felt both proud and gay.
At eve a beggar passed, whose back
Was furnished with an empty sack
For scraps of meat, and such small doles
As beggars win from kindly souls.
He saw the tree, and stripped it bare,
Nor left one leaf remaining there.
The shivering fir-tree cried, â€˜Ah! me,
What shall I do, poor leafless tree ?
In woods like these where bad folks pass
*Twere best to wear, not gold, but, glass,
That tempts no thieves, but looks as fine
As diamonds, when the sun doth shine.â€™
He slept, and (judge of his delight !)
Woke dressed in glass as diamonds bright.
But stormy clouds oâ€™ercast the sky,
The wind blew chill, the wind blew high ;
The fir-treeâ€™s leaves of shining glass
Fell shattered on the dust and grass.
â€œAlas, my glittering dress!â€™ he cries,
â€˜ All spoiled upon the ground it lies:
Those leaves:are best which every tree
Within the forest wears but me.â€™
He slept again, and when he woke,
Had leaves like those on elm or oak:
No tree in all that wood was seen
With leaves more broad, more smooth, more
The little fir-tree quite laughed out,
And gave a merry, joyful shout;
He saidâ€”â€˜ They cannot mock me nowâ€”
Iâ€™m just like them, they must allow.â€™
But with her kids in merry play
A mother-goat came past that way,
In search for leaves and herbage sweet
To give her little ones'a treat.
Our friend, the tree, she soon perceives,
With all his wealth of fresh green leaves ;
Both goat and kidlings munched away,
Nor left one stalk at close of day.
Then spake the tree in his despair,
â€˜For gay attire no more I care ;
Though gold and glass may please the sight,
Though green leaves in the sun look bright,
Give me again my needles keen !
Better than any leaves of green,
Better than glass or gold are they.
Give me but these, is all I pray!â€™
Â«(Snob â€ saving his Master. |
Sir Isaac Newton.
A NEGLECTED GENIUS.
PONE cowherd, as he tends the kine
G Among the winter mire,
Beats out, at times, some noble line,
That sets menâ€™s hearts on fire.
Rude drawings of' a horse or tree,
Scratched with a bit of chalk,
May one day glorious pictures be,
A nationâ€™s pride and talk.
So, from the lowly home, upsprings
A soldier, great and brave ;
And every heart its garland flings
Upon that heroâ€™s grave.
But not to every man is given
A Wordsworthâ€™s powers to know ;
Our gifts are as it pleases Heaven
Its treasures to bestow.
All cannot stand on gloryâ€™s roll
Messmates with Bonaparte,
Or â€˜wake,â€™ as Turner * woke, â€˜the soul
With tender strokes of art.â€™
But he who drives his furrow straight,
And sows the earth and reaps,
May yet consort with good and great,
In honourâ€™s highest steeps.
Who grinds the corn, and milks the kine,
Helps much to win the day ;
This path is thine, and that is mine,
To each his ordered way!
No crow can ever be a swan,
No minnow play the whale,
The fussy daw may never don
The peacockâ€™s starry tail ;â€”
But, says not that conceited smirk,
â€œOh, isnâ€™t it done well?
Come, all the world, and see my workâ€”
Ainâ€™t I just Raffaelle 2â€™
Shade of Apelles, look and grieve! .
Cry out, strong-minded aunt!
â€˜Jack, boy, thou mayâ€™st a sum achieve,
But never be a Grant!
â€˜Look at thy work again, my lad,
And tell me who itâ€™s like ;
Such legs no mortal ever had,
Such arms could never strike,
* The names in italics are those of famous painters: Turner
and Grant are English. The latter is still living. Raffaelle, one
of the greatest of all painters, was born at Urbino, in Italy,
A. bd. H83. Apelles was a very great painter, who lived about
300 years before Christ.
â€˜That mouth was never meant to gape,
That neckless head to stir;
That bodyâ€”what a monstrous shape !
A huge extinguisher !
â€˜His fingers? Wellâ€”youâ€™ve made them five,
But no one holds them thus,
All carrot-wise. O, man alive,
Thou art a genius!
â€˜Come, stick to pot-hooks all thy days,
And words like A P E;
Thouâ€™lt maybe yet the chaps amaze,
Some future Spelling Bee !â€™ G. Â§. 0.
Shoe morning an old sailor was
and a bundle in that, trudging
along the highroad. He had
a cheery werd for everybody,
and now and then he asked
whether he was steering
straight for Blackfoot. At
first the people stared, for as
Blackfoot was a very small
village, some three hundred
miles from the place where the
sailor left his ship, it was not quite so well known as
Hull or Liverpool.
thought, as the sailor was clearly a well-to-do man,
he would have taken the train and saved shoe-leather ;
but he knew nothing about trainsâ€”not he, having left
England when a lad, some fifty years ago. The
captain of the â€˜Flying Swanâ€™ laughed at Jack Waud
when he avowed â€˜his purpose of walking into â€˜the
Shires ;â€™ but Jack wasnâ€™t to be laughed out of his
whim ; and, it being fine weather, he enjoyed his
cruise, as he called it, along the capital English roads,
and he delighted in the garden-like appearance of all
he saw. At length, a grey old towey he had not
seen for half a century was seen peeping out of some
trees. â€˜Dear, how those trees have grown!â€ said
_dack to himself. Â«And here is Blackfoot once more!
Well, thank God for it!â€™ continued the old sailor,
taking off his hat piously. When he entered the
village, or rather got to the first straggling house,
-he knocked at the door, and asked, â€˜Is there any one
named Waud living in Blackfoot now?â€™
The woman said, â€˜No, not now; but she remem- |
bered very well an old man of that name, old Ben.
Waud he was called, for he died only two or three
â€˜Ah, father,â€™ said the sailor to himself, â€˜I thought
I should hardly find you alive after fifty years ; but I
should have been glad to hear you say you had ~
forgiven me.â€™ :
After a pause of some time the sailor asked the
woman her name, and how many children she had,
seen, with a stick in this hand, -
Moreover, one would have .Â°
and so on; then, leaving her half-a-crown for her
youngest boy, to her great astonishment, the kind-
hearted Jack-tar moved on, and in a few minutes fell
in with several young men.
â€˜Good day, my hearties!â€™ said Jack; â€˜does old
Jacob Green keep the â€œ White Horseâ€ yet â€
â€˜Jacob Green!â€™ answered a carter: â€˜not Jacob,
sure-ly ; Jacobâ€™s been dead thisâ€”why, how long ago,
Tom? You ought to know, as you're his nephy.â€™
â€˜Why,â€™ said Tom, considering, â€˜uncleâ€™s been dead,
that is, great-uncle Jake, fifteen yearsâ€”nay, sixteen
years, come Martlemas, and his son ,
â€˜Horace Green ?â€™ broke in the old sailor.
â€˜Aye, Horace Green. But who told you his name ?
You'll not be a stranger then, I reckon, in these
â€˜Not 1,â€™ said old Jack, laughing; â€˜I was born next
door to the â€œ White Horse.â€ Have they mended his
The young men looked puzzled how to answer,
and the old sailor went on, turning to â€˜Tom,â€”
â€œNow, youâ€™re a Green; and you,â€™ turning to the
carter, â€˜you remind me very much of a Randall;
while you,â€™ here the old sailor paused some time in
thought as he looked at the third youth, â€˜ah, now I
have it! you must be a Brownrigg, surely,â€™
â€˜And who on earth are you,â€™ answered the carter,
â€˜that you know our names? My nameâ€™s not Ran-
dall, but my mother was a Randal! ; and thatâ€™s Mike
Brownrigg, as sure as Iâ€™ve got this whip in my
The old sailor laughed, and said he would keep his
own secret until the evening, when perhaps some of
them might see him at the â€˜ White Horse,â€™ where he
meant to put up for the night. As Jack Waud
passed the old house where he was born he could
not keep back the tears. The place was forlorn and
desolate. Nobody cared for it, that was certain, for
the village boys had taken cockshies at the windows,
and not one whole pane could be seen. Ruinous as
the old house looked, the sailor felt more joy than
sorrow, for as no one cared to live there the road
was all the more open for him.
â€˜Now,â€™ said he to himself, â€˜I shall sit as an old
man by the fireside where I used to play as a boy.â€™
Horacr GREEN had been a very fat baby when
the old sailor left Blackfoot, and he was now a
thriving innkeeper, stout, middle-aged, and import-
ant. Jack looked curiously at the whilom fat baby,
as he busied himself in laying the cloth. He won-
dered how the portly, rather bald innkeepez, and the
fat baby, could be one and the same. And as he
looked at Horace, so he thought Worace stared at
him, more than was polite, for it is not considered
polite to stare. Once when LLorace went out of the
xoom, and left the door ajar, old Jack caught the
words, â€˜Come back again, â€˜Old Ben Waud,â€™ â€˜As like
as two peas,â€™ and other expressions of a similar sort,
which made him suspect he was known to be the
wanderer come home. So when Horace came in
again Jack opened fire.
â€˜Mr. Green,â€™ said he, â€˜when I saw you last you
were a fine baby, almost heavy enough to break
Dolly Pearsonâ€™s arms. It was a sunny morning in
October, and I remember it well. How are you,
Mr. Green? Iâ€™m Jack, Waud.â€™ .
â€˜I thought as much,â€™ said Horace. â€˜I heard so,
too, from others, who knew you by your likeness to
your fatherâ€ :
â€˜Yes, Mr. Green,â€™ said the old sailor, â€˜I am indeed
that runaway son. Your hand, sir, and let me say
how glad I am to see the baby Dolly held has
become such a fine-looking man. By-the-by, what
became of Dolly? I think I used rather to admire
her. Ay, and what has become of scores of others?
And your wife, sir; I hope sheâ€™s well. And how
many bairns have you?â€™
Instead of attempting to reply to all the sailorâ€™s
questions, Horace went to fetch Mrs. Green and the
children, There was a baby borne aloft in the pro-
cessionâ€”a fat babyâ€”as fat as Horace himself used
to be, a second baby-Horace in fact. After a few
pleasant things had been said by the old seaman, he
begged to feel the weight of the baby, who, finding
Jackâ€™s rugged figure-head to his mind, was ex-
tremely gracious in that honest embrace.
When Mrs. Green and her little flock were gone
the sailor said, â€˜Pardon me, Mr. Green, for being so
very troublesome ; but I see the old houseâ€”the house
where I was born, you knowâ€”is without a tenant.â€™
â€˜Without a tenant! I should think so!â€™ answered
Horace. â€˜The place is ina sad state, and we did
hear that the Squire had given orders to have it
pulled down. But the Squireâ€™s over head and ears
in debt, and I doubt whether he will do even as much
â€˜T hope not,â€™ answered the sailor. â€˜I trust not, Mr.
Green. Iâ€™ve been a rolling stone, but Pâ€™ve gathered
some mossâ€”enough to make an old man a soft bed.
Iâ€™ve long thought and dreamed of coming here and
ending my days; and I hope the Squireâ€”Squire
Atkinson, is it not ??
The landlord nodded.
â€˜I hope the Squire will let me take the house, and
put it into repair at my own cost.â€™ :
â€˜No doubt he will be glad enough to do that,â€™ said
Horace. â€˜He is badly in want of a five-pound note,
by all accounts; and we shall be glad to have you,
Mr. Waud, for a neighbour. We always esteemed
your father as a most upright man.â€™
â€˜Thank you, Mr. Green. But now, the company
in your parlour will be glad, I dare say, to hear the
old sailor talk a little about his adventures.â€™
It was as Jack supposed. The â€˜White Horseâ€™
was the centre, that evening, of Blackfoot. Among
wondering men, whose farthest journeys had been
into the next shire, the old sailor stood on an oaken
bench and related the story of his life.
They saw himâ€”most of them, at leastâ€”that night
for the first time. Heâ€™d been round the world, and
in every quarter and gone, and in most countries.
He had been twice a castaway on a ratt, and had
once been the only survivor. He had seen the
horrors of a crew in mutiny, when the captain was
shot through the head, and the first mate murdered
with an axe, as he himself was bound tight with
ropes to the mast. He had wandered in the hot
steamy woods of South America, and had been on
his back with yellow fever, raging mad; and he had
i SSSA: cy
i \\ \ _
le | . .
IN DS]. WA
been in the Pacific Islands, where the natives think
it a good joke to kill a man and cook him afterwards.
He had seen the Pyramids, and watched the blue
Mediterranean from the top of Mount Carmel.
â€˜In fact, concluded the old home-sick Jack-tar,
â€˜Iâ€™ve seen many things wonderful, and many things
beautifulâ€”flowers and fruit such as might have
grown in Eden, and birds of yellow and crimson
splendour, such as might have lodged in her
branchesâ€”but, believe me, I never saw a spot any-
where that could compare with Blackfoot. Iâ€™d rather
live in the old ruined house next doorâ€”of course,
when the windows are mendedâ€”than in the finest
marble palace I ever saw. â€˜Yes, in the words of a
\ SS |
| Â» SM
NY li, \
piece of the poetry, which I have got by heart, I can
â€˜Â« JT have seen them, one by one,
Every shore beneath the sun,
And my voyage now is done.
While I bid them all be blest,
England, thouâ€™rt my home, my rest,
My own land, I love thee best!â€?
The worthy old sailor then got down from his
bench, and gave a warm grip to every hand in the
roota, and I donâ€™t think any man of them all went
home that night without feeling sure that his own
native land was the happiest spot to be found in the
wide world. G. 8. 0
HE number of English rivers known by names of
one syllable is remarkable. â€˜Those young people
who study the geography of their native land will at
once remember many suchâ€”as the Thames, the
Trent, the Tweed, the Ouse, the Cam, the Dee, and
But the following list, though not a complete one,
contains the names of nearly two hundred broad
rivers and sweet babbling brooks, all of which bear
simple names, often compounded of three letters ;
names by which they have been known these thou-
sand years. Some names have three or four different
streams belonging to them. The name Blyth, or
Blythe, seems to be the most favourite river-name ;
whilst the names of Wear, Swift, Dart, Gwash, Ouse,
and Swill, seem the most expressive.
nr I at A MR PN FRE
In alphabetical order, the rivers of England having
names of one syllable stand thus: â€”
Aire, Alde, All, Alt, Aln, Alne, Arth, Ash, Aune,
Bain, Barle, Beane, Beult, Binn, Blyth, Boldre,
Bourn, Braen, Brant, Brede, Brent, Bret, Brit, Brue,
Cain, Cale, Calne, Cam, Carn, Char, Chess, Chilt,
Churn, Claw, Clist, Clun, Cole, Colne, Corve, Cound,
Cray, Crouch, Culm.
Dane, Dart, Daw, Dearne, Dee, Deer, Dene, Don,
Doon, Dour, Dove, Dunn.
Emme, Erme, Esk, Ex, Exe, Eye.
Fal, Forth, Foss, Frome.
Gade, Glen, Glyme, Griff, Gwash.
Ham, Hel, Heyl, Hix, Hull.
Tle, Irk, Irt, Ise, Ive.
Kent, Key, King.
Lark, Lan, Lea, Leach, Leam, Leen, Leeth, Lew,
Lill, Lon, Love, Ludd, Lugg, Lune, Lyd, Lyme,
Maize, Marske, Maun, Maw, Mease, Mite, Mint,
Moch, Mole, Mule, Muse.
Nar, Neath, Nene, Nent, Nidd, Now.
Ock, Ore, Ouse.
Pant, Plym, Pont, Pool.
Rains, Rase, Ray, Rea, Reed, Rhee, Rib, Rye.
Sark, Sense, Sheaf, Shreen, Sid, Skell, Skerne,
Smite, Soar, Sow, Stoke, Stort, Storn, Stour, Stroud,
Swale, Swift, Swill.
Taes, Taff, Tame, Tave, Tarve, Tay, Team, Tees,
Teign, Teme, Ter, Terme, Tern, Test, Teyse, Thame,
Thames, Thet, Thurn, Till, Tone. Torne, Tow, Trent,
Turch, Tweed, Tyne.
Warfe, Wear, Went, Were, Wey, Wick, Wiske,
Wreak, Wye, Wyre.
Yare, Yealm, Yeo.
A quiet tune, generally soft and musical, is being
ever sung by all these lovely streams, as they flow on
their happy way. Could their voices be heard, blended
in one, what a sound of many waters it would be!
One at least hears all at once, and the song they sing
is His praise. Would we could all learn a lesson
from these sweet English streams and do likewise!
THE UNLUCKY SLIPPERS.
From the Italian of Gozzi's â€˜ Oriental Tales.â€™
ee was once an old merchant of Bagdad,
named Abou Casen, who was famous for his
avarice. Although he was very rich, all the clothes
he wore were patched and mended in many places;
and his turban, made of coarse linen, was so greasy
and dirty that it was impossible to tell what its
original colour had been. But the most surprising
part of his costume, the things that deserved to be
the most noticed, were his slippers. The soles were
studded with large nails, the upper leather consisted of
a number of small pieces joined together, and for the
ten years that they had existed as slippers the most
ingenious cobblers of Bagdad had spent time and
skill in making the poor remnants hold together.
They had, therefore, become so heavy, that they grew
into a proverb; and whenever people wished to give an
idea of great weight, the slippers of Casen were
brought forward as a comparison.
market of the city, the purchase of a large amount of
It happened one Â°*
day, when Casen was passing through the public }
crystal was proposed to him, and as the offer was an -
advantageous one he at once closed with it.
Some days after, having heard that a ruined per- :
fumerâ€™s last hope lay in the sale of a quantity of
rose-water, he took advantage of the poor manâ€™s
misfortune and bought the rose-water at half its value.
These profitable transactions having put him into a
good humour, he thought it better, Instead of giving -.
a feast (as is the custom of Eastern merchants), to go
to the bath, where he had not been for a long time.
While he was undressing, one of his friends (or, at
least, a person believed by him to be such, for misers
rarely have friends) told him his slippers rendered Â©
him the talk of the whole city, and that he himself
would, in the end, be obliged to give him another pair.
â€˜It is quite time that I should think about it,
answered Casen: â€˜ but, after all, they are not so worn
that they cannot stillserve my purpose ;â€™ and so saying,
he finished undressing, and entered the bath. While
he was washing himself the Cadi of Bagdad also came
there to bathe. Then Casen, having made an end
of his ablutions, returned to the first room and put on
his garments; but vainly did he seek for his slippers. -
Instead of their being where he had left them, they
had got pushed away into some corner, and in their
place lay a pair of new ones. Whereupon our miser, |
quite believing that this was, what he would have
wished it to be, a gift from the person who had just
been admonishing him, put them on without more
ado, and, nearly beside himself with joy at being
spared the expense of buying others, he left the bath.
When the Cadi had finished bathing, his slaves
sought everywhere for their masterâ€™s slippers, but in
vain. They only succeeded in finding some filthy
ones, which were at once recognised: as Casenâ€™s. â€˜The
doorkeepers immediately ran after Casen, and he,
being deemed a thief, was taken as such, was led back
to the Cadi, and for this exchange of slippers sent to
prison. In order to escape out of the claws of justice |
he was obliged to open his purse pretty-widely, and
as he was held to be as rich a man as he was a
miserly one, you can easily believe he did not get off
very cheaply. The sorely afflicted Casen, on reaching
home, took his slippers, and flung them in a rage
into the Tigris, which flowed beneath his windows.
Some days after, when certain fishermen were
drawing up a net, they found it heavier than usual, |,
and lo! Casenâ€™s slippers were init; and, moreover, had -
torn the meshes of the net with the nails that decked
the soles. The fishermen, furious both with the miser :
and his slippers, thought to throw them back to him
by his open window. And being thrown by a vigorous
arm, the slippers fell back among the vials of rose- ;
water ranged along his shelves, so that the vials were
all broken, and the miserâ€™s recently purchased rose- .
water was lost.
And now imagine if you can Casenâ€™s grief at this, ,
loss; he began to pluck out his beard and ery aloud. |
â€˜O most fatal slippers!â€™ said-he, â€˜ye shall do me no -
more harm;â€™ and he took a spade and dug a hole in
his garden, intending to bury them for ever.
Now one of his neighbours, who, for a very long
time had borne him a grudge, saw him doing this,
and immediately ran to the Cadi to tell him that
Casen had dug up a treasure in his garden. It
needed nothing more to inflame the Cadiâ€™s covetous-
ness, and the miser might say as much as he liked
that he had not found anything, but had only meant
to bury his slippers, it was no good. The Cadi had
already counted on taking off a good handful of gold,
and the unhappy Casen only obtained his liberty
by the expenditure of a large sum of money. Our
miserly friend, rendered desperate, cursing the slippers
with all his might, went and flung them into an
aqueduct a good distance from the town. This
time, at least, he believed he was certain to hear
nothing more of them.
But it was not to be so; the slippers lodged in the
pipe, thus preventing the free passage of the water.
The superintendent of the aqueduct hastened to
search into the matter, and finding Casenâ€™s slippers,
he brought them to the governor, saying the miser
had caused all the mischief. The unlucky owner of
the old slippers was again put in prison, and fined
more heavily than before. The Cadi, after justice
had been done, scrupulously returned him his precious
property. Then Casen, in order once for all to free
himself from the disasters they had brought on him,
determined to burn them, and as they were thoroughly
soaked through, he exposed them to the rays of the
sun on the terrace of his house so that they might dry.
Fortune, however, had not yet ended all the injuries
she wished to inflict on him, but had kept the most
cruel for the last.
A dog, owned by some one living in the neighbour-
hood, caught sight of them, rushed down from his
masterâ€™s house to the place where they lay, snatched
one up in its mouth, and while playing with it let it
fall right on the head of a stout woman who was going
by. In consequence of the fright and blow, the woman
fell ill, the husband complained to the Cadi, and Casen
was condemned to pay a heavy fine for the harm done.
Thereupon Casen went away, and soon, carrying the
slippers in his hand, he came again before the Cadi.
â€˜Here,â€™ said he, with a fury that made the judge
laugh, â€˜ here is the fatal origin of all my troubles: these
slippers have reduced me to beggary. I entreat you
to have the goodness to pass an edict, so that the evils
these ill-omened things will certainly continue to
cause may no longer be imputed to me.
The Cadi could not refuse, and an edict was passed ;
but, as you have seen, only when Casen had learnt at
an enormous expense how great is the danger of
wearing one pair of slippers too long.
A SURGICAL SHOEMAKER.
FEW years ago, a Mrs. Mary Ann Boasley kept
Â£4 a shoemakerâ€™s shop at Brompton and Chatham.
Her handbill, .after proclaiming the excellency of
her stock, concluded as follows :â€”
â€˜Surgery performed upon old boots and shoes, by
adding feet, making good the legs, binding the
broken, healing the wounded, altering the constitu-
tion, and supporting the body with new soles. No
cure, no pay. Advice gratis in the most desperate
Tur following words can be made out of the
letters of the word Mediterranean :â€”
Ate deer meat nine remain
and dent meet nearer raid
ant dint mane neater red
aim deem mend need rind
at dram mad Ran remit
are dream mat rain Tan
air dart met rite teem
a dam mate â€˜ream team
an Eat mar ride tar
arm ear mite rim tear
am err mare rate time
aid ermine metre rant ten
â€œart edit made ranter train
anna(coin)errand mandate rein tide
Anne enter mete rat tire
Dane endear meed ram tier
dean . It martin rear tear
date ire meant rein-deer tare
dirt inn mitre read tin
drear in mere reader trim
dame inner mine render tie
darn inter mire rent trade
dear irate main rend tinder
drain idea Name rid tender
dare indent near retain tainted
deter Man nitre retainer tanner
dine manner net reed tired
determine mean neat retard tread
GENTLEMAN sold a large
flock of sheep to a dealer
which the latterwas not able
to drive home alone. The
seller, however, told him
that he had averyintelligent
dog, which he would send
toassist him, and that when
he reached the end of his
journey, about thirty miles
off, he had only to feed the
dog and tell him to go home.
The dog received his orders, and set off with the flock
and the drover ; but he was absent so many days that
his master began to have serious alarm about him,
when one morning, to his great surprise, he found his
dog returned with a very large flock of sheep, including
the whole that he had lately sold. The fact turned
out to be, that the drover was so pleased with the
dog that he resolved to steal him, and locked him up
till the time when he was to leave the country. The
dog made various attempts to escape, and one evening
he succeeded. Whether the dog had guessed the
droverâ€™s intention, and supposed that the sheep were
also stolen, it is difficult to say; but by his cunduct
it looked so, for he went to the field, collected the
sheep, and drove them all back to his own master.
s you are not worth their pay.â€ .
â€œCaw! Caw!â€ hear the birds s
â€˜Sleep, boy, all the day,
While we carry all the corn
Such folks a:
ERBâ€™S a pretty country fellow,
Set to frighten crows;
Serve him right: if one should come
And bite his sunburnt nose.
ETS, all sorts and sizes, cockatoos and monkeys,
Cats and dogs and magpies, guinea-pigs and
Birds as plain as Quakers, gay as powdered flunkeys,
Handsome pets and ugly, nasty pets and nice,
Lady, lord, and schoolboy, beggar, judge, and king,
Each and all, I warrant, has some petted thing.
Fattest of all spaniels, Dora sleeps on scarlet,
Wheezy, apoplectic, snappish, overgrown ;
Turns his nose at cold meatâ€”saucy little varlet !
Never knows the true bliss of fighting for a bone.
Drop a tear on Dora, found upon the mat,
Fairly killed by kindness, fairly dead of fat !
Tears too for a bullfinch, who could fling his magic,
Joyous and enchanting, from the golden cage ;
For, in red red letters, cruel Fate and tragic
Wrote a sad, sad Pâ€™inis on lifeâ€™s early page.
â€˜Twas the oft-told story of the open door,
And some little feathers on the parlour-floor !
Yet as we bewail thee, king of ail the finches,
Pets there are whoâ€™ve wished for such a bloody fate ;
Better die by headsman than by tardy inches.
Caged and hungry victim, pining, desolate,
Oft have eyes beseeching seemed, I think, to say,
â€˜Come, kind Death, Iâ€™m starving ; end my pangs, I
Feathered pets and hairy, rabbit and canary,
â€˜Tabby cat and rimgdoveâ€”pets of every kind,
Welcome to my garden, welcome to my dairy,
Welcome to a warm spot in a loving mind:
Little Mercy says it, you shall never pine,
E will thins of your wants ere I think of mine!
G. 8. O.
THE THREE SONS OF WILLIAM
Translated from the French.
y JILLIAM THE CONQUEROR was one day
in very depressed spirits. He therefore called
together his courtiers and said, â€˜I wish you to tell
me the destiny of my three sons after my death.â€™
The councillors deliberated together and decided
to ask a question of each of the three princes, who
were then little more than children. The first who
entered the room was Robert.
â€˜Good sir, said one of the councillors, â€˜ deign to
reply to this question. If God were pleased to make
you a bird, what bird would you wish to be?â€™ Robert
replied ; â€˜I would rather be a falcon, for that bird
most resembles a great and valiant cavalier.â€™
William Rufus entered next, and in reply to the
same question he said :â€”
â€˜I would like to be an eagle, for that is the
ee powerful bird, and is also king over all other
Next came Henry, the youngest of the three,
who was fond of study, and who was surnamed
He replied, â€˜I would like to be a starling, a
bird that is simple and good, and never harms
The councillors returned to the king and said ;
â€˜Robert will be hardy and valiant, and will acquire a
great name, but eventually he will be vanquished,
and will die in prison. William will be as powerful
as the eagle, but he will be hated by all for his
cruelty. He will lead an unhappy life, which will
terminate in a miserable death. Henry will live
happily ; he will be fond of peace. But notwith-
standing this, he will be dragged into war. He
will acquire great territories, and will make his name
illustrious, and in the end he will die a peaceful
William the Conqueror did not forget this pre-
diction at. his death-bed.-. He left Normandy to
Robert, England to William, and all the rest of his
earthly treasures to Henry, who in the end became
king of both countries,. and lived happily all his life-
time, and when he died was deeply lamented by his
subjects. P. HAILey.
STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN
By Rev. E. B. Tuttle, U. S. Army.
THE INDIANS COME FROM?
HE origin of the native
American Indians has puz-
zled the wisest heads.
The most plausible theory
seems to be that they are
one of the lost tribes of
Israel ; that they crossed a
narrow frith from the con-
fines of Asia; and that their
traditions, it is said, go far
to prove it.
For instance, the Sioux
tell us that they were, many moons ago, set upon by
a race larger in number than they, and were driven
from the north in great fear, till they came to the
banks of the North Platte, and finding the river
swollen up to its banks, they were stopped there,
with all their women, children, and horses. The
enemy was pursuing, and their hearts grew white
with fear. They made an offering to the Great Spirit,
and he -blew a wind. into the water, so as. to open a
path on the bed of the river, and thev all went over
in safety, and the waters, closing up, left their
enemies on the other side. This, probably, is derived
from a tradition of their forefathers, coming down te
them from the passing of the children of Israel
â€˜through the Red Sea.
Elias Boudinot, many years ago, and a minister in
Vermont also, published books to show that the
American Indians were a portion of the lost tribes,
from resemblances between their religious customs and
those of the Israelites. Later still, a converted Jew
named Simon, undertook to identify the ancient South
American races, Mexicans, Peruvians, &c., as descen-
dants.of.ancient-Israel, from similarity. of language
and of civil and religious customs. These authors
have taken as their starting-point the resolution which,
Esdras informs us (in the Apocrypha), the ten tribes
took after being first placed in the cities of the Medes,
viz.,that they woul leave the multitude of the heathen
and go into a land wherein never mankind dwelt, that
they might there keep their laws,which God gave them;
and they suppose that, in pursuance of this resolution,
the tribes continued into a north-easterly direction
until they came to Behring Straits, which they crossed,
and set foot on this continent, spreading over it from
north to south, until, at the discovery of it by Colum-
bus, they had peopled every part. It must be admitted
that this theory is very plausible, and that if our
Indians are not the descendants of the lost tribes of
Israel, they show by their traditions and customs a
knowledge-of the ancient religion, such as calling the
Great Spirit Yo-he-wah, the Jehovah of the Scrip-
tures, and in many festivals corresponding to the
Mosaic law.* The country to which the ten tribes,
in a journey of a year and a half, would arrive, from
the river Euphrctes, east, would be somewhere ad-
joining Tartary, and intercourse between the two races
would easily lead to the adoption of the religious
ideas and customs of the one by the other.
The gipsy tribes came from Tartary, and in my
intercourse with these wandering people, I found
they had a custom somewhat like our Indiansâ€™ practice,
in removing from place to place. For instance, the
gipsies, when they leave a part of their company to
follow them, fix leaves in such wise as to direct their
friends to follow in their course. This is called
â€˜ patteranâ€™ in Romany or gipsy language. And the
Indian cuts a notch in a tree as he passes through a
forest, or places stones in the plains in such a way as
to show in what direction he has gone. An officer
saw a large stone, upon which an Indian had drawn
the figure of a soldier on horseback, to indicate to
others which way the soldiers had gone.
Origin of Evil.â€”They have a tradition handed down
that the Great Spirit said they might eat of all the
animals he had made, except the beaver. But some
bad Indians went and killed a beaver, and the Great
Spirit was angry and said they must all die. But
after awhile he became willing that Indians should
kill and eat them, so the beaver is hunted for his
skin, and his meat is eaten as often as he suffers him-
self to be caught.
A BRAVE BOY.
WueEn the railroad had been built as far as Plum
Creek, 230 miles west of Omaha, in 1866, the track-
layers saw a lot of Indians coming toward them from
over the bluffs; and the poor Irishmen, dreading
nothing so much as the sight of a red-skin, at once
took to their heels to hide from the foe. Along with
these men were needed covered waggons, with which
they carried tools, &c., and in which at night they
slept. in one of them a boy was sitting, about twelve
er fourteen years of age. He saw nothing of the
stampede of workmen, but soon was aroused by the
yell of the Indians. He seized a Spencer rifle lying
close by him, and, putting the muzzle through a slit
of the canvas cover, took good aim at the foremost
Indian, and when within a few yards, he shot off his
rifle and felled him to the ground. Another rode up,
and met the same fate. Several then rushed up and
dragged off the bodies ofthe two Indians slain, and
all at once made a quick retreat!
The Indians seeing several waggons there, supposed
each one contained armed soldiers or men; and they
were quick to see that the white manâ€™s skill was more
than their bows and arrows. And yet there was only
that brave little fellow, who saved the whole â€˜ outfi,?
and whose name ought to be recorded asa true hero.
AN INDIAN MEAL.
Boys would be surprised to see how much an
Indian can eat at a single meal. A â€˜ big chiefâ€™ can
eat a whole goose or turkey at one sitting. The
Indians eat right along, till they have gorged: them-
selves and can eatno more. Perhapsit is because they
seldom get what is called â€˜a square meal,â€™ and so when
plenty offers they make the most of it. One day, four
chiefs of the Ar-ap-a-hoe tribe came to Fort Russell,to
see about getting rations for three hundred of their
tribe. They soon found their way to the commanding
officer at headquarters. He gave each onea cigar,
which they puffed away at for some time. At last
one of them made a motion to his mouth, signifying
they were â€˜hungry.â€™ Nearly all the tribes of wild
Indians convey their ideas more by signs than by
words. But the general would not take the hint.
He said if he fed them once, they would come every
day. A lady, however, took pity on them, and said
to me: â€˜ Let us make contributions from each family,
and give the poor fellows something to eat.â€™ Some
brought meat, some biscuit and bread, and I made
them some coffee, after inviting them to come into
my yard. The children, boys and girls, assembled to
see the four chiefs sitting around the table in the
yard devour the food we had prepared for them.
There was no milk in the coffee, but I knew
Indians were not used to it, and all things being ready,
the coffee hot and the bacon smoking and smelling
savoury, I expected they would fall to and eat like
good fellows. But I was surprised that one of them
looked at the pail of coffee and gave a grunt of dis-
approbation. I supposed from what I had heard that
an Indian would drink coffee, swallowing the grounds
and all. But on a close look, I discovered about a
dozen flies were floating on top. I took a spoon and
removed them, and tasting it myself, passed it round
to each one in a bowl; and this time they gave an-
other grunt,â€”but it was one of approbation. The
ate and ate till we thought theyâ€™d split, and then
asked permission to carry off in a bag what they
could not stow away in their capacious stomachs !
An Indian seldom shows any signs of joy or of
sorrow in any emotion whatever. But when they
meet a white friend, or are surprised at anything,
they exclaim, â€˜How! How!â€™ and shake hands all
An Indian trader told me at North Platte some
anecdotes of their characteristics. They are all very
fond of sugar, and very fond of whisky. They will
often sell a buffalo robe for a bow] of sugar. and at
NDA 224 eS
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: An Indian Meal.
squaw to get a lump of sugar out of her mouth which
he coveted; and a storekeeper at Julesburg (Mr.
Pease) said he sold a big pup to an Indian for a robe,
and the Indian seized the dog, cut bis throat, and,
soon as dead, threw the pup into a kettle to boil up
any time would give a pony for a gallon of rye or
He told me that he once saw an Indian choke a |
yp le Ct
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Lis xs A
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THE MOUNTAIN STREAM.
(MOSHE ear of man can scarce discern
op My tinkle in the feathery fern, :
When from a sunless grot I spring,
And bubble out, a baby thing.
. Yet have I smallest of the small,
Rapid, and cataract, and ull;
While now and then a neighbour hill
Sends to my arms a sisterâ€™rill,
No more a little moorland thread,
Deeper and wider prows my bed:
J name a dell, â€™m dubbed a brook,
Thave a place 12 map and book.
As ever on,and on I flow,
The dark hills fade, my banks are low;
And miles away, on either side,
Stretch the green meadows flat and wide.
Now, black with many a mill and drain,
I would I were a child again,
And might to my old home return,
Among the mosses and the fern.
Vain such regretsâ€”it may not be;
I must flow onward to the sea,
And find, in his tumultnous brine,
A purity no longer mine.
My race complete, I shall arise,
And float a cioud-wreath in the skies 3
Then melt in dew, or rushing rain,
And be a mountain rill again.
G. 8. 0.
ae eee geese eA a nt Ps =
nerf ta Tbe net pn Sy ee ern ne pppoe phe
A CURIOUS FACT.
ANY years ago a friend of my fatherâ€™s built
i a country house, which he fitted up and fur-
nished according to his own taste. To accomplish
this, he caused to be brought from Italy a piece of
pure white marble, out of which a mantel-piece was
constructed for his own particular sitting-room. The
mantel-piece was of singularly pure marble, in one
block, and free from flaw save in one part. Shortly
after its erection the owner of the house noticed a
small, damp-looking stain, no bigger than the nail
of his little finger, in the very centre of the mantel-
piece. This, however, was so slight a blemish that
it did not trouble him, till, as months and years
went by, it became evident that the mark slowly but
surely increased in size. After twenty years it had
increased to the size of the palm of his hand. Ma-
sons were sent for, and desired to take down the
marble and break it in two, so as to disclose the
mystery. This was done, and, to the amazement of
all, out hopped an enormous toad ! H. A. F.
WILLIAM RUFUS AND THE
HILE William I. of England, . commonly
called Rufus, was waging war against his
brother Henry, whom he held in close siege in the
strong castle of Mount St. Nicholas, William saw
his men recoil before a desperate sally of the be-
He dashed, single-handed, into a dense
body of the enemy, dealing right and left the blows
which never fell from his vigorous arm in vain. But
though his valor and skill saved him, his horse was
mortally wounded. The stricken steed plunged,
and threw the King from â€˜his saddle, dragging him
along on the ground till it at last sank to the earth
beside the bruised monarch. Before he could rise, a
soldier sprang upon him, his sword raised to strike.
â€œ Fellow,â€ cried the now terrified William, â€œI am
the King of .England! â€
The soldier drew back among his comrades; and
Williamâ€™s party, at the sound of his well-known
voice, brought another horse.
William leaped into the saddle, and, glancing
around with flashing eyes, cried out, â€”
â€œ Where is he that unhorsed me ? â€
â€œHere Iam!â€ exclaimed one; â€œ but I took you
for a knight, and not for a king.â€ .
The monarchâ€™s features softened into a smile, and
he bade the man follow him, to obtain in his service
the reward he deserved.
THH BROKEN VASE.
OW, Susie, will you confess to breaking
the vase?â€ So spake Aunt Mary;
and this is what Susie answered, â€”
â€œâ€˜No, Aunt Mary, I canâ€™t, because
: I didnâ€™t do it.â€
ee â€œWell, then, if you persist. in your
denial, I forbid your going to the hayfield with the
rest; and, as there will be no lessons, Â¢o into the
kitchen, and make yourself useful by. paring the
potatoes for dinner.â€
Not to go to the hayfield with the rest, when she
and her cousins had been dwelling for days upon
the long, bright, hay-making holiday, when there
was a picnic dinner â€” ay, and a tea likewise â€” to be
eaten out there! And this punishment was to fall
upon her for nothing, -â€” simply nothing, for she had
not broken the vase; and Uncle Ben was not there
to plead for her, â€” Uncle Ben, who, fresh from
college, had come to spend a long vacation at his
brotherâ€™s house, and had brought the first pay of
sunshine that had gladdened the childâ€™s heart since
that sad, sad day when her father had sailed for
Africa. Poor little, lonely waif, whom nobody in
the house except Uncle Ben understood, and he was
far away! She went to the open window, and burst
into bitter sobs and tears.
â€œPapa, papa, come to me!â€ she cried, stretching â€”
out her hands in her passionate sorrow. â€œO
Uncle Ben, Uncle Ben, come to me!â€ But the
one was in Africa; the other miles away, fishing with
a friend: they could not help her. The sweet
summer sounds stole into the room, the sunshine
laughed, the birds sang ; that was all.
The door opened for the second time, and a bright-
eyed boy of eleven put his head in.
â€œT say, Susie, say you did it,â€ was his speech,
remarkable for its poverty of words; he, the while,
looking aghast at her tears.
â€œTcanâ€™t, Harry, and I wonâ€™t; let me alone!â€
cried sobbing Susie. â€œTI didnâ€™t do it, and I won't
say I did.â€
â€œThen you'll lose all the jolly fun in the hay-
â€œT donâ€™t care!â€ O Susie!
â€œWell, I do; I donâ€™t like to think of your being
cooped up here in Coventry when three little words
would set you free,â€ spoke the boy, in real concern.
â€œBut, Harry, *twould be a mean lie; I won't \
say it.â€ All the birds, bees, flies, and gnats seemed â€˜
to say, as well as they could, â€œ Hurrah!â€ to this.
â€œ Well, so it would; but mamma wonâ€™t set you |
free without, because she thinks you did it.â€
Susie made no reply; so Harry, the tempter,
sadly shut the door, and ran out through the hall
into the sunshine, fo!lowed by Fred, Ned, Willie,
and Allie, leaping like troutlets in a pool, and
shouting till the echoes answered them. Susie
heard them, and sobbed on. Again the door
â€œMiss Susic, your aunt says, will you go into
the kitchen and begin the potatoes? They are
_ It was Janeâ€™s voice. Jane was doing her own
and the housemaidâ€™s work this week, so she had no
time to waste. Rebellion was busy in Susieâ€™s heart ; â€
she had half a mind not to go, but that second
thought, whatever 1Â¢ was, decided her, â€” she went.
There in the kitchen was her apron, and there
were the potatoes â€” oh, such a quantity ! â€” and they
were to be eaten in the sunshine, while she was to
be a prisoner, a slave. to pare them all. She sat
down, and began; but the knife went slowly, very
i Ae 2
ae ///// Wwe
By the Author of â€˜ Earth's many Voices.â€™
A boat glides pleasantly ;
No storms to toss, no shoals to strand,
It passes smoothly by.
G io fair mid-stream, oâ€™er waters clear,
So smoothly that it scarcely breaks
The shadow of the trees;
And in the boat is one who rows,
And some who sit at ease.
Now read in this a parable,
How God ordains our lives ;
How this, the life of ease, fits in
With that which toils and strives.
For were there none to sit at ease,
Whoâ€™d ply the oar, I pray ?
And were there none to ply the oar,
Who could take holiday ?
N = ae ee
PAS I was going through a field of wheat,
I picked up something good to eat:
"T'was neither tish, flesh, feather nor bone,
I kept it till it ran alone.
THE REPLY 1sâ€”HeEnâ€™s Kee.
KING JAMES THE FIRST.
Â© HIS king was the son of the unhappy
Mary, Queen of Scots, and Lord
Darnley. He was born in Edin-
burgh Castle. His father was
murdered before he was a year old,
and before he was two years of age
Lo he had bÃ©come a crowned king.
& James was always fond of favour-
ites. His first pet he made the
Duke of Lennox; his second be-
came Earl of Arran. These men,
like all such favourites, grew proud and insolent,
and ruled Scotland. â€˜The Raid of Ruthven,â€™ as it is
called, threw Arran into prison, sent Lennox to
France, and made the youthful king a sort of
prisoner. But James soon escaped, and then the
tables were turned. Arran was set free, and Gowrie,
though he had been pardoned, was sent to the block.
When he came to manâ€™s estate James lost his
mother, Queen Mary, who, after twenty years of
imprisonment, was executed. About two years after
this the king went to Norway, and there married
Anne, a Denmark Princess. She was the mother
of the unfortunate Charles the First.
When Elizabeth died James became King of Eng-
land. Some, however, including the famous Sir
Walter Raleigh, wished the Lady Arabella Stuart to
be the sovereign. Sir Walter nearly lost his head
then for the share he had taken in this matter, and
he did lose it some years after, as a sacrifice to the
King of Spain, and to the deep disgrace of James.
When James came to England he knighted almost
every one he met. No less than forty-five persons
were knighted at Belvoir Castle. In three monthsâ€™
time he had knighted seven hundred.
This son of a graceful mother was slovenly and
awkward. His goggle eyes rolled about, and his
legs seemed too weak for his body. He was indolent
and easy, more fond of lying in bed than of doing
kingly business, very extravagant, and always in
need of money. This led him to sell titles and the
high posts of State to those who offered the most
money for them. He did not thus choose the best
men for posts of honour and usefulness, but those
who would pay the most. No wonder many evils
throve and many people were discontented !
James is said â€˜to have divided his time between
his inkstand, his bottle, and his hunting.â€™
As to the first, he was a good scholar, and fond of
disputing, and showing his learning before great
divines. â€˜Did not I pepper them?â€™ said he once,
when he thought he had the best of it.
As to his bottle, we fear he did drink more wine
than was good for him, and most likely he shortened
his days thereby. Once he and his brother-in-law,
the King of Denmark, were unkingly enough to get
drunk, and were carried to bed.
As for hunting, it was Jamesâ€™s passion, which many
tumbles from his horse could not stop. Once he was
pitched right into the New River, and nothing of him
but his boots were seen. He had a dog named Jowler,
who was lost one day, and the king knew no happi-
ness till Jowler came back. Hunter-like, James
,used to dress in colours as green as grass, with a
little feather in his cap, and a horn instead of a
sword. He never could abide the sight of a sword.
Ilis extravagance and his love of favourites were
his chief faults. These wretched men rose to wealth,
and power, and rank, one after the other, and dis-
gusted the nation.
Now it was Ramsay, who had stabbed the Earl of
Gowrie at the time of the Gowrie plot. Now it was
Herbert, made Earl of Montgomery, but, unlike all
Herberts, a coward. His mother, Philip Sydneyâ€™s
sister, tore her hair when she heard that her son was
Soon after the handsome Robert Carr had the
good luck to break his leg close by the king. This
accident made his fortune. â€˜The king would lean on
his arm, and pinch his cheek in playful fondness, and
gave him his heartâ€™s desire, and more. The lucky
youth became Viscount of Rochester and Earl of
Somerset, and thenâ€”such is the vanity of all earthly
thingsâ€”he and his wile fell into disgrace, and were
seen no more at Court. ;
After this George Villiers, a new favourite, rose
up, and, in course of time, became a duke, but
never managed to become a gentleman. He was a
fine dancer, and wore great diamond buttons on his
coat and strings of pearls dangling about him. A
writer of the time says, â€˜No man dances better, and
no man jumps better: indeed, he jumpt higher than
ever Englishman did in so short a time.â€ ven his
mother, â€˜the old Countess,â€™ was in such favour that
she grew rich by getting people into all sorts of offices
in army, navy, or church.
The proud king allowed Buckingham to be very
familiar with him. He used to write letters to James
beginning, â€˜My dear dad and gossip,â€™ and ending,
â€˜Your humble slave and dog, Steenie.â€™ :
Buckingham, too, would wear his hat when the
Prince of Wales took his off, and he would call the
Prince all sorts of ridiculous nick-names.
When the Prince Charles and the Duke went to
Spain to get the Prince a wife, Buckingham insulted _
some of the Spanish grandees, and the match never
came off. Charles returned wifeless, but he brought
home a beard and many presents, some of which
were described by Buckingham, like an over-grown
schoolboy, as â€˜four asses, two heâ€™s and two sheâ€™s ;
five camels, two heâ€™s and two sheâ€™s, and a young one;
and one elephant, which is worth your secing.â€™
This favourite, always courageous and ready-
witted, and sometimes able to da a noble action,
came to a fearful end, being stabbed at Portsmouth
about three years after his master was dead.
When the Spanish match came to nothing, James
cast his eyes on Henrietta Maria, sister of the
Trench king, as a suitable wife for his son, Prince
sett EGP aac
An ague, or
LL f oN
agree to th
fore Henrietta Maria
carried him off.
James had promised many
Pee RTEY gee EE!
a gap melon om a prt rere ed aon ie an a a ip SCP es GERRI oa eae
HE moment she arrived her cousins fell in love
with her, from Frederick, the eldest of the ten,
nearly twenty-one, to Lisabee, the tiny mite of four,
who cried â€˜Pretty! pretty!â€™ to Evaâ€™s fair hair and
light blue dress.
Cousin Eva was so fair, so gracious, so winning,
who could help but love heâ€™ ? And then she was an
orphanâ€”motherless and aatherless from babyhood.
Kind Aunt Farington kissed her-with-tears in her
eyes, and murmured how glad she was that school
days were over, and that now she could feel as if
Eva were really one of her daughters. Aunt Far-
ington had already seven, pleasant-looking, intel-
ligent girls of her own, but without Evaâ€™s beauty and
without her thousand a-yeavr.
For some time Cousin Eva maintained her popu-
larity among her young cousins, but by degrees their
Lisabee deserted her cousin first; Eva had gently
/put-her off her knee. when. she-was. dressed in her
best clothes, and Lisabee, who liked the feel as well
as the look of silk and velvet, resented this. The
spoiled darling complained to sister Mabel that Eva
was not â€˜as nice as her hair and eyes.â€™
Then a blunt little maid of eleven, entitled Robina,
found out that Cousin Eva was a tiny bit selfishâ€”
as was plain one day when she would make mother
drive to town though she was so tired !
But the boys clung to their idol still, and main-
tained that beautiful Eva was as fair and sweet as
her name, and that the girls were jealous and fault-
, Alas! they were only too keen-sighted, for Eva
Vere was selfish, self-willed, and self-loving.
Brought up at school, without relaticns, richer
and fairer than all the other girls, she had been made
a sort of queen among them, without exciting or re-
quiring love. .She could well do without it; she
thought health, money, and beauty, were enough for
her. She pitied her eldest cousin Grace, that she had
three little sisters to teach and look after, instead of
thinking only of the fÃ©te or the dance of the next
day. Eva went to all the gaieties of the neighbour-
hood. Kind Mrs. Farington took her everywhere;
but Grace, Mabel, and Adela, had to take it in turns
to accompany her.
â€˜We are so many, you see,â€™ said Gracie; but when
Eva said sweetly, â€˜Yes, dear: what a pity!â€™ Gracie
laughed and answered, â€˜Oh, but not one too many.â€™
Then Eva stared a little. She could not understand
unselfish family affection. She so much preferred
her solitary condition, with a thousand a year, to
Gracieâ€™s, surrounded by clamoreus young sisters,
and dressing on twenty-five pounds a-year.
But still the boys could not see beneath the beau-
tiful, smooth surface ; and even the mother thought
Eyaâ€™s faults not so grave as Robbie imaginedâ€”
Robbie who was young, and had an unwavering
standard of goodness for grown-up people.
The shock, therefore, to them when they had a
glimpse into Evaâ€™s real nature was very great.
It came in this wise. A certain Mr. Hillier in the
neighbourhood took great notice of pretty Eva; but
as he was a wild young fellow, not much known to
Mr. Farington, her guardian felt it right to put a
stop to the intimacy. Aunt Farington spoke very
gently to Eva, and the girl kissed her aunt and pro-
mised to think of what she said. Next morning,
however, Cousin Eva was missing, and a little in-
quiry established the fact that she had flown with
Mr. Hillier to Paris, where they were shortly
Then Frederick and Gerald were loud in their
condemnation of the â€˜ deceitful thing,â€™ so fair without,
80 hollow within.
Eva, however, was not a whit disturbed by the re-
proving letters of her uncle and aunt. Her fortune
could not be taken from her, and as a married
woman in Paris her life was far gayer than in the
country-house at Maylands. She thought that she
would never miss her cousins, nor need the love she
had so carelessly cast from her. And for a while
this seemed true. George Hillier was really fond of
her, though he squandered her money in all possible
ways, winding up at last by permanently settling
down where he could spend his life at the gambling-
table. Eva did not like that, and for the first time
her fair face was clouded by the fear of a shadow
which she could not get rid of.
Troubles now came thickly: a baby was born; she
was long ill; and then her husband fell ill, lingered
some months and died, all in that far-away corner of
Germany. He had grieved in his dying hours over
his wasted life, and the trouble he had brought on
Eva, advising her to go tc her aunt and uncle, who
were good people, and would take her back, he felt
Eva did go to England, with her diminished
fortune and her baby, but not to Maylands.
She was too proud, and as yet she could do with-
out them; though George was gone, she had her
And love for that was already softening Evaâ€™s
Mrs. Hillier took a house. in London, and resolved
to live for herself and baby.
When one day, however, baby fell ill of croup,
and the doctor despaired of its life, she was nearly
frantic, and in her agony she telegraphed to May-
lands. â€˜Oh, do come to me, my baby is dying!â€™
And next day, when baby was a shade better,
and the doctor came for his second visit that day, |
Mabel Farington crept in behind him, looking so
ready for loving help, with her hat thrown down in
the hall, that Eva at once put the child out of her
tired arms into the fresh, young, strong ones, and
threw herself on the bed in an agony of grief.
Mabel let her cry a little, and then, when nurse
took baby, she coaxed Eva into letting her undress
her and put herto bed, where she soon fell asleep,
quite worn out.
On waking, Mabel had tea and more petting for
her; the poor woeful thing in widowâ€™s weeds had
roused her deepest pity.
Eva was surprised and touched by loving words
and looks. â€˜How can you love me?â€™ she asked. â€˜I
behaved so badly to you all; even George said so
before he died.â€™
â€˜Never mind that,â€™ said Mabel; â€˜it is forgotten;
you are our own Cousin Eva now, and you must
come back to us; mother wishes you. She would
have come too, after the telegram, but she was ill of :
bronchitis, and Gracie could not leave, so I came.â€™
â€˜But I have lost nearly all my money,â€™ Eva said,
Mabel laid her face against hers, and whispered,
â€˜Darling, you have better than money now; you have
love in your heart, and you will still have baby.â€™
So, when that little treasure was better, Eva gave
up her house in town and went down to Maylands;
not the fair, sweet girl of two years back, her beauty
faded, her riches vanished, but less selfish, less self-
â€˜The cousins gathered, however, even more closely
around her, and Lisabee was not now pushed away ;
she might tumble the new crape and the fresh ruffles
without rebuke, for Eva had learned to value and
desire loveâ€”the love of her fellow-creatures and the
love of God. The two hang very closely together in
this world of ours. _ H. A.
UP A MOUNTAIN.
T was ona fiftie July: morning that a
party of four left Glasgow for a trip
to Ben Lomond. We were anxious
to reach the summit of that famous
hill, and we found. that if nothing
untoward happened we could make
a hurried visit to the top, and find
_ our way to our friendâ€™s house on the
other side of the Firth before sun-
set. We drove to the station, and
got booked for Rowardennan, a place at the very foot
of the mountain. â€”
Rowardennan! It struck us all as a. beautiful
name; but what it means we did not discover. The
train stopped a minute or so at Dumbarton, and from
the window of our carriage we had an excellent view
of the peak we were going to climb. A cloud capped
his summit, but it did not seem inclined to tarry
there. In fact, ere we reached Balloch the cloud
was gone. wus
Balloch is at the southern end of the lake, and
â€˜boasts a small railway-terminus andâ€˜a piÃ©r.â€ Here
we left the train,.and stepped on board the Prince
of Wales, and soon we were churning the waters -
a = PGP? APS0 State Rites
of the lovely lake, with our bowsprit to the purple
mountains. We sailed by many a fairy island, fringed
to the waterâ€™s edge with rich foliage. We touched
. at one or two little piers, and long ere we were
weary of our voyage we stopped at Rowardennan.
So little stir was made that we were nearly missing
our chance of getting ashore. We had a sort of
notion that everyone 6n board had come to climb
Ben Lomond. But the fact was, not more than six
or seven passengers left the steamer.
Our first object was to find the inn, order some
dinner, and secure a guide. It was now a quarter-
past ten, and the boat called again at twenty-five
minutes past two. The answers of the landlord to
our questions were not very favourable. The walk
would take us five hours; and all the guides were
engaged. But, said our obliging friend, a lady and
gentleman are going up directly, and you can travel
with them if you like. So saying, he pointed to two
ponies which were standing at the door. We ob-
jected to this suggestion, for if we went with them
we should have to submit to their time and so lose
the steamer. The landlord then cast his weather-
eye over the heavens, and declared there would be
no mists, and his head-waiter assured us that nothing
could be plainer or easier than the ascent of Ben
Lomond in a fair day. So we determined to make
our way up and down by ourselves.
The head-waiter walked with us about one hundred
yards, and left us with very brief directionsâ€”â€˜ Go
tothe left of yonder rockâ€”keep on that long ridge
â€”then climb the summit.â€™â€™ We thank him and start.
Figures of tourists, bound for the top, are moving
before us half-a-mile ahead. We scramble up a
thorough mountain road, under no highway-board,
depend upon it; now it is a brook almost (for the
previous night has been very rainy), and we
skip from stepping-stone to stepping-stone; now we
stride from heather to heather; now we are on soft,
elastic mosses, and now in dark-brown peat. â€˜The
day is cloudy and cool, and there is a good deal of
wind, but we grow warm with the exercise. The
zeal of the youngsters carries them well to the
front. The elder, more cunning, or less capable,
is generally in the rear. By-and-by the ponies
which stood at the hotel-door are seen below, and
soon we are overtaken. We donâ€™t feel ashamed,
for the ponies have four legs to our two, and the gilly
is a Highlander, and has been climbing Ben Lomond
ever since he was born.
Directly the gentleman gets abreast of us, he says,
leaping off his pony, â€˜Now, will not some of your
party have a ride? Iam almost ashamed of being
on a ponyâ€™s back, but my doctor insists on it.â€™ We
thank him for his offer, and one of our party is soon
in the saddle. I find our acquaintance is a London
clergyman, overdone with the cares of a great
Kast-end parish, and trying to regain health in the
As we move onward, chatting pleasantly, we fiid
we have surmounted the tirst part of our journey,
and are standing on an easy, sloping shoulder of
the mountain. â€˜he ascent now is not nearly so fa-
tiguing, but beyond we see the cone swelling abruptly
upward, about another thousand feet. The clergy-
man has become weary of our snailâ€™s pace, and is a
good way ahead, zig-zagging up the peak, while
another party, still further in advance and near the
top, look like black specks against the sky. Now
we are on the steep side, passing among a vast
litter of stony fragments, but on a better and drier
path than that we trod below. We pass by a few
mountain sheep, nibbling the sweet grass peacefully.
We now look on our right hand and see a wide ex-
panse of country. Loch Ard and Loch Menteith
are at our feet, and our eyes travel over Stirling and
Falkirk to the Firth of Forth. The path improves
as we near the summit, and we find no danger what-
ever so long as we keep to it. :
The mountain seems to have two summits, whic
appear like one at a distance. As we look back from
the higher one, we see an almost sheer precipice on
the north slope of the lower one. It is not the sort
of place one would like to wander near in a bewildered
state of mind. It looks as if'a false step there might
send you to immediate destruction.
About half-past twelve we stood on the top of Ben
Lomond, and all the world seemed lying at our feet.
Turning south, we could see the beautiful Isle of
Arran, the Mull of Cantire, the Irish Sea (and Ire-
land, too, were it a thought clearer); in the north,
the view seemed nothing but peaksâ€”a sea of peaks.
Of course, immediately beneath us were many sweet
valleys and lochs, notably Loch Katrine, on which a
steamer was plainly visible; but the impression left
on the mind was mountain-tops.
The clergyman refreshed us with a peep through
his glass, and gave us some excellent French choco-
late. The guide pointed out hills; but being a youth,
I doubt whether his information was correct in every
instance. J feel confident the mountain he called
Ben Nevis was one of the Cairngorm peaks. But
it did not much matter, â€˜A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet,â€™ and the host of towering Bens
looked grand enough whatever their names might be.
In a quarter of an hour, or less, we had to descend,
having no time to lose for our walk and our dinner.
In one sense it is easier descending than ascending ;
but a descent at rather more than four miles an hour
has its disadvantages, especially to the knees. Once
~we wandered from the road, which in some places is
harder to hit in going down; but as the day con-
tinued very clear we had no difficulty in finding our
way to the loch side, and reached our inn at two
Knowing a little what mountains are, I had
brought with me a pair of clean stockings and shoes
for each, and very grateful were our wet feet for
We snatched a hasty meal, and had barely ap-
peased our appetite when in popped the waiterâ€™s head
with, â€˜Five minutes to the arrival of the steamer!â€™
So we said good-bye to Rowardennan and were
borne away by the steamer, whose easy couches
were duly appreciated after a twelve-milesâ€™ walk
on the hills.
There we had leisure to digest the many charms
we had seen; and we had but one cause for vexa-
tion, namely, the short time we could afford for
making acquaintance with a lake so beautiful and
a mountain so worthy of being climbed. G. S. O.
\ MWY GG Â¥' '' wee A
. we _
Janet showing the Brooch to Uncle William.
pee abe he ek be ad iia on a
â€˜Ler it be one of your chief objects in life to gain
a sincere friend. Friendly sympathy increases every
joy and lessens every painâ€™
A TALE OF MYSTERY.
H, Uncle William, 1am glad to see you to-day;
I am in a perplexity,â€™ said Janet Underwood,
the young motherless and sisterless head of the
â€˜household at the Brae.
â€˜Not about these gay toys? you have never been
running up a bill at the jewellerâ€™s?â€™ said Uncle
William, smiling, as he glanced at a box on the
table, velvet-lined and glittering with the sparkling
trifles within it.
â€˜Oh, no!â€™ said Janet, hastily: â€˜they came to-day
from poor old Cousin Allan. Remembrances for all
of us, from his dead wife. It was good of him
to think of us. This brooch is forme. It looks very
valuable. There are studs and pins for the boys.
But it was not about them I wanted to speak, but
about the housemaid, Bridgetâ€”you know her, the
girl I took out of that terribly poor cottage in Town
Lane. She comes of a bad lot; but she did so beg
me to try her, that I let her come.â€™
â€˜ And now she turns out unsatisfactory ?â€™ suggested
Unele Will, the family counsellor,
â€˜Not a bit; she is industrious and quiet, returned â€”
Janet: â€˜but Brother Angus is vexed that I have
taken a girl from such a bad home; he does not
think she will ever do; and Roy and Johnnie
tease me about her, and bring home all sorts of tales
about the misdeeds of her father and brothers.â€™
â€˜School-boy chatter,â€™ said Uncle Will, â€˜and love
of teasing Mistress Janet. But I am sorry Angus
| | I
is disturbed in his mind. When does he come home,
â€˜Not for ten days longer, said Janet. â€˜Ought I
. tosend Bridget home? It seems so hard on her, if
she is really a good girl.â€™
â€˜Write again to Angus, and say you already have
the girl in the house; but if he seriously objects to
her, you will dismiss her. I will see that she does
- not suffer for it,â€™ said Uncle Will.
â€˜Oh, thank you! you always set me right in my
worries,â€™ said Janet, gratefully.
And then Uncle Will quietly went home again to
his bachelor lodgings. He was of too retiring a
nature to do as Angus and Janet wished, take up his
abode with them altogether; he always said that he
preferred his steady old landlady to the lively young
folk: but all the same he was ready in any difficulty
to help the orphan household.
For there was neither father nor mother at the
Brae, only Janet and the boys; though Angus, the
oldest, was twenty-two, and practising as a solicitor
in the town. He was fond of Janet, and thought
her a good housekeeper, but by virtue of his two
yearsâ€™ seniority he felt himself authorised now and
then to advise on domestic affairs. :
He was now on a fortnightâ€™s visit to London, a
rare treat for the young Scotchman.
Janet wrote her letter to him, and then forgot her
troubles. Bridget was certainly a hard-working girl,
and evidently anxious to please. _ It was no use fore-
seeing calamitics that might never befall the house-
hold. But, alas for poor Janet! trouble did come of
that hasty engagement of Bridget Morne, and in
such a serious form that there was no glossing it
A tea-party at Red-howe, the large house on the
hill, was in prospect, and Janet and the boys were to
go. It was a grand affair. Janetâ€™s white muslin
was to figure at it, and all her small ornaments.
Cousin Allanâ€™s brooch, too; that might be worn.
Indeed the boys insisted on it; though Janet hesi-
tated and talked of its being too fine for her.
â€˜There, put it on. I wonâ€™t take you without it,â€™
said Roy, with a grand assumption of manly dignity.
So Janet went upstairs, but only to return looking
â€˜scared and flurried.
â€˜Which of you boys has hid my brooch?â€™ she
asked, anxiously; â€˜it was in the jewel-case. I
showed it to Uncle Will just before I locked it up.â€™
But Roy and Johnnie were guiltless this time.
Fond of fun and mischief as they were, they would
not have played practical jokes in so serious a
They rushed upstairs to search the box; they
turned Janetâ€™s neat room upside down; but no, not
a trace of the brooch could be found. It had dis-
appeared, case and all.
It was a mystery to Janet, and the boys looked
very solemn, and whispered a good deal to each
The party had to start, however, for Red-howe,
though the evening was spoiled for Janet.
Next day, the old cook and the young waiting-
maid came to Janet to say that they were not going
to stop in a suspected house, and either they should
leave or the mistress must send â€˜ that girlâ€™ home.
That girl was, of course, Bridget, who with tears
protested her innocence of all knowledge of the
But cook severely: asserted that till the day before
yesterday Mr. Morne had been in prison, and was
then suddenly bailed out, with whose money no one
The assertion was true, and though poor Bridget
sobbed out something about Gipsy Jem providing
the money, cook and Nancy shook their heads and
pinched up their lips.
The boys were sorry when it came to Janet taking
Bridget home, the poor housemaidâ€™s face swelled
with crying. She might not be the thief; but then
things donâ€™t go of themselves, and she came of a
bad lot. .
The sins of the fathers will be visited on the
children, you sec, now as of old.
-*,Roy and Johnnie watched the-pair down the lane,
and wondered what Angus would say when he heard
of it all. â€˜
â€˜ Won't he just have his long face on?â€™ said Roy.
â€˜And wonâ€™t Janet be looked after -for a bit?â€™
Three days of great uneasiness crept by. On the
fourth morning a letter came from Angus.â€™ At
Uncle Wills suggestion the story of the missing
brooch had not been written to him; he could do no
good, and it would be time enough to tell him on his
return, since the supposed offender had been sent
The letter was most astounding. It was to Roy.
â€˜T ought to have written before,â€™ he said ; â€˜but my
friend took me to Brighton for a couple of days, and
on my return I found a parcel awaiting me, duly
registered, and purporting to be studs from Cousin
Allan, but really containing an emerald brooch.
What is the meaning of this? Please explain.â€™
Roy gasped and dropped the letter. It was the
Johnnie gave a shout of delight, and Janet sighed
a deep sigh of relief. Then Bridget was no thief,
poor girl! But how had the brooch gone to Angus,
and where were the studs ?
Roy was now to be cross-examined. He had â€˜ done
upâ€™ the parcel in the study, just after Uncle Will
called, he remembered perfectly ; for he saw the little
case on the table at the time, and was afraid of for-
getting it if he left it any longer.
â€˜That would be twelve oâ€™clock, Roy; just when I
went upstairs to show Bridget how to clean the door
panels. After that I ran down and fetched the box
to lock it up.â€™
â€˜But, Roy,â€™ said Johnnie, thoughtfully, â€˜how could
you find the stud-case on the library table when I
saw you put it into your jacket pocket at breakfast-
time, when Janet first said, â€œThose had better go to
Two heads are better than one.
- â€˜You sent my brooch instead of the studs!â€™ said
Janet; â€˜the cases were both red, and nearly the
â€˜But where are the studs?â€™ asked Roy, rubbing
Just then the door burst open, and Nancy some-
what pertly went up to Roy, and presented him with
a red caseâ€”Angusâ€™s studs. :
â€˜Thereâ€™ll be an outcry about these next, sir,â€™ she
said ; â€˜ left in your old jacket pocket, that the-mistress
told me to mend.â€™ And then she flounced out of the
Tt was all explained now. Roy had taken the
right stud-case at breakfast-time, slipped it into his
pocket, and forgotten it; then coming into the study
later, and finding a red case on the table; he had
thought it to be Angusâ€™s, and there and then: seized
it, Wrapped it up, and directed it.
Janet was glad to hear Uncle Willâ€™s step in the
hall that morning. She had waited for his counsel
before taking any steps about poor Bridget. She put
Angusâ€™s letter in his hand.
He read it, and then firmly fixed his eye-glass in
his eye. That meant business.
The question was
Janet and he had a long consultation, and it
ended in Bridget being fetched, and the story of the
brooch being told before all the servants that very OWishallavelerosethetriven?
evening. ! & rf There j Rees
wee Will was so excited he actually made a : Dh Bees Sees
speech. ri Ela ete ce EVI
_ â€˜We might all be proud to be in Bridgetâ€™s place ena NS a 2
just now,â€™ he said; â€˜she has borne unjust suspicion TAGs Sanaa heat yi
yell and bravely, holding up her head the while, as How'shalt Rae NA pe
well as she could.â€™ fheniea alae
Uncle Will knew this for a fact, since he had got prod eonch the ohensie
-her at rary pl in the C y Hospi Â¥
oe Aenea Hens Bes esCgauity, Hospital atier How shall we cross the river ?
That question, long ago,
Our stout forefathers answeredâ€”
In Saxon times, you know.
They wrought with patient labour
In all the cold and wet;
And, plying arms and lever,
â€˜You may well wish to welcome her back here,â€™
he continued, addressing Janet, cook, and Nancy :
â€˜ but that cannot be yet, she is too much needed by
the sick whom she is tending. So, as a little remem-
brance of this happy clearing up of a painful mystery,
please take this bit of paper.â€™
And Uncle Will, whose speech ended rather ab- The stepping-stones they set.
ruptly, stuffed a five-pound note into Bridgetâ€™s hand,
and suddenly disappeared down the passage. And here the country people
â€˜Put it in the savingsâ€™ bank,â€™ said a voice that Have trafficked to and fro,
sounded in the distance; and then the front door Save when the roaring river
clanged, and Roy and Johnnie shook hands with Is swelled with rain and snow.
Bridget, and cook made her come down to a bit of Better these shapeless fragments
supper; and even Nancy was kind, and forgot her Yet joining side to side,
conceit. Than many a lordly steeple
Bridget did not return to service at the Brae, she Or fretted tomb of pride.
| was too useful at the hospital; but Angus did not
now, as he used to do, object to Janet visiting the How shall we cross the river?
cottages in Town Lane, and once, when a little sister Oh, never say itâ€™s vain,
of Bridgetâ€™s came to the house with some sewing But use your best endeavour
which she had done for â€˜ the lady,â€™ he asked,â€” The promised land to gain.
â€˜Couldnâ€™t we give that girl a lift? she looks Across the rushing river
intelligent and decent. Nancy could surely teach The golden pippins gleam ;
her ?â€™ Say, shall we turn faint-hearted,
Janet was so pleased! It was her great wish to And tremble at the stream ?
take this Ruth Morne, but after her trouble with f
Bridget she dared not suggest it. The bridge may serve the noble,
â€œSomehow good has come out of that painful Heir to a cushioned seat ;
business. Janet has learned to be less hasty in The stepping-stones are fitter
well-doing even, and Angus has widened his ideas For lads with naked feet :
of his duties as regards his poor neighbours. Roy The prince but crosses over;
and Johnnie, too, are less ready to carry exciting And they can do the same;
reports about when they are to the discredit of There are more ways than one, boys,
others; and as to cook and Nancy, they were heard To get an honoured name.
to say,â€”â€˜ Well, they never! It would he a long time y
before they dared fix anything on anybody after that Yes, there are stairs to glory,
little mistake about poor Bridget!â€™ H. A. F. For all who wish to climb,
But they who would be cragsmen
Must use lifeâ€™s early prime ;
IN A DILEMMA. The scholar and the soldier,
The merchant, the divine,
JUST and severe man in the olden time built a Their alpenstock must shoulder
gallows on a bridge, and asked every passenger When the first sunbeams shine.
whither he was going. If he answered truly, he
passed unharmed; if falsely, he was hanged on the And there are lives to show us
gallows. One day a passenger, being asked the usual What any one may do,
question, answered, â€˜1 am going to be hanged on the If he be brave and patient,
gallows.â€™ Industrious and true :
â€˜ Now,â€™ said the gallows-builder, â€˜if I hang this man, The great men yet among us,
he will have answered truly, and ought not to have The great men gone before,
been hanged; if I do not hang him, he will have Are stepping-stones to help us
answered falsely, and ought to have been hanged.â€™ Unto the Happy Shore.
History does not say what decision he came to. G. Â§. 0,
Se A> N
Ze Wy â€œ Ss
eams white ;
ed out the laws of li
ned how violet and
Made up the sun
ys i) a
He blew him bubbles such as those
Our urchins blow so oft,
Then watched them as they upward rose,
And almost scraped his knowing nose,
In mimic pomp aloft.
*Twas thus he sought, as great men do,
From trifles light as air,
A truth the ancients never knew,
A truth which opens glories new,
And gives us treasures rare.
But when a lady, dwelling near,
Saw, through the open sash,
Sir Isaac and his bubble gear,
She thought he was as mad as Lear,
If not so loud and rash.
A crazy man he was to her,
A poor half-witted thing ;
Yet he, who did her pity stir,
Was the earthâ€™s prime philosopher,
And grander than a king!
So, like great Newton, let us read
Lessons in all we see ;
Yes, let the daisy of the mead,
A grain of sandâ€”a thistle-seedâ€”
Our books of wisdom be.
And let us, in our work and play,
Do all with might and main;
Our life is but a little day,
Its golden minutes ebb away,
And will not come again.
The bubble, as it breaks apace,
Lifeâ€™s brief career may show ;
For all, who are of Adamâ€™s race, -
Obscure or mighty, good or base,
Like bubbles come and-go.
G. 8. 0.
A FISHING ADVENTURE.
O* the 16th of August, 1715, two brothers, who
were students, on a fishing- :xcursion in Norway,
landed from their boat upon an island of barren rock,
fifteen yards wide by twenty long, in the middle of a
great lake. Whilst there, a gust of wind drifted
the boat to the shore of the lake. Neither of the
brothers could swim. Lightly clad, they remained
nine days in sight of their fishing-boat and faithful
dog, who continued watching their things, and now
and then appeared on the gunwale of the boat and
whined piteously. They put up a rude hovel of loose
stones, which, however, afforded them little shelter
in an exposed situation on a lake 3000 feet above
the level of the sea.
On the ninth day they could not see their dog, and
supposed he had died of grief and starvation. â€˜The
dog, it appeared afterwards, had left, and, finding his
way home, by constant howling and restlessness had
given the idea that some misfortune had happened.
On the night of the twelfth day the two brothers
embraced each other for the last time, as they believed,
and awaited death. Their only food had been
about an ounce of wild sorrel each day. Suddenly
they heard the tramp of horses and the sound of
voices on the edge of the lake. One brother had
Just strength enough to make himself heard, and they
The two students, after some weeksâ€™ illness, re-
covered, but their faithful dog died from the effects
of his long fasting, and found a resting-place in the
studentsâ€™ garden. Hvuserr Sirs.
STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN
By Rey. E. B. Tuttle, U. S. Army.
BURIAL OF A CHIEIâ€™S DAUGHTER.
POTTED TAIL, the head chief of
the Brule Sioux, sent a request to
the commanding officer at Fort
Laramie, saying â€˜his daughter had
died in Powder River countr
(fifteen daysâ€™ journey), and had
begged her father to have her
grave made among the whites.â€™
Consent was given, she having -
been known to the officers for
several years, and her death was
brought on by exposure to the
hardships of wild Indian life, and
also from grief, that her tribe
would go to war.
He was met outside the â€˜ Postâ€™ by the officers, with
the honours due to his station. â€˜The officer in com-
mand spoke in words of comfort, saying, â€˜he sym-
pathised with him, and was pleased at this mark of
confidence in committing to his care the remains of
his loved child. The Great Spirit had taken her, and
he never did anything except .or some good purpose.
Everything should be prepared for the funeral at sun-
set, and as the sun went down it might remind him
of the darkness left in his lodge when his daughter
was taken away; but as the sun would surely rise
again, so she would rise, and some day we would all
meet in the land of thÃ© Great Spint.â€™
The chief exhibited great emotion at these words,
and shed tears; a thing quite unusual in an Indian.
He took the hand of the officer and said: â€˜â€˜This must
be a dream for me to be in such a fine room, and sur-
rounded by such as you. Have I been asleep during
the last four years of hardship and trial, dreaming
that all is to be well again? or is this real? Yes, I
see that it is,â€”the beautiful day, the sky blue, with-
out a cloud; the wind calm und still, to suit the
errand I came on, and remind me that you offer me
peace! We think we have been much wronged, and
entitled to compensation for damage done and distress
caused by making so many roads through our country,
driving and destroying the buffalo and game. My
heart is very sad, and I cannot talk on business. 1
will wait and see the counsellors the Great Father will
The scene, it is added, was the most impressive I
ever saw, and all the Indians were awed into silence.
A scaffold was erected at the cemetery, and a coffin
was made. Just before sunset the body was carried,
followed by the father and other relatives, with chap-
lain (Rev. A. Wright, U.S. A.), officers, soldiers, and
Indians. The chaplain read the beautiful burial-
service, interpreted by another to them.
One said: â€˜I can hardly describe my feelings at
witnessing here this first Christian burial of an Indian,
and one of such consideration among her tribe. The
hour, the place, the solemnity, even the restrained
weeping of the mother and other relatives, all com-
bined to affect me deeply.â€™
It is added: the officers, to gratify Monicaâ€™s father,
each placed an offering in her coffin. Colonel May-
nadier, a pair of gauntlets, to keep her hands warm
(it was winter), Mr. Bullock gave a handsome piece
of red cassimere to cover the coffin. â€˜lo complete the
Indian ceremony, her two milk-white ponies were
killed and their heads and tails nailed on the coffin.
These ponies the Indians supposed she would ride
again in the hunting-grounds whither she had gone.
WHY DO INDIANS SCALP THEIR ENEMIES ?
J HAVE been a good deal puzzled to know the
origin of this custom, of always scalping a foe in
battle, both among themselves and in fighting white
â€˜people. A negro is never scalped by the Indians. In
conversing with Major A. 8. Burt, of 9th United
States Infantry, at our post, who has had much
experience among the Indians on the plains, I learnt
some things which gave a clue to the matter, which
agree with all I can hear. He says that each Indian
wears a â€˜scalp-lock,â€™ which is a long tuft of hair, into
which the Indian inserts his medicine, which consists
generally of a few quills of eaglesâ€™ feathers. â€˜This
â€˜medicineâ€™ is simply a â€˜ charm,â€™ as we call it, gotten
byg purchase of the medicine-man of the tribe. The
medicine-man is the most influential man in each
tribe. He professes to be able to conjure, by his arts
and influence with the Great Spirit, certain articles,
which he sells to the Indians of his tribe. This
â€˜medicineâ€™ the superstitious believe will cure dis-
eases, and help him against his enemy in battle.
Hence, in scalping a fallen foe, the victor deprives
him of his charm, and shows it in triumph, as a token
of his skill in battle. If you visit an Indian in his
tent, and ask him to show you his â€˜ medicine,â€™ he will
do. so, if you pay him in such things as he needs to
make therewith a feast, both for himself and an offer-
ing to his medicine idol; but as the idol canâ€™t eat, it
goes of course into the stomach cf the live Indian! *
Another idea: the Indian believes that the spirit of
the enemy he slays enters into himself, and he is
thereby made the stronger; hence he slays all that he
can. Ihave seen youug warriors in the streets of
Cheyenne, with their hair reaching down almost to
their heels ; and all along it youâ€™d see strung round
pieces of silver, from the size of a silver-dollar to a
tea-saucer; each one of which was a tell-tale of the
number of the scalps the young fellow had taken. It
was what the ladies would call a â€˜ waterfall !â€™
Speaking of this, as revealing the pride of Indians
in showing their prowess, I learned of a young buck,
coming into a post and walking round, dressed in the
top of Indian fashion,â€”i. e. with paint on his face,
*The Indian keeps his â€˜medicineâ€™ hung up. in his tent, and
prays to itâ€”â€”dreams about it,â€” and if his dream is ot goud luck,
he acts accordingly. â€˜his applies to hunting, going on war
expeditions, &c.; in short, it ig his sort of saint, to whichâ€™ he
pays idolatrous worship.
feathers in his hair, and brass ornaments on his leg-
gings. These young fellows put on all the gewgaws
they can to make a show of importance. Well, he
finally walked into the post-traderâ€™s store, and asked
Mr. Bullock if he didnâ€™t think it made the officers
faint when they saw him? â€˜ Yes,â€™ said he, â€˜I think
youâ€™d better take off some of your things (pointing
to his trappings), they will scare somebody.â€™
INDIAN BOYâ€™S EDUCATION.
WHEN an Indian gets to be eighteen years old it is
expected that he-will strike out for himself, and do
some act to show his bravery; and that begins in
striking somebody to kill them (a white or Indian of
a hostile tribe), and to steal stock, a horse, or mule,
or cattle. :
No young warrior can get a wife till he has taken
the scalp of a white man or Indian, and have stolen a
horse or pony. - This being a law of the Sioux, so in
proportion as he scalps and steals horses so does his
number of wives increase, and the greater a warrior
does he become. In short, he becomes â€˜a big heap
chief.â€™ What to us becomes a murder or a theft,â€”the
very first act of a young Indian,â€”in his own tribe is
a great and praiseworthy deed. So you see what
blood has Â° een shed, and other acts of cruelty caused
by Spottc Â« Tail, Red Cloud, and others, who have
imbrued their hands in the blood of innocent victims
with a fiendish delight that savages only know and
take pleasure in.
As the arrows tell of the tribe to which they be-
long,â€”coloured near the end,â€”green for the Sioux,
blue, Cheyenne, red or brown, Arrapahoes, black
feathers, Crow,â€”so the tribe to which an Indian
â€”aurderer belongs is known by the method (usually)
by which the victim is scalped. The Cheyennes
remove a piece not larger than a silver dollar from
immediately over the left ear; the Arrapahoes take
the same over the right ear. Others take from the
crown, forehead, or nape of the neck. The Utes take
the entire scalp from ear to ear, and from forehead
to nape of neck. ;
WHY DOES NOT THE INDIAN MEDDLE WITH THE
It is said that the pioneer company over the plains
got together several chiefs and explained as well as
they could the modus operandi of obtaining electricity
from the clouds, and making it useful in conveying
intelligence to great distances; â€˜This was hard for
them to believe, because they are superstitious, and
attribute all phenomena they do not fully understand
to conjuration or charms, such as their medicine-man
practises. However, they concluded to put the matter
to a test.
So it was two principal Indians, about one hundred
miles apart, agreed to send a message over the lines on
a given day, and then they would travel towards each
other as fast as they could to see if the message
(known only to themselves and the operator) should
be correct. Of course it proved as we wouid expect,
and they were satisfied. â€˜This intelligence has spread
from one tribe to another, and they believe that it
is somehow (as it is in truth) connected with the
Great Spirit who controls the winds and the storms ;
hence they do not meddle with it.
See ne a St
- â€”â€”â€” Wo BGEEZEELEL
BFE g = SEEELE
LE 5 = â€” f Wis SIG
- : oe WEL
Ee , :
ip << si z
The First Christian Burial of an Indian.
A NOVEL BREEDING-PLACE.
AST spring my attention was called by
one of my men to an old scarecrow
which had lain in the field since the
previous autumn, the body of which
consisted of an old bag stuffed with
straw, inside of which were five young
rabbits. Perhaps you may think this
an instance worth recording of a
rabbit breeding aboveground, a fact
which very seldom happens, and there-
fore is worth recording.
THE GENEROUS RIVALS.
From the Italian of C. Cautie.
N 1401 the citizens of Florence determined to put
two bronze gates to the Temple of San Giovanni,
the patron saint of that city. In order that the best
artists might offer to undertake the work, they
declared that they should entrust its execution to that
artist who showed he possessed the greatest talent.
Among the competitors came Filippo Brunelleschi,
Donatello, Lorenzo Ghiberti, Jacopo della Quercia,
Simone del Colle, Francesco di Valdambria, and
Nicolo dâ€™Arezzo, all of them sculptors and architects
of the highest order. Everyone of them brought a
small model of the gates. A committee of expe-
rienced judges having been chosen to decide who
was the best, it was found that Donatelloâ€™s design
was good, but his execution imperfect ; that Jacopo
della Querciaâ€™s figures were well done, but were
destitute of all grace; and that Simoneâ€™s gates were
cast beautifully, but the design was not clear; Fran-
cesco had given his figures fine heads, but his com-
position was bad; while on the other hand, though
they praised Nicolo for the grandeur of his design,
his figures were short and thick ; as to Ghibertiâ€™s
model, they scarcely looked at it, for he was a young
man, and they did not expect much from him. In
the end, they declared that Donatelloâ€™s and Filippo
Brunelleschiâ€™s were the best.
If these gifted men had been mere ordinary per-
sons, they would have been elated with the honours ~
conferred on them, and the one would have tried to
get the better of the other, and secure the splendid
commission for himself alone. But where there is
great merit there is seldom envy. The two sculptors
pointed out that Ghibertiâ€™s model was distinguished
by careful work and admirable execution, that the
idea embodied was a noble one, and the figures were
thoroughly lifelike. They therefore persuaded the
committee to entrust him with the erection of the
The committee took their advice, and the result
was magnificent. But the Florentines, while ad-
miring Ghibertiâ€™s genius, could not refrain from
loudly praising the magnanimity of his friends.
â€˜Happy, indeed, are those,â€™ cried they, â€˜ who thus
willingly give each his turn, and take pleasure in
showing the beauties of anotherâ€™s work !?
\GERMAN traveller in the
Far West of North America,
halted for some days at a
Mission Station. During the
services in the church on
Sunday he was much struck
by a tall Indian, who officiated
as sacristan. In his wild, shy
looks there was something
strange and mysterious. After
the service, the traveller ex-
pressed to the clergyman how
much this man had struck him, and he begged him
to tell him something about his history.
â€˜You are right,â€™ said the clergyman ; â€˜ Neykeemie
is no ordinary Indian. He possesses much sense
and deep feeling, and therefore I have appointed
him to this office, which all envy. His pride was
broken by a great misfortune which befell him when
he was chief of the Ojibbeways. Banished by his
own tribe on account of a deed of despair, and broken-
hearted, the rough warrior came here, to seek pardon
from the God of the white men. His story is very
interesting, but very sad; but, if you like to hear it,
I will willingly tell it to you.
â€˜ Neykeemie, a few years ago, was the most power-
ful and respected chief of the Ojibbeways. When
I first came to this country, a short time back, he
promised me, for a small service I rendered him, his
protection ; and he faithfully kept his word, helping
the mission in every way in his power.
â€˜He was not less esteemed in the judgment of his
tribe, and he was the first to lead the way in the
bloody path of war. Thus, some years ago, he pre-
pared, in the middle of winter, an expedition against
the Yanktons, across the boundaries of Dacota, from
the result of which he promised himself great things.
Alas! he could not foresee the end of it.
â€˜Imagine to yourself a large Indian village in the
midst of dark pines, the huts covered with birch-bark,
and the wigwams with many-coloured skins, to protect
them from the icy north wind. The whole population,
from the grey-haired veteran to the infant, is on its
legs, and the young squaws have. clothed themselves
in their brightest garments, to charm the warriors of
the tribe ; round the striped post which stands in the
middle of the camp the red men silently assemble,
with feathers in their black hair, and their faces fan-
â€˜In the midst of this assembly of his soldiers stood
Neykeemie, in deep thought; for during the night
he had dreamt a fearful dream, and all Indians
are superstitious. But whether it was the cold
morning air or the sight of his brave men which
inspirited him, he cast away all care, and gave his
commands. He proudly showed the scars with which
he was covered; and his contented look fell on the
scalps which hung from his girdle, and on the claws
of the grey bear, which, tied in a string, hung down
upon his broad breast. The hollow drumsâ€™ beat in
â€˜increasingly quick time ; the war-song of his brave
men rose and fell in ever wilder cadences, and each
warrior, as he yelled forth his battle-cry, struck his
tomahawk into the striped post. Neykeemie, spring-
ing on his saddleless horse, gave the signal for de-
parture, and placed himself at the head of his people,
who, riding one after the other, vanished in the dark-
ness of the forest, whilst the hollow sound of their
drums echoed after them. . Thus they withdrew to
their bloody work, determined to slay the first enemy
they found, whether they met him in the open field
or fell upon him in an ambush ; while the old veterans,
left behind for the protection of the village, made
their rounds sadly and dejectedly, because they could
not share the dangers of their hrethren.
â€˜This time Neykeemie was not fortunate in his
expedition, for the Yanktons, being timely warned
by their spies, were prepared, and a successful sur-
prise was therefore impossible. At the same time, a
violent north wind began to blow, which, passing
hither across the polar regions, always brings with it
such a terrible cold that sleeping in the forests is
hard, even to the Ojibbeways. Therefore the chief
â€˜determined, in order not to return home entirely
without booty, to divide the large company of his
wartiors into smaller bands, because such had always
a better chance of coming slily upon the enemy.
â€˜After a wearisome ride through the woods, Ney-
keemie reached the extensive snow-covered prairie
which stretches on both sides of the Assiniboin river,
when suddenly the horses started, and gave plain
signs of terror. Yes, enemies indeed were ap-
proaching, more cruel than the hated Yanktons. In
severe winters, the great northern wolves, driven by
hunger, appear in. vast multitudes in this region, and -
venture to attack even men. The proud Neykeemie,
who had often, as a jest, chased down a pair of solitary
wolves on the prairie, was now himself chased by these
beasts of prey, when, convinced of the uselessness of
resistance, he turned to flee. He knew that a few
miles distant, on the river, was an abandoned fort of
the Hudsonâ€™s Bay Companyâ€”this, with his warriors
and prisoners, he endeavoured to reach by the shortest
route. But the wearied horses, driven as they were
both by their fright and by the heavy whips of their
riders, could not fly across the prairie with the same
speed as their light-footed pursuers, who sprang over
the half-frozen snow without breaking through it.
â€˜Single shots, which the Indians, as they fled, fired
at them, had but little effect :- for if the foremost fell,
and the nearest following them stopped to devour
their bodies, it did not cause hundreds to desist for
a moment in the chase. They flew over the icy cov-
ering of the prairie as if they were sure of their prey.
â€˜At last they beheld the little fort, standing on a
rising eminence, before them, and the sharp eye of
Neykeemie discovered also that the gate stood wide
open. â€˜They had now only one mile to flee, but
between the gradually rising ground and the fugitive
Indians was some low ground, completely covered
with snow. Here the foaming horses, so overdriven
that they were almcst dead, could not go so fast,
because at every step they plunged up to their
knees in snow. Thus the horrible beasts now gained
upon them rapidly. The horses of two Ojibbeways
sunk down exhausted with fatigue. When their
yiders saw that neither whipping nor caressing was
of any avail they calmly resigned themselves to their
fate, sung their death-song, and, leaning back to back,
awaited the attack. Though tomahawk and knife slew
many a wolf, yet their desperate resistance was in vain,
for, in an ineredibly short time, they and their horses
were torn to pieces. Whilst a herd of the beasts
fought over their bones, the great multitude continued
the pursuit, and were not again arrested till an old
Ojibbeway, who had two sons among the fugitives,
sacrificed himself by cutting the throat of his panting
steed ; it staggered backwards and forwards, and at
last fell. The noble father, after he had cast one
loving look at his children, sat down quietly on the
snow, and with resignation awaited his fate.
â€˜Neykeemie, who, with the rest of his companions,
had now arrived at the foot of the hill upon which
stood the stockade which was to afford them pro-
tection, cast a despairing glance behind him, pointed
to the open door, and galloped up the hill borne by
the last strength of his exhausted horse, the rest fol-
lowing him as quickly as the worn-out condition of |
their steeds permitted.. But the wolves were now _|
close behind them, and there was no doubt but one
last sacrifice must be made, if they were not all to
perish. Such a thought was agitating Neykeemieâ€™s
brain; his decision was quickly made; he seized. his
rifle, and shot the horse of the Ojibbeway who was
riding close behind him through the head, so that
horse and rider fell to the ground. â€˜The latter tried
to disentangle himself and escape; but, before he
could succeed in doing so, he already felt the warm
breath of the beasts at his throat ; he wished to raise
his death-song, but it was too late even for that.
â€˜The short space of time purchased through this
barbarous deed sufficed to bring the chief and the
remaining warriors into safety. They galloped
through the open gate into the enclosure, and in-
stantly closed the gates, so that they had now a firm
barrier between themselves and their pursuers. A
furious howling now resounded all round the pali-
sades, when the wolves saw that they were cheated
of their prey. They tried to press in, and burrow
under the strong enclosure; but the hard, frozen
ground, resisted all their efforts, whilst the rifles of
the Ojibbeways made deadly havoc among them.
As soon as one of the beasts fell, the others rushed
upon it to devour it; but the number of the assailants
did not diminish, for new herds continued to appear.
The besieged Indians determined not to waste their
ammunition thus fruitlessly ; so they kindled a huge
fire before the one-storied blockhouse, which stood
in the middle of the stockade, and threw, from time
to time. large burning fagots among the wolves, to
drive them from the walls. One of the northern
snow-storms was raging with such a fury over the
midnight winter landscape, that the raging of the
hurricane drowned the howling of the ravenous beasts.
It was scarcely possible to keep up the fire. They
tried to light a second fire within the old block-house,
but the snow penetrated through the dilapidated roof
in large quantities, so that the attempt was vain.
So the Indians, wrapped up in their blankets,
crouched down silently around the ashes.
â€˜Neykeemie, who had twice made the round of
the stockade, to see that all was in order, now sat.
down on the trunk of a tree, his elbows on his knees, ;
and his eye fixed on the dark, threatening firma-
ment. The icy hurricane drove the thick snow-
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the storm had driven away the wolves. Only when
his beloved war-horse rubbed his bloody head on
his stern countenance. The warriors who pre-
viously had watched for his every word and sign,
appeared no longer to take any notice of him; they
only cast reproachful glances at him. As the clouds
still rested on the prairie, they sent out a horse,
down the hill, to observe from-his. actions whether
the wolves were still in the neighbotirhood. The
animal trotted merrily through the deep snow, drew
in the fresh morning air, and, by his neighing, gave
his comrades to understand that the terrible enemy
was no longer there. The Ojibbeways thus knew
i Wh Me iH
his masterâ€™s shoulder did a milder look pass over '
Neykeemie driven out of the Camp.
that there was no longer any danger at hand,
and when the sun dispersed the clouds, and their
sharp eyes could survey the whole country, they
took up their weapons and assembled to depart.
They did all this without consulting the chiefâ€”a
proof that they no longer recognised his authority.
Neykeemie followed them some distance off, and,
without further adventure, reached the village, where
his deed of despair was soon noised abroad.
The next day the whole tribe assembled round
the striped post, and the elders held judgment on
the chief who had so grievously failed in his duty.
Though he was defended by a few of his relations,
he did not speak a word himself; he was condemned
by a large majority, and cast out in disgrace. The
squaws tore down his eagleâ€™s feathers, robbed him
of his scalps and other marks of honour, and drove
him, with scourges, out of the camp. Broken-
hearted and despising himself, Neykeemie wandered
through the forests, till, one day, some people be-
longing to the mission took compassion on his
wretched condition, and brought him under my roof.
There he found sympathy, consolation, and care,
and I had the joy of seeing him, through Christian
instruction, turned away from those thoughts of
revenge which he had before harboured. Since
then he has daily increased in religious knowledge,
and I had the satisfaction of receiving him as a
faithful member into our Church some time ago.â€
Such is the sad stery of the banished chief, as
told to the traveller.
Ae, HE Australian native is, in some
respects, not unlike the African
negro; but whilst he has the
same woolly hair he has not the
thick lips of the African, nor is he
nearly so strong. He used to be
a miserable naked cannibal, roam-
ing about in search of food, but
now he is become a tame blanket-
clothed dependant on the white
man. He is undoubtedly intelli-
gent and good-natured, and as good at the three: Râ€™s
as most English lads and lasses.
Australia is curiously lacking in useful ani-
mals. The thick-skinned order, to which the horse,
elephant, hog, ass, zebra, and others, belong, does
not furnish that vast country with one single member.
The horse, therefore, has been carried to its shores.
Mr. Bell, who wrote on quadrupeds, believes the
horse was first tamed by the Egyptians. He was
wild as the zebra, but man at length broke his proud
spirit, and made him a most useful servant. The
horse still needs breaking, as our illustration shows.
But will our four friends there make their pupil
cheerful in his obedience, or will he turn out dogged,
sullen, and spiritless? The education of a horse, it
has been said, should be that of a child. Pleasure
should be, as much as possible, associated with the
early lessons, while firmness must establish the habit
How strange, too, it is, that Australia, so well
suited for grazing, should not have one member of
the â€˜ruminatingâ€™ order, which is the one of all others
mest useful to man. â€˜The camel, deer, goat, sheep,
ox, bison, &c. (there are over 150 sorts in all), are
wholly wanting in that vast, strange land. Those
bullocks who are dragging those huge plum-puddings
on wheels, with wild gesture, tossing horn, and excited
tail, hav- been imported, like the horse on which the
gold commissioner (that bearded gentleman in jack-
boots) is quietly sitting. I think the horse looks far
quieter than the oxen; perhaps they have not been
broken in, as he has.
The plum-puddings on wheels consist of wool from
â€˜sheep in some great pastoral desert, which may roll
for hundreds of miles together. There some en-
terprising Briton has his flocks, tended by stockmen
and shepherds, and overlooked by himself. The
sheep-owner spends days and days on horseback. At
night the dingo, or zebra-wolf, a destructive but cow-
ardly beast, prowls about the fold seeking a supper;
but his howl is answered by the defying bark of the
watchful dogs, and it blends with the cry of the
strange night-bird. The dog is the only land-animal
belonging to the â€˜ carnivoraâ€™ which Australia possesses. :
He has prick ears and a wolfish appearance. Behold
him there.- A kind Providence, who for some wise
reasons has made the country so bare of animals,
has at least given her manâ€™s chief dumb friend,
But whilst Australia is so thinly peopled with most
animals, having only about seventy-five species of all
the 1346 known to naturalists, what will you say when
you know that forty-three of those seventy-five are
â€˜marsupial ;â€™ that is, the females have bags or purses
in their bosoms, where they put their little ones when
very young? â€˜There are only sixty-seven sorts of
marsupial animals altogether, and Australia has
forty-three of the whole. Some of these remarkable
creatures, as the red kangaroo, are as big as a man;
others, as the flying squirrel, are less than a mouse.
Amgng the marsupial animals we reckon the
opossum, ranging in size from a cat to a mouse,
and very active at night among the trees; the
zebra-wolf, or Zhylacnus, already mentioned; the
bandicoot, an animal of a small size, which bur-
rows or hides itself under fallen timberâ€”a pretty-
creature, but unfit for food ; the potoroo, or kangaroo-
rat; the phalanger, which has a tail it can curl round
a bough and hold on by; the sugar squirrel, the
native bear, and the wombat. This latter is like a
great guinea-pig; it burrows in the sand-hills, and
hisses like a serpent. No marsupial animal has a
true voice, but something made up of grunt, growl,
wheeze, and hiss. The flying squirrels and phalan-
gers do not really fly, but they are supported in the
air, whilst leaping from tree to tree, by a kind of
wing, which acts as a parachute.
The most popular member of the family is the
kangaroo, who does not use his little fore-feet when
he wishes to ramble, but moves from place to place
by means of great leaps made by his very strong hind-
legs and tail. The tail is so-colossal that the kan-
garoo can balance his body upon it, and lunge out
fiercely with the two hind-fect meanwhile. He
chews the cud, is gentle, and in appearance not
unlike a deer. The flesh is much prized, and the
poor kangaroo is chased by the hunters. In rough
country the hunted one has the best of it, for he can
make astounding leaps over the low brushwood, and
across water-courses; but the dogs tire him out in
the open plain.
ABOUT ROBINSON CRUSOE.
NÂ°? book -ever written has been more read than
Robinson Crusoe. It first appeared in 1719,
and was soon translated inte French, German, and
other languages. Yet at first the writer had much
difficulty in persuading any bookseller to look at his
story. Atlasta publisher, named Taylor, bought the
work, and gained a thousand pounds by his bargain.
The Rev. James Stanier Clarke, from whose pages
â€˜our extracts are chiefly made, tells us he found
Robinson Crusoe by the bedside of the Archduke of
It is generally supposed that Defoe wrote Robinson
Crusoe, and he was led to do so by reading the true
story of Alexander Selkirk, a sailor who lived alone
on the island of Juan Fernandez for four years and
four months. The story of Alexander Selkirk was
first made public by Captain Rogers in 1712, so that
it appeared seven years before Robinson Crusoe first
came out. Captain Rogers visited the island of Juan
Fernandez in February, 1709, and there he found
Selkirk, a strange, wild-looking man, clothed in goat-
skins. This man said he was a Scotchman, Alex-
ander Selkirk by name, and born at Largo, in the
county of Fife. Whilst navigating the ocean in the
ship Cingue Ports, he and the captain -had a
quarrel, which led to Selkirk going ashore on the
island, and remaining there. He was provided with
clothes and bedding; with a gun, powder, bullets;
with a hatchet and knife; with a kettle and compass ;
with a Bible and a few other books.
He built two huts, and covered them with long
grass and lined them with goat-skins. He managed
to get fire by rubbing two sticks of pimento wood
together on his knee. In one hut he cooked his
food, in the other he slept. He employed much of
his time in reading, singing psalms, and praying ; so
that he said, â€˜I was a better Christian on my lone
island than I had ever been before.â€™
â€˜Selkirk could get plenty of fish, but none of it
agreed with him except crawfish, which was about as
big as a lobster, and very good. When his powder
was all spent he caught the goats by speed of foot.
Once he nearly lost his life in chasing a goat, for he
caught hold of it on the brink of a precipice, and he
and the goat fell over together. When he came to
his senses he found the goat lying under him, and
quite dead. He could not stir from the spot for
twenty-four hours, but managed then to crawl to his
hut. Very soon, with so much running, his shoes
wore out, but he managed very well without them,
his feet becoming quite hard, and swelling much
when he first began to wear shoes again.
The cats and vats were very troublesome at first,
for the rats used to gnaw. his feet and the cats were
thieves ; but he tamed the cats by kindness, and they
drove the yats away. When the cats got to know
him they would lie about him in hundreds, and he
would sometimes sing and dance with them. He
also had tame kids playing near him. When his
clothes were worn out he made others of goat-skins,
his only needle being a nail. When his knife was
worn out he made another out of an iron hoop,
which he ground sharp on a stone.
When he was found by Captain Rogers he had
_ habited an island where the weather was mild.
nearly forgotten his language, and seemed to speak
It was lucky for Alexander Selkirk that he in-
trees and grass were green all the year round. The
winter, such as it was, lasted through June and July,
when there were great rains, but not much frost.
The summer was not extremely hotâ€”there was very
little thunder and lightning; and happily, also, the
rats were the worst creatures on the island. No
serpent hissed and stung, no wild beast glared at him
with its eyes of fire. The goats had been put on
the island by a Spaniard, who lived there with some
families for a time, but who afterwards went to the
mainland of Chili.
In October, 1711, Selkirk set foot again on his native
shore, and he found he had reason to be thankful,
for the Cinque Ports ran aground a few months
after he had been left on the island, and the captain
and crew fell into the hands of some Spaniards, who
used them very cruelly. After his return, Selkirk
often said the world and all its enjoyments could not
restore to him the peace of his lonely life on the island.
â€˜T am now,â€™ said he, â€˜worth eight hundred pounds,
but I shall never be so happy as when I was not
worth a farthing.â€™
This true story of Alexander Selkirk is supposed
to have given rise to that wonderful book, Robinson
Crusoe. Some persons have said Robinson Crusoe
was not all written by Defoe, but that the first and
best part was composed by the Earl of Oxford, when
confined in the Tower of London ; and the Earl, it is
said, gave the manuscript to Defoe, who often used
to visit him; and Defoe, having afterwards written
a second volume, published the whole. The second
part is much less interesting than the first. Thou-
sands read the first part, hut very few read the second.
The island of Juan Fernandez is six leagues long
and three across. It is all hills and valleys, ap-
pearing at a distance very mountainous, ragged, and
irregular, â€˜As you get near,â€™ says Commodore
Anson, â€˜the broken, craggy precipices are found
to be covered with woods, and between them
are everywhere valleys, clothed with a most beau-
tiful verdure, and watered with numerous springs
and cascades. Those only who have endured
thirst can judge of the pleasure with which we eyed
a large cascade of the most transparent water, which
poured itself from a rock, near a hundred feet high,
into the sea, at a small distance from our ship. Kven
the sick, who had long been confined to their ham-
mocks, crawled on to the deck, and feasted their eyes
with this prospect.â€™
At the time when this seasonable supply refreshed
the scurvy-stricken sailors, Anson and his crew, in
the Centurion, had just met with many misfortunes
on the coast of South America. A hurricane had
split the sails and broken the rigging, and a â€˜ moun-
tainous, overgrown sea,â€™ had given the ship almost its
death-blow. Thus, all but foundering, almost without
water, men dying at the rate of four, five, and six a-day,
and greatly dejected, how sweet was it to anchor in
Cumberland Bay, within sight of those hills and
valleys where Alexander Selkirk, the real Robinson
Crusoe, lived so long alonÃ©, and though alone, so
happily ! GEORGE S. OuTRAM.
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By Mrs. Barbauld.
WACO ITHIN a marble dome confined,
wy Whose milk-white walls with silk are lined,
A golden apple doth appear,
Steeped in a bath as crystal clear ;
No doors, no windows to behold,
Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
THE FATHERâ€™S PORTRAIT.
From the French.
MERCHANT who had a large fortune died
Â£ in a distant country, while his only son also
was equally far from his native land.
Some time afterwards there arrived, one after the
other, three young men, each of whom pretended
to be the only son and heir of the deceased. These
young fellows resembled each other, and as the son of.
the merchant had been absent for many years, nobody
SX A SN SY S
SN SN SNA
could discern which were impostors. The judge of
the place then took a portrait of the father and said
to them :â€”
â€˜That one amongst you who strikes with an arrow
the mark which I put upon the breast of this portrait,
shall have possession of the inheritance.â€™
The first took a bow and an arrow and struck near
the mark. The second shot the arrow in his turn,
and struck nearer still to the sign. The third hesi-
tated some seconds when on the point of shooting,
then he threw down the bow and arrow, and said,
bursting into tears, â€˜No, I cannot fire at the portrait
of my father: Iwould rather give up the inheritance
than have it at such a price.â€™
The judge got up from his seat and said, â€˜ Noble
young man! you are alone the son and heir of the
deceased. A true son cannot pierce the heart of his
father, even in a portrait.â€™ E. H. C.
Ae were certainly the sounds of a horseâ€™s feet
coming up the avenue, yet it was not like old
Heroâ€™s brisk trot with which he was wonâ€™t to bring his
Mary Irvine, a young girl who had looked out many
a time during the past hour, as if in expectatin of
some oneâ€™s return, looked out again at the sound
and saw, to her dismay, that it was indeed Hero, but
the old horse came slowly up the drive. The flush
faded from her cheeks, and ashy white were the lips
which tremblingly appealed to the old servant, who
also ran to meet the horse; but what could he or any
one tell of the master who had ridden away in health
and strength some hours before ?
Mary Irvine was not a much-loved and petted only
daughter. She had never known anything but a
strangely cold, formal father, who, when he supplied
her with every comfort which money could bestow,
thought that his duty was done.
Left a widower at Maryâ€™s birth, Mr. Irvine had
seen but little of his child during her early years, and
it had been rather a regret than a pleasure to him
when her school education was finished; and she
returned home. At first she had hoped to win her
fatherâ€™s love, but this hope faded after a time; all
Mary could do was to wish and long for the affection
which she saw other girls receive from their parents.
It was a lonely life; yet with her books, her work,
her garden, Mary was not unhappy, and days passed
peacefully if not joyously away. She was very dutiful
to this cold, stern father, always standing to wave
her hand to him as he rode away on Heroâ€™s back,
always at hand to welcome his return, though she
did wish sometimes for a little more than the calm
kindness with which he treated her. Now, when he
was brought home wounded and insensible from his
fall about a mile from the Lodge gates, Mary became
a most loving and patient nurse.
A long time of anxiety followed. There were
days and nights of watching, doctors came and
went, and for weeks Mr. Irvineâ€™s life was despaired
of; but at length the crisis came, and when
consciousness returned once more, he found that
Mary had been his untiring watcher. There was
no need of many words; the trembling clasp of
his hand, the whispered â€˜God bless you, my child!â€™
were enough to tell her that her fatherâ€™s love was
won at last. Then, what a happy time followed! a
time in which father and daughter really learned to
know each other, and wondered greatly how they
could have remained separated so long in heart.
After that, Mr. Irvine and his daughter might
often be seen together in their rides and walks; and,
better than all, they were together in the village
church, where Mary had formerly knelt alone. Soon
her influence spread still more, and there were many
things done for the poor, who had so long been
forgotten. Thus good came out of the long trouble
and solitude which Mary Irvine had borne so well;
her prayers were answered in Godâ€™s own. way, and
life became a sweet and happy thing to her, and
brought blessing upon all around her. S.
CATCHING A TARTAR.
dl eae following is the origin of the phrase â€˜ Catching
a Tartar. An Irish soldier, under Prince
Eugene, called out to his comrade, in a battle against
the Turks, that he had caught a Tartar. â€˜Bring
him along, then,â€™ said the other.
â€˜He wonâ€™t come,â€™ was the reply.
â€˜Then come yourself.â€™
â€˜But he wonâ€™t let me!â€™
STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN
By Rev. E. B. Tuttle, U.S. Army.
â€˜SHALL THE INDIANS BE EXTERMINATED ?â€™
ANY ask this question. It is very
easy to talk of â€˜extermination.â€™
General Harney, an old Indian
fighter, told General Sherman that
a war with the Indians would
cost the Government 50,000,000
dollars a-year, and stop for a long
time the running of the Pacific
Railroad. They fight only at an
adyantage,â€”when they outnumber
the whites. They fight, scatter Â°
away, and reunite again, and hide
away in canons (canyons), gorges, and mountain fast~
nesses, where no soldier can find them. It would be
a war of fifty yearsâ€™ duration.
General Sherman is reported to have said at a
meeting of the Indian Peace Commissioners, at Fort
Laramie, with several tribes: â€˜Say to the head chief
that President Grant loves the red men and will do
all he can for them. But they must behave them-
selves, and if they donâ€™t, tell him 702 killthem!â€™ â€˜The
old chief began to mutter away something to himself
â€˜What does he say?â€™ said the general.
â€˜Why,â€™ said the interpreter, â€˜ he says, â€œ Catch â€™em
Jirst, then kill them!â€ ?
Have they never been wronged by white men?
Have you never heard of the Sand Creek massacre ?
There had been some trouble between the Chey-
ennes and Arapahoes and some soldiers near Fort Lyon,
in 1864, south of Denver, Colorado, where these
Indians have areservation. The origin of the trouble
is uncertain. Major Anthony was sent out to fight
them; but on his arrival he found them peaceable,â€”
they had given up their prisoners and horses.
[Indians take their squaws and papooses with them
when they go on hunting expeditions. The squaws
prepare all the meat, dry all the game for winter food,
and tan the buffalo and deer hides to sell. â€˜They live
in tents or lodges, called â€˜Tepees,â€™ made of tanned
buffalo-skins, and usually hold about five persons, in
which they cook and sleep. On the war-path, they
leave their squaws and papooses in their villages.
This was the case when Colonel Chivington charged
that they were hostile, as an apology for his whole-
sale slaughter. ]
Five hundred Indians of all ages flocked, soon as
attacked, to the head chiefâ€™s camp,â€”â€˜ Black Kettle,,â€”
and he raised the American flag, with u white truce
beneath. This, you know, is respected in all civilised
warfare. â€˜Then the slaughter began.
One who saw it said, â€˜The troops (mainly volun-
teers) committed all manner of depredations on their
victims,â€”scalped them, knocked out their brains. â€˜The
white men used their knives, cutting squaws to pieces,
clubbed little children, knocking out their brains and
mutilating their bodies in every sense of the word.â€™
Thus imitating savage warfare by nominally Christian
Robert Bent testified thus :â€”
â€˜I saw a little girl about five years of age, who had
been hid in the sand; two soldiers discovered her,
drew their pistols and shot her, and then pulled her
out of the sand by her arm,â€™ &c.
This occurred at the time government officials in
Denver had sent for them,â€”had a â€˜ talkâ€™ with them,
â€”advising them to go just where they were. Before
he was killed, Black Kettle, one of the chiefs, thus
addressed the governor at Denver :â€”
â€˜We have come with our eyes shut, following
Major Wynkoopâ€™s handful of men, like coming through
the fire. All we ask is, that we may have peace with
the whites. We want to hold you by the hand. You
are our father. We have been travelling through a
cloud. The sky has been dark ever since the war began.
â€˜'These braves who are here with me, are willing to
do all I say. We want to take good news home to
our people, that they may sleep in peace.
â€˜Ihave not come here with alitile wolf-bark! But
have come to talk plain with you. We must live
near the buffalo or starve. When I go home, I will
tell my people I have taken your hand, and all of the
white chiefs in Denver, and then they will feel well,
and so will all the tribes on the plains, when we have
eaten and drank with them.â€™
And yet one hundred and twenty friendly Indians
were slain, and the war that followed cost 40,000,000
A council of Indians was held previous to the
â€˜Chivington massacre,â€™ which stamped the character
of Black Kettle, the Cheyenne chief, as noble and
brave. It seems that he had purchased from an Ara-
pahoe band two girls named Laura Roper, aged
eighteen, and Belle Ewhanks, aged six years, who
were captured by the Indians after attacking Roperâ€™s
ranch, on the Little Blue River, in July, 1864.
little boys were also captured at the same time. They
were carried off to the Republican River, and Black
Kettle bought them for five or six ponies, to give them
to their parents. Certainly generous act. He gave
them up, and met the Commissioners in council, to-
gether with several Arapahoe chiefs of small bands,
all of whom were confederate together to kill the
Commissioners and bring on a general war.
Black Kettle knew it, and was determined to ex-
pose the plot and break it up. But the party of white
officials, with Colonel E. W. Wynkoop, were in the
dark about their evil intentions. The Indians called
Colonel W. â€˜The Tall Chief that donâ€™t lie.â€™
â€˜Black Kettleâ€™-â€”Mo-ke-ta-va-taâ€”Colonel Tappan
says, â€˜was the most remarkable man of the age for
magnanimity, generosity, courage, and integrity. His
hospitality to destitute emigrants and travellers on the
plains for years had no limit within the utmost extent
of his means; giving liberally of his stores of pro-
visions, clothing, and horses. His fame as an orator
was widely known. He was great in council, and his
word was law. Hundreds of whites are indebted to
him for their lives... He held Colonel Chivingtonâ€™s
men at bay for seven hours, and carried to a place of
safety three hundred of his women and children,â€”
twenty of his braves and his own wife pierced with
a dozen bullets.
â€˜ Previous to the conflict, after his two brothers had
been shot down and cut to pieces before his eyes
(while approaching the troops to notify them of the
friendly character of the Indians), he aided three
white men to escape from the village; one of them a
soldier. They were his guests, whom he suspected of
being spies, â€˜ but did not knowit,â€ and they are now '
living to the eternal fame and honour of the chieftain.
From Sand Creek he fled to the Sioux camp, where it
was determined to make war upon the whites in
retaliation. He protested against interfering with
women and children, and insisted upon fighting the
men. He was overruled. â€˜Thereupon he resigned his
office as treasurer, and assumed the garb of a brave.
He soon after made peace for his tribe, which was
faithfully kept until the burning of their village two
years afterwards. A war again ensued, in which he
took no part, having promised never again to raise his
hands against the whites. He was the first to meet
the Peace Commissioners at Medicine Lodge Creek.
His many services and virtues plead like angels trum-
pet-tongued against the deep damnation of his
Well, when the council assembled, among them
were about a dozen chiefs of Arapahoes, Cheyennes,
&c.; the worst of whom was Neva,â€”Longnose,â€”an
Arapahoe with one eye, and that a very ugly one.
He was an outlaw, commanding twenty or thirty war-
riors. All were seated in a tent, and this fellow
became boisterous, and wrangled, clamouring for a
general war against all whites. It was a most excit-
ing time. The chiefs stripped almost naked, and
worked themselves up into a great excitement. At
. last, Black Kettle rose up, and pointing his finger at
Neva, thus addressed him :â€”
â€˜You! you call yourself brave! I know what you
mean. You come here to kill these white friends,
whom I have invited to come and have a talk with
us. â€˜They donâ€™t know what you mean, but Ido. You
brave! (sneeringly.) I'll tell you what you are: your
mouth is wide, so (measuring a foot with his hands),
â€”your tongue so long (with his forefinger marking
six inches on his arm),â€”and it hangs in the middle,
going both ways. You're a coward, and dare not fight
me.â€™ Here all the Indians gave a grunt of approba-
tion. â€˜Now, go,â€™ said he, â€˜and begone! This council
is broken up; I have said it; you hear my words;
begone!â€™ And they slunk off, completely cowed down,
Dog-soldiers were with them, well equipped for a
big fight, and these white men beguiled, would all
have been slain only for Mo-ke-ta-va-ta. A â€˜dog-
soldierâ€™ is a youth who has won gradually, by suecess-
ful use of the bow and arrow, a position to use the
gun, and stand to the warriors just as our police force
do to us, in guarding property, &c. These boys have
a stick, called a â€˜coo,â€™ on which they make a notch
for everything they kill,â€”a kind of tally,â€”and when
the coo is of a certain length they are promoted to
the rank of a â€˜ dog-soldierâ€™
THE PRICE OF A PLEASURE,
CF PON the valleyâ€™s lap
} The liberal morning throws
Ã©l A thousand drops of dew,
To wake a single rose.
Thus often, in the course
Of Lifeâ€™s few fleeting years,
A single pleasure costs
The soul a thousand tears.
J SS SSS â€”â€”
A Clever Gander. By Harrison Weir.
f ASPaRNS re mE \
HRA SN Rea
WN fil â€˜ RY
The Horse Pond.
REASON OR INSTINCT ?
Y ROM time immemorial the fox has
been called sly. The following story,
however, seems to show that with his
craft is sometimes mixed what might
be called worldly wisdom.
of Bridgewater, and on account of
his tender years was placed in the
kitchen of the White Heart, where
he grew up, Winning and retaining
the affection of his master and mis-
tress. It can scarcely be said that he
ate the bread of idleness; on the con-
trary, he did suit and service for bed and board,
his occupation being that of a turnspit. Whether
he grew weary of this employment, â€˜or was seized
with a desire to see something of the outer world,
seeins uncertain. One morning a short time ago
he left his box by the fireside, crept out of the door,
jumped lightly over the garden wall, and fairly took
to his heels across country. Viewed by a pack of
hounds trotting leisurely along the road to the cover
side, poor Reynard had to fly for his life. After a
smart run he perhaps became conscious that his
sedentary life ill fitted him for such desperate exer-
tion. Did his master and his mistress and his erib
in the corner, we wonder, come into his mind as
likely to afford him a refuge in his extremity? Be
this as it may, he took hedge, ditch, and bank as
straight as a line, dashed into the kitchen, jumped
into his box, and went on with his professional oc-
cupation of turning with extraordinary energy. The
pack, however, was close at his heels, charged into
the room, and, in spite of the exertions of his friends,
would have torn him to pieces, had not the huntsman
arrived opportunely and whipped off the dogs.
WHY THEY WENT TO WAR.
CERTAIN king sent to another king, saying,
â€˜Send me a blue pig with a black tail, or
The other replied :â€”
â€˜I have not got one; and if I hadâ€”â€”â€™
On this weighty cause they went to war. After
they had exhausted their armies and treasure, and
had laid waste their kingdoms, they began to wish to
make peace; but before this could be done it was
necessary that the insulting language which had led
to the trouble should be explained.
â€˜What could you mean,â€™ asked the second king of
the first, â€˜by saying, â€œSend me a blue pig with a
black tail, or elseâ€”â€”?â€?
â€˜Why,â€™ said the other, â€˜I meant a blue pig with a
black tail, or else some other colour. But what
could you mean by saying, â€œI have not got one, and
if I hadâ€”â€”?â€?
â€˜Why, of course, if I had I should have sent it.â€™
â€˜The explanation was satisfactory, and peace was
made at once.
The story of the two kings ought to serve as a
lesson for us all. Most quarrels are quite as foolish
as the war of the blue pig with a black tail.
cub was caught in the neighbourhood.
A MAY-DAY STORY.
A True Tale.
\ HO does not know the Severn, that longest,
though second, of English rivers? Who has
not loved to follow its windings from its source in the
Welsh mountains, through the picturesque counties
of Montgomery, Salop, Worcester, and Gloucester,
until, mingling with the waters of the Bristol
Channel, it loses itself in the Atlantic ? â€˜Call that a
river!â€™ I once heard an American say, as we crossed
one of its railway bridges; but we are proud of it, toâ€™
us its swift current is dearâ€”a part of our daily life.
Very winding and picturesque it is as it passes now
through sunny pasture-lands, and orchards white with
blossom, by country churches, and old castles. Past
busy towns, and tall, rugged cliffs, rich in manya tale
and legend ; its banks bordered with trees and flowers,
with its willow-planted islets, to which, in summer, the
children love to run dry-shod ; with its busy barges
and pleasure-boats, and its ferries, over which so many
must continually pass to church, to school, to the
railway stations, to their daily work, to their last quiet
resting-place, when, in some parishes, as they are
borne for that last time across the river, the church
bells do not toll, but chimeâ€”a sound so preferable to
me, speaking less of death, and sorrow, and desolation,
than of the sure and certain hope of the resurrec-
tion, on which we love to dwell, as we lay our loved
ones in â€˜ Godâ€™s acre.â€™
It was May Day, bright, joyous, and sunny; and
the May fair in the neighbouring town of one of those
Shropshire villages. A fair frequented by the dwell-
ers for miles around, by the forgemen and quarrymen,
by lads and lasses, by farm-servants especially, for
â€˜statute fairsâ€™ were still held, and this was the great
Among others, a forgeman and his wife had gone
thither, leaving their eldest boy, Johnnie, a fine dark-
eyed lad of eleven, to look after the house, the fire,
and little Willie, a curly-headed child of four. All
this Johnnie was well used to, and soon the house was
swept, the kettle filled, sticks and coal put ready for
â€˜lighting up against mother came,â€™ and then the boys,
taking their little boat, went with some other children
to the river-side. Now a thorough English Severn-
side boy scarcely knows what it is to fear the water ;
when only a wee, toddling thing, he plays beside
it; before his age numbers two figures he will try to
â€˜push aboutâ€™ a boat, or â€˜go fishing ;â€™ and they will
race in their games over the tall clids, some sixty, or
even eighty feet high, until we tremble as we look,
and feel that surely there must be a special Pro-
vidence over little children, or many a motherâ€™s heart
would be left desolate : so, if Johnnieâ€™s and Willie's
mother had seen them that morning she would have
felt no fear, nor would she have said, â€˜ Donâ€™t play by
They had played for some time with Johnnieâ€™s boat,
his own carving. â€˜The wind filled the tiny sails, and
on it sped; the children ran by the river-side shout-
ing for joy, little Willie running and shouting too in
the general delight, when hark !â€”a splash! a cry ! the
little curly head, the little red frock, are gone! Again
he rises; Johnnie has boldly plunged in and caught
his brother. He strikes out for land, but the current
has carried the children on to a steeper bank, but with
Godâ€™s help what will not love and a brave heart do?
Up the bank, his own clothes heavy with the water,
he drags the helpless child. He gains the top, his
foot is already on the bank, when poor, unconscious
Willie slips from his loving embrace, and once more
This time there is no cry; he rises, and is drifting
down the stream. O the agony of that moment!
â€˜He was trusted to me!â€™ cried the poor boy; â€˜I must
save him!â€™ Swift as an arrow he outran the floating
form, and once more sprang in; clutching the bough
of an overhangipg tree. Againhe tried. Alas! alas!
the bough so rudely strained snaps, and now two are
drifting, drifting to their death.
The screams of their frightened playfellows soon
brought help, but too late. Oh, who can tell the
anguish of the parents in their saddened coming
home? Never again shall those dear childrenâ€™s glad
looks make their sunshine ; their voices the music of
their toilworn lives. That brave, noble-hearted boy,
that little merry child, now rest together in the village
churchyard. There loving hearts have chronicled
this deed, as brave a deed and unselfish as ever won
the Victoria Cross, and have added these words:
â€˜They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in
their death they were not divided.â€™ H. M. B.
A VOICE FROM
EAR children, your Chatterbox
comes across the ocean to
us very regularly, and I
have often looked to see if
any one on this side of the
world had written anything
for it; but I have only seen
pictures of some of our
wonderful things. We are
very much interested in the
= wonderful things of other
countries just now, for you must know that we have
been having our first International Exhibition. It
was in Philadelphia, one of our large cities, and also
one that is very prominent in our history. For
two or three years we Americans were preparing for
this Worldâ€™s Fair. â€˜The people of Philadelphia have
a very beautiful pleasure-ground, called Fairmount
Park; and a large tract of this was fenced off and
used for the Exhibition. There are a great many
buildings in this enclosure, and all were filled with
interesting thingsâ€”things that would interest chil-
When I visited this Exposition I thought I never
before had had such a delightful time. The grounds
and many of the buildings were crowded with people;
every one was there to learn, and all were as happy
and as good-natured as could well be imagined.
There were English, Spanish, French, â€˜Turks,
Russians, Germans, Chinese, Japanese, Americans,
and so forth, all proud of their own countries, and
all interested in one anotherâ€™s country. In the great
hall used to exhibit machinery I saw half-a-dozen
negroes preparing tobacco as they do down South.
They were singing as they worked, â€˜And Pharach
to Moses said,â€™ while a Turk and two Japanese were
watching them and smiling at the scene. And we
white folks, used to the sight of the negro at work,
were just as much interested in the Oriental exhibits.
The building called the Main Building was the
largest one. It was filled with things from every
country. There were carpets, jewelry, and tiles,
and silverware, and â€˜ precious things in abundance,â€™
from Great Britain. There was a chest made from
beams six hundred years old, taken from Salisbury
Cathedral, which made me think how very modern
all our things are. It would seem very strange to
me to look at buildings some portions of which are a
thousand years old; for, when I look around my
home in this great city, I can think that, less than
four hundred years ago, it was a forestâ€”the home
of the Red man, the scene of bloody encounters of
savages, a â€˜happy hunting-ground.â€ We have a
street in the older part of the city, â€˜way down town,â€™
called Wall Street; now it is the business place of
bankers and brokers, but a little over a century
back it had a wall running along it, which protected
the citizens from Indians. We do not see any of
these people here now, except very seldom, when
some chief comes from the Far West to see how the
â€˜pale-faced people,â€™ as they call us, live.
But I am not telling about the Exhibition. In a
white marble building, which is to stand as a memorial
of this fair, were paintings from nearly all the civilised
countries. In a corner room were a number of pic-
tures lent by your good queen. There was a
painting of herself, dressed as she was when crowned,
nearly forty years ago; there was the â€˜Marriage of
the Prince of Wales, and in the corridor was a por-
trait of the Princess. In the rotunda of this building
was a terra-cotta copy of the group representing
America, in a monument erected to Prince Albert in
London. Prince Albert is highly thought of here ;
perhaps you remember he was the first person who
proposed an International Exhibition. Some noted
people asked him to support by his name the attempt
to start an English Exposition, and he instantly asked,
â€˜Why not make it international?â€™ and it was made
so, and a number have followed it.
We Americans have greatly enjoyed the presence
of the foreigners here this summer. They were from
all parts of the world, and we liked their expressions
of good-will towards us and our country. We wish
they had brought theiy families with them; it would
have been delightful to see the children of Europe
meeting with the children of the New World. All
the school children of the United States that possibly
could went to Philadelphia, and their bright faces
and animated expression showed their enjoyment
of this collection of the worldâ€™s work and skill. You
have many opportunities to see the great buildings
and monuments, prominent people and places, that
we have not: every child here lonks forward to a
trip to Europe some time. We wish you would
come here, and we would show you our great moun-
tains and rivers, rolling prairies and fine sea-coasts,
wonderful sunsets and rich autumnal foliage; for
what we lack in certain advantages of Europe we
have made up in a great and wide â€˜roominess.â€™ And
now, good-bye. Some time, if the Editor permits,
I may chat with you again.
AN AMERICAN CousIN.
eee ee en nn Rh,
Zo \ fit
Â» | i
TT i |
sii | a
BY THE SEASIDE. |
i ;'T was a summer day, and by the sea
i } We wandered, two and two:
Tom went with mother; Amy kept with me;
And Die with sister Loo,
| Climbing the cliffs, and almost wild with glee:
| All was so sweet and new.
So we were pairedâ€”my name is Jack, you know:
They call me â€˜ Factâ€™ at school.
Z'll tell you whyâ€”I'm thorough-paced, if slow,
And always have a rule
To finish what I take in hand, although
It lasts from May to Yule.
KN \ AW \\
T came for business to this wild sea-shore,
Which is an open book
To make one wiser than he was before ;
For every little nook,
And each weed-trellised rock, has marvels more
Than meet the keenest look.
Can it be one already? Here comes Die,
To say itâ€™s time to dine:
Go, spread the cloth, and call us by-and-by,
When mother gives the sign ;
_ We're very busy yet, anj moments fly,
Good little sister mine.
And what all morn, beside the ocean brim,
Did Tom and mother do ?
A score of stories she made up for him,
Some fanciful, some true;
Legends of pirate, merciless and grim,
Who in swift schooner flew ;
A CAT HATCHING
>) WISH to tell you a little anecdote
~"o about the doings of a bantam hen
and cat that I had in the summer of
1876. I put seven eggs under the
hen for her to sit upon, and this she
did with the help ofthe cat. When
the hen came off to eat and drink in
the day-time the cat would go on the
eggs and keep them warm until the
hen came in; then the cat would
leave for the hen to go on the nest,
while she would sit upon the nest-box and watch for
the rats and mice that came to disturb the hen.
When the chicks were hatched puss would sit and
watch them, so that no harm came to them when
they strayed from the hen; and I think, if it had not
been for the cat, they would have been taken by
the rats. I am happy to say, all the chicks which
were brought up by the watchfulness of the cat and
the hen are now living, and the cat visits the hen-cote
up to the present time.
BOUT a hundred years ago an old man of
seventy might have been seen teaching his
little boy his alphabet, which was printed then in
Scotland with the Catechism.
It was thought too valuable a book for the little
Alexander Murray to handle, and therefore it was kept
locked up for use on special occasions; but the old
shepherd father would draw the figures on a wool-
card with the blackened end of some bits of wood
which fell out of the fire, and thus the child became
a writer as well as a reader.
As all the old manâ€™s sons were shepherds, he
wished the child of his old age to be trained to the
same calling; and so, when Alexander was seven
years old, he began to go out upon the hills to tend
But he was a bad shepherd, and was often scolded
for his carelessness ; besides, all his thoughts were
with the alphabet-book and the board on which he
did his writing.
One great wish was in his heartâ€”the wish that he
could go to school; but his father was too poor to
send him, and, besides, their cottage was some six
miles distant from the village. However, good-
fortune awaited Alexander, for a relative who was
better off heard of. the boyâ€™s talent, and offered to
bear the expense of his boarding at New Galloway
for a time, and attending a school there.
Great fun was made of the young shepherd when
first he went among the boys who studied there:
his pronunciation was bad, and he knew little, yet he
soon advanced to the head of his class.
About three months of school injured his health
so much that Alexander was sent home, and for
nearly five years he was thus left to himself, earning
his living again as a shepherd-boy; but the desire
after knowledge remained, and he learned by heart
all the old ballads he met with, and practised his
reading and the printing of words.
At twelve years old his parents began to grow
anxious as to how he was to maintain himself, and
this made him engage to teach the children of some
neighboring farmers, for which he received sixteen
shillings as remuneration for his services during the
In 1790 Alexander had another few months?
schooling during the summer, which was the time
that his pupils were out on the hills with their herds
and flocks. During that short interval he learned to
the end of the rudiments in his Latin grammar, and
made progress enough in French to read it with
The next summer brought the chance of more
attendance at school, and our young student now
attempted the Greek and Hebrew janguages, working
at them when he again returned home.
For his labour during the winter months of that
year Murray received forty shillings, and every
moment not given to teaching was spent in studying
Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and French.
Altogether his attendance at school was not more
than thirteen months, scattered over the space of less
than eight years, and yet by ardour and perseverance
Murray became an accomplished scholar.
When he was in his nineteenth year a man who
lived in that part, and who knew his history, spoke
of him to a journeyman printer in the Kingâ€™s Printing-
office in Edinburgh. â€˜This person asked that Murray
should write a story of his life and its difficulties,
which he would undertake to lay before some literary
The plan was adopted, and after being examined
by the Professors the young man was admitted into
It seemed to him then that his difficulties were
over, and for the next twelve years he resided chiefly
at Edinburgh, acquiring one language after another
with wonderful ease.
There was scarcely an Oriental or Northern tongue
which Murray had not studied. He mastered the
dialects of the Abyssinian or Ethiopic language, and
thus took his place as the first scholar of that day.
In 1812 he was made Professor of the Oriental
Languages in the Edinburgh University, but his
excessive study had so reduced his strength that in
the following April he died at the age of thirty-
seven years. M. 58.
MPHE savage tribes of Australia looked upon their
women as simply slaves, or beasts of burdenâ€”to
work for, and wait on, their better halves. As a
curious proof of this it is stated, that when the natives
first saw white men on horseback they thought
the horses were their visitorsâ€™ mothers, because they
carried them on their backs! Another tribe is like-
wise said to have held that the first pack-bullocks
which they saw were the white fellowsâ€™ wives, because
they carried the luggage! Civilisation, however, has
changed the ideas of these wild men, and, we hope,
| has also bettered the condition of their unhappy
wives. H. A. FB.
No. IILâ€”A MOUNTAIN.
HERE is something very attractive
in a mountain, and he must be a
stupid boy who has no desire to
climb one. But it is slow and
tring work sometimesâ€”anything
but childâ€™s play. However, let
us throw legs aside, and as we
sit by our own fire let us spread
our thought-wings, and stand on
a few of earthâ€™s peaks, Here is
one, almost in the middle of
France, a mountain shaped like the dome of St. Paulâ€™s
Cathedral, and called Puy de DÃ©me. It is a green
hill, towering up among its bare and rocky brethren,
almost all of whom were once volcanoes. he villages
about are built of lava, which in days gone by flowed
dowh the mountain sides. Here the women sufler
much from great swellings in their throats, which
are sometimes as large as a childâ€™s head.
On the Puy de DÃ©me the great Blaise Pascal, â€˜ one
of the sublimest spirits in the world,â€™ weighed the
A little hut used to stand on the mountain, and it
was set on fire one night by some mischief-loving
people ; and the folks all around were in great fear,
for they thought the Puy de DÃ©me was going to
become a volcano.
From France to Ceylon by the nearest overland
route would be a fatiguing journey, but we can stand
oa Adamâ€™s Peak in a twinkling. It isa holy mountain,
called by the natives â€˜The Hill of the Holy Foot,â€™
because on the top there is a stone with an impression
like a gigantic foot, a foot more than five feet long.
And the simple folk ascend the peak in crowds
for the purpose of worshipping the holy foot, which:
they call Buddhiwâ€™s foot. Buddha left his footmark
here when he strode across the ocean into Siam. â€˜The
Arabs, knowing nothing of Buddha, changed the
name, and called it Adaimâ€™s foot. The ascent up the
peak is very steep, and the path winds sometimes
over bare, slippery rocks, where the traveller would
be in great difficulties if it were not for strong irons
fastened to the mountain side.
Stepping like Buddha across the Indian Ocean, we
stand on a strange mountain, called by the peculiar
name of Peter Botte. Peter Botte was a bold but
unfortunate man, who climbed a very steep mountain
in the Mauritius, and lost his life in doing it. As he
came down he fell, and was killed, but lives in history
by his achievement. This mountain is no great height,
but it has a remarkable head, placed on a neck, â€˜The
head, which is over thirty feet high, overbangs the
neck, and therefore an ascent to the summit is a work
of great hazard. Four adventurous Hnglishmen, who
would not take warning by Peter Botte, managed
one day to scramble to the very top, and there drink
the kingâ€™s health.
They slept on the neck, which is a ledge about six
feet wide. At the edge is a most awful precipice.
They kind.ed a fire, and had plenty of brandy (perhaps
too much), and were well wrapped up in coats and
shawls, yet they were too chilly to sleep. In the
morning they rose from their uncomfortable couch
stiff and hungry, and after climbing once more to the
head they made a hole in the rock, and there left a
flagstaff with the old Union Jack fluttering merrily.
You will be glad to hear they did not meet with the
sad fate of poor Peter Botte.
The highest mountains in our globe are those which
separate India from Thibet, and go by the name of
the Himalayas. For a thousand miles there is a
continuous line of mountain masses. eight miles in
breadth: out of which no less than twenty-eight
peaks soar up to the immense height of twenty thou-
sand feet and more. If you would ascend one of
those snowy pinnacles from the burning plains below
you must first cross a most unhealthy border, twenty
miles in width. It is, in fact, a swamp, caused by
the waters overflowing the river banks. The soil of
this swampy border is covered by a mass of trees,
and grass, and shrubs, where the tiger, and the
elephant, and other animals, find a secure retreat. If
you can cross this girdle without falling a victim to
fever or wild beasts, you will come to smiling valleys,
romantic hill-sides, and noble forests. Still advancing
onwards and upwards, you get among bolder and
more rugged scenes. â€˜Ihe sides of the glens are very
steep, sometimes quite naked, and sometimes well
wooded; and the traveller has to be content with
three ropes for a bridge. The towns have to be
perched as best they may. The streets are simply
stairs cut out of the rock; and the houses rise in tiers
one above another.
The pathways into Thibet among the Himalayas
are generally mere tracks by the side of foaming
torrents. Often as you advance every trace of the
path is gone, being swept away by falling rocks and
earth from above. Yet the love of gain and adventure
laughs at dangers and hardships, and goods, placed
on the backs of goats and sheep, are briskly carried
to and fro. Sometimes, where it is impossible to walk
along the mountain-side, posts are driven in, and
branches of trees and earth are spread, so as to form
a trembling foothold for the passenger.
In the Andes a mule is used, a very sure-footed
beast. Often the wayfarer comes to a chasm, several
feet wide, and ever so many hundreds of feet in
depth. Across this the mule will leap, but not until
he has taken every care to insure a sate jump.
â€˜One day,â€™ says Major Head, â€˜I went by the worst
pass over the Cordillera mountains. The height
above me seemed almost perpendicular, and beneath
it sloped steeply down to a rapid tcrrent, raging far
beneath. The path for seventy yards was only a
few inches broad, and at one particular point it was
washed clean away, while the stones thereabout were
shoulder; my other leg overhung the precipice ; above
my head were loose stones, which it seemed the slightest
touch would dislodge.â€™
After the Major and his party were safely over, he
was told by the guide that, to his knowledge, four
hundred mules had fallen at that terrible spot.
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MON SS Zs
cipation of the serfs was the first decree of his
reign: a happy thought, but one which it will take
years of patient effort to follow up, the poor Russians
holding still the position of slaves, though they are
legally free men.
After some years of peace, Russia has now entered
on a new war with the Turks, which will make the
reign of Alexander II. a memorable one in the
Russian annals. H. A. F.
ROUND THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
HE Isle of Wight is rightly called the â€˜Garden
of England.â€™ And a short trip round the island
enables the seeker of natureâ€™s beauty to see it with-
out trouble and in its best form.
We started one beautiful forenoon from Ryde,
on board a splendid steamer called the Heather-
dell, We then sailed westwards, and passed the
Queenâ€™s marine residence at Osborne. â€˜Then we went
on and saw Cowes on our left. Afterwards came
Yarmouth, and then a continuation of cliffs covered
with heather. The scenery was not very striking just .
here. We soon past Hurst Castle on the right, which
is the boundary of the Solent. We now had reached
Alum Bay, and we bore out from the land on account
of the numerous rocks. We pass the Needles Rocks
and lighthouse. Proceeding south-east we pass Fresh-
water (where Mr. Tennyson resides) and Freshwater
Bay. We are now some distance from the land, and
the sea is a little â€˜choppy, as sailors say. This makes
several of the passengers feel and look very uncom-
The mist which hangs over the land prevents a very
clear view of the scenery until we reach Blackgang,
where we can distinguish the Chine. We soon pass
St. Catharineâ€™s Point and Lighthouse. â€˜This is the
most southerly point of the Isle of Wight; we there-
forenow steer towards north-east and come in sight of
Ventnor. Here the view is magnificent from the sea.
At the back is the â€˜ Undercliff,â€™ a rugged cliff running
from St. Catharineâ€™s Point to Ventnor. Immediately
past Ventnor we see Bonchurch. â€˜This is the village
where Mr. Adams, the author of the Shadow of the
Cross, the Old Manâ€™s Home, the Distant Hills, &c., is
buried. His grave is a block of stone, over which is
placed a cross horizontally, so that a shadow is always
on the stone. The church of Bonchurch is also
worthy of note. It will only seat about twenty
persons ; but service is never held in it now.
We leave Bonchurch behind us, and rounding
Lueccombe we see indistinctly the Chine. We are
still out some way, thereby obtaining a capital view
of the landslip. Passing Luccombe we dip into the
Sandown Bay, and see Shanklin nestling in the
trees at the foot of the cliff, and some little distance
to the right Sandown. The chief attraction at
Shanklin is the Chine, which is a very pretty water-
fall in the midst of a woody walk.
We are allowed about fifteen minutes to see these
two pretty towns, for the steamer takes time in
crossing the mouth of the bay. By-and-by we
pass the Culver cliff, and lose sight of Shanklin
and Sandown. Fareham now presents itself on
the left, while on the right we can now see the Sussex
and Hampshire coasts. We pass between Brading
harbour and the Nab lightship. At Brading is the
cottage and grave of the young cottager, celebrated
by the Rey. Legh Richmond in his Annals of the
We are once more in sight of Ryde, with its pier,
and passing Seaview and St. Helenâ€™s on the left, and
the Warner lightship on the right, we steam to the
end of Ryde pier, where we arrive after being on the
water about five hours. And a very pleasant five
hours it was to some, but not to those who are not
good sailors; and such, probably, will not soon forget
their trip â€˜round the Isle of Wightâ€™. E. J. W.
SOMETHING ABOUT TURTLES.
] AM sure some Chatterboxes, if not all, have read
the conversation between the Gryphon and the
Mock Turtle, in Alice in Wonderland. Well, I
am_ going to tell you something about real turtles,
and not mock ones, who live in_a real wonderland,
and not in a mock one,
This wonderland is South America, a very beau-
tiful place, where the people, and the animals.
and the birds are quite different from those to be
found in Europe. 3
Turtles are what is called amphibious, that is, they -
are able to live on land or in water. But they are
much fonder of water, and are found sometimes a
very great distance out at sea. Some of them are
very big creatures, and a full-grown turtle has been
found to weigh sixteen hundred pounds. There are
two or three kinds, but the one we know most about
is the â€˜ green turtle.â€™
I cannot say that I admire these reptiles, but still
they remind one of a tortoise which some people
think pretty enough to pet. I need hardly describe
what they are like, but yet I may just say that, like
the snails, they carry their houses on their backs,
and their small heads and feet peep out a little way
from their hard shells.
It is principally their fat that is valued, though
their eggs also are considered a choice morsel.
I will tell you of a frightful slaughter of these
poor creatures, which was made by the Indians of
It happened on one moonlight night that a party
of European travellers was rowing down a river not
far from the great Amazon, when all of a sudden a
dreadful smell assailed their noses. They could not
think what could possibly cause it, but their native
_ guides were better informed, and with cries of
dehght pulled into shore atâ€™ once, saying, â€˜Now we
shall get some spoil !â€™
On landing they soon came upon an open plain,
and what do you think they saw? Strewn before
them in ghastly array were the corpses of at least
a thousand turtles hacked to pieces, flesh hanging
to portions of the shell, and the whole field streaming
It was a sickening sight, and yet one which
brought to their minds a verse of Scripture, which
says, â€˜Wheresoever the carcase is, there shall the
eagles be gathered together.â€™ Foy all over the place
were to be seen the gaunt forms of vultures, some in
the act of gorging, and some half asleep with the
good meals they had made. But who could have
been so cruel as to kill all the poor turtles ?
It evidently was not a set of hungry men; because
so much flesh was left: neither could it have been
wild beasts, for they would have been unable to break
through the turtlesâ€™ armour.
But the Indians knew how it all came about, and
gave this explanation. â€˜It is now the turtle season
(the time of year was about the middle of August),
and so it is the custom of our tribes to go in large
parties in search of them. Very likely last night
was as fine as it is to-night, for the turtle does not
like bad, dark nights, and our countrymen made a
venture to get supplies both of flesh and eggs,
which they will sell and get a great deal of money
We may fancy last night, an elderly turtle, perhaps
a queen amongst them, calling her subjects together
and saying, â€˜Now is the time for laying our eggs.
We will make a pilgrimage towards the smooth
sand, where we can deposit them easily.â€™ No sooner
said than done, and with her at their head they begin
their march. d
~ of one Monsieur Raboteau.
What a number there are, to be sure! Some
thousands at least. They leave the river, where
they have been sporting, and make their way to the
sandy plain close by, which only lately has been laid
bare by the receding of the waters, caused by the late
weeks of drought.
As soon as all are ready they set to work in a
very business-like manner. No drones are to be
seen. Why they are in such a hurry I cannot say;
but certain it is that they begin rapidly, in detach-
ments, to dig a trench with their fore-feet. This
trench is often two hundred yards long, and always
four feet broad and two feet deep. Here the turtles
deposit their soft-shelled eggs. Very often each one
of them leaves seventy, or even more. This done,
they set to work quickly to fill up the holes with
their hind-legs, or flaps, as they look like. This
whole undertaking is accomplished in about an hour,
and then the turtles make their way back to the
water. In their eagerness to get back to their or-
dinary haunts, many poor turtles topple over into
the unfinished trenches, and are buried alive.
The mothers think no more of their eggs, but leave
them for the sun to hatch; and in about three weeks
time (if â€˜allowed) they come to life. But, you will
say, what is to prevent them? Ah, here comes the
point. Besides the turtlesâ€™ fat, the Indians like to
eat and to sell the turtlesâ€™ eggs. So directly the
innocent reptiles scamper off, well pleased with them-
selves, down come the natives on their luckless eggs,
pack them up, and carry them off, as a valuable
prize, both for their own hovel and to sell in the
markets. As we have seen, the turtles are not
always fortunate enough to escape themselves from
the hands of their cruel enemies. E. E. A.C.
A STRANGE REFUGE.
FTER the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in
the year 1685, the Huguenots being required to
renounce the Protestant religion or to run the risk of
passing the rest of their lives as galley-slaves, began
to escape from France to other less intolerant lands.
Among the many fugitives were the young daughters
They, indeed, had not
been threatened with the galleys, but they equally
objected to the choice offered to themâ€”either of
instantly accepting for their husbands two Roman
Catholic gentlemen selected for them by the State, or
of retiring into a convent. In their perplexity they
applied to an uncle, who had long before settled as a
wine-merchant in Dublin, carrying on a brisk trade
with the French wine-growers, and now and then
sailing in his own ship to Rochelle, where, in happier
times. he had cultivated the acquaintance of his French
With the best will to assist his nieces, Mr. John
Charles Raboteau had much difficulty in so doing,
owing to the efforts of the Government to prevent the
emigration of the unfortunate Huguenots.
It was possible to procure horses for the young
ladies, on which they were conveyed by night to a
house in Rochelle, where lodgings had been already
secured for them, but how to get them secretly con-
veyed from that house to the merchant-ship tossing
outside the town was the difficulty.
It was solved, however, at length. Mr. Raboteau
was in the habit of carrying with him to Ireland some
large casks of French apples, as part of his cargo, and
in two of these casks his young nieces were conveyed
on board in the terrible winter following the Revo-
cation. Despite anxieties and terrors, the girls
reached L...â€œlin in safety, finally settling and raarrying
there, and their descendants still live to tell the tale
From SMILESâ€™ Huguenots.
THE TWO MARTINS:
THE FISHERMAN AND
' 7 < From the French.
(> HEY are two Martins, one a
fisherman, the other a hunts-
man. One might represent
the first with a line in his claw,
and the second with a gun
upon his shoulder.
However, their commonand
formidable weapon is a sharp
beak, which pinches and twists
with equal success both the
reptile and the fish. Who
with his rapid flight, his azure plumage, brilliant as a
ray of light? He conceals himself under his bower,
waiting upon a branch of a willow or young elm. At
his feet runs a river. Whilst the fish play with
confidence on the surface of the water, the kingfisher
listens, watches, chooses his prey, darts, plunges,
seizes, and holds his victim: in a moment he has
regained his post, enclosing in his beak his unfor-
tunate prey, who twists and struggles in vain, whilst
he knocks it against a branch with repeated blows.
When dead the victim is devoured, and the king-
fisher whets his beak, observes, and waits for a fresh
The martin huntsman of Australia, sometimes
called the gigantic kingfisher, though he never fishes,
does not shine by the side of our French kingfisher.
His plumage is dark like the robe of a monk, his body
heavy, his legs short, his head enormous, and his
beak prodigious. He takes long hops and staggers.
like a drunkard. One is always afraid that his great
head will overbalance him, and that he wil fall head
over heels. His great beak, always halt open like:
the disjointed blades of a pair of scissors, adds to his
grotesque and stupid air. He is a noisy and jovial
bird, gossiping and chattering like a magpie, and
laughing very much. His voice is not less odd than
his person. No stranger sounds could issue from a
stranger beak. He is very fond of society.
they return from the chase, one sees troops of hunting-
martins meet in a circle, hold counsel and talk together,
as if they were relating the adventures of the day,
whilst they make the silence of the wood re-echo with:
their loud bursts of laughter. Happy birds!
But who knows? perhaps this is only feigned:
mirth. The hunting-martin may wel! be a philoso-
pher who laughs at his deformity, for fear lest he:
should be obliged to weep for it. C.8. C.
THE KIND THRUSH.
ISHOP STANLEY, in his attractive book on
birds, relates an interesting case of a young
thrush and a young cuckoo, which were fellow-pris-
oners in the same cage. The former could feed
itself, but the latter was unable to do so, and had to
be fed through a quill. The thrush, observing this,
became a voluntary nurse to the cuckoo, and con-
stantly put food into the mouth of the poor bird.
May we not learn a lesson on kindness from the
sympathy of this humane thrush ?
Te Hon. Augustus Charles Hobart, a younger
son of Lord Hobart, began his career as an
officer of the British Royal Navy. From the first he
distinguished himself as one of the most active and
daring officers in the service, as well as one of the
most adventurous madcaps when off duty.
The wild frolics of â€˜Gussie Hobart? when a
youngster are still remembered and laughed over by
his former comrades.
The tame duties of service in time of peace, how-
ever, could not satisfy this lively spirit, and in various
ways he sought the â€˜delights of dangerâ€™ throughout
the world. During the war of North and South in
America he amused himself by running the blockade
â€”a feat which he performed successfully several
Next we find him (still a half-pay captain in our
navy) helping Turkey to subdue revolt in the island
of Crete, and soon after he accepted the post of
Director-general of Naval Schools in the Ottoman
empire. As this was done without the permission of
the English Government, he was struck off the
Navy list; only, however, to regain his place there in
1874, as admiral on tne reserved list. Recently,
however, his name has been again removed from
our Navy list. The Turks owe a debt of gratitude
to our countryman for valuable aid in organizing
their navy. One of his latest exploits was his
running the gauntlet of the Russian batteries in the
Danube. Tlobart Pasha, caught, as the Russians
imagined, with his vessel behind their bristling forti-
fications, formed the daring resolution of dashing
past their great guns so close in shore that the
enemy had not time to depress them to take aim.
The plan succeeded, and Hobart Pasha won fresh
renown for daring and well-conceived stratagem.
H. A. F.
STORIES ABOUT AMERICAN
By the Rev. E. B. Tuttle, U.S. Army.
A TRIP TO FORT LARAMIE.
STARTED from Fort Russell with
the paymaster, Major Burbank, In-
spector-General Sweitzer, Medical
Director J. B. Brown, and others, on
the last of May, 1870, with an escort
of a dozen cavalry, to pry a few
daysâ€™ visit to Laramie, ninety-five
Oo miles north-east of our post. Leav-
ing at noon in procession, with
three ambulances and as many
army wagons, scaling the bluffs, bare of everything
like trees or shrubs, and only covered with grass and
wild flowers, and now and then sage-bush and
prickly-pear cactus, which are very troublesome to
the horsesâ€™ feet. The roads were, as usual, very
hard and fine, so that up hill and down dale we
made six miles to the hour all the way. Our first
station was Horse Creek, twenty-five miles, where
we camped on a fine stream of water for the night.
When a party thus camps out the wagons are cor-
raled, as it is called,â€”z.e. a circle is made of them
and the horses are tethered inside, or lariated, with a
rope long enough to let them feed, and this is held by
an iron stake or pin driven into the ground. Then
the tents are put up in a line, and at once begins the
work of gathering brush and sticks (or buffalo-chips),
with which to cook a savoury supper of bacon, pota-
toes, and hot coffee. This is the time for cracking
jokes, telling stories of pioneer life,â€”and the coloured
boys are full of fun. We had one from the South
named Tom Williams, belonging to Colonel Mason,
of the Sth Cavalry. After enjoying our evening
meal and getting ready to lie down in our tents,
spread on the grass, as the evening approached, the
sun was sinking behind Laramie Peak,â€”a mountain
far away in the Black Hills, towering up 8000 feet,â€”
and all nature was hushed into repose, and each one
with his lungs full of the light air, and his body weary
with a long ride, just dropping off to sleep,â€”all at
ouce there was a yell and halloo outside, which caused
ine to jump up and look out to see if any red-skins
had broken through the guard and invaded our peace-
ful circle. Instead of scalping Sioux, there was
nothing the matter but the return of a drove of large
beef-cattle we had passed grazing on the Chugwater,
and which sought our camping-eround on account of
a bare place where they could He down and be warm
for the night. Our Tom was racing up and down
among them, yelling â€˜ Hi, hi!â€™ and shaking his blan-
ket in all directions to stampede the poor cattle, who
had as good a right as we to the soil.
Pickets were stationed all around us, and, save the
snoring of some tired sleeper and the occasional bray-
ing of a mule or two, we slept soundly, with no fear
of Indians. Here we met a white man and his wife,
a squaw, and several others, who were waiting for Red
Cloud and his chiefs, who were on their way to
Washington from Fort Fetterman. They were related
to John Reichaud, a_half-breed belonging to Red
Cloudâ€™s party. This Reichaud had lived about La-
ramie and Fetterman for many years, and, by rais-
ing stock and trading, had accumulated, it is said,
about 200,000 dollars. During last winter, while
drunk, he quarrelled with a soldier, and a little while
after, in passing some barracks at Fetterman, he aimed
his revolver at a soldier, who was sitting in front of
his quarters, named Kernan, and killed him, supposing
it was the same suldier he had just before been quar-
yelling with. Finding out his mistake, he fled away
up to Red Cloudâ€™s camp, and while there incited the
Indians to make war upon the whites. At the time
we were going up, General John BE. Smith was jour-
neying towards us with Red Cloud and his band of
warriors, and having Reichaud as the chiefâ€™s prisoner.
It was said he expected to get the President to pardon
him and allow him to establish a trading-post for
the Ogallallas. The feeling against this outlaw was
such as to make General Smith fear that sone one at
Cheyenne would shoot him, and so the party turned
off to Pine Bluff Station, about forty-three miles east
of that town. We thus missed seeing them. But
there were other objects of interest in our journey,
and we went on to the mail station, called the Chug,
a place not of much note,â€”for beside a company of
cavalry, there were not a dozen ranches there on the
beautiful stream, along whose banks were growing
willow-trees and the cottonwood also. Besides, there
were half-a-dozen tepees filled with half-breeds, who
are herders and wood-choppers in the mountains.
While the paymaster was dispensing the green-
backs to Uncle Samâ€™s boys, the doctor and I sallied
out with a guide in search of those much-admired moss
agates which are here found in great abundance, even
quarried out of a bluff and carried off by the wagon-
load. The guide had been there but once, and somehow
or other he could not locate it exactly, and we had a
ride out of six miles and back without finding the spot.
Sull, we picked up a few on the way. As these are
now so much the fashion for jewelry I will describe
them. First, I should say that most suppose they
contain real moss, or fern-leaves, so distinct are they
seen in a clear agate to resemble them. Thus you see
imitations of pine-trees, vines, a deerâ€™s head, and
sprigs of various kinds; but it is through iron solu-
tions penetrating them when in a soluble state. If
you take a pen and drop some ink into a tumbler of
water, it will scatter and form for the moment an
appearance like a moss agate. These agates, when
found on bluffs or dry places, are coated over with a
white covering of lime or alkali. Those in the beds
of rivers found along the line of the Pacific Railroad
are smooth and transparent. They are called the
â€˜Cheyenne brown agate,â€™ â€˜ Granger-water agate,â€™
â€˜Church Buttes light-blue agate,â€™ and the â€˜ Sweet-
water agate.â€™ â€˜
There are great quantities of them near â€˜Church
Butte and Grarger stations,â€™ nearly 900 miles west of
Missouri River. You have to poke among cobble-
stones, &c., to find them, and when a person comes
upon a handsome specimen he will shout, as did a
minister from Chicago, one day, with me, when he
picked up a nice one as large as an egye,â€”â€˜Glory!
It is like searching for gold and silver,â€”very excit-
ing, and far more pleasurable than fishing or hunting.
A friend here has about sixty pounds of agates, for
which he was offered by a lapidary in New York five
dollars a pound. A handsome stone for a ring or pin
is worth, when cut into shape, from three to five
dollars. The lapidary cuts them with a steel wheel,
about eight inches in diameter, using oil and diamond-
dust in cutting and polishing.
A YOUNG â€˜BRAVE.
At Chug Station I meta frontiersman named Phil-
lips, of long experience, who told me in his new adobe
house of an old chief who had lost five sons, and
when the first was slain he cut off a piece of his
thumb, next of his forefinger, and so on, till five told
of his boys killed. The last was a brave, and sup-
posed no ball could hit him, wearing, he supposed, â€˜a
charmed lifeâ€ He came to the Chug and dared
them to shoot. As he and three or four more had
killed a white man and wounded others, the people
all turned out, and Phillips shot the bold young fel-
low, and wounded the rest of the party so that they
died. The body of the young Indian lay by the road-
side for several weeks, till the wolves and ravens had
picked his bones, and I picked up his skull, pierced
through with several balls, to bring back and present
to the post-surgeon.
This grinning skull was lying on the grass which
covered the roadside, and almost beneath towering
monuments or bluffs of sandstone, which jut out at
several points on the road, running al: ng for great
distances, and towering up several hundred feet high.
We passed soon after several of these projections,
whick: look like fortifications and baronial castles of
some knights of the olden time. â€˜ Chimney Rockâ€™ is
well known to travellers as a series of tuted columns,
and standing solitary, as sentinels in the desert, they
look solemn, lonely, and sublime. Old George, the
stage-driver, has passed them twice a-week for many
years, and the wonder is he has not. lost his scalp.
Sometimes the chiefs and old Indians will cut slits
in their cheeks and rub ashes in them, sitting over the
fire and bemoaning the loss of their dÃ©ad children.
They present a horrid appearance to one who looks
at they pagan mode of bewailing the departed.
Arrived at Fort, Laramie on the third day, we were
courteously welcomed by Colonel F. F. Flint, of the
4th Infantry, commandant of the post. Delicacy
dictates that we forbear to speak of the charming
family which surrounds him; but the rarity of Chris-
tian households in the army made our visit there like
to an Oasis in the desert.
To visit the Indian graves surrounding the post was
a prominent object before us in going. Lieutenant
Theodore F. True, with an orderly, two mules, and a
horse saddled, found us fording the Laramie River to
inspect the graveâ€”if such it can be calledâ€”where the
body was dried up like a mummy, and nothing else
but fragments of a buffalo-robe dangling in the wind
was to be seen. Relic-hunters had carried away every-
thing in the shape of bow aud arrow, wampum, &c.
We moralised over this beautiful feature of Indian
superstition, wherein they are certainly free from the
horrid thought that any one is ever buried alive!
Next we sought the place where the remains of
Mon-i-ca, daughter of Zin-ta-gah-lat-skah, was placed,
by her request, in the white manâ€™s cemetery, and
alongside of the body of her uncle Sho-ta,â€”â€˜ Old
Smoke,â€™â€”an old warrior. â€˜The coffin was made at the
post, and elevated on posts about ten feet high. They
cover these coffins with handsome red broadcloth, and
deposit in each all the trinkets and valuables belong-
ing to the departed. One other grave there the
Indians visit annualiy, and mourn over with their
lamentations,â€”that of a Frenchman named Sublette,
who brought them down and directed them how to
vanquish their enemies, the Pawnees, in a great
ce honest heart, whose thoughts are clear
From fraud, disguise, and guile,
> Needs neither Fortuneâ€™s frowning fear
Nor court her fickle smile.
The greatness that would make us grave
Is but an empty thing:
What more than mirth would mortals have 2â€”
The cheerful manâ€™s a king!
BOLDNESS OF A
"ESTERDAY I was going my rounds,
having a small broken-haired ter-
rier dog with me, very harmless,
but good for rabbits. Passing
through a covert culled Harbour
Field, my little dog started from
my heels in pursuit of a rabbit that
jumped up in the ride that runs
through the wood. In a minute
or so the little dog shrieked out, and I stopped to see
what was the matter. â€˜The dog came running towards
me, followed by a fox, which chased it to my heels,
when I suddenly holloaed out, and in an instant the
fox glided into the bushes, and kept running back-
wards and forwards within a few yards of me while i
stopped. I passed on through the wood to the far
end, and, to my astonishment, the fox was following
my dog a second time, close at my heels. When I
had a full view of her I saw that she was suckling
cubs; and no doubt it was her mother-instinct, fearing
harm to her offspring, that made her so bold.â€” W. P.
(Gamekeeper, the Ash, near Derby.)
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THE ERNE, OR SHA EAGLE.
HALIBUT, a large flat fish like a turbot, repos-
ing near the surface of the water, was seen by
an erne, which pounced down and struck his talons
into the fish with all his force. Should the halibut
be too strong, the eagle, it is said, is sometimes, but
rarely, drowned in the struggle. In this case, how-
ever, as more frequently happens, the bird overcame
the fish; he remained upon it when dead as if he
were floating on a raft, and then spreading out his
wide wings, ie made use of them as sails, and was
driven by the wind towards the shore.
F you have ever walked through corn-fields after
the harvest was reaped, it is very likely you
were startled by ten, or a dozen, or even more, large
birds suddenly springing up with a tremendous
whirr, and flying off in a fright. If so, you
may be sure it was a family of partridges which
you had disturbed. If you could have watched
them quite near, you would have noticed that the
father of the family was distinguished by a mark
something in the shape of a horse-shoe on his
breast, an ornament which the mother bird did not
possess, and you would have known the young birds
from their parents by their tender yellow legs and
The story of this timid family, or covey, as it is
generally called, would be much as follows : â€”
It was in the cold spring days that the father and
mother fell in love with each other, and thought
nothing would be so niceâ€™ as to live together all the
sweet summer days, and bring up a pretty family of
baby partridges. This question settled, they next
found out a cosy corner ina sunny hedge-row,
where they settled to make their nest; and as they
required but little furniture in the shape of walls or
feather beds, it was soon ready. The mother part-
ridve then began to lay about a dozen eggs, and
after sitting upon them till she was quite tired, had
the delight of seeing herself surrounded by such a
pretty Hock of little chickens that she was ready to
sing for joy, only singing was not one of her accom-
plishments. But day and night she and her partner
watched and tended them with loving hearts.
Once she espied a wicked weasel creeping up to
her pets, but before he could seize one she had flown
at him and beaten him about the head with such
violence with her wings that he was only too glad to
find himself back in his own hole, with nothing worse
than a black eye and a shocking bad headache.
On another occasion the farmer to whom the field
belonged suddenly came upon her, just after her
little ones were hatched. As he was too big to fly
at she tried another plan, and that was to decoy him
away from the spot. Falling down only a few paces
before him, she began to flutter and tumble about,
so that, thinking she must have a broken wing, he
rushed forward to catch her in his hand. But she
was too quick for that, and continuing to flutter on
at a short though safe distance, she managed to
draw hin away from her young. When she thought
all danger of his discovering her treasure was over
she quietly mounted into the air and flew off, and
then he saw what a clever trick she had played him.
Partridge life must be very pleasant until the Ist
of September, but then all is changed. On that
day, as you know, partridge-shooting begins, and
from early morning until nightfall parties of sports-
men carrying guns, and attended by dogs called
pointers, roam about the stubbles, bean-tields, and
turnips, in quest of coveys. â€˜The dogs generally dis-
cover them first, and their masters observing them
stand quite still, like the one in the picture, know at
once that they have found something. â€˜The family
lie close as long as they dare, but when the dogs or
the sportsmen come too near, up they all get, with
that terrible whirr you must recollect if you have
ever startled them yourself. Bang! bang! go the
guns, and two or three of their number come flut-
tering down to the ground, and are soon found by
the dogs and put into the keeperâ€™s bag.
It is said the partridges can be tamed and made
sociable pets; in fact, there is an old tradition that
the holy Apostle St. John, in his extreme old age,
used to take pleasure in petting a favourite partridge
(most likely one of the red-legged species); and if
any one hinted to him that such a plaything was
beneath his dignity, he would answer with a smile,
that â€˜the bow must be unbent sometimesâ€™ H.H
WHAT BECAME OF
ORD LOVEL, of Minster Lovel in
Oxfordshire, was a zealous supporter
of the Yorkist party in the Wars: of
Roses, and when Henry VIL (of
the Lancaster) came to the throne at
the defeat and death of Richard III,
of course Lord Lovel was one of those
regarded with extreme dislike by the
â€œnew king. Lovel was not seized and
put to death, because, like Joab of old,
he fled for refuge to a sanctuarysâ€”that
The king respected the sanctuary, and did not try
to drag Lovel away. However, when Henry was
on his journey to York, whither he went to show
himself and make his person popular, Lord Lovel
escaped from Colchester, and, putting himself at
the head of a body of Yorkists, awaited the kingâ€™s
approach, somewhere between York and Middleham.
On second thoughts, however, he did not think his
party, strong enough then for anything important,
and he therefore told them to disperse. After this
Lovel fled to the sea-coast and made his escape to
Soon after this a very curious event happened,
which gave King Henry much anxiety. One day a
priest, accompanied by a very handsome youth,
landed at Dublin. The priest, who was a very
clever speaker, declared the youth was Edward
Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, son of the late Duke
of Clarence, and the true heir to the throne. The
priestâ€™s story was so well backed up by the beha-
viour of the youth, that the Irish people were quite
persuaded it was all true.
It was known in Ireland that King Henry had
confined the young earl to the Tower for State
reasons ; but the priest invented a story of Edwardâ€™s
escape in some extraordinary manner, and as the
house of York was very popular in Ireland it was
all believed, and the great Earl of Kildare clasped
the boy to his bosom, and swore he would die for
him as the undoubted king of the islands.
And very soon the boy was crowned in the
Cathedral, and as they had no proper crown for
the ceremony, they took a golden coronet from a
statue of the Virgin Mary, and placedâ€™it on Edwardâ€™s
head, and he was then saluted in due form as King
Edward the Sixth.
Meanwhile Lord Lovel and the Earl of Lincoln,
another devoted Yorkist, sent over to Ireland a
number of veteran German soldiers, under the com-
mand of a very able and gallant captain, Martin
The arrival of these men at Dublin seems to have
encouraged the Earl of Kildare to venture on the
extremely bold step of invading England. A num-
ber of ships were freighted, and, after crossing the
Channel, the invaders landed near Furness Abbey.
King Henry, having placed his wife, his infant
son, and his mother, in the strong castle of Kenil-
worth, marched to meet the invading host at the
head of a numerous army.
Meanwhile the Earl. of Lincoln and Lord Lovel
* suspicion to the ruling powers.
advanced towards York, expecting to be joined by
multitudes, but the English people did not answer
their wishes at all; they did not, in fact, relish a
king brought into the country, as it were, on the
shoulders of Irishmen and Germans. The leaders
of the young King Edwardâ€™s army then determined
to fall suddenly on Henry and risk all in a pitched
battle. Henry had left Kenilworth, and, having
passed through Coventry and other places, was now
halting at Stoke-on-Trent, near Newark.
The Earl of Lincoln led his men to the attack,
and a battle took place which raged fiercely for
about three hours. â€˜The victory remained with King
Henryâ€™s troops, but it was dearly bought. The
brave Germans fell almost to a man, and their
gallant leader, Martin Swart, died with them. All
the noble Fitzgeralds bit the dust, for the Irish
disdained to flee. The Earl of Lincoln was slain,
and the priest, Richard Simon, and the Pretender,
Edward the Sixth, were taken prisoners.
When Lord Lovel saw he could do no more he
set spurs to his horse and fled. Leaping into the
Trent, he either crossed it or was drowned in its
rushing waters. No one knows with certainty what
his fate was; but there is a very sad story about
him, somewhat confirmed by a discovery made many
years ago, which we will briefly relate.
Near the town of Witney, in Oxfordshire, there is
a little village called Minster Lovel, where remains
of a very ancient castellated building may yet be
seen. â€˜The castle, once the home of the Lovel
family, was demolished about the year 1694, and the
workmen in doing this discovered a vault. In this
vault was a chair and table. On the table was a
prayer-book, or missal, and in the chair was the
skeleton of Lord Lovel, clad in a very rich dress.
The vault was small, and the air had been so well
shut out, that the book and garments were entire, or
But how came Lord Lovel to die in this vault ?
The story is, that when he left the fatal field of
Stoke he swam across the Trent, and escaped into
Oxfordshire by unfrequented roads. A faithful ser-
vant, who knew his masterâ€™s sign, admitted him by
dead of night into his house at Minster Lovel, when
Lord Lovel retired at once into a secret cellar, the
key of which the servant kept.
Here the proscribed nobleman remained for
several months in safety ; but his estates being
then seized by the kingâ€™s order, the servants were
driven off, and the house was stripped of all its
Owing to these circumstances the unhappy Lord
Lovel was left to perish by hunger in the vault,
which thus became his grave. It is a dreadful
story, reminding us of the fate of the Duke of
Rothsay, described by Sir Walter Scott in the air
Maid of Perth.
This story has been doubted, but there seems no
reason why it should not be true. Mr. â€˜Timbs, in his
book called Abbeys, Castles, and Ancient Halls of
England, gives us several authorities for the story,
which he says seems not a whit more unlikely than
the accounts of priests hiding in secret holes and
corners during the time when they were objects of
G. 8. O.
THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD.
SHE home of childhood has a charm, I cannot
Gs tell you why or what :
Tt has a charm, a nameless charm, that hangs
about no other spot ;
A charm no other place can have, however pleasant
it may be.
Oh, no, there is no second place in all this earth so
dear to me.
My home it was no castle grand, no marble hall, no
palace wide ;
It had no park, nor well-kept lawns, nor other signs
of wealth and pride ;
No lake and swans, no fallow deer, no costly foun-
tain spouting foam :
But it was beautiful to me, and ever will, my child-
It was a house of stud and.mud, a strange old place,
with floors awry ;
Low ceilings with huge balks across â€” in vain one
asks the reason why ;
Old doors where they ought not to be, and windows
never set to rights ;
And such a chimney-corner too, a cosy nook on
But why should I its praises sing ? Iâ€™ve loved it long,
I love it still,
With its one rood of garden ground my dear old
father used to till.
Its arbour and its peacock yew, its water-butt and
The sweet-brier and the privet hedge, what memories
they bring to me!
Iâ€™ve been a football in my time, kicked by Dame
Fortune to and fro;
Iâ€™ve seen Niagaraâ€™s cataract, and Himalayaâ€™s range
of snow; :
Iâ€™ve trod the streets of capitals, their pomp and
splendour have I seen,
But not a sight can stir my heart like the old cottage
by the green.
And when upon my aching brow the ague-spot has
nightly lain, :
Or when on duty in the trench my foot has stumbled
oâ€™er the slain,
Or when the solemn forest wild before me placed its
A sight of comfort to the heart, my childhoodâ€™s home
has gleamed afar.
Then was I borne to days of health by memory on
To sweet uncrimsoned fields of peace, where war its
shadow may not fling; ;
Or by my fatherâ€™s side I stood, and I was safe from
fear once more, <
As â€™twixt me and the roaring dark I felt the Lord
had shut the door! G. 8. O.
The Home of my Childhood.
DA BURROWS lived with her
father and mother in one of the
pretty cottages of Laneton vil-
lage. She was a little girl with
brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and
light, wavy hair. She was a
good little girl, as little girls
go: she felt a shade of discon-
tent now and then, and her
small duties sometimes seemed
to her rather tiresome: but
these bad feelings were soon
over. â€˜To-day she was busily tying up the mignonette
in the corner of the little garden which she called
her own, when she heard her mother call.
â€˜Ada!â€™ cried Mrs. Burrows, putting her head out
of a side-window of the kitchen, and which opened
towards the garden.
â€˜Yes, mother,â€™ Ada answered as she ran in, and
found her mother tying a cloth over a yellow and
black basin, covered with a soup-plate.
â€˜Here now, Ada,â€™ said her mother, â€˜ you run
over to father with his dinner. Put your hand here
under the knots of the cloth. Hereâ€™s the cold tea.
Oh, dear! I forgot the dumpling! Thatâ€™s a surprise
Mrs. Burrows untied the bundle again, and,
going to the fireplace, she teturned with a splendid
apple-dumpling, which was added to â€˜fatherâ€™s dinner,â€™
and Ada started on her way. }
Her father was a gardener, but had not of late
been in regular employ at any one place. He was
now putting the garden at the Vicarage in order.
The vicar and his family were absent at the seaside,
or I dare say that Adaâ€™s father would have had his
dinner in the kitchen. But they were expected
home in a day or two, and Burrows had plenty to do.
So he would not come home at noon for his dinner,
and his little daughter had to bring it to him.
The sun was high and hot, and the road dusty.
Ada had been working long in her garden, and she
was hot too. She was very hungryâ€”much more
hungry, it seemed to her, since she had seen that
glorious dumpling than she was before. She walked
along the road, holding the dinner carefully by its
cloth, when who should she meet but Bessy Dixon!
Bessy was not half so pretty as Ada. She might,
however, have been prettier to look at than she was
now if she had tried, for a clean face is prettier than
a dirty one, any day. â€˜Wherever are you going?â€™
said Bessy. Â»
â€˜Up to father with his dinner, said Ada, and
walked on. She answered quite civilly, but without
showing any strong desire for Bessyâ€™s company, as
she knew that her mother did not wish them to be
friends, for Mrs. Burrows was a good and careful
â€˜All that way!â€™ said Bessy. (Ada thought that
it really was a good way to go, but said nothing.)
â€˜ What has he got for dinner?â€™ asked Bessy, putting
her face nearer the bundle, and sniffing.
â€˜ Beef and vegetables,â€™ answered Ada, â€˜and bread;
and, oh! such a splendid apple-dumpling !â€™
â€˜ Apple-dumpling ?â€™ cried Bessy. And then, sink-
ing her voice, she added, â€˜Oh, Ada! I am hungry,
and I do like apple-dumpling.â€™
Ada thought within her that both these state-
ments were extremely true about herself also; but
she said nothing about this. But she did say, â€˜Itâ€™s
a surprise for father. Mother told me he didnâ€™t
Bessy was walking on beside her. â€˜Oh, Ada!â€™
she said in a low voice, â€˜I just am hungry. Are
not you? I say, your father doesnâ€™t know thereâ€™s
any apple-dumpling ?â€™
Here she hesitated, and looked wistfully in Adaâ€™s
face. Ada was much more hungry than Bessy, who
indeed had had her dinner already; but she only
looked in Bessyâ€™s face as if she could not understand
â€˜I say,â€™ repeated Bessy, in an excited whisper,
â€˜he doesnâ€™t know of it. Heâ€™d never miss itâ€ Then
looking hard in Adaâ€™s eyes, and touching her arm,
she whispered, â€˜I say, letâ€™s eat it. He wonâ€™t know.â€™
They had reached the corner of the quiet lane
leading from the high road to the gate of the
Vicarage garden. It was narrow and shady, and
very retired. High banks and thick hedges were on
each side, the boughs of the trees met overhead, the
sides were grassy; there was no sound but the
_ twitter of birds and sometimes the hum of a wan-
dering bee. Bessy had not ill chosen the scene of
â€˜The two girls had paused, and were standing at
the entrance of the lane, looking at each other; and
as Ada put her one disengaged hand to the bundle,
Bessy thought for a moment that she had prevailed.
But nothing was farther from Adaâ€™s thoughts.
She was only changing hands for the safer carrying
of â€˜fatherâ€™s dinner.â€™ Not for one moment did the
idea of yielding to Bessyâ€™s suggestion enter her
mind. Indeed, what Bessy wished was scarcely
plain to her for a moment. Then, as the baseness
of the temptation broke upon her, â€˜Oh, Bessy !â€™ she
said: no more, but the tone was enough. â€˜ Good-
bye!â€™ she hastily added, and ran up the lane to the
Vicarage gate, making the basin and soup-plate
rattle as she went, and arriving at the place where
her father was at work much hotter than if she had
not met Bessy Dixon.
When John Burrows, seated on his tilted wheel-
barrow, had finished his bread and meat, and had
begun upon his dumpling, his little daughter, who
was leaning on his knee, surprised him with a
chuckling laugh. He looked up, and saw her face
full of merriment, but a queer look in her brown
â€˜What's the matter, little maid?â€™ he asked.
â€˜I was thinking, father,â€™ said Ada, â€˜suppose I
had stopped on the way and eaten up your dinner,
what would you have said?â€™
â€˜I should have said, it was not my little maid that
did that,â€™ said John Burrows, as he put the last piece
of his dumpling with much content into his mouth.
There was a dumpling waiting at home for Ada
also, though I think it rather spoils the perfume of
the story to tell you so. J.K.L.
THE BILBERRIES AND THE
From the Swedish.
CHC LITTLE boy, his lessons o'er,
a Went bounding from the school-house door ;
A So loud his shouts, so blithe his glee,
He seemed a bird from cage set free.
His teachers were not harsh and stern,
Nor hard the tasks he had to learn;
But boys, we know, love play and fun,
And Wish the easiest lessons done.
Besides, hard work brings wish for food,
And well he knew that in the wood
â€˜Tall brambles rich in fruit there grew,
And juicy berries darkly blue ;
Of bilberries there he found a store,
For summer days were not yet oâ€™er.
He might have filled with berries nice
His hat and pockets in a trice,
But just then saw, above his head,
A mountain-ash with berries red.
â€˜Dear me!â€™ he cried, â€˜ how sweet must be
The scarlet fruit of yonder tree!â€™
The rowan was not hard to scale ;
The boy climbed up, and did not fail
To bring the choicest clusters down,
Yea, spoil the ash-tree of its crown.
But when his spoils he tried to eat,
He found them the reverse of sweet ;
The first so set his teeth on edge,
He threw the rest behind a hedge ;
He thought, â€˜Tl to my bilberries haste,
Theyâ€™ll make up for this hard, sour taste.â€™
But ah! his schoolmates had been there,
And all the stalks of fruit stripped bare.
* * * *
His disappointment this may teach,â€”
Donâ€™t strive for whatâ€™s above your reach;
With what God gives contented rest,
Nor think the showiest must be best:
You'll often find, that here below
Best things in lowhest places grow.
OSGYYY RAILWAY JOURNEY,
HERE was no doubt about it that
Prudence Floyd was a very pre-
judiced woman in many matters,
but still she need not have gone
so far as to forbid her son to work
on the wonderful line of railroad
just. being made between Liver-
pool and Manchester, and pass-
ing through their own little vil-
lage on the way.
In a very lengthy discourse she
explained all her views to thÃ© Squire, illustrating
from Scripture the sinfulness of this new, quick mode
of travel, as bringing places near together that God
had set afar apart, and so on; and showing how, by
way of preserving her Sam guiltless, she had des-
patched him on foot to learn the cobbling of his
uncle in Manchester. -
â€˜A poor trade, but better than wickedness!â€™ wound
up Mrs. Floyd, who was somewhat self-righteous.
The Squire listened, wagged his pigtailâ€”it was at
least fifty years agoâ€”smiled at widow Flovd, and
declared, â€” :
â€˜Well, well, times were changing, but not for the
worse he hoped: and for his part he prophesied the
year would not be out before both he and Mrs. Fleyd
were riding behind the new steam-horse to Man-
â€˜God forbid!â€™ said Mrs. Floyd, and turned away
In-that moment the Squire trotted off, delighted
to be released.
Why will people object to new discoveries and
-experiments just because they do not understand
them? and why should Prudence Floyd think her-
self so much better and more foreseeing than the
Squire in this matter of the railroad?
Everyone was a-gog about the scheme; some
pleased, some frightened, all curious. â€˜The workmen
were very busy, and Farley village was full of them,
for a single line of rail had actually been laid between
Manchester and that place, and some of the men
were daring enough day by day to travel behind the
hissing, screeching engine, which brought material
for their daily work.
Widow Floyd trembled for them, but little thought
how soon her turn was to come. It was perhaps
three weeks later when a letter was delivered to the
widow. Widow Floyd did not read writing very
easily, so she carried the missive to the schoolmaster,
who read that Sam Floyd sent his duty to his moth-
er, and was then dying at his uncleâ€™s of an acciden-
tal injury from his shoemakerâ€™s knife. The last
words were evidently straight from the poor fellowâ€™s
â€˜Oh, mother! do get to me afore I die!â€™
Widow Floyd had a motherly heart, if a preju-
diced one; she was scrubbing away great tears with
one hand, while she rolled up a bundle and counted
her money with the other: she must start immediate-
ly for Manchester.
â€˜Wait for the carrierâ€™s cart to-night,â€™ said a kindly
neighbour to her.
â€˜Nay, woman; [ll wait for nought,â€™ said the
â€˜Get the Squire to send thee in his gig,â€™ advised a
The Squire was on the threshold as the speech
â€˜Get the Squire to do better for thee than that,
he said. â€˜Come along, Prudence; schoolmaster has
told me thy trouble. Well, poor Sam! poor lad! he
shall see thee to-night for all the bad roads. And he
dragged the old woman through the miry lanes, past
the last houses in the village, towards the straggling
sheds known as Railroad Corner.
Then Prudence hesitated; she saw his aim: but
the Squire was firm and the mother wavering. Into
the trucks used to remove earth the old woman was
lifted, the Squire by her side, and then with a shriek
and a groan the steam-horse set off for Manchester
â€˜Youâ€™d never have seen him to-night any other
way,â€™ said the Squire; but Prudence had her fingers
in her ears, and was praying loud and fast in her
terror. She was stiff with fright when they took her
out again at Manchester, but yet she begged to be
taken at.once to Mill Fields. â€œThere she found her
boy alive but in great danger. Still he mended from
that very night, and Prudence and the doctor said it
was owing to his motherâ€™s nursing.
A month later and Mrs. Floyd brought her son
home, this time in the carrierâ€™s cart; and when he
got quite well he was seen busily working among
the railway men.
The Squire chuckled over the change in Mra.
Floydâ€™s ideas. Where were her prejudices and her
texts of Scripture now? .
It is a great pity that people waste so much
cleverness in torturing texts to fit their own ideas. }
Anyhow Prudenceâ€™s prejudices regarding railway
travelling were all banished by that one trip with the
Squire, though probably she had the same difficulties
to overcome in the matter of the electric telegraph
later on, and, if she happen to live so long, in balloon
journeys by-and-by. H. A. F.