OUR BOYS

GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON, MARY E. WILKINS,
FRANCES A. HUMPHREY, MARGARET EYTINGE,
MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY, MARY D. BRINE, Etc., Etc., Etc.

Profusely Illustrated.

1904

The Cat-tail Arrow

BY CLARA DOTY BATES

A YOUNG SALT.

HE COULDN’T SAY NO.

M.E.B.

THE CHRISTMAS MONKS.

ll children have wondered unceasingly from their very
first Christmas up to their very last Christmas, where
the Christmas presents come from. It is very easy to
say that Santa Claus brought them. All well regulated people
know that, of course; about the reindeer, and the sledge, and
the pack crammed with toys, the chimney, and all the rest of it—that
is all true, of course, and everybody knows about it; but that
is not the question which puzzles. What children want to know
is, where do these Christmas presents come from in the first
place? Where does Santa Claus get them? Well, the answer
to that is, In the garden of the Christmas Monks. This has not
been known until very lately; that is, it has not been known till
very lately except in the immediate vicinity of the Christmas
Monks. There, of course, it has been known for ages. It is
rather an out-of-the-way place; and that accounts for our never
hearing of it before.

The Convent of the Christmas Monks is a most charmingly
picturesque pile of old buildings; there are towers and turrets,
and peaked roofs and arches, and everything which could possibly
be thought of in the architectural line, to make a convent
picturesque. It is built of graystone; but it is only once in a
while that you can see the graystone, for the walls are almost
completely covered with mistletoe and ivy and evergreen. There
are the most delicious little arched windows with diamond panes
peeping out from the mistletoe and evergreen, and always at all
times of the year, a little Christmas wreath of ivy and holly-berries
is suspended in the centre of every window. Over all
the doors, which are likewise arched, are Christmas garlands,
and over the main entrance Merry Christmas in evergreen letters.

The Christmas Monks are a jolly brethren; the robes of
their order are white, gilded with green garlands, and they never
are seen out at any time of the year without Christmas wreaths
on their heads. Every morning they file in a long procession
into the chapel to sing a Christmas carol; and every evening
they ring a Christmas chime on the convent bells. They eat
roast turkey and plum pudding and mince-pie for dinner all the
year round; and always carry what is left in baskets trimmed
with evergreen to the poor people. There are always wax candles
lighted and set in every window of the convent at nightfall;
and when the people in the country about get uncommonly blue
and down-hearted, they always go for a cure to look at the Convent
of the Christmas Monks after the candles are lighted and
the chimes are ringing. It brings to mind things which never
fail to cheer them.

But the principal thing about the Convent of the Christmas
Monks is the garden; for that is where the Christmas presents
grow. This garden extends over a large number of acres, and
is divided into different departments, just as we divide our flower
and vegetable gardens; one bed for onions, one for cabbages, and
one for phlox, and one for verbenas, etc.

Every spring the Christmas Monks go out to sow the Christmas-present
seeds after they have ploughed the ground and made
it all ready.

There is one enormous bed devoted to rocking-horses. The
rocking-horse seed is curious enough; just little bits of rocking-horses
so small that they can only be seen through a very, very
powerful microscope. The Monks drop these at quite a distance
from each other, so that they will not interfere while growing;
then they cover them up neatly with earth, and put up a sign-post
with “Rocking-horses” on it in evergreen letters. Just so
with the penny-trumpet seed, and the toy-furniture seed, the
skate-seed, the sled-seed, and all the others.

Perhaps the prettiest, and most interesting part of the garden,
is that devoted to wax dolls. There are other beds for the
commoner dolls—for the rag dolls, and the china dolls, and the
rubber dolls, but of course wax dolls would look much handsomer
growing. Wax dolls have to be planted quite early in the
season; for they need a good start before the sun is very high.
The seeds are the loveliest bits of microscopic dolls imaginable.
The Monks sow them pretty close together, and they begin to
come up by the middle of May. There is first just a little glimmer
of gold, or flaxen, or black, or brown, as the case may be,
above the soil. Then the snowy foreheads appear, and the blue
eyes, and the black eyes, and, later on, all those enchanting little
heads are out of the ground, and are nodding and winking and
smiling to each other the whole extent of the field; with their
pinky cheeks and sparkling eyes and curly hair there is nothing
so pretty as these little wax doll heads peeping out of the earth.
Gradually, more and more of them come to light, and finally by
Christmas they are all ready to gather. There they stand, swaying
to and fro, and dancing lightly on their slender feet which
are connected with the ground, each by a tiny green stem; their
dresses of pink, or blue, or white—for their dresses grow with
them—flutter in the air. Just about the prettiest sight in the
world is the bed of wax dolls in the garden of the Christmas
Monks at Christmas time. Of course ever since this convent and
garden were established (and that was so long ago that the wisest
man can find no books about it) their glories have attracted a
vast deal of admiration and curiosity from the young people in
the surrounding country; but as the garden is enclosed on all
sides by an immensely thick and high hedge, which no boy could
climb, or peep over, they could only judge of the garden by the
fruits which were parceled out to them on Christmas-day.

You can judge, then, of the sensation among the young
folks, and older ones, for that matter, when one evening
there appeared hung upon a conspicuous place in the garden-hedge,
a broad strip of white cloth trimmed with evergreen
and printed with the following notice in evergreen letters:

“Wanted—By the Christmas Monks, two good boys to
assist in garden work. Applicants will be examined by
Fathers Anselmus and Ambrose, in the convent refectory, on
April 10th.”

This notice was hung out about five o’clock in the evening,
some time in the early part of February. By noon the street was
so full of boys staring at it with their mouths wide open, so as to
see better, that the king was obliged to send his bodyguard before
him to clear the way with brooms, when he wanted to pass on his
way from his chamber of state to his palace.

There was not a boy in the country but looked upon this
position as the height of human felicity. To work all the year
in that wonderful garden, and see those wonderful things growing!
and without doubt any body who worked there could have
all the toys he wanted, just as a boy who works in a candy-shop
always has all the candy he wants!

But the great difficulty, of course, was about the degree of
goodness requisite to pass the examination. The boys in this
country were no worse than the boys in other countries, but there
were not many of them that would not have done a little differently
if he had only known beforehand of the advertisement of
the Christmas Monks. However, they made the most of the time
remaining, and were so good all over the kingdom that a very
millennium seemed dawning. The school teachers used their
ferrules for fire wood, and the king ordered all the birch trees
cut down and exported, as he thought there would be no more
call for them in his own realm.

When the time for the examination drew near, there were
two boys whom every one thought would obtain the situation,
although some of the other boys had lingering hopes for themselves;
if only the Monks would examine them on the last six
weeks, they thought they might pass. Still all the older people
had decided in their minds that the Monks would choose these
two boys. One was the Prince, the king’s oldest son; and the
other was a poor boy named Peter. The Prince was no better
than the other boys; indeed, to tell the truth, he was not so good;
in fact, was the biggest rogue in the whole country; but all the
lords and the ladies, and all the people who admired the lords
and ladies, said it was their solemn belief that the Prince was the
best boy in the whole kingdom; and they were prepared to give
in their testimony, one and all, to that effect to the Christmas
Monks.

Peter was really and truly such a good boy that there was no
excuse for saying he was not. His father and mother were poor
people; and Peter worked every minute out of school hours to
help them along. Then he had a sweet little crippled sister
whom he was never tired of caring for. Then, too, he contrived
to find time to do lots of little kindnesses for other people. He
always studied his lessons faithfully, and never ran away from
school. Peter was such a good boy, and so modest and unsuspicious
that he was good, that everybody loved him. He had not
the least idea that he could get the place with the Christmas
Monks, but the Prince was sure of it.

When the examination day came all the boys from far and
near, with their hair neatly brushed and parted, and dressed in
their best clothes, flocked into the convent. Many of their relatives
and friends went with them to witness the examination.

The refectory of the convent, where they assembled, was a
very large hall with a delicious smell of roast turkey and plum
pudding in it. All the little boys sniffed, and their mouths
watered.

The two fathers who were to examine the boys were perched
up in a high pulpit so profusely trimmed with evergreen that it
looked like a bird’s nest; they were remarkably pleasant-looking
men, and their eyes twinkled merrily under their Christmas
wreaths. Father Anselmus was a little the taller of the two, and
Father Ambrose was a little the broader; and that was about all
the difference between them in looks.

The little boys all stood
up in a row, their friends stationed
themselves in good
places, and the examination began.

Then if one had been
placed beside the entrance to
the convent, he would have
seen one after another, a crestfallen
little boy with his arm
lifted up and crooked, and his
face hidden in it, come out
and walk forlornly away. He had failed to pass.

The two fathers found out that this boy had robbed birds’
nests, and this one stolen apples. And one after another they
walked disconsolately away till there were only two boys left:
the Prince and Peter.

“Now, your Highness,” said Father Anselmus, who always
took the lead in the questions, “are you a good boy?”

“O holy Father!” exclaimed all the people—there were a
good many fine folks from the court present. “He is such a good
boy! such a wonderful boy! We never knew him to do a wrong
thing in his sweet life.”

“I don’t suppose he ever robbed a bird’s nest?” said Father
Ambrose a little doubtfully.

“No, no!” chorused the people.

“Nor tormented a kitten?”

“No, no, no!” cried they all.

At last everybody being so confident that here could be no
reasonable fault found with the Prince, he was pronounced competent
to enter upon the Monks’ service. Peter they knew a great
deal about before—indeed, a glance at his face was enough to
satisfy any one of his goodness; for he did look more like one of
the boy angels in the altar-piece than anything else. So after a
few questions, they accepted him also; and the people went home
and left the two boys with the Christmas Monks.

The next morning Peter was obliged to lay aside his homespun
coat, and the Prince his velvet tunic, and both were dressed
in some little white robes with evergreen girdles like the Monks.
Then the Prince was set to sowing Noah’s ark seed, and Peter
picture-book seed. Up and down they went scattering the seed.
Peter sang a little psalm to himself, but the Prince grumbled
because they had not given him gold-watch or gem seed to plant
instead of the toy which he had outgrown long ago. By noon
Peter had planted all his picture-books, and fastened up the card
to mark them on the pole; but the Prince had dawdled so his
work was not half done.

“We are going to have a trial with this boy,” said the Monks
to each other; “we shall have to set him a penance at once, or
we cannot manage him at all.”

So the Prince had to go without his dinner, and kneel on
dried peas in the chapel all the afternoon. The next day he finished
his Noah’s Arks meekly; but the next day he rebelled again
and had to go the whole length of the field where they planted
jewsharps, on his knees. And so it was about every other day
for the whole year.

One of the brothers had to be set apart in a meditating cell
to invent new penances; for they had used up all on their list
before the Prince had been with them three months.

The Prince became dreadfully tired of his convent life, and
if he could have brought it about would have run away. Peter,
on the contrary, had never been so happy in his life. He worked
like a bee, and the pleasure he took in seeing the lovely things
he had planted come up, was unbounded, and the Christmas
carols and chimes delighted his soul. Then, too, he had never
fared so well in his life. He could never remember the time
before when he had been a whole week without being hungry.
He sent his wages every month to his parents; and he never
ceased to wonder at the discontent of the Prince.

“They grow so slow,” the Prince would say, wrinkling up
his handsome forehead. “I expected to have a bushelful of new
toys every month; and not one have I had yet. And these stingy
old Monks say I can only have my usual Christmas share anyway,
nor can I pick them out myself. I never saw such a stupid
place to stay in my life. I want to have my velvet tunic on
and go home to the palace and ride on my white pony with the
silver tail, and hear them all tell me how charming I am.” Then
the Prince would crook his arm and put his head on it and cry.

Peter pitied him, and tried to comfort him, but it was not
of much use, for the Prince got angry because he was not discontented
as well as himself.

Two weeks before Christmas everything in the garden was
nearly ready to be picked. Some few things needed a little more
December sun, but everything looked perfect. Some of the
Jack-in-the-boxes would not pop out quite quick enough, and
some of the jumping-Jacks were hardly as limber as they might
be as yet; that was all. As it was so near Christmas the Monks
were engaged in their holy exercises in the chapel for the greater
part of the time, and only went over the garden once a day to see
if everything was all right.

The Prince and Peter were obliged to be there all the time.
There was plenty of work for them to do; for once in a while
something would blow over, and then there were the penny-trumpets
to keep in tune; and that was a vast sight of work.

One morning the Prince was at one end of the garden
straightening up some wooden soldiers which had toppled over,
and Peter was in the wax doll bed dusting the dolls. All of a
sudden he heard a sweet little voice: “O, Peter!” He thought
at first one of the dolls was talking, but they could not say anything
but papa and mamma; and had the merest apologies for
voices anyway. “Here I am, Peter!” and there was a little pull
at his sleeve. There was his little sister. She was not any taller
than the dolls around her, and looked uncommonly like the prettiest,
pinkest-cheeked, yellowest-haired ones; so it was no wonder
that Peter did not see her at first. She stood there poising herself
on her crutches, poor little thing, and smiling lovingly up
at Peter.

“Oh, you darling!” cried Peter, catching her up in his arms.
“How did you get in here?”

“I stole in behind one of the Monks,” said she. “I saw him
going up the street past our house, and I ran out and kept behind
him all the way. When he opened the gate I whisked in too,
and then I followed him into the garden. I’ve been here with
the dollies ever since.”

“Well,” said poor Peter, “I don’t see what I am going to
do with you, now you are here. I can’t let you out again; and
I don’t know what the Monks will say.”

“Oh, I know!” cried the little girl gayly. “I’ll stay out
here in the garden. I can sleep in one of those beautiful dolls’
cradles over there; and you can bring me something to eat.”

“But the Monks come out every morning to look over the
garden, and they’ll be
sure to find you,” said her brother, anxiously.

“No, I’ll hide! O Peter, here is a place
where there isn’t any doll!”

“Yes; that doll did not come up.”

“Well, I’ll tell you
what I’ll do! I’ll just
stand here in this place
where the doll didn’t
come up, and nobody
can tell the difference.”

“Well, I don’t know but you can do that,”
said Peter, although he
was still ill at ease. He
was so good a boy he was very much afraid of doing wrong,
and offending his kind friends the Monks; at the same time he
could not help being glad to see his dear little sister.

He smuggled some food out to her, and she played merrily
about him all day; and at night he tucked her into one of the
dolls’ cradles with lace pillows and quilt of rose-colored silk.

The next morning when the Monks were going the rounds,
the father who inspected the wax doll bed was a bit nearsighted,
and he never noticed the difference between the dolls and Peter’s
little sister, who swung herself on her crutches, and looked just
as much like a wax doll as she possibly could. So the two were
delighted with the success of their plan.

They went on thus for a few days, and Peter could not help
being happy with his darling little sister, although at the same
time he could not help worrying for fear he was doing wrong.

Something else happened now, which made him worry still
more; the Prince ran away. He had been watching for a long
time for an opportunity to possess himself of a certain long ladder
made of twisted evergreen ropes, which the Monks kept
locked up in the toolhouse. Lately, by some oversight, the toolhouse
had been left unlocked one day, and the Prince got the
ladder. It was the latter part of the afternoon, and the Christmas
Monks were all in the chapel practicing Christmas carols.
The Prince found a very large hamper, and picked as many
Christmas presents for himself as he could stuff into it; then he
put the ladder against the high gate in front of the convent, and
climbed up, dragging the hamper after him. When he reached
the top of the gate, which was quite broad, he sat down to rest
for a moment before pulling the ladder up so as to drop it on
the other side.

He gave his feet a little triumphant kick as he looked back
at his prison, and down slid the evergreen ladder! The Prince
lost his balance, and would inevitably have broken his neck if
he had not clung desperately to the hamper which hung over
on the convent side of the fence; and as it was just the same
weight as the Prince, it kept him suspended on the other.

He screamed with all the force of his royal lungs; was
heard by a party of noblemen who were galloping up the street;
was rescued, and carried in state to the palace. But he was
obliged to drop the hamper of presents, for with it all the ingenuity
of the noblemen could not rescue him as speedily as it was
necessary they should.

When the good Monks discovered the escape of the Prince
they were greatly grieved, for they had tried their best to do
well by him; and poor Peter could with difficulty be comforted.
He had been very fond of the Prince, although the latter had
done little except torment him for the whole year; but Peter
had a way of being fond of folks.

A few days after the Prince ran away, and the day before
the one on which the Christmas presents were to be gathered,
the nearsighted father went out into the wax doll field again;
but this time he had his spectacles on, and could see just as well
as any one, and even a little better. Peter’s little sister was
swinging herself on her crutches, in the place where the wax
doll did not come up, tipping her little face up, and smiling just
like the dolls around her.

“Why, what is this!” said the father. “Hoc credam! I
thought that wax doll did not come up. Can my eyes deceive
me? non verum est! There is a doll there—and what a doll! on
crutches, and in poor, homely gear!”

Then the nearsighted father put out his hand toward
Peter’s little sister. She jumped—she could not help it, and the
holy father jumped too; the Christmas wreath actually tumbled
off his head.

“It is a miracle!” exclaimed he when he could speak; “the
little girl is alive! parra puella viva est. I will pick her and
take her to the brethren, and we will pay her the honors she is
entitled to.”

Then the good father put on his Christmas wreath, for he
dare not venture before his abbot without it, picked up Peter’s
little sister, who was trembling in all her little bones, and carried
her into the chapel, where the Monks were just assembling
to sing another carol. He went right up to the Christmas abbot,
who was seated in a splendid chair, and looked like a king.

“Most holy abbot,” said the nearsighted father, holding out
Peter’s little sister, “behold a miracle, vide miraculum! Thou
wilt remember that there was one wax doll planted which did
not come up. Behold, in her place I have found this doll on
crutches, which is—alive!”

“Let me see her!” said the abbot; and all the other Monks
crowded around, opening their mouths just like the little boys
around the notice, in order to see better.

“Verum est,” said the abbot. “It is verily a miracle.”

“Rather a lame miracle,” said the brother who had charge
of the funny picture-books and the toy monkeys; they rather
threw his mind off its level of sobriety, and he was apt to make
frivolous speeches unbecoming a monk.

The abbot gave him a reproving glance, and the brother,
who was the leach of the convent, came forward. “Let me look
at the miracle, most holy abbot,” said he. He took up Peter’s
sister, and looked carefully at the small, twisted ankle. “I think
I can cure this with my herbs and simples,” said he.

“But I don’t know,” said the abbot doubtfully. “I never
heard of curing a miracle.”

“If it is not lawful, my humble power will not suffice to
cure it,” said the father who was the leach.

“True,” said the abbot; “take her, then, and exercise thy
healing art upon her, and we will go on with our Christmas
devotions, for which we should now feel all the more zeal.”

So the father took away Peter’s little sister, who was still
too frightened to speak.

The Christmas Monk was a wonderful doctor, for by
Christmas eve the little girl was completely cured of her lameness.
This may seem incredible, but it was owing in great part
to the herbs and simples, which are of a species that our doctors
have no knowledge of; and also to a wonderful lotion which
has never been advertised on our fences.

Peter of course heard the talk about the miracle, and knew
at once what it meant. He was almost heartbroken to think he
was deceiving the Monks so, but at the same time he did not
dare to confess the truth for fear they would put a penance upon
his sister, and he could
not bear to think of her
having to kneel upon
dried peas.

He worked hard
picking Christmas
presents, and hid his unhappiness
as best he
could. On Christmas
eve he was called into
the chapel. The Christmas
Monks were all assembled
there. The
walls were covered with
green garlands and
boughs and sprays of
holly berries, and branches of wax lights Were gleaming brightly
amongst them. The altar and the picture of the Blessed Child
behind it were so bright as to almost dazzle one; and right up
in the midst of it, in a lovely white dress, all wreaths and jewels,
in a little chair with a canopy woven of green branches over it,
sat Peter’s little sister.

And there were all the Christmas Monks in their white
robes and wreaths, going up in a long procession, with their
hands full of the very showiest Christmas presents to offer them
to her!

But when they reached her and held out the lovely presents—the
first was an enchanting wax doll, the biggest beauty in the
whole garden—instead of reaching out her hands for them, she
just drew back, and said in her little sweet, piping voice:
“Please, I ain’t a millacle, I’m only Peter’s little sister.”

“Peter?” said the abbot; “the Peter who works in our garden?”

“Yes,” said the little sister.

Now here was a fine opportunity for a whole convent full
of monks to look foolish—filing up in procession with their
hands full of gifts to offer to a miracle, and finding there was
no miracle, but only Peter’s little sister.

But the abbot of the Christmas Monks had always maintained
that there were two ways of looking at all things; if any
object was not what you wanted it to be in one light, that there
was another light in which it would be sure to meet your views.

So now he brought this philosophy to bear.

“This little girl did not come up in the place of the wax
doll, and she is not a miracle in that light,” said he; “but look
at her in another light and she is a miracle—do you not see?”

They all looked at her, the darling little girl, the very meaning
and sweetness of all Christmas in her loving, trusting, innocent
face.

“Yes,” said all the Christmas Monks, “she is a miracle.”
And they all laid their beautiful Christmas presents down before
her.

Peter was so delighted he hardly knew himself; and, oh!
the joy there was when he led his little sister home on Christmas-day,
and showed all the wonderful presents.

The Christmas Monks always retained Peter in their employ—in
fact he is in their employ to this day. And his parents,
and his little sister who was entirely cured of her lameness, have
never wanted for anything.

As for the Prince, the courtiers were never tired of discussing
and admiring his wonderful knowledge of physics which led
to his adjusting the weight of the hamper of Christmas presents
to his own so nicely that he could not fall. The Prince liked
the talk and the admiration well enough, but he could not help,
also, being a little glum; for he got no Christmas presents that
year.

MARY E. WILKINS.

TEDDY AND THE ECHO.

MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.

SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS.

MARGARET SIDNEY.

JOE LAMBERT’S FERRY.

t was a thoroughly disagreeable March morning. The
wind blew in sharp gusts from every quarter of the
compass by turns. It seemed to take especial delight in
rushing suddenly around corners and taking away the
breath of anybody it could catch there coming from the opposite
direction. The dust, too, filled people’s eyes and noses and
mouths, while the damp raw March air easily found its way
through the best clothing, and turned boys’ skins into pimply
goose-flesh.

It was about as disagreeable a morning for going out as
can be imagined; and yet everybody in the little Western river
town who could get out went out and stayed out.

Men and women, boys and girls, and even little children,
ran to the river-bank: and, once there, they stayed, with no
thought, it seemed, of going back to their homes or their work.

The people of the town were wild with excitement, and
everybody told everybody else what had happened, although everybody
knew all about it already. Everybody, I mean, except Joe
Lambert, and he had been so busy ever since daylight, sawing
wood in Squire Grisard’s woodshed, that he had neither seen nor
heard anything at all. Joe was the poorest person in the town.
He was the only boy there who really had no home and nobody
to care for him. Three or four years before this March morning,
Joe had been left an orphan, and being utterly destitute, he
should have been sent to the poorhouse, or “bound out” to some
person as a sort of servant. But Joe Lambert had refused to go
to the poorhouse or to become a bound boy. He had declared
his ability to take care of himself, and by working hard at odd
jobs, sawing wood, rolling barrels on the wharf, picking apples
or weeding onions as opportunity offered, he had managed to
support himself “after a manner,” as the village people said.
That is to say, he generally got enough to eat, and some clothes
to wear. He slept in a warehouse shed, the owner having given
him leave to do so on condition that he would act as a sort of
watchman on the premises.

Joe Lambert alone of all the villagers knew nothing of
what had happened; and of course Joe Lambert did not count
for anything in the estimation of people who had houses to live
in. The only reason I have gone out of the way to make an exception
of so unimportant a person is, that I think Joe did count
for something on that particular March day at least.

When he finished the pile of wood that he had to saw, and
went to the house to get his money, he found nobody there.
Going down the street he found the town empty, and, looking
down a cross street, he saw the crowds that had gathered on the
river-bank, thus learning at last that something unusual had
occurred. Of course he ran to the river to learn what it was.

When he got there he learned that Noah Martin the fisherman
who was also the ferryman between the village and its
neighbor on the other side of the river, had been drowned during
the early morning in a foolish attempt to row his ferry skiff
across the stream. The ice which had blocked the river for two
months, had begun to move on the day before, and Martin with
his wife and baby—a child about a year old—were on the other
side of the river at the time. Early on that morning there had
been a temporary gorging of the ice about a mile above the town,
and, taking advantage of the comparatively free channel, Martin
had tried to cross with his wife and child, in his boat.

The gorge had broken up almost immediately, as the river
was rising rapidly, and Martin’s boat had been caught and
crushed in the ice. Martin had been drowned, but his wife, with
her child in her arms, had clung to the wreck of the skiff, and
had been carried by the current to a little low-lying island just
in front of the town.

What had happened was of less importance, however, than
what people saw must happen. The poor woman and baby out
there on the island, drenched as they had been in the icy water,
must soon die with cold, and, moreover, the island was now
nearly under water, while the great stream was rising rapidly.
It was evident that within an hour or two the water would sweep
over the whole surface of the island, and the great fields of ice
would of course carry the woman and child to a terrible death.

Many wild suggestions were made for their rescue, but
none that gave the least hope of success. It was simply impossible
to launch a boat. The vast fields of ice, two or three feet
in thickness, and from twenty feet to a hundred yards in breadth,
were crushing and grinding down the river at the rate of four
or five miles an hour, turning and twisting about, sometimes
jamming their edges together with so great a force that one
would lap over another, and sometimes drifting apart and leaving
wide open spaces between for a moment or two. One might
as well go upon such a river in an egg shell as in the stoutest row-boat
ever built.

The poor woman with her babe could be seen from the
shore, standing there alone on the rapidly narrowing strip of
island. Her voice could not reach the people on the bank, but
when she held her poor little baby toward them in mute appeal
for help, the mothers there understood her agony.

There was nothing to be done, however. Human sympathy
was given freely, but human help was out of the question. Everybody
on the river-shore was agreed in that opinion. Everybody,
that is to say, except Joe Lambert. He had been so long in the
habit of finding ways to help himself under difficulties, that he
did not easily make up his mind to think any case hopeless.

No sooner did Joe clearly understand how matters stood
than he ran away from the crowd, nobody paying any attention to
what he did. Half an hour later somebody cried out: “Look
there! Who’s that, and what’s he going to do?” pointing up the
stream.

Looking in that direction, the people saw some one three
quarters of a mile away standing on a floating field of ice in the
river. He had a large farm-basket strapped upon his shoulders,
while in his hands he held a plank.

As the ice-field upon which he stood neared another, the
youth ran forward, threw his plank down, making a bridge of it,
and crossed to the farther field. Then picking up his plank, he
waited for a chance to repeat the process.

As he thus drifted down the river, every eye was strained in
his direction. Presently some one cried out: “It’s Joe Lambert;
and he’s trying to cross to the island!”

There was a shout as the people understood the nature of
Joe’s heroic attempt, and then a hush as its extreme danger became
apparent.

Joe had laid his plans wisely and well, but it seemed impossible
that he could succeed. His purpose was, with the aid of
the plank to cross from one ice-field to another until he should
reach the island; but as that would require a good deal of time,
and the ice was moving down stream pretty rapidly, it was
necessary to start at a point above the town. Joe had gone about
a mile up the river before going on the ice, and when first seen
from the town he had already reached the channel.

After that first shout a whisper might have been heard in
the crowd on the bank. The heroism of the poor boy’s attempt
awed the spectators, and the momentary expectation that he
would disappear forever amid the crushing ice-fields, made
them hold their breath in anxiety and terror.

His greatest danger was from the smaller cakes of ice.
When it became necessary for him to step upon one of these, his
weight was sufficient to make it tilt, and his footing was very
insecure. After awhile as he was nearing the island, he came
into a large collection of these smaller ice-cakes. For awhile he
waited, hoping that a larger field would drift near him; but
after a minute’s delay he saw that he was rapidly floating past
the island, and that he must either trust himself to the treacherous
broken ice, or fail in his attempt to save the woman and
child.

Joe Saves Mrs. Martin and Baby Martin.

Choosing the best of the floes, he laid his plank and passed
across successfully. In the next passage, however, the cake tilted
up, and Joe Lambert went down into the water! A shudder
passed through the crowd on shore.

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed some tender-hearted spectator;
“it is all over with him now.”

“No; look, look!” shouted another. “He’s trying to climb
upon the ice. Hurrah! he’s on his feet again!” With that the
whole company of spectators shouted for joy.

Joe had managed to regain his plank as well as to climb
upon a cake of ice before the fields around could crush him, and
now moving cautiously, he made his way, little by little toward
the island.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! he’s there at last!” shouted the people
on the shore.

“But will he get back again?” was the question each one
asked himself a moment later.

Having reached the island, Joe very well knew that the
more difficult part of his task was still before him, for it was one
thing for an active boy to work his way over floating ice, and
quite another to carry a child and lead a woman upon a similar
journey.

But Joe Lambert was quick-witted and “long-headed,” as
well as brave, and he meant to do all that he could to save these
poor creatures for whom he had risked his life so heroically.
Taking out his knife he made the woman cut her skirts off at the
knees, so that she might walk and leap more freely. Then placing
the baby in the basket which was strapped upon his back, he
cautioned the woman against giving way to fright, and instructed
her carefully about the method of crossing.

On the return journey Joe was able to avoid one great risk.
As it was not necessary to land at any particular point, time was
of little consequence, and hence when no large field of ice was
at hand, he could wait for one to approach, without attempting
to make use of the smaller ones. Leading the woman wherever
that was necessary, he slowly made his way toward shore, drifting
down the river, of course, while all the people of the town
marched along the bank.

When at last Joe leaped ashore in company with the woman,
and bearing her babe in the basket on his back, the people seemed
ready to trample upon each other in their eagerness to shake
hands with their hero.

Their hero was barely able to stand, however. Drenched
as he had been in the icy river, the sharp March wind had chilled
him to the marrow, and one of the village doctors speedily lifted
him into his carriage which he had brought for that purpose, and
drove rapidly away, while the other physician took charge of
Mrs. Martin and the baby.

Joe was a strong, healthy fellow, and under the doctor’s
treatment of hot brandy and vigorous rubbing with coarse
towels, he soon warmed. Then he wanted to saw enough wood
for the doctor to pay for his treatment, and thereupon the doctor
threatened to poison him if he should ever venture to mention
pay to him again.

Naturally enough the village people talked of nothing but
Joe Lambert’s heroic deed, and the feeling was general that they
had never done their duty toward the poor orphan boy. There
was an eager wish to help him now, and many offers were made
to him; but these all took the form of charity, and Joe would not
accept charity at all. Four years earlier, as I have already said,
he had refused to go to the poorhouse or to be “bound out,”
declaring that he could take care of himself; and when some
thoughtless person had said in his hearing that he would have to
live on charity, Joe’s reply had been:

“I’ll never eat a mouthful in this town that I haven’t worked
for if I starve.” And he had kept his word. Now that he was
fifteen years old he was not willing to begin receiving charity
even in the form of a reward for his good deed.

One day when some of the most prominent men of the village
were talking to him on the subject Joe said:

“I don’t want anything except a chance to work, but I’ll tell
you what you may do for me if you will. Now that poor Martin
is dead the ferry privilege will be to lease again, I’d like to
get it for a good long term. Maybe I can make something out of
it by being always ready to row people across, and I may even
be able to put on something better than a skiff after awhile. I’ll
pay the village what Martin paid.”

The gentlemen were glad enough of a chance to do Joe even
this small favor, and there was no difficulty in the way. The
authorities gladly granted Joe a lease of the ferry privilege for
twenty years, at twenty dollars a year rent, which was the rate
Martin had paid.

At first Joe rowed people back and forth, saving what
money he got very carefully. This was all that could be required
of him, but it occurred to Joe that if he had a ferry boat big
enough, a good many horses and cattle and a good deal of freight
would be sent across the river, for he was a “long-headed” fellow
as I have said.

One day a chance offered, and he bought for twenty-five
dollars a large old wood boat, which was simply a square barge
forty feet long and fifteen feet wide, with bevelled bow and
stern, made to hold cord wood for the steamboats. With his
own hands he laid a stout deck on this, and, with the assistance
of a man whom he hired for that purpose, he constructed a pair
of paddle wheels. By that time Joe was out of money, and work
on the boat was suspended for awhile. When he had accumulated
a little more money, he bought a horse power, and placed
it in the middle of his boat, connecting it with the shaft of his
wheels. Then he made a rudder and helm, and his horse-boat
was ready for use. It had cost him about a hundred dollars besides
his own labor upon it, but it would carry live stock and
freight as well as passengers, and so the business of the ferry
rapidly increased, and Joe began to put a little money away in
the bank.

After awhile a railroad was built into the village, and then
a second one came. A year later another railroad was opened on
the other side of the river, and all the passengers who came to
one village by rail had to be ferried across the river in order to
continue their journey by the railroads there. The horse-boat
was too small and too slow for the business, and Joe Lambert
had to buy two steam ferry-boats to take its place. These cost
more money than he had, but, as the owner of the ferry privilege,
his credit was good, and the boats soon paid for themselves,
while Joe’s bank account grew again.

Finally the railroad people determined to run through cars
for passengers and freight, and to carry them across the river on
large boats built for that purpose; but before they gave their
orders to their boat builders, they were waited upon by the attorneys
of Joe Lambert, who soon convinced them that his ferry
privilege gave him alone the right to run any kind of ferry-boats
between the two villages which had now grown to such size that
they called themselves cities. The result was that the railroads
made a contract with Joe to carry their cars across, and he had
some large boats built for that purpose.

All this occurred a good many years ago, and Joe Lambert
is not called Joe now, but Captain Lambert. He is one of the
most prosperous men in the little river city, and owns many large
river steamers besides his ferry-boats. Nobody is readier than he
to help a poor boy or a poor man; but he has his own way of
doing it. He will never toss so much as a cent to a beggar, but
he never refuses to give man or boy a chance to earn money by
work. He has an odd theory that money which comes without
work does more harm than good.

GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON.

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT.

CELIA THAXTER.

SOME EDUCATED HORSES.

A NOD OF GREETING.

ne of the most pleasing of modern
English authors, Philip Gilbert
Hamerton, who is an artist
as well as writer, and who loves animals
almost as he does art, says that it would
be interesting for a man to live permanently
in a large hall into which three or four horses, of a race
already intelligent, should be allowed to go and come freely
from the time they were born, just as dogs do in a family where
they are pets, or something to that effect. They should have
full liberty to poke their noses in their master’s face, or lay their
heads on his shoulder at meal-time, receiving their treat of lettuce
or sugar or bread, only they must understand that they
would be punished if they knocked off the vases or upset furniture,
or did other mischief. He would like to see this tried, and
see what would come of it; what intelligence a horse would
develop, and what love.

The plan looks quixotic, does it not? But one thing you
may be sure of; he might have worse associates. There are
grades of intellect—we will call it intellect, for it comes very
near, so near that we never can know just where the fine shading
off begins between a horse’s brain and that of a man; and there
are warm, loving equine hearts. Many horses are superior to
many men; nobler, more honorable, quicker-witted, more loyal,
and a thousand times more companionable. Would you not
rather, if you had to live on Robinson Crusoe’s island, have an
intelligent, sympathetic horse and a devoted
bright dog than some people you
know? One is inclined to favor Hamerton’s
notion after seeing the Bartholomew
Educated Horses, who can do almost anything
but speak.

BUCEPHALUS TAKES THE HAT.

I am writing this for boys and girls
who love animals, and for those elderly people who are fond
of them too, including the lady whom I overheard saying that
she had been nine times to see the remarkable exhibition. The
young folks were enthusiastic patrons of that little theatre in
Boston, where for more than a hundred afternoons and evenings
the “Professor,” as he was called, showed off his four-footed
pupils. One forenoon he set apart for a free entertainment of as
many poor children as the house would hold, who went under the
charge of the truant officers and had an overwhelming good time.

There were sixteen of the animals, counting a donkey; grays,
bays, chestnut-colored beauties, and one who looked buff in the
gaslight. In recalling them, I cannot say that there was a white-footed
one. What consequence about white feet, you ask! Perhaps
you know that they make that of some account in the horse
bazaars of the East. The Turks say “two white fore feet are
lucky; one white fore and hind foot are unlucky;” and they have
a rhyme that runs—

THE CHAIR IS BROUGHT.

They were all named. There was a Chevalier, a Prince,
and a Pope; a little pet, Miss Nellie, who looked as if she would
be ready to drink tea out of your saucer and kiss you after her
fashion; Mustang, an irrepressible and rude savage from the
Rio Grande region; Brutus, Cæsar, and Draco; a Broncho
beauty; a Sprite; a stately stepping Abdallah; Jim, who was a
character; and a Bucephalus, after that storied steed who would
suffer no one to ride but his master, the Great Alexander, but
for him to mount, would kneel and wait.

It is perhaps needless and an insult to their intelligence for
me to say that they all know their own names as well as you
know yours. They know, too, their numbers when they are acting
as soldiers formed in line waiting orders; the Professor
passes along and checking them off with his forefinger numbers
them, then falling back, calls out for certain ones to form into
platoons, and they make no mistake. Their ears are alert, their
senses sharp, their memory good. “Number Two,” “Number
Four,” and so on, answer by advancing, as a soldier would respond
to the roll-call.

They came around from the stable an hour before the performance
and went up the stairs by which the audience went;
and a crowd used to gather every afternoon and
evening to see that remarkable and free feat.

PRINCE.

When the curtain rose there was to be seen
a small stage carpeted ankle deep with saw-dust,
where Professor Bartholomew purposed to have
his horses act; first the part of a school, then of a
court room, last a military drill and taking of a fort. They
came in one after another, pretending, if that is not too strong a
word, that they were on the way to school, and that was the playground;
and there they played together, with such soft, graceful
action, such caressing ways, and trippings as dainty as in
“Pinafore,” until at the ringing of a bell they came at once to
order from their mixed-up, mazy pastime, and waited the arrival
of their teacher, the Professor, who entered with a schoolmaster
air, and gave the order.

“Bucephalus, take my hat, and bring me a chair!” as you
might tell James or John to do the
same, and with more promptness than
they would have shown, Bucephalus
came forward, took the hat between
his teeth, carried it across the stage and
placed it on a desk,
and brought a chair.

SPRITE AS A MATHEMATICIAN.

The master, seating
himself, began
the business of the
day, saying, “The
school will now form
two classes; the large
scholars will go to
the left, the small ones to the right;” and six magnificent creatures
separated themselves from the group huddled together and
went as they were bid, while Nellie, the mustang, and other little
ones, filed off to the opposite side, and placed themselves in a
row, with their heads turned away from the stage. And there
they remained, generally minding their business, though sometimes
one would get out of position, look around, or give his
neighbor a nudge which brought out a reprimand: “Pope,
what are you doing?” “Brutus, you need not look around to see
what I am about!” “Sprite, you let Mustang alone!” “Mustang,
keep in your place!”

He then called for some one to come forward and be monitor,
and Prince volunteered, was sent to the desk for some
papers, tried to raise the lid, and let it drop, pretending that he
couldn’t, but after
being sharply asked
what he was so careless
for, did it, and
then brought a handkerchief
and made a
great ado about
wanting to have
something done with
it, which proved to
be tying it around his leg. Meanwhile one of the horses behaved
badly, whereupon the teacher said, “I see you are booked for a
whipping,” and the culprit came out in the floor, straightened
himself, and received without wincing what seemed to be a
severe whipping; but in reality it was all done with a soft cotton
snapper, which made more sound than anything else.

ABDALLAH PACES.

Mustang was called upon to ring the bell, a good-sized
dinner-bell, for the blackboard exercises by Sprite. He, too,
made believe he couldn’t, seized it the wrong way, dropped it,
picked it up wrong end first, was scolded at, then took it by the
handle, gave it a vigorous shake, and after letting it fall several
times, set it on the table. Meanwhile a platform was brought in
supporting a tall post, at the top of which, higher than a horse
could reach, was a blackboard having chalked on it a sum which
was not added up correctly. Sprite, being requested to wipe it
out, took the sponge from the table, and planting her fore-feet
on the platform, stretched her head up, and by desperate passes
succeeded in wiping out a part of the figures, and started to leave,
but seeing that some remained, went back and erased them.

One day she went through a process which showed conclusively
that horses can reason. She dropped the sponge the first
thing, and it fell down behind the platform out of her sight.
She got down, and looked about in the saw-dust for it, the audience
curiously watching to see what she would do next. She was
evidently much perplexed. She knew perfectly well that her
duty would not be fulfilled until she had rubbed the figures out,
and the sponge was not to be found. Mr. Bartholomew said
nothing, gave her no look or hint or sign to help her out of her
predicament, but sat in his chair and waited. At last she deliberately
stepped on the platform again, stretched her head up and
wiped the figures out with her mouth, at which the audience
applauded as if they would bring the roof down. That was
something clearly not in the programme, but a bit of independent
reasoning. Yet, having done so much, she knew that something
was not right. About that sponge—what had become of
it? It was her business to lay it on the table when she was
through using it. She hesitated, looked this way and that, started
to go, came back, dreadfully puzzled and uncertain, suddenly
spied it, set her teeth in it, put it on the table, and went to her
place, with a clear conscience, no doubt, and the people cheered
more wildly than before.

A GAME OF LEAP-FROG.

This was to me one of the most interesting things I witnessed;
and connecting it with some facts Mr. Bartholomew
communicated, it
was doubly so.

NELLIE ROLLS THE BARREL OVER THE “TETER.”

He said that it
was his practice not
to interfere or help;
the horse knew just
what she was to do,
and he preferred to
wait and let her think it out for herself. The other horses all
knew too if there was any failure or mistake, and the offender
was closely watched by them, and in some way reproved by them
if they could get the opportunity, and at times this little by-play
became very amusing.

After this was most exquisite dancing by Bucephalus, and
by Cæsar, whose steppings were in perfect rhythm to the music.
Then the latter turned in a circle to the right or the left and
walked around defining the figure eight, just as any one in the
audience chose to request; and Abdallah came in with a string
of bells around her, and paced, cantered, galloped, trotted,
marched or walked as the word was given. The horses were
generally expected to come to the footlights and bow to the audience
at the close of any feat; occasionally one would forget to
do this, and then some of his comrades would shoulder or buffet
him, or Mr. Bartholomew would give a reminder, “That is not
all, is it?” and back would come the delinquent, and bow and
bow twenty times as fast as he could, as if there could not be
enough of it. At the close of one scene all the horses came up
to the front in a line, and leaning over the rope which was
stretched there to keep them from coming down on the people’s
heads, would bow, and bow again, and it was a wonderfully
pretty sight to see.

A game of leap frog was announced. “There are four of
the horses that jump,” said Mr. Bartholomew. They like this
least of any of their
feats, and those who
can do it best are
most timid. At first
one horse is jumped
over, then two, three,
are packed closely together, and little Sprite clears them all at
one flying leap, broad-backed and much taller than herself
though they are. Those who do not want to try it beg off by a
pretty pantomime, and Sprite is encouraged by her master, who
pats her first and seems to be saying something in her ear. They
like to get approval in the way of a caress, but beyond that they
are in no way rewarded.

PRINCE AND POPE PLAY AT SEE-SAW.

Next Nellie rolled a barrel over a “teter plank” with her
fore-feet, and Prince and Pope performed the difficult feat, and
one which required mutual understanding and confidence, of
see-sawing away up in air on the plank; first face to face, carefully
balancing, and then the latter slowly turned on the space
less than twenty inches wide, without disturbing the delicate
poise. This he considers one of the most remarkable, because
each horse must act with reference to the other, and the understanding
between them must be so perfect that no fatal false
movement can be made.

One of the grand tableaux represents a court scene with the
donkey set up in a high place for judge, the jury passing around
from mouth to mouth a placard labelled “Not Guilty,” and the
releasing of the prisoner from his chain. But the military drill
exceeds all else by the brilliance of the display and the inspiring
movements and martial air. Mr. Bartholomew in military uniform
advancing like a general, disciplined twelve horses who
came in at bugle call, with a crimson band about their bodies
and other decorations, and went through evolutions, marchings,
counter-marchings, in single file, by twos, in platoons, forming
a hollow square with the precision of old soldiers. They liked
it too, and were proud of themselves as they stepped to the music.
The final act was a furious charge on a fort, the horses firing
cannon, till in smoke and flame, to the sound of patriotic strains,
the structure was demolished, the country’s flag was saved,
caught up by one horse, seized by another, waved, passed around,
and amidst the excitement and confusion of a great victory, triumphant
horses rushing about, the curtain fell.

THE GREAT COURT SCENE.

It was from first to last a wonderful exhibition of horse
intelligence.

Trained horses, that is, trained for circus feats at given signals,
are no novelty. Away back in the reign of one of the
Stuarts, a horse named Morocco was exhibited in England,
though his tricks were only as the alphabet to what is done now.
And long before Rarey’s day, there was here and there a man
who had a sort of magnetic influence, and could tame a vicious
horse whom nobody else dared go near. When George the
Fourth was Prince of Wales, he had a valuable Egyptian horse
who would throw, they said, the best rider in the world. Even
if a man could succeed in getting on his back, it was not an instant
he could stay there. But there came to England on a visit
a distinguished Eastern bey, with his mamelukes, who, hearing
of the matter which was the talk of the town, declared that the
animal should be ridden. Accordingly many royal personages
and noblemen met the Orientals at the riding house of the
Prince, in Pall Mall, a mameluke’s saddle was put on the vicious
creature, who was led in, looking in a white heat of fury, wicked,
with danger in his eyes, when, behold, the bey’s chief officer
sprung on his back and rode for half an hour as easily as a lady
would amble on the most spiritless pony that ever was bridled.

STRETCHING HIMSELF.

Some men have a tact, a way with animals, and can do anything
with them. It is a born gift, a rare
one, and a precious one. There was a
certain tamer of lions and tigers, Henri
Marten by name, who lately died at the
age of ninety, who tamed by his personal
influence alone. It was said of him in France, that at the head
of an army he “might have been a Bonaparte. Chance has made
a man of genius a director of a menagerie.”

Professor Bartholomew was ready to talk about his way,
but a part of it is the man himself. He could not make known
to another what is the most essential requisite. He, too, brought
genius to his work; besides that, a certain indefinable mastership
which animals recognize, love for them, and a vast amount of
perseverance and patient waiting. It is a thing that is not done
in a day.

He was fond of horses from a boy, and began early to educate
one, having a remarkable faculty for handling them; so
that now, after thirty years of it, there is not much about the
equine nature that he does not understand. He trained a company
of Bronchos, which were afterwards sold; and since then
he has gradually got together the fifteen he now exhibits, and
he has others in process of training. He took these when they
were young, two or three years old; and not one of them, except
Jim, who has a bit of outside history, has ever been used in any
other way. They know nothing about carriages or carts, harness
or saddle; they have escaped the cruel curb-bits, the check
reins and blinders of our civilization. Fortunate in that respect.
And they never have had a shoe on their feet. Their feet are
perfect, firm and sound, strong and healthy and elastic; natural,
like those of the Indians, who run barefoot, who go over the
rough places of the wilds as easily as these horses can run up the
stairs or over the cobble stones of the pavement if they were
turned loose in the street.

MILITARY DRILL.

It was a pleasure to know of their life-long exemption from
all such restraints. That accounted in great measure for their
beautiful freedom of motion, for that wondrous grace and charm.
Did you ever think what a complexity of muscles, bones, joints,
tendons and other arrangements, enter into the formation of the
knees, hoofs, legs of a horse; what a piece of mechanism the
strong, supple creature is?

These have never had their spirits broken; have never been
scolded at or struck except when a whip was necessary as a rod
sometimes is for a child. The hostlers who take care of them
are not allowed to speak roughly. “Be low-spoken to them,” the
master says. In the years when he was educating them he
groomed and cared for them himself, with no other help except
that of his two little sons. No one else was allowed to meddle
with them; and, necessarily, they were kept separate from other
horses. Now, wherever they are exhibiting, he always goes out
the first thing in the morning to see them. He passes from one
to another, and they are all expecting the little love pats and
slaps on their glossy sides, the caressings and fondlings and pleasant
greetings of “Chevalier, how are you, old fellow?” “Abdallah,
my beauty,” and, “Nellie, my pet!” Some are jealous,
Abdallah tremendously so, and if he does not at once notice her,
she lays her ears back, shows temper, and crowds up to him,
determined that no other shall have precedence.

A PRETTY TABLEAU.

They are not “thorough-breds.” Those, he said, were for
racers or travellers; yet of fine breeds, some choice blood horses,
some mixed, one a mustang, who at first did not know anything
that was wanted of him.

“Why,” said he, “at first some of them would go up like pop
corn, higher than my head. But I never once have been injured
by one of them except perhaps an accidental stepping on my foot.
They never kick; they don’t know how to kick. You can go behind
them as well as before, and anywhere.”

In buying he chose only those whose looks showed that they
were intelligent. “But how did he know, by what signs?” queried
an all-absorbed “Dumb Animals” woman.

“Oh, dear,” he said, “why, every way; the eyes, the ears, the
whole face, the expression, everything. No two horses’ faces
look alike. Just as it is with a flock of sheep. A stranger would
say, ‘Why, they are all sheep, and all alike, and that is all there
is to it;’ but the owner knows better; he knows every face in the
flock. He says, ‘this is Jenny, and that is Dolly, there is Jim,
and here’s Nancy.’ Oh, land, yes! they are no more alike than
human beings are, disposition or anything. Some have to be
ordered, and some coaxed and flattered. Yes, flattered. Now if
two men come and want to work for me, I can tell as soon as I
cast my eyes on them. I say to one, ‘Go and do such a thing;’
but if I said it to the other, he’d answer ‘I won’t; I’m not going
to be ordered about by any man.’ Horses are just like that. A
horse can read you. If you get mad, he will. If you abuse him,
he will do the same by you, or try to. You must control yourself,
if you would control a horse.”

They must be of superior grade, “for it’s of no use to spend
one’s time on a dull one. It does not pay to teach idiots where
you want brilliant results, though all well enough for a certain
purpose.”

Some of these he had been five years in educating to do
what we saw. Some he had taught to do their special part in one
year, some in two. The first thing he did was to give the horse
opportunity and time to get well acquainted with him; in his
words, “to become friends. Let him see that you are his friend,
that you are not going to whip him. You meet him cordially.
You are glad to see him and be with him, and pretty soon he
knows it and likes to be with you. And so you establish comradeship,
you understand each other. Caress him softly. Don’t
make a dash at him. Say pleasant things to him. Be gentle;
but at the same time you must be master.” That is a good basis.
And then he teaches one thing at a time, a simple thing, and
waits a good while before he brings forward another; does not
perplex or puzzle the pupil by anything else till that is learned,
and some of the first words are “come,” “stand,” “remain.”

What a horse has once learned he never or seldom forgets.
Mr. Bartholomew thinks it is not as has sometimes been said,
because a horse has a memory stronger than a man, “but because
he has fewer things to learn. A man sees a million things. A
horse’s mind cannot accommodate what a man’s can, so those
things he knows have a better chance. Those few things he fixes.
His memory fastens on them. I once had a pony I had trained,
which was afterwards gone from me three years. At the end of
that time I was in California exhibiting, and saw a boy on the
pony. I tried to buy him, but the boy who had owned him all
that time, refused to part with him; however, I offered such a
price that I got him, and that same evening I took him into the
tent and thought I would see what he remembered. He went
through all his old tricks (besides a few I had myself forgotten)
except one. He could not manage walking on his hind feet the
distance he used to. Another time I had a trained horse stolen
from me by the Indians, and he was off in the wilds with them
a year and a half. One day, in a little village—that was in California
too—I saw him and knew him, and the horse knew me. I
went up to the Indian who had him and said, ‘That is my horse,
and I can prove it.’ Out there a stolen horse, no matter how many
times he has changed hands, is given up, if the owner can prove
it. The Indian said, ‘If you can, you shall have him, but you
won’t do it.’ I said, ‘I will try him in four things; I will ask him
to trot three times around a circle, to lie down, to sit up, and to
bring me my handkerchief. If he is my horse, he will do it.’
The Indian said, ‘You shall have him if he does, but he won’t!’
By this time a crowd had got together. We put the horse in an
enclosure, he did as he was told, and I had him back.”

Mr. Bartholomew said, “My motto in educating them is,
‘Make haste slowly;’ I never require too much, and I never ask a
horse to do what he can’t do. That is of no use. A horse can’t
learn what horses are not capable of learning; and he can’t do a
thing until he understands what you mean, and how you want it
done. What good would it do for me to ask a man a question in
French if he did not know a word of the language? I get him
used to the word, and show him what I want. If it is to climb
up somewhere, I gently put his foot up and have him keep it
there until I am ready to have it come down, and then I take it
down myself. I never let the horse do it. The same with other
things, showing him how, and by words. They know a great
number of words. My horses are not influenced by signs or
motions when they are on the stage. They use their intelligence
and memory, and they associate ideas and are required to obey.
They learn a great deal by observing one another. One watches
and learns by seeing the others. I taught one horse to kneel, by
first bending his knee myself, and putting him into position.
After he had learned, I took another in who kept watch all the
time, and learned partly by imitation. They are social creatures;
they love each other’s company.”

Most of these horses have been together now for several
years, and are fond of one another. They appear to keep the run
of the whole performance, and listen and notice like children in
a school when one or more of their number goes out to recite. It
was extremely interesting to observe them when the leap-frog
game was going on. Owing to the smallness of the stage, it was
difficult for the horse who was to make the jump to get under
headway, and several times poor Sprite, or whichever it was,
would turn abruptly to make another start, upon which every
horse on her side would dart out for a chance at giving her a nip
as she went by. They all seemed throughout the entire exhibition
to feel a sort of responsibility, or at least a pride in it, as if
“this is our school. See how well Bucephalus minds, or how
badly Brutus behaves! This is our regiment. Don’t we march
well? How fine and grand, how gallant and gay we are!” And
the wonder of it all is, not so much what any one horse can do, or
the sense of humor they show, or the great number of words they
understand, but the mental processes and nice calculation they
show in the feats where they are associated in complex ways,
which require that each must act his part independently and
mind nothing about it if another happens to make a mistake.

VICTORY.

To obtain any adequate representation of these horses while
performing, it was necessary that it be done by process called
instantaneous photographing. You are aware that birds and
insects are taken by means of an instrument named the “photographic
revolver,” which is aimed at them. Recently an American,
Mr. Muybridge, has been able to photograph horses while
galloping or trotting, by
his “battery of cameras,”
and a book on “the Horse
in Motion” has for its
subject this instantaneous
catching a likeness as applied
to animals. But
how could any process,
however swift, or ingenious,
or admirable, do
full justice to the grace
and spirit, the all-alive
attitudes and varieties of
posture, the dalliance
and charm, the freedom
in action?

THE STORMING OF THE FORT.

Professor Bartholomew gave his performances the name of
“The Equine Paradox.” He now has his beautiful animals in
delightful summer quarters at Newport, where they are counted
among the “notable guests.” He has the Opera House there for
his training school for three months, preparing new ones for next
winter’s exhibition, and keeping the old ones in practice. It is
pleasant to know that he cares so faithfully for their health as to
give them a home through the warm weather in that cool retreat
by the sea.

AFTER THE PLAY.

QUESTIONS.

KATE LAWRENCE.

THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN.

MRS. EMILY HUNTINGTON NASON.

THE WOLF AND THE GOSLINGS.

AMANDA B. HARRIS.

THE BISHOP’S VISIT.

MRS. EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON.

THE FIRST STEP.

Baby’s First Step.

M.E.B.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.

OSITO.

n the lofty mountain that faced the captain’s cabin the
frost had already made an insidious approach, and the
slender thickets of quaking ash that marked the course
of each tiny torrent, now stood out in resplendent hues
and shone afar off like gay ribbons running through the dark-green
pines. Gorgeously, too, with scarlet, crimson and gold,
gleamed the lower spurs, where the oak-brush grew in dense
masses and bore beneath a blaze of color, a goodly harvest of
acorns, now ripe and loosened in their cups.

It was where one of these spurs joined the parent mountain,
where the oak-brush grew thickest, and, as a consequence, the
acorns were most abundant, that the captain, well versed in wood-craft
mysteries, had built his bear trap. For two days he had
been engaged upon it, and now, as the evening drew on, he sat
contemplating it with satisfaction, as a work finished and perfected.

From his station there, on the breast of the lofty mountain,
the captain could scan many an acre of sombre pine forest with
pleasant little parks interspersed, and here and there long slopes
brown with bunch grass. He was the lord of this wild domain.
And yet his sway there was not undisputed. Behind an intervening
spur to the westward ran an old Indian trail long traveled
by the Southern Utes in their migrations north for trading
and hunting purposes. And even now, a light smoke wafted
upward on the evening air, told of a band encamped on the trail
on their homeward journey to the Southwest.

The captain needed not this visual token of their proximity.
He had been aware of it for several days. Their calls at his
cabin in the lonely little park below had been frequent, and they
had been specially solicitous of his coffee, his sugar, his biscuit
and other delicacies, insomuch that once or twice during his
absence these ingenuous children of Nature had with primitive
simplicity, entered his cabin and helped themselves without leave
or stint.

However, as he knew their stay would be short, the captain
bore these neighborly attentions with mild forbearance. It was
guests more graceless than these who had roused his wrath.

From their secret haunts far back towards the Snowy Range
the bears had come down to feast upon the ripened acorns, and
so doing, had scented the captain’s bacon and sugar afar off and
had prowled by night about the cabin. Nay, more, three days
before, the captain, having gone hurriedly away and left the door
loosely fastened, upon his return had found all in confusion.
Many of his eatables had vanished, his flour sack was ripped
open, and, unkindest cut of all, his beloved books lay scattered
about. At the first indignant glance the captain had cried out,
“Utes again!” But on looking around he saw a tell-tale trail left
by floury bear paws.

Hence this bear trap.

It was but a strong log pen floored with rough-hewn slabs
and fitted with a ponderous movable lid made of other slabs
pinned on stout cross pieces. But, satisfied with his handiwork,
the captain now arose, and, prying up one end of the lid with a
lever, set the trigger and baited it with a huge piece of bacon.
He then piled a great quantity of rock upon the already heavy
lid to further guard against the escape of any bear so unfortunate
as to enter, and shouldering his axe and rifle walked homewards.

Whatever vengeful visions of captive bears he was indulging
in were, however, wholly dispelled as he drew near the cabin.
Before the door stood the Ute chief accompanied by two squaws.
“How!” said the chieftain, with a conciliatory smile, laying one
hand on his breast of bronze and extending the other as the captain
approached.

“How!” returned the captain bluffly, disdaining the hand
with a recollection of sundry petty thefts.

“Has the great captain seen a pappoose about his wigwam?”
asked the chief, nowise abashed, in Spanish—a language which
many of the Southern Utes speak as fluently as their own.

The great captain had expected a request for a biscuit; he,
therefore, was naturally surprised at being asked for a baby.
With an effort he mustered together his Spanish phrases and
managed to reply that he had seen no pappoose.

“Me pappoose lost,” said one of the squaws brokenly. And
there was so much distress in her voice that the captain, forgetting
instantly all about the slight depredations of his dusky neighbors,
volunteered to aid them in their search for the missing child.

All that night, for it was by this time nearly dark, the hills
flared with pine torches and resounded with the shrill cries of the
squaws, the whoops of the warriors, the shouts of the captain;
but the search was fruitless.

This adventure drove the bear-trap from its builder’s mind,
and it was two days before it occurred to him to go there in quest
of captive bears.

Coming in view of it he immediately saw the lid was down.
Hastily he approached, bent over, and peeped in. And certainly,
in the whole of his adventurous life the captain was never more
taken by surprise; for there, crouched in one corner, was that
precious Indian infant.

Yes, true it was, that all those massive timbers, all that ponderous
mass of rock, had only availed to capture one very small
Ute pappoose. At the thought of it, the builder of the trap was
astounded. He laughed aloud at the absurdity. In silence he
threw off the rock and lid and seated himself on the edge of the
open trap. Captor and captive then gazed at each other with
gravity. The errant infant’s attire consisted of a calico shirt of
gaudy hues, a pair of little moccasins, much frayed, and a red
flannel string. This last was tied about his straggling hair, which
fell over his forehead like the shaggy mane of a bronco colt and
veiled, but could not obscure, the brightness of his black eyes.

He did not cry; in fact, this small stoic never even whimpered,
but he held the bacon, or what remained of it, clasped
tightly to his breast and gazed at his captor in silence. Glancing
at the bacon, the captain saw it all. Hunger had induced this
wee wanderer to enter the trap, and in detaching the bait, he had
sprung the trigger and was caught.

“What are you called, little one?” asked the captain at
length, in a reassuring voice, speaking Spanish very slowly and
distinctly.

“Osito,” replied the wanderer in a small piping voice, but
with the dignity of a warrior.

“Little Bear!” the captain repeated, and burst into a hearty
laugh, immediately checked, however by the thought that now
he had caught him, what was he to do with him? The first thing,
evidently, was to feed him.

So he conducted him to the cabin and there, observing the
celerity with which the lumps of sugar vanished, he saw at once
that Little Bear was most aptly named. Then, sometimes leading,
and sometimes carrying him, for Osito was very small, he set
out for the Ute encampment.

Their approach was the signal for a mighty shout. Warriors,
squaws and the younger confrères of Osito, crowded about
him. A few words from the captain explained all, and Osito
himself, clinging to his mother, was borne away in triumph—the
hero of the hour. Yet, no—the captain was that, I believe.
For as he stood in their midst with a very pleased look on his
sunburnt face, the chief quieting the hubbub with a wave of his
hand, advanced and stood before him. “The great captain has a
good heart,” he said in tones of conviction. “What can his Ute
friends do to show their gratitude?”

“Nothing,” said the captain, looking more pleased than ever.

“The captain has been troubled by the bears. Would it
please him if they were all driven back to their dens in the great
mountains towards the setting sun?”

“It would,” said the captain; “can it be done?”

“It can. It shall,” said the chief with emphasis. “To-morrow
let the captain keep his eyes open, and as the sun sinks behind
the mountain tops he shall see the bears follow also.”

The chief kept his word. The next day the uproar on the
hills was terrific. Frightened out of their wits, the bears forsook
the acorn field and fled ingloriously to their secret haunts in the
mountains to the westward.

“WHAT ARE YOU CALLED, LITTLE ONE?” ASKED THE CAPTAIN.

In joy thereof the captain gave a great farewell feast to his
red allies. It was spread under the pines in front of his cabin,
and every delicacy of the season was there, from bear steaks to
beaver tails. The banquet was drawing to a close, and complimentary
speeches ‘twixt host and guests were in order, when a
procession of the squaws was seen approaching from the encampment.
They drew near and headed for the captain in solemn
silence. As they passed, each laid some gift at his feet—fringed
leggings; beaded moccasins, bear skins, coyote skins, beaver pelts
and soft robes of the mountain lion’s hide—until the pile reached
to the captain’s shoulders. Last of all came Osito’s mother and
crowned the heap with a beautiful little brown bear skin. It
was fancifully adorned with blue ribbons, and in the center of
the tanned side there were drawn, in red pigment, the outlines
of a very stolid and stoical-looking pappoose.

F.L. STEALEY.

THE LITTLE LION-CHARMER.

The Little Lion Charmer.

HARRIET S. FLEMING.

THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.

E.J. WHEELER.

Little Mer-Folks.

WON’T TAKE A BAFF.

ESCAPE.

MARGARET EYTINGE.

ONE WAY TO BE BRAVE.

(A True Story.)

“apa,” exclaimed six-year-old Marland, leaning against
his father’s knee after listening to a true story, “I wish
I could be as brave as that!”

“Perhaps you will be when you grow up.”

“But maybe I sha’n’t ever be on a railroad train when there
is going to be an accident!”

“Ah! but there are sure to be plenty of other ways for a
brave man to show himself.”

Several days after this, when Marland had quite forgotten
about trying to be brave, thinking, indeed, that he would have
to wait anyway until he was a man, he and his little playmate,
Ada, a year younger, were playing in the dog-kennel. It was a
very large kennel, so that the two children often crept into it to
“play house.” After awhile, Marland, who, of course, was
playing the papa of the house, was to go “down town” to his
business; he put his little head out of the door of the kennel, and
was just about to creep out, when right in front of him in the
path he saw a snake. He knew in a moment just what sort of a
snake it was, and how dangerous it was; he knew it was a rattlesnake,
and that if it bit Ada or him, they would probably die.
For Marland had spent two summers on his papa’s big ranch in
Kansas, and he had been told over and over again, if he ever
saw a snake to run away from it as fast as he could, and this
snake just in front of him was making the queer little noise with
the rattles at the end of his tail which Marland had heard
enough about to be able to recognize.

The Little Ranchman.
(From a photograph.)

Now you must know that a rattlesnake is not at all like a
lion or a bear, although
just as dangerous in its
own way. It will not
chase you; it can only
spring a distance equal
to its own length, and
it has to wait and coil
itself up in a ring,
sounding its warning
all the time, before it
can strike at all. So if
you are ever so little
distance from it when
you see it first, you can
easily escape from it.
The only danger is
from stepping on it without seeing it. But Marland’s snake
was already coiled, and it was hardly more than a foot from the
entrance to the kennel. You must know that the kennel was not
out in an open field, either, but under a piazza, and a lattice
work very near it left a very narrow passage for the children,
even when there wasn’t any snake. If they had been standing
upright, they could have run, narrow as the way was; but they
would have to crawl out of the kennel and find room for their
entire little bodies on the ground before they could straighten
themselves up and run. Fortunately, the snake’s head was
turned the other way.

“Ada,” said Marland very quietly, so quietly that his
grandpapa, raking the gravel on the walk near by, did not hear,
him, “there’s a snake out here, and it is a rattlesnake. Keep
very still and crawl right after me.”

“Yes, Ada,” he whispered, as he succeeded in squirming
himself out and wriggling past the snake till he could stand
upright. “There’s room, but you mustn’t make any noise!”

Five minutes later the two children sauntered slowly down
the avenue, hand in hand.

“Grandpapa,” said Marland, “there’s a rattlesnake in there
where Ada and I were; perhaps you’d better kill him!”

And when the snake had been killed, and papa for the
hundredth time had folded his little boy in his arms and murmured,
“My brave boy! my dear, brave little boy!” Marland
looked up in surprise.

“Why, it wasn’t I that killed the snake, papa! it was grandpapa!
I didn’t do anything; I only kept very still and ran
away!”

But you see, in that case, keeping very still and running
away was just the bravest thing the little fellow could have
done; and I think his mamma—for I am his mamma, and so I
know just how she did feel—felt when she took him in her arms
that night that in her little boy’s soul there was something of
the stuff of which heroes are made.

MRS. ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS.

THE MYSTERY OF SPRING.

MRS. MARY B. DODGE.

… THE LEAST LITTLE THING HATH MESSAGE SO WONDEROUS AND TENDER.

MIDSUMMER WORDS.

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

PAUL REVERE’S RIDE.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS.

“Wake, Otanes, wake, the Magi are singing
the morning hymn to Mithras.
Quick, or we shall be late at the exercises,
and father promised, if we
did well, we should go to the chase
with him to-day.”

“And perhaps shoot a lion. What
a feather in our caps that would be! Is it pleasant?”

Smerdis pulled open the shutters that closed the windows,
and the first rays of the sun sparkled on the trees and fountains
of a beautiful garden beyond whose lofty walls appeared the
dwellings and towers of a mighty city. Already the low roar
of its traffic reached them while hurrying on their clothes to join
their companions in the spacious grounds where they were
trained in wrestling, throwing blocks of wood at each other to
acquire agility in dodging the missiles, the skilful use of the
bow, and various other exercises for the development of bodily
strength and grace.

A few minutes later the two brothers, Smerdis and Otanes,
with scores of other lads, ranging in age from seven to fourteen
years, were assembled in a vast playground, surrounded on all
sides by a lofty wall.

The playground of a large boarding-school?

It almost might be called so, but the pupils of this boarding-school
were educated free of expense to their parents, and it received
only the sons of the highest nobles in the land. This playground
was attached to the palace of Darius, King of Persia, who
reigned twenty-four hundred years ago, and these chosen boys
had been taken from their homes, as they reached the age of
six years, to be reared “at his gate,” as the language of the country
expressed it.

Otanes and Smerdis were sons of one of the highest officers
of the court, the “ear of the king,” or, as he would now be called,
the Minister of Police. Handsome little fellows of eleven and
twelve, with blue eyes, fair complexions, and curling yellow
locks, their long training in all sorts of physical exercises had
made them stronger and hardier than most lads of their age
in our time. Though reared in a palace, at one of the most
splendid courts the world has ever seen, the boys were expected
to endure the hardships of the poorest laborer’s children. Instead
of the gold and silver bedsteads used by the nobles, they
were obliged to sleep on the floor; if the court was at Babylon,
they were forced to make long marches under the burning sun
of Asia, and if, to escape the intense heat, the king removed to
his summer palaces at Ecbatana and Pasargadæ, situated in the
mountainous regions of Persia, where it was often bitterly cold,
the boys were ordered to bathe in the icy water of the rivers
flowing from the heights. In place of the dainty dishes and
sweetmeats for which Persian cooks were famous, they were
allowed nothing but bread, water, and a little meat; sometimes
to accustom them to hardships they were deprived entirely of
food for a day or even longer.

THE BOYS HURRIED OFF TOWARD HOME.

On this morning the exercises seemed specially long to the
two brothers, full of anticipations of pleasure; but finally the
last block of wood was hurled, the last arrow shot, the last wrestling
match ended, and the boys, bearing a sealed roll of papyrus,
containing a leave of absence for one day, hurried off towards
home.

Their father’s palace stood at no great distance from the
royal residence, on the long, wide street extending straight to
the city gates, and like the houses of all the Persian nobles, was
surrounded by a beautiful walled garden called a paradise, laid
out with flower-beds of roses, poppies, oleanders, ornamental
plants, adorned with fountains, and shaded by lofty trees.

The hunting party was nearly ready to start, and the courtyard
was thronged. Servants rushed to and fro bearing shields,
swords, lances, bows and lassos, for a hunter was always
equipped with bow and arrows, two lances, a sword and a shield.
Others held in leash the dogs to be used in starting the game.

The enormous preserves in the neighborhood of Babylon
were well stocked with animals, including stags, wild boars, and
a few lions. Several noblemen clad in the plain hunting costume
always worn in the chase, were already mounted, among
them the father of the two lads, who greeted them affectionately
as they respectfully approached and kissed his hand.

“Make haste, boys, your horses are ready. Take only bows
and shields—the swords and lances will be in your way; you
must not try to deal with larger game than you can manage with
your arrows.”

“May we not carry daggers in our belts, too, father?” cried
Otanes eagerly. “They can’t be in our way, and if we should
meet a lion—”

A laugh from the group of nobles interrupted him. “Your
son seeks large game, Intaphernes!” exclaimed a handsome officer.
“He must have better weapons than a bow and dagger,
if—”

The rest of the sentence was drowned by the noise in the
courtyard, but as the party rode towards the gate Intaphernes
looked back: “Yes, take the daggers, it can do no harm. Keep
with Candaules.”

The old slave, a gray-haired, but muscular man, with several
other attendants, joined the lads, and the long train passed out
into the street and toward the city gates. Otanes hastily whispered
to his brother: “Keep close by me, Smerdis; if only we
catch sight of a lion, we’ll show what we can do with bows and
arrows.”

The sun was now several hours high, and the streets, lined
with tall brick houses, were crowded with people—artisans,
slaves, soldiers, nobles and citizens, the latter clad in white linen
shirts, gay woollen tunics and short cloaks. Two-wheeled
wooden vehicles, drawn by horses decked with bells and tassels,
litters containing veiled women borne by slaves, and now and
then, the superb gilded carriage, hung with silk curtains, of
some royal princess passed along. Here and there a heavily
laden camel moved slowly by, and the next instant a soldier
of the king’s bodyguard dashed past in his superb uniform—a
gold cuirass, purple surcoat, and high Persian cap, the gold
scabbard of his sword and the gold apple on his lance-tip flashing
in the sun.

THE HUNTING PARTY WERE NEARLY READY TO START.

High above the topmost roofs of even the lofty towers on
the walls rose the great sanctuary of the Magi,¹ the immense
Temple of Bel, visible in all quarters of the city, and seen for
miles from every part of the flat plain on which Babylon stood.
The huge staircase wound like a serpent round and round the
outside of the building to the highest story, which contained
the sanctuary itself and also the observatory whence the priests
studied the stars.

Otanes and Smerdis, chatting eagerly together, rode on as
fast as the crowd would permit, and soon reached one of the
gates in the huge walls that defended the city. These walls,
seventy-five feet high, and wide enough to allow two chariots
to drive abreast, were strengthened by two hundred and fifty
towers, except on one side, where deep marshes extended to their
base. Beyond these marshes lay the hunting-grounds, and the
party, turning to the left, rode for a time over a smooth highway,
between broad tracts of land sown with wheat, barley and
sesame. Slender palm-trees covered with clusters of golden dates
were seen in every direction, and the sunbeams shimmered on
the canals and ditches which conducted water from the Euphrates
to all parts of the fields.

Otanes’ horse suddenly shied violently as a rider, mounted
on a fleet steed, and carrying a large pouch, dashed by like the
wind.

“One of the Augari bearing letters to the next station!” exclaimed
Smerdis. “See how he skims along. Hi! If I were
not to be one of the king’s bodyguard, I’d try for an Augar’s
place. How he goes! He’s almost out of sight already.”

“How far apart are the stations?” asked Otanes.

“Eighteen miles. And when he gets there, he’ll just toss
the letter bag to the next man, who is sitting on a fresh horse
waiting for it, and away he’ll go like lightning. That’s the way
the news is carried to the very end of the empire of our lord the
King.”

“Must be fine fun,” replied Otanes. “But see, there’s the
gate of the hunting-park. Now for the lion,” he added gayly.

“May Ormuzd² save you from meeting one, my young
master,” said the old servant, Candaules. “Luckily it’s broad
daylight, and they are more apt to come from their lairs after
dark. Better begin with smaller game and leave the lion and
wild boars to your father.”

“Not if we catch sight of them,” cried Otanes, settling his
shield more firmly on his arm, and urging his horse to a quicker
pace, for the head of the long train of attendants had already
disappeared amid the dark cypress-trees of the hunting park.
The immense enclosure stretching from the edge of the morasses
that bordered the walls of Babylon far into the country, soon
echoed with the shouts of the attendants beating the coverts for
game, the baying of the dogs, the hiss of lances and whir of
arrows. Bright-hued birds, roused by the tumult, flew wildly
hither and thither, now and then the superb plumage of a bird
of paradise flashing like a jewel among the dense foliage of
cypress and nut-trees.

Hour after hour sped swiftly away; the party had dispersed
in different directions, following the course of the game; the
sun was sinking low, and the slaves were bringing the slaughtered
birds and beasts to the wagons used to convey them home.
A magnificent stag was among the spoil, and a fierce wild boar,
after a long struggle, had fallen under a thrust from Intaphernes’s
lance.

The shrill blast of the Median trumpet sounded thrice, to
give the first of the three signals for the scattered hunters to
meet at the appointed place, near the entrance of the park, and
the two young brothers who, attended by Candaules and half a
dozen slaves, had ridden far into the shady recesses of the woods,
reluctantly turned their horses’ heads. No thought of disobeying
the summons entered their minds—Persian boys were taught
that next to truth and courage, obedience was the highest virtue,
and rarely was a command transgressed.

They had had a good day’s sport; few arrows remained in
their quivers, and the attendants carried bunches of gay plumaged
birds and several small animals, among them a pretty little
fawn. “Let’s go nearer the marshes; there are not so many trees,
and we can ride faster,” said Otanes as the trumpet-call was repeated,
and the little party turned in that direction, moving
more swiftly as they passed out upon the strip of open ground
between the thicket and the marshes. The sun was just setting.
The last crimson rays, shimmering on the pools of water standing
here and there in the morasses, cast reflections on the tall reeds
and rushes bordering their margins.

Suddenly a pretty spotted fawn darted in front of the group,
and crossing the open ground, vanished amid a thick clump of
reeds. “What a nice pet the little creature would make for our
sister Hadassah!” cried Otanes eagerly. “See! it has hidden
among the reeds; we might take it alive. Go with Candaules
and the slaves, Smerdis, and form a half-circle beyond the
clump. When you’re ready, whistle, and I’ll ride straight down
and drive it towards you; you can easily catch it then. We are
so near the entrance of the park now that we shall have plenty
of time; the third signal hasn’t sounded yet.”

Smerdis instantly agreed to the plan. The horses were fastened
to some trees, and the men cautiously made a wide circuit,
passed the bed of reeds, and concealed themselves, behind the
tall rushes beyond. A low whistle gave Otanes the signal to
drive out the fawn.

Smerdis and the slaves saw the lad straighten himself in the
saddle, and with a shout, dash at full speed towards the spot
where the fawn had vanished. He had almost reached it when
the stiff stalks shook violently, and a loud roar made them all
spring to their feet. They saw the brave boy check his horse
and fit an arrow to the string, but as he drew the bow, there
was a stronger rustle among the reeds; a tawny object flashed
through the air, striking Otanes from his saddle, while the
horse free from its rider, dashed, snorting with terror, towards
the park entrance.

“A lion! A lion!” shrieked the trembling slaves, but
Smerdis, drawing his dagger, ran towards the place where his
brother had fallen, passing close by the body of the fawn which
lay among the reeds with its head crushed by a blow from the
lion’s paw. Candaules followed close at the lad’s heels.

Parting the thick growth of stalks, they saw, only a few
paces off, Otanes, covered with blood, lying motionless on the
ground, and beside him the dead body of a half-grown lion, the
boy’s arrow buried in one eye, while the blood still streamed
from the lance-wound in the animal’s side.

Smerdis, weeping, threw himself beside his brother, and at
the same moment Intaphernes, with several nobles and attendants,
attracted by the cries, dashed up to the spot. The father,
springing from the saddle, bent, and laid his hand on the boy’s
heart.

“It is beating still, and strongly too,” he exclaimed. “Throw
water in his face! perhaps—”

Without finishing the sentence, he carefully examined the
motionless form. “Ormuzd be praised! He has no wound; the
blood has flowed from the lion. See, Prexaspes, there is a lance-head
sticking in its side. I believe it’s the very beast you
wounded early in the day.”

The officer whose laugh had so vexed Otanes, stooped over
the dead lion and looked at the broken shaft.

“Ay, it’s my weapon; the beast probably made its way to
the morass for water; but, by Mithras!³ the lad’s arrow killed
the brute; the barb passed through the eyeball into the brain.”

“Yes, my lord,” cried old Candaules eagerly, “and doubtless
it was only the weight of the animal, which, striking my
young master as it made its spring, hurled him from the saddle
and stunned him. See! he is opening his eyes. Otanes, Otanes,
you’ve killed the lion!”

The boy’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly rose, his eyes wandered
over the group, and at last rested on the dead lion. The
old slave’s words had evidently reached his ear, for with a faint
smile he glanced archly at Prexaspes, and raising himself on one
elbow, said:

“You see, my lord—even with a bow and dagger!”

MARY J. SAFFORD.

Footnote 1: (return)

The Magi were the Persian priests.

Footnote 2: (return)

The principal god of the Persians.

Footnote 3: (return)

The Persian god of the sun.

DO YOU KNOW HIM?

COULDN’T BEAR TO BE LAUGHED AT.

THE WEAVER OF BRUGES.

M.M.P. DINSMOOR.

THE MAN IN THE TUB.

MAY E. STONE.

THE LITTLE GOLD MINERS OF THE SIERRAS.

heir mother had died crossing the plains, and their
father had had a leg broken by a wagon wheel passing
over it as they descended the Sierras, and he was for
a long time after reaching the mines miserable, lame
and poor.

The eldest boy, Jim Keene, as I remember him, was a bright
little fellow, but wild as an Indian and full of mischief. The
next eldest child, Madge, was a girl of ten, her father’s favorite,
and she was wild enough too. The youngest was Stumps. Poor,
timid, starved Little Stumps! I never knew his real name. But
he was the baby, and hardly yet out of petticoats. And he was
very short in the legs, very short in the body, very short in the
arms and neck; and so he was called Stumps because he looked
it. In fact he seemed to have stopped growing entirely. Oh,
you don’t know how hard the old Plains were on everybody,
when we crossed them in ox-wagons, and it took more than half
a year to make the journey. The little children, those that did
not die, turned brown like the Indians, in that long, dreadful
journey of seven months, and stopped growing for a time.

For the first month or two after reaching the Sierras, old
Mr. Keene limped about among the mines trying to learn the
mystery of finding gold, and the art of digging. But at last,
having grown strong enough, he went to work for wages, to get
bread for his half-wild little ones, for they were destitute indeed.

Things seemed to move on well, then. Madge cooked the
simple meals, and Little Stumps clung to her dress with his little
pinched brown hand wherever she went, while Jim whooped it
over the hills and chased jack-rabbits as if he were a greyhound.
He would climb trees, too, like a squirrel. And, oh!—it was
deplorable—but how he could swear!

At length some of the miners, seeing the boy must come to
some bad end if not taken care of, put their heads and their
pockets together and sent the children to school. This school
was a mile away over the beautiful brown hills, a long, pleasant
walk under the green California oaks.

Well, Jim would take the little tin dinner bucket, and his
slate, and all their books under his arm and go booming ahead
about half a mile in advance, while Madge with brown Little
Stumps clinging to her side like a burr, would come stepping
along the trail under the oak-trees as fast as she could after him.

But if a jack-rabbit, or a deer, or a fox crossed Jim’s path,
no matter how late it was, or how the teacher had threatened him,
he would drop books, lunch, slate and all, and spitting on his
hands and rolling up his sleeves, would bound away after it,
yelling like a wild Indian. And some days, so fascinating was
the chase, Jim did not appear at the schoolhouse at all; and of
course Madge and Stumps played truant too. Sometimes a
week together would pass and the Keene children would not be
seen at the schoolhouse. Visits from the schoolmaster produced
no lasting effect. The children would come for a day or two,
then be seen no more. The schoolmaster and their father at last
had a serious talk about the matter.

“What can I do with him?” said Mr. Keene.

“You’ll have to put him to work,” said the schoolmaster.
“Set him to hunting nuggets instead of bird’s-nests. I guess
what the boy wants is some honest means of using his strength.
He’s a good boy, Mr. Keene; don’t despair of him. Jim would
be proud to be an ‘honest miner.’ Jim’s a good boy, Mr. Keene.”

“Well, then, thank you, Schoolmaster,” said Mr. Keene.
“Jim’s a good boy; and Madge is good, Mr. Schoolmaster; and
poor starved and stunted motherless Little Stumps, he is good as
gold, Mr. Schoolmaster. And I want to be a mother to ’em—I
want to be father and mother to ’em all, Mr. Schoolmaster. And
I’ll follow your advice. I’ll put ’em all to work a-huntin’
for gold.”

The next day away up on the hillside under a pleasant oak,
where the air was sweet and cool, and the ground soft and dotted
over with flowers, the tender-hearted old man that wanted to be
“father and mother both,” “located” a claim. The flowers were
kept fresh by a little stream of waste water from the ditch that
girded the brow of the hill above. Here he set a sluice-box and
put his three little miners at work with pick, pan and shovel.
There he left them and limped back to his own place in the mine
below.

And how they did work! And how pleasant it was here
under the broad boughs of the oak, with the water rippling
through the sluice on the soft, loose soil which they shoveled
into the long sluice-box. They could see the mule-trains going
and coming, and the clouds of dust far below which told them
the stage was whirling up the valley. But Jim kept steadily on
at his work day after day. Even though jack-rabbits and squirrels
appeared on the very scene, he would not leave till, like the
rest of the honest miners, he could shoulder his pick and pan
and go down home with the setting sun.

Sometimes the men who had tried to keep the children at
school, would come that way, and with a sly smile, talk very
wisely about whether or not the new miners would “strike it”
under the cool oak among the flowers on the hill. But Jim never
stopped to talk much. He dug and wrestled away, day after
day, now up to his waist in the pit.

One Saturday evening the old man limped up the hillside to
help the young miners “clean up.”

“COLOR! TWO COLORS! THREE, FOUR, FIVE—A DOZEN!”

He sat down at the head of the sluice-box and gave directions
how they should turn off the most of the water, wash down
the “toilings” very low, lift up the “riffle,” brush down the
“apron,” and finally set the pan in the lower end of the “sluice-toil”
and pour in the quicksilver to gather up and hold the gold.

“What for you put your hand in de water for, papa?”
queried Little Stumps, who had left off his work, which consisted
mainly of pulling flowers and putting them in the sluice-box
to see them float away. He was sitting by his father’s side,
and he looked up in his face as he spoke.

“Hush, child,” said the old man softly, as he again dipped
his thumb and finger in his vest pocket as if about to take snuff.
But he did not take snuff. Again his hand was reached down to
the rippling water at the head of the sluice-box. And this time
curious but obedient Little Stumps was silent.

Suddenly there was a shout, such a shout from Jim as the
hills had not heard since he was a schoolboy.

He had found the “color.” “Two colors! three, four, five—a
dozen!” The boy shouted like a Modoc, threw down the brush
and scraper, and kissed his little sister over and over, and cried as
he did so; then he whispered softly to her as he again took up
his brush and scraper, that it was “for papa; all for poor papa;
that he did not care for himself, but he did want to help poor,
tired, and crippled papa.” But papa did not seem to be excited
so very much.

The little miners were now continually wild with excitement.
They were up and at work Monday morning at dawn.
The men who were in the father’s tender secret, congratulated
the children heartily and made them presents of several small
nuggets to add to their little hoard.

In this way they kept steadily at work for half the summer.
All the gold was given to papa to keep. Papa weighed it each
week, and I suppose secretly congratulated himself that he was
getting back about as much as he put in.

Before quite the end of the third month, Jim struck a thin
bed of blue gravel. The miners who had been happily chuckling
and laughing among themselves to think how they had managed
to keep Jim out of mischief, began to look at each other and
wonder how in the world blue gravel ever got up there on the
hill. And in a few days more there was a well-defined bed of
blue gravel, too; and not one of the miners could make it out.

One Saturday evening shortly after, as the old man weighed
their gold he caught his breath, started, and stood up straight;
straighter than he had stood since he crossed the Plains. Then
he hastily left the cabin. He went up the hill to the children’s
claim almost without limping. Then he took a pencil and an old
piece of a letter, and wrote out a notice and tacked it up on the
big oak-tree, claiming those mining claims according to miners’
law, for the three children. A couple of miners laughed as they
went by in the twilight, to see what he was doing; and he laughed
with them. But as he limped on down the hill he smiled.

That night as they sat at supper, he told the children that as
they had been such faithful and industrious miners, he was going
to give them each a present, besides a little gold to spend as they
pleased.

So he went up to the store and bought Jim a red shirt, long
black and bright gum boots, a broad-brimmed hat, and a belt.
He also bought each of the other children some pretty trappings,
and gave each a dollar’s worth of gold dust. Madge and Stumps
handed their gold back to “poor papa.” But Jim was crazy
with excitement. He put on his new clothes and went forth to
spend his dollar. And what do you suppose he bought? I hesitate
to tell you. But what he bought was a pipe and a paper of
tobacco!

That red shirt, that belt and broad-brimmed hat, together
with the shiny top boots, had been too much for Jim’s balance.
How could a man—he spoke of himself as a man now—how
could a man be an “honest miner” and not smoke a pipe?

And now with his manly clothes and his manly pipe he was
to be so happy! He had all that went to make up “the honest
miner.” True, he did not let his father know about the pipe. He
hid it under his pillow at night. He meant to have his first
smoke at the sluice-box, as a miner should.

Monday morning he was up with the sun and ready for his
work. His father, who worked down the Gulch, had already
gone before the children had finished their breakfast. So now
Jim filled his bran-new pipe very leisurely; and with as much
calm unconcern as if he had been smoking for forty years, he
stopped to scratch a match on the door as he went out.

From under his broad hat he saw his little sister watching
him, and he fairly swelled with importance as Stumps looked up
at him with childish wonder. Leaving Madge to wash the few
tin dishes and follow as she could with Little Stumps, he started
on up the hill, pipe in mouth.

He met several miners, but he puffed away like a tug-boat
against the tide, and went on. His bright new boots whetted and
creaked together, the warm wind lifted the broad brim of his
sombrero, and his bright new red shirt was really beautiful, with
the green grass and oaks for a background—and so this brave
young man climbed the hill to his mine. Ah, he was so happy!

Suddenly, as he approached the claim, his knees began to
smite together, and he felt so weak he could hardly drag one foot
after the other. He threw down his pick; he began to tremble
and spin around. The world seemed to be turning over and
over, and he trying in vain to hold on to it. He jerked the pipe
from his teeth, and throwing it down on the bank, he tumbled
down too, and clutching at the grass with both hands tried hard,
oh! so hard, to hold the world from slipping from under him.

“Oh, Jim! you are white as snow,” cried Madge as she
came up.

“White as ‘er sunshine, an’ blue, an’ green too, sisser. Look
at brurrer ‘all colors,'” piped Little Stumps pitifully.

“O, Jim, Jim—brother Jim, what is the matter?” sobbed
Madge.

“Sunstroke,” murmured the young man, smiling grimly,
like a true Californian. “No; it is not sunstroke, it’s—it’s cholera,”
he added in dismay over his falsehood.

Poor boy! he was sorry for this second lie too. He fairly
groaned in agony of body and soul.

Oh, how he did hate that pipe! How he did want to get
up and jump on it and smash it into a thousand pieces! But he
could not get up or turn around or move at all without betraying
his unmanly secret.

A couple of miners came up, but Jim feebly begged them
to go.

“Sunstroke,” whispered the sister.

“No; tolera,” piped poor Little Stumps.

“Get out! Leave me!” groaned the young red-shirted
miner of the Sierras.

The biggest of the two miners bent over him a moment.

“Yes; it’s both,” he muttered. “Cholera-nicotine-fantum!”
Then he looked at his partner and winked wickedly. Without
a word, he took the limp young miner up in his arms and bore
him down the hill to his father’s cabin, while Stumps and Madge
ran along at either side, and tenderly and all the time kept asking
what was good for “cholera.”

The other old “honest miner” lingered behind to pick up
the baleful pipe which he knew was somewhere there; and when
the little party was far enough down the hill, he took it up and
buried it in his own capacious pocket with a half-sorrowful
laugh. “Poor little miner,” he sighed.

“Don’t ever swear any more, Windy,” pleaded the boy to the
miner who had carried him down the hill, as he leaned over
him, “and don’t never lie. I am going to die, Windy, and I
should like to be
good. Windy, it
ain’t sunstroke,
it’s” …

HE TOOK THE LIMP YOUNG MINER IN HIS ARMS.

“Hush yer
mouth,” growled
Windy. “I know
what ’tis! We’ve left
it on the hill.”

The boy turned
his face to the wall.
The conviction was
strong upon him that
he was going to die,
The world spun
round now very,
very fast indeed.
Finally, half-rising
in bed, he called
Little Stumps to his
side:

“Stumps, dear,
good Little Stumps,
if I die don’t you
never try for to
smoke; for that’s
what’s the matter
with me. No, Stumps—dear little brother Stumps—don’t you
never try for to go the whole of the ‘honest miner,’ for it can’t be
did by a boy! We’re nothing but boys, you and I, Stumps—Little
Stumps.”

He sank back in bed and Little Stumps and his sister cried
and cried, and kissed him and kissed him.

The miners who had gathered around loved him now, every
one, for daring to tell the truth and take the shame of his folly
so bravely.

“I’m going to die, Windy,” groaned the boy.

Windy could stand no more of it. He took Jim’s hand with
a cheery laugh. “Git well in half an hour,” said he, “now that
you’ve out with the truth.”

And so he did. By the time his father came home he was
sitting up; and he ate breakfast the next morning as if nothing
had happened. But he never tried to smoke any more as long as
he lived. And he never lied, and he never swore any more.

Oh, no! this Jim that I have been telling you of is “Moral
Jim,” of the Sierras. The mine? Oh, I almost forgot. Well,
that blue dirt was the old bed of the stream, and it was ten times
richer than where the miners were all at work below. Struck it!
I should say so! Ask any of the old Sierras miners about “The
Children’s Claim,” if you want to hear just how rich they
struck it.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

OLD GODFREY’S RELIC.

Keen Memories of the Thrilling Years That Thronged His Ocean Life.

PAUL H. HAYNE.

EVAN COGWELL’S ICE FORT.

n the early days of Northern Ohio, when settlers were
few and far between, Evan Cogswell, a Welsh lad of
sixteen years, found his way thither and began his career
as a laborer, receiving at first but two dollars a month
in addition to his board and “home-made” clothing. He possessed
an intelligent, energetic mind in a sound and vigorous
body, and had acquired in his native parish the elements of an
education in both Welsh and English.

The story of his life, outlined in a curious old diary containing
the records of sixty-two years, and an entry for more than
twenty-two thousand days, would constitute a history of the region,
and some of its passages would read like high-wrought
romance.

His first term of service was with a border farmer on the
banks of a stream called Grand River, in Ashtabula County.
It was rather crude farming, however, consisting mostly of felling
trees, cutting wood and saw-logs, burning brush, and digging
out stumps, the axe and pick-axe finding more use than
ordinary farm implements.

Seven miles down the river, and on the opposite bank, lived
the nearest neighbors, among them a blacksmith who in his trade
served the whole country for twenty miles around. One especial
part of his business was the repairing of axes, called in that day
“jumping,” or “upsetting.”

In midwinter Evan’s employer left a couple of axes with
the blacksmith for repairs, the job to be done within a week.
At this time the weather was what is termed “settled,” with deep
snow, and good “slipping” along the few wildwood roads.

But three or four days later, there came a “January thaw.”
Rain and a warmer temperature melted away much of the snow,
the little river was swelled to a great torrent, breaking up the
ice and carrying it down stream, and the roads became almost
impassable. When the week was up and the farmer wanted the
axes, it was not possible for the horse to travel, and after waiting
vainly for a day or two for a turn in the weather, Evan was
posted off on foot to obtain the needed implements. Delighting
in the change and excitement of such a trip, the boy started before
noon, expecting to reach home again ere dark, as it was not
considered quite safe to journey far by night on account of the
wolves.

Three miles below, at a narrow place in the river, was the
bridge, consisting of three very long tree-trunks reaching parallel
from bank to bank, and covered with hewn plank. When Evan
arrived here he found that this bridge had been swept away.
But pushing on down stream among the thickets, about half a
mile below, he came upon an immense ice-jam, stretching across
the stream and piled many feet high. Upon this he at once resolved
to make his way over to the road on the other side, for
he was already wearied threading the underbrush. Grand River,
which is a narrow but deep and violent stream, ran roaring and
plunging beneath the masses of ice as if enraged at being so obstructed;
but the lad picked his path in safety and soon stood
on the opposite bank.

Away he hurried now to the blacksmith’s, so as to complete
his errand and return by this precarious crossing before dark.

But the smith had neglected his duty and Evan had to wait
an hour or more for the axes. At length they were done, and
with one tied at each end of a strong cord and this hung about
his neck, he was off on the homeward trip. To aid his walking,
he procured from the thicket a stout cane. He had hardly gone
two miles when the duskiness gathering in the woods denoted
the nearness of night; yet as the moon was riding high, he pushed
on without fear.

HOMEWARD.     SAFELY INTRENCHED.

But as he was
skirting a wind-fall
of trees, he came suddenly
upon two or
three wolves apparently
emerging from
their daytime hiding
place for a hunting
expedition. Evan
was considerably
startled; but as they
ran off into the
woods as if
afraid of him,
he took courage
in the hope that
they would not
molest him. In
a few minutes,
however, they
set up that dismal
howling by
which they summon their mates and enlarge their numbers; and
Evan discovered by the sounds that they were following him
cautiously at no great distance.

Frequent responses were also heard from more distant
points in the woods and from across the river. By this time it
was becoming quite dark, the moonlight penetrating the forest
only along the roadway and in occasional patches among the
trees on either side. The rushing river was not far away, but
above its roar arose every instant the threatening howl of a
wolf. Finally, just as he reached the ice-bridge, the howling
became still, a sign that their numbers emboldened them to enter
in earnest on the pursuit. The species of wolf once so common
in the central States, and making the early farmers so much
trouble, were peculiar in this respect; they were great cowards
singly, and would trail the heels of a traveler howling for recruits,
and not daring to begin the attack until they had collected
a force that insured success; then they became fierce and bold,
and more to be dreaded than any other animal of the wilderness.
And at this point, when they considered their numbers equal to
the occasion, the howling ceased.

Evan had been told of this, and when the silence began, he
knew its meaning, and his heart shuddered at the prospect. His
only hope lay in the possibility that they might not dare to follow
him across the ice-bridge. But this hope vanished as he approached
the other shore, and saw by the moonlight several of
the gaunt creatures awaiting him on that side. What should he
do? No doubt they would soon muster boldness to follow him
upon the ice, and then his fate would be sealed in a moment.

In the emergency he thought of the axes, and taking them
from his neck, cut the cord, and thrust his walking-stick into one
as a helve, resolved to defend himself to the last.

At this instant he espied among the thick, upheaved ice-cakes
two great fragments leaning against each other in such a
way as to form a roof with something like a small room underneath.
Here he saw his only chance. Springing within, he
used the axe to chip off other fragments with which to close up
the entrance, and almost quicker than it can be told, had thus
constructed a sort of fort, which he believed would withstand
the attack of the wolves. At nightfall the weather had become
colder, and he knew that in a few minutes the damp pieces of
ice would be firmly cemented together.

Hardly had he lifted the last piece to its place, when the
pack came rushing about him, snapping and snarling, but at
first not testing the strength of his intrenchment. When soon
they began to spring against it, and snap at the corners of ice,
the frost had done its work, and they could not loosen his hastily
built wall.

Through narrow crevices he could look out at them, and at
one time counted sixteen grouped together in council. As the
cold increased he had to keep in motion in order not to freeze,
and any extra action on his part increased the fierceness of the
wolves. At times they would gather in a circle around him,
and after sniffing at him eagerly, set up a doleful howling, as
if deploring the excellent supper they had lost.

Ere long one of them found an opening at a corner large
enough to admit its head; but Evan was on the alert, and gave it
such a blow with the axe as to cause its death. Soon another
tried the same thing, and met with the same reception, withdrawing
and whirling around several times, and then dropping
dead with a broken skull.

One smaller than the rest attempting to enter, and receiving
the fatal blow, crawled, in its dying agony, completely into the
enclosure, and lay dead at Evan’s feet. Of this he was not sorry,
as his feet were bitterly cold, and the warm carcass of the animal
served to relieve them.

In the course of the night six wolves were killed as they
sought to creep into his fortress, and several others so seriously
hacked as to send them to the woods again; and, however correct
the notion that when on the hunt they devour their fallen
comrades, in this case they did no such thing, as in the morning
the six dead bodies lay about on the ice, and Evan had the profitable
privilege of taking off their skins.

Of his thoughts during the night, a quotation from his diary
is quaintly suggestive and characteristic.

“I bethought me of the wars of Glendower, which I have
read about, and the battle of Grosmont Castle; and I said, ‘I am
Owen Glendower; this is my castle; the wolves are the army of
Henry; but I will never surrender or yield as did Glendower.'”

Toward morning, as the change of weather continued, and
the waters of the river began to diminish, there was suddenly a
prodigious crack and crash of the ice-bridge, and the whole mass
settled several inches. At this the wolves took alarm, and in an
instant fled. Perhaps they might have returned had not the
crackling of the ice been repeated frequently.

At length Evan became alarmed for his safety, lest the ice
should break up in the current, and bringing his axe to bear,
soon burst his way out and fled to the shore. But not seeing the
ice crumble, he ventured back to obtain the other axe, and then
hastened home to his employer.

During the day he skinned the wolves, and within a fortnight
pocketed the bounty money, amounting in all to about one
hundred and fifty dollars. With this money he made the first
payment on a large farm, which he long lived to cultivate and
enjoy, and under the sod of which he found a quiet grave.

IRVING L. BEMAN.

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.

ROBERT BROWNING.

A HERO.

(A Story of the American Revolution.)

hey were sitting by the great blazing wood-fire. It
was July, but there was an east wind and the night was
chilly. Besides, Mrs. Heath had a piece of fresh pork
to roast. Squire Blake had “killed” the day before—that was the
term used to signify the slaughter of any domestic animal for
food—and had distributed the “fresh” to various families in
town, and Mrs. Heath wanted hers for the early breakfast. Meat
was the only thing to be had in plenty—meat and berries. Wheat
and corn, and vegetables even, were scarce. There had been a
long winter, and then, too, every family had sent early in the
season all they could possibly spare to the Continental army. As
to sugar and tea and molasses, it was many a day since they had
had even the taste of them.

The piece of pork was suspended from the ceiling by a stout
string, and slowly revolved before the fire, Dorothy or Arthur
giving it a fresh start when it showed signs of stopping. There
was a settle at right angles with the fireplace, and here the little
cooks sat, Dorothy in the corner nearest the fire, and Arthur
curled up on the floor at her feet, where he could look up the
chimney and see the moon, almost at the full, drifting through
the sky. At the opposite corner sat Abram, the hired man and
faithful keeper of the family in the absence of its head, at work
on an axe helve, while Bathsheba, or “Basha,” as she was briefly
and affectionately called, was spinning in one corner of the room
just within range of the firelight.

There was no other light—the firelight being sufficient for
their needs—and it was necessary to economize in candles, for
any day a raid from the royal army might take away both cattle
and sheep, and then where would the tallow come from for the
annual fall candle-making? There was a rumor—Abram had
brought it home that very day—that the royal army were advancing,
and red coats might make their appearance in Hartland
at any time. Arthur and Dorothy were talking about it, as they
turned the roasting fork.

“Wish I was a man,” said Arthur, glancing towards his
mother, who was sitting in a low splint chair knitting stockings
for her boy’s winter wear. “I’d like to shoot a red coat.”

“O Arty!” exclaimed Dorothy reproachfully; “you’re always
thinking of shooting! Now I should like to nurse a sick
soldier and wait upon him. Poor soldiers! it was dreadful what
papa wrote to mamma about them.”

“Would you nurse a red coat?” asked Arthur, indignantly.

“Yes,” said Dorothy. “Though of course I should rather, a
great deal rather, nurse one of our own soldiers. But, Arty,”
continued the little elder sister, “papa says if we must fight, why,
we must fight bravely, but that we can be brave without fighting.”

“Well, I mean to be a hero, and heroes always fight. King
Arthur fought. Papa said so. He and his knights fought for
the Sangreal, and liberty is our Sangreal. I’m glad my name is
Arthur, anyhow, for Arthur means noble and high,” he said,
lifting his bright boyish face with its steadfast blue eyes, and
glancing again towards his mother. She gave an answering
smile.

“I hope my boy will always be noble and high in thought
and deed. But, as papa said, to be a hero one does not need to
fight, at least, not to fight men. We can fight bad tempers and
bad thoughts and cowardly impulses. They who fight these
things successfully are the truest heroes, my boy.”

“Ah, but mamma, didn’t I hear you tell grandmamma how
you were proud of your hero. That’s what you called papa when
General Montgomery wrote to you, with his own hand, how he
drove back the enemy at the head of his men, while the balls
were flying and the cannons roaring and flashing; and when his
horse was shot under him how he struggled out and cheered on
his men, on foot, and the bullets whizzed and the men fell all
around him, and he wasn’t hurt and”—Here the boy stopped
abruptly and sprang impulsively forward, for his mother’s cheek
had suddenly grown pale.

“True grit!” remarked Abram to Basha, in an undertone,
as she paused in her walk to and fro by the spinning-wheel to
join a broken thread. “But there never was a coward yet, man
or woman, ‘mong the Heaths, an’ I’ve known ’em off an’ on these
seventy year. Now there was ole Gineral Heath,” he continued,
holding up the axe helve and viewing it critically with one eye
shut, “he was a marster hand for fightin’. Fit the Injuns ‘s
though he liked it. That gun up there was his’n.”

“Tell us about the ‘sassy one,'” said Arthur, turning at the
word gun.

“Youngster, ‘f I’ve told yer that story once, I’ve told yer
fifty times,” said Abram.

“Tell it again,” said the boy eagerly. “And take down the
gun, too.”

Abram got up as briskly as his seventy years and his rheumatism
would permit, and took down the gun from above the
mantel-piece. It was a very large one.

“Not quite so tall as the old Gineral himself,” said Abram,
“but a purty near to it. This gun is ’bout seven feet, an’ yer
gran’ther was seven feet two—a powerful built man. Wall, the
Injuns had been mighty obstreperous ‘long ’bout that time, burnin’
the Widder Brown’s house and her an’ her baby a-hidin’ in a
holler tree near by, an’ carryin’ off critters an’ bosses, an’ that
day yer gran’ther was after ’em with a posse o’ men, an’ what
did that pesky Injun do but git up on a rock a quarter o’ a mile
off an’ jestickerlate in an outrigerous manner, like a sarcy boy,
an’ yer grand’ther, he took aim and fired, an’ that impident Injun
jest tumbel over with a yell; his last, mind ye, and good enough
for him!”

“I like to hear about old gran’ther,” said Arthur.

As Abram was restoring the gun to its place upon the hooks,
a sound was heard at the side door—a sound as of a heavy body
falling against it, which startled them all. The dog Cæsar rose,
and going to the door which opened into the side entry, sniffed
along the crack above the threshold. Apparently satisfied, he
barked softly, and rising on his hind legs lifted the latch and
sprang into the entry. Abram followed with Basha. As he lifted
the latch of the outer door—the string had been drawn in early,
as was the custom in those troublous time—and swung it back,
the light from the fire fell upon the figure of a man lying across
the doorstone.

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed Abram, drawing back. But at a
word from the mistress, they lifted the man and brought him in
and laid him down on the braided woollen mat before the fire.
Then for a moment there was silence, for he wore the dress of a
British soldier, and his right arm was bandaged. He had
fainted from loss of blood, apparently—perhaps from hunger.
Basha loosened his coat at the throat, and tried to force a drop
or two of “spirits” into his mouth, while Mrs. Heath rubbed his
hands.

“He ain’t dead,” said Basha, in a grim tone, “and mind you,
we’ll see trouble from this.” Basha was an arrant rebel, and
hated the very sight of a red coat. “What are you doing here,”
she continued, addressing him, “killin’ honest folks, when you’d
better ‘ve staid cross seas in yer own country?”

“Basha!” said Mrs. Heath reprovingly, “he is helpless.”

But Basha as she unwound the tight bandage from the shattered
arm, kept muttering to herself like a rising tempest, until
at length the man having come quite to himself, detected her
feeling, and with great effort said, “I am not a British soldier.”

“Then what to goodness have you got on their uniform
for?” queried Basha.

Little by little the pitiful story was told. He was an American
soldier who had been doing duty as a spy in the British
camp. Up to the very last day of his stay he had not been suspected;
but trying to get away he was suspected, challenged, and
fired at. The shot passed through his arm. He was certain his
pursuers had followed him till night, and they would be likely
to continue the search the next day, and he begged Mrs. Heath
to secrete him for a day or two, if possible.

“I wouldn’t mind being shot, marm,” he said, “but you
know they’ll hang me if they get me. Of course I risked it when
I went into their camp, but it’s none the pleasanter for all that.”

Now in the old Heath house there was a secret chamber,
built in the side of the chimney. Most of those old colonial
houses had enormous chimneys, that took up, sometimes, a quarter
of the ground occupied by the house, so it was not a difficult
thing to enclose a small space with slight danger of its existence
being detected. This chimney chamber in the Heath house was
little more than a closet eight feet by four. It was entered from
the north chamber, Abram’s room, through a narrow sliding
panel that looked exactly like the rest of the wall, which was of
cedar boards. An inch-wide shaft running up the side of the
chimney ventilated the closet, and it was lighted by a window
consisting of three small panes of glass carefully concealed under
the projecting roof. In a sunny day one could see to read
there easily.

A small cot-bed was now carried into this room, and up
there, after his wound had been dressed by Basha, who, like
many old-time women, was skilful in dressing wounds and
learned in the properties of herbs and roots, and he had been fed
and bathed, the soldier was taken; and a very grateful man he
was as he settled himself upon the comfortable bed and looked
up with a smiling “thank you,” into Basha’s face, which was no
longer grim and forbidding.

All this time no special notice had been taken of Dorothy
and Arthur. They had followed about to watch the bathing,
feeding and tending, and when Mrs. Heath turned to leave the
secret chamber, she found them behind her, staring in with very
wide-open eyes indeed; for, if you can believe it, they never
before had even heard of, much less seen, this lovely little secret
chamber. It was never deemed wise in colonial families to talk
about these hiding-places, which sometimes served so good a
purpose, and I doubt if many adults in the town of Hartland
knew of this secret chamber in the Heath house.

The panel was closed, and Abram was left to care for the
wounded soldier through the night. It was nine o’clock, the
colonial hour for going to bed, and long past the children’s hour,
and Dotty and Arthur in their prayers by their mother’s knee,
put up a petition for the safety of the stranger.

“Would they hang him if they could get him, mamma?”
asked Arty.

“Certainly,” she replied. “It is one of the rules of warfare.
A spy is always hung.”

In the morning, from nine to eleven, Mrs. Heath always
devoted to the children’s lessons. Arthur, who was eleven, was
a good Latin scholar. He was reading Cæsar’s Commentaries,
and he liked it—that is, he liked the story part. He found some
of it pretty tough reading, and I need not tell you boys who have
read Cæsar, what parts those were. They had English readings
from the Spectator, and from Bishop Leighton’s works, books
which you know but little about. Dotty had a daily lesson in
botany, and very pleasant hours those school hours were.

After dinner, at twelve, they had the afternoon for play.
That afternoon, the day after the soldier came, they went berrying.
They did this almost every day during berry time, so as to
have what they liked better than anything for supper—berries
and milk. Occasionally they had huckleberry “slap-jacks,” also
a favorite dish, for breakfast; not often, however, as flour was
scarce.

They went for berries down the road known as South Lane,
a lonely place, but where berries grew plentifully. Their mother
had cautioned them not to talk about the occurrence of the night
before, as some one might overhear, and so, though they talked
about their play and their studies, about papa and his soldiers,
they said nothing about the soldier.

“Tell Me, My Little Man,” Said He, “Where You Saw the British Uniform.”

They had nearly filled their baskets, when a growl from
Cæsar startled them, and turning, they saw two horsemen who
had stopped near by, one of whom was just springing from his
horse. They were in British uniform, and the children at once
were sure what they wanted.

“O Arty, Arty!” whispered Dorothy. “They’ve come, and
we mustn’t tell.”

The man advanced with a smile meant to be pleasant, but
which was in reality so sinister that the children shrank with a
sensation of fear.

“How are you, my little man? Picking berries, eh? And
where do you live?” he asked.

“With mamma,” answered Arthur promptly.

“And who is mamma? What is her name?”

“Mrs. Heath,” said Arty.

“And don’t you live with papa too? Where is papa?” the
man asked.

Arthur hesitated an instant, and then out it came, and
proudly too. “In the Continental army, sir.”

“Ho! ho! and so we are a little rebel, are we?” laughed the
man. “And who am I? Do you know?”

“Yes, sir; a British soldier.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you wear their uniform, sir?”

“You cannot have seen many British soldiers here,” said the
man. “Did you ever see the British uniform before?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Arty.

“And where did you see it?” he asked, glancing sharply at
Arthur and then at Dorothy. Upon the face of the latter was a
look of dismay, for she had foreseen the drift of the man’s questions
and the trap into which Arty had fallen. He, too, saw it,
now he was in. The only British uniform he had ever seen was
that worn by the American spy. For a brief moment he was
tempted to tell a lie. Then he said firmly, “I cannot tell you,
sir.”

“Cannot! Does that mean will not?” said the man threateningly.
Then he put his hand into his pocket and took out a
bright gold sovereign, which he held before Arthur.

“Come, now, my little man, tell me where you saw the British
soldier’s uniform, and you shall have this gold piece.”

But all the noble impulses of the boy’s nature, inherited and
strengthened by his mother’s teachings, revolted at this attempt
to bribe him. His eyes flashed. He looked the man full in the
face. “I will not!” said he.

“Come, come!” cried out the man on horseback. “Don’t
palter any longer with the little rebel. We’ll find a way to make
him tell. Up with him!”

In an instant the man had swung Arthur into his saddle,
and leaping up behind him, struck spurs to his horse and dashed
away. Cæsar, who had been sniffing about, suspicious, but uncertain,
attempted to leap upon the horseman in the rear, but he,
drawing his pistol from his saddle, fired, and Cæsar dropped
helpless.

The horsemen quickly vanished, and for a moment Dorothy
stood pale and speechless. Then she knelt down by Cæsar, examined
his wound—he was shot in the leg—and bound it up
with her handkerchief, just as she saw Basha do the night before,
and then putting her arms around his neck she kissed him. “Be
patient, dear old Cæsar, and Abram shall come for you!”

Covered with dust, her frock stained with Cæsar’s blood, a
pitiful sight indeed was Dorothy as she burst into the kitchen
where Basha was preparing supper.

“O mamma, they’ve carried off Arty and shot Cæsar, those
dreadful, dreadful British!”

Between her sobs she told the whole fearful story to the
two women—fearful, I say, for Mrs. Heath knew too well the
reputed character of the British soldiery, not to fear the worst
if her boy should persist in refusing to tell where he had seen the
British soldier’s uniform. But even in her distress she was conscious
of a proud faith that he would not betray his trust.

As to Basha, who shall describe her horror and indignation?
“The wretches! ain’t they content to murder our men and burn
our houses, that they must take our innercent little boys?” and
she struck the spit into the chicken she was preparing for supper
vindictively, as though thus she would like to treat the whole
British army. “The dear little cretur! what’ll he do to-night
without his mamma, and him never away from her a night in
his blessed life. ‘Pears to me the Lord’s forgot the Colonies. O
dearie, dearie me!” utterly overcome she dropped into a chair,
and throwing her homespun check apron over her head, she gave
way to such a fit of weeping as astonished and perplexed Abram,
one of whose principal articles of faith it was that Basha couldn’t
shed a tear, even if she tried, “more’n if she’s made o’ cast iron.”

It indeed looked hopeless. Who was to follow after these
men and rescue Arthur? There was hardly any one left in town
but old men, women and children.

Mrs. Heath thought of this as she soothed Dorothy, coaxed
her to eat a little supper, and then sat by her side until she fell
asleep. She sat by the fire while the embers died out, or walked
up and down the long, lonely kitchen, wrestling, like Jacob, in
prayer, for her boy, until long after midnight.

And now let us follow Arthur’s fortunes. The men galloped
hard and long over hills, through valleys and woods, so
far away it seemed to the little fellow he could never possibly
see mamma or Dorothy again. At last they drew up at a large
white house, evidently the headquarters of the officers, and Arthur
was put at once into a dark closet and there left. He was
tired and dreadfully hungry, so hungry that he could think of
hardly anything else. He heard the rattling of china and glasses,
and knew they were at supper. By and by a servant came and
took him into the supper room. His eyes were so dazzled at
first by the change from the dark closet to the well-lighted room,
that he could scarcely see. But when the daze cleared he found
himself standing near the head of the table, where sat a stout
man with a red face, a fierce mustache, and an evil pair of eyes.

He looked at Arthur a moment. Then he poured out a
glass of wine and pushed it towards him: “Drink!”

But Arthur did not touch the glass.

“Drink, I say,” he repeated impatiently. “Do you hear?”

“I have promised mamma never to drink wine,” was the
low response.

It seemed to poor Arthur as though everything had combined
against him. It was bad enough to have to say no to the
question about the uniform, and now here was something else
that would make the men still more angry with him. But the
officer did not push his command; he simply thrust the glass one
side and said, “Now, my boy, we’re going to get that American
spy and hang him. You know where he is and you’ve got to tell
us, or it will be the worse for you. Do you want to see your
mother again?”

Arthur did not answer. He could not have answered just
then. A big bunch came into his throat. Cry? Not before these
men. So he kept silence.

“Obstinate little pig! speak!” thundered the officer, bringing
his great brawny fist down upon the table with a blow that
set the glasses dancing. “Will you tell me where that spy is?”

“No, sir,” came in very low, but very firm tones. I will
not tell you the dreadful words of that officer, as he turned to his
servant with the command, “Put him down cellar, and we’ll see
to him in the morning. They’re all alike, men, women and children.
Rebellion in the very blood. The only way to finish it is
to spill it without mercy.”

Now there was one thing that Arthur, brave as he was,
feared, and that was—rats! Left on a heap of dry straw, he
began to wonder if there were rats there. Presently he was sure
he heard something move, but he was quickly reassured by the
touch of soft, warm fur on his hand, and the sound of a melodious
“pur-r.” The friendly kitty, glad of a companion, curled
herself by his side. What comfort she brought to the lonely little
fellow! He lay down beside her, and saying his Our Father,
and Now I Lay Me, was soon in a profound sleep, the purring
little kitty nestling close.

The sounds of revelry in the rooms above did not disturb
him. The boisterous songs and laughter, the stamping of many
feet, continued far into the night. At last they ceased; and when
everything had been for a long time silent, the door leading to
the cellar was softly opened and a lady came down the stairway.
I have often wished that I might paint her as she looked coming
down those stairs. Arthur was afterwards my great-grandfather,
you know, and he told me this story when I was a young
girl in my teens. He told me how lovely this lady was.

Her gown was of some rich stuff that shimmered in the light
of the candle she carried, and rustled musically as she walked.
There was a flash of jewels at her throat and on her hands. She
had wrapped a crimson mantle about her head and shoulders.
Her eyes were like stars on a summer’s night, sparkling with a
veiled radiance, and as she stood and looked down upon the
sleeping boy, a smile, sweet, but full of a profound sadness,
played upon her lips. Then a determined look came into her
bright eyes.

He stirred in his sleep, laughed out, said “mamma,” and
then opened his eyes. She stooped and touched his lips with
her finger. “Hush! Speak only in a whisper. Eat this, and
then I will take you to your mother.”

After he had eaten, she wrapped a cloak about him, and
together they stole up and out past the sleeping, drunken sentinel,
to the stables. She lead out a white horse, her own horse,
Arthur was sure, for the creature caressed her with his head, and
as she saddled him she talked to him in low tones, sweet, musical
words of some foreign tongue. The handsome horse seemed to
understand the necessity of silence, for he did not even whinny
to the touch of his mistress’ hand, and trod daintily and noiselessly
as she led him to the mounting block, his small ears pricking
forward and backward, as though knowing the need of
watchful listening.

Leaping to the saddle and stooping, she lifted Arthur in
front of her, and with a word they were off. A slow walk at
first, and then a rapid canter. Arthur never forgot that long
night ride with the beautiful lady on the white horse, over the
country flooded with the brilliancy of the full moon. Once or
twice she asked him if he was cold, as she drew the cloak more
closely about him, and sometimes she would murmur softly to
herself words in that silvery, foreign tongue. As they drew near
Hartland, she asked him to point out his father’s house, and
when they were quite near, only a little distance off, she stopped
the horse.

“I leave you here, you brave, darling boy,” she said. “Kiss
me once, and then jump down. And don’t forget me.”

Arthur threw his arms around her neck and kissed her, first
on one cheek and then on the other, and looking up into the
beautiful face with its starry eyes, said:

“I will never, never forget you, for you are the loveliest
lady I ever saw—except mamma.”

She laughed a pleased laugh, like a child, then took a ring
from her hand and put it on one of Arthur’s fingers. Her hand
was so slender it fitted his chubby little hand very well.

“Keep this,” she said, “and by and by give it to some lady
good and true, like mamma.”

“Will you be punished?” he said, keeping her hand. She
laughed again, with a proud, daring toss of her dainty head,
and rode away.

Arthur watched her out of sight, and then turned towards
home. Mrs. Heath was still keeping her lonely watch, when
the latch of the outer door was softly lifted—nobody had the
heart to take in the string with Arty outside—the inner door
swung noiselessly back, and the blithe voice said, “Mamma!
mamma! here I am, and I didn’t tell.”

All that day, and the next, and the next, the Heath household
were in momentary expectation of the coming of the red
coats to search for the spy. Dorothy and Arthur, and sometimes
Abram, did picket duty to give seasonable warning of their approach.
But they never came. In a few days news was brought
that the British forces, on the very morning after Arthur’s return,
had made a rapid retreat before an advance of the Federal
troops, and never again was a red coat seen in Hartland. The
spy got well in great peace and comfort under Basha’s nursing,
and went back again to do service in the Continental army, and
Dotty used to say, “You did learn, didn’t you, Arty, how a person,
even a little boy, can be a hero without fighting, just as
mamma said?”

Teddy the Teazer

A Moral Story with a Velocipede Attachment

M.E.B.

JOJO’S PETITION.

RUTH HALL.