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Title: Harper's Young People, November 4, 1879 - An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Young People, November 4, 1879 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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[Illustration: HARPER'S



       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, November 4, 1879. Copyright, 1879, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




The first beams of the morning sun were tipping with fire the jagged and
icy peaks of the Wellhorn and Matterhorn, those gigantic monarchs of the
Bernese Oberland, when a slender youth came out to the door of a small
herdsman's cottage near Meyringen, and looked up at the sky to note the

"We shall have a splendid day, father," said he, after glancing all
around for a few minutes. "There isn't a cloud to be seen, and the
fir-trees sparkle like silver in the morning air."

"I am glad to hear it, Walter," replied a powerful voice from inside the
cottage, "for I must cross the hill to Grindelwald to-day to see my
cousin. It is a long journey, and much pleasanter in fine weather than
in rain and fog. You can let out the goats, and look after the cow, for
we must milk them before I go."

"Oh, Liesli is not far off," was the rejoinder; "I see her coming along;
she is passing Frieshardt's house now. She is a good cow, and always
knows when it's milking-time. But what is that?" he exclaimed, after a
short pause. "Frieshardt is driving her into his yard!--Hi, neighbor!
what are you doing? Don't you know whom that cow belongs to?"

"Yes, of course I do," replied the farmer, roughly. "But I've taken a
fancy to the cow, and mean to keep her. You can tell your father that,
if you like, and say that if he wants her he can come and fetch her."

"Father! father!" cried the boy, turning round, "Neighbor Frieshardt has
taken our cow away. Come and get her back."

Obeying his son's call, Toni Hirzel hastened out of the cottage just in
time to see his neighbor locking the byre upon Liesli, the only cow he
possessed. "Oho, my friend," he exclaimed, "what is the meaning of

"Don't you understand, Hirzel?" replied his neighbor, in a mocking and
sarcastic tone. "Recollect what you promised me the other day. You have
been owing me forty francs since last winter, and said you would pay me
yesterday. But as you have forgotten it, I have taken your cow, and mean
to keep her till I get the money back."

Toni Hirzel frowned and bit his lips. "You know very well," said he,
"that I have not been able to pay my small debt. My poor wife's illness
and funeral cost me a great deal of money; but you know quite well that
I am an honest man, and that there is no need for you to behave in such
an unkind and unfriendly way toward me. It is not neighborly,

"Neighborly nonsense!" replied the farmer. "The cow belongs to me until
you pay the money."

With these words he turned on his heel and went into his house, the size
and general appearance of which bespoke the comfort, if not the luxury,
of its owner. With a sad and anxious expression Toni Hirzel followed him
with his eye.

"But, father," said the youth, in surprise and anger, "do you mean
quietly to put up with that? I wouldn't suffer it, if I were you."

"Hush, hush, my boy!" replied his father quietly. "It is certainly not
very kind of Frieshardt to treat a poor neighbor in such a harsh way;
but he has the law on his side, for I can't deny that I owe him the
money. I should have paid him long ago if it had been possible, but your
poor mother's illness and death prevented me. We must have patience. I
dare say my cousin will lend me the forty francs if I ask him, and then
we shall get our cow back again. Don't be afraid, Watty. You shall see
Liesli feeding in the meadow again to-morrow."

"Yes, that she shall, father," said the boy, in a decided tone. "She
shall be brought back whether you get the money or not. Frieshardt shall
give her up to-day, and be thoroughly ashamed into the bargain for his
hard-heartedness. He has got forty cows on the hills, and yet robs a
poor neighbor of the only one he has got. What harm have we done him,
that he should treat us in such a way?"

"I will tell you, Watty, for you are now growing tall and sensible, so
that one can talk to you," replied his father. "He has envied me the
possession of Liesli for a long time, for she is the best cow in the
whole neighborhood; and he offered me two hundred francs for her last
autumn. As I wouldn't sell her, he has seized her now, thinking that I
can't pay him the money he has lent me. If I were to go to law with him,
the cow would be valued, and he would only pay me what she is worth over
and above the debt. That is his calculation. But I hope he will soon
find that he has made a great mistake."

"Yes, I hope he will, father," said the boy. "Go over to Grindelwald
quietly, but don't be annoyed if you can't borrow the money. I tell you
that I will get the cow back this very day; and you know, father, that
when I say so I mean it."

"I hope you haven't got any foolish plans in your head, Watty," said his
father. "It is of no use trying force against our neighbor, for he is to
a certain extent in the right."

"I am not thinking of using force," said the boy. "Leave the matter to
me, and go quietly on your journey. I know perfectly well what I am
going to do, and you may be certain that it is nothing wrong."

The tall and ruddy youth looked at his father with such a steady and
open expression that all his fears were silenced. "Well, you are no
longer a child, Walter," said he. "You were sixteen last May, and ought
to have come to years of discretion. But I should very much like to know
what plan you have got in your head. Won't you tell me, boy?"

"You shall hear to-night, after you come back, father," replied Walter,
smiling. "But I assure you again that there is nothing wrong or wicked
in it, and give you my hand upon it."

"Well, then, do whatever you have a mind to," said his father. "I must
not lose any more time, or it will be too late before I get back.
Farewell, my boy, and see that you don't play any roguish tricks."

With these words the peasant took his alpenstock, as the long
iron-pointed stick is named which is used for crossing the ice-fields,
and set forth.

"Good-by, my dear father," said the boy, gazing after him until a turn
in the road hid him from view. "It is better that you should go away
quietly and without anxiety. If I had told you what I am going to do,
you would have been vexed and nervous, and have tried to turn me from
it. But now I shall have nothing to hinder me, and I can set to work in
earnest. I will milk the goats first, though, that the poor animals may
not suffer till I get back."

Obedient to his loud call, the goats came frisking along; and after
having relieved them of their milk, Walter drank some, ate a little
black bread to it, and then put the rest of the milk in a flat pan,
which he set carefully in the cool cellar. When the goats had returned
to the hills, and were clambering from crag to crag in search of grass
and herbage, Walter slung a light hunting bag across his shoulder, stuck
a small axe with a short handle into his belt, and a knife into his
pocket, filled a bottle with goat's milk, and then cut off a large hunch
of bread and placed it with the bottle in his bag. He then selected a
stout alpenstock and tried it carefully, to see if the iron point was
sharp and strong. When these preparations were made, he looked for a
piece of thin strong cord, such as the chamois-hunters take with them on
their dangerous Alpine journeys, put it into his bag beside the bread
and milk, and quitted the cottage, the door of which he bolted on the

The cottage was about half an hour's walk from the inn on the road from
Meyringen to Grindelwald, and thither the stout-hearted youth turned his
steps. The sun was still low in the east when he arrived, for it was
early in the morning; but a number of horses and mules stood at the door
of the inn waiting for their riders. Several guides were loitering
about, ready to conduct travellers either to the steep heights lying
above the village, down to the beautiful water-falls of the Reichenbach,
or to the village of Meyringen.

"Well, Watty Hirzel," said one of the guides in answer to the boy's
salute, "I suppose you want to earn a couple of francs to-day, as you
have come armed with alpenstock and game bag? You couldn't have chosen a
better day. Every room in the inn is full, and you will easily get
somebody to take to the glaciers or anywhere else."

"No, no, Mohrle," replied the boy; "I haven't come to take your trade
away from you; I only want to speak to Mr. Seymour, the gentleman from
Scotland who has been staying here for about a month. He hasn't left
yet, I hope?"

"No; there he is at the window," said the guide. "But you won't be able
to earn anything from him, for he knows all the roads of the Oberland as
well as any of us. What do you want to speak to him about?"

"You will find that out in the evening, perhaps, when you come back,"
replied Walter. "It is a secret at present."

"Aha! I understand. You have discovered the track of a chamois, and are
going to take the gentleman to see if he can get a shot at it. He seems
quite mad upon hunting, and I dare say you will get a five-franc piece
if you help him."

"Very likely, Mohrle," replied the youth, with a laugh; and then bowed
to the gentleman, who stood at a window of the inn surveying the lively
scene below. Opening the window, he beckoned to the boy, who bowed
again, and went into the house.

"He is a sharp boy," said the guide to one of his companions. "There are
not many lads in the Oberland who are as bold and active in climbing as
he is. And no one can beat him for deer-stalking. But it's no wonder,
for Toni Hirzel, his father, is the best chamois-hunter in this part of
the country."

"Yes, he is a brave fellow," was the reply. "I know his father well.
There isn't a cleverer sportsman in the mountains; but it's a dangerous
life, and I shouldn't like to change places with him. It is much more
comfortable to show strangers the sights; there is less peril and a
great deal more profit in it."

"And yet I would wager anything that Toni wouldn't change places with
us," replied the first speaker. "He told me only a week ago that it was
impossible to give up the hunting life. 'My father and grandfather both
lost their lives by it,' said he, 'and I know I sha'n't fare any better;
but whenever I see the track of a chamois, I must be off after it.' That
is the way with all your chamois-hunters."

"Well, may God long preserve him from such an awful death!" said the
other. "But there comes our party. Look after your horse, Mohrle."

The conversation was thus abruptly cut short. The ladies and gentlemen
mounted the animals that were waiting for them, and in a few minutes the
space in front of the inn was cleared of the busy throng.

"Now, then," said the young Scotchman, whose attention had been occupied
with the company which had just left, and who now turned to Walter.
"Has your father discovered some new tracks, and sent you to tell me?"

"No, Sir. I have come to ask you if you were in earnest the other day,
and if you really wish to have a vulture's brood."

"A vulture's brood, boy?" inquired the Scotchman, with eager and
sparkling eyes. "Have you discovered one?"

"Yes, Sir," replied the youth. "I have clambered up among the wild
ravines of the Engelhorn for several days, and yesterday I descried a
spot where I am pretty certain there is an eyrie. If so, the young birds
must be well fledged already; so it won't do to lose much time in
getting them."

"Well, go and fetch them, then," exclaimed the gentleman, hastily. "I
have set my mind upon having a couple of young vultures."

"And you shall have them, if Heaven preserves my feet from slipping and
my hand from trembling," said the boy. "But I must first know what you
are willing to give me for the birds."

"I have already told you that you shall have thirty francs if you bring
them here alive."

Walter shook his head. "That is not enough, Sir," he replied. "I can't
do it for that. I must have forty francs."

A smile almost of contempt passed over the lips of Mr. Seymour. "So
young, and already so greedy!" said he. "Begone! I hate avarice, and
will rather lose the birds than be cheated in such a way."

Walter blushed deeply. His feelings were so wounded by these words that
his heart swelled as if it would burst, and his eyes filled with tears.
But with a vigorous effort he controlled himself, and gave a quiet
answer. "It is not greed or avarice that makes me ask for more money.
You condemn me unjustly, Sir."

"What else, then, can it be?" inquired Mr. Seymour, angrily.

In a few simple words Walter described the harsh conduct of the neighbor
who had taken away his father's cow for a debt of forty francs, and said
that he had hoped the stranger would readily give the trifling sum of
ten francs more if he only knew how dangerous it was to attempt the
vulture's eyrie. While he spoke, the angry look gradually disappeared
from the traveller's face, and he smiled with friendliness and goodwill
upon the boy.

"And you will expose yourself to this danger to serve your father?" he

"Yes, Sir; I have made up my mind to do so."

"But is it so very dangerous to get at the nest?"

"So dangerous that I couldn't make up my mind to it yesterday," replied
Walter. "It is built on one of the steepest crags of the Engelhorn, and
can only be reached by a very narrow ridge of rock with dreadful
precipices on both sides."

"And you are going to risk your life to help your father to pay the
money he owes?"

"Yes; and I am not afraid, if I can only be sure of the reward."

"Well, then, that alters my opinion. Bring me the young vultures, and
the forty francs are yours."

Walter warmly thanked the liberal stranger for his generosity, and was
about to leave the room; but, surprised at the boy's courage, and
perhaps alarmed at the idea of exposing him to such frightful peril, Mr.
Seymour called him back.

"I have changed my mind," said he: "I really have no use for the birds,
at least not at present, and I dare say you will be able to discover
another nest that can be got at without so much danger; and to tell you
the truth, I don't care about having such young ones. Go quietly home,
my boy. But why do you look so sorrowful and alarmed? Oh, I see: you are
afraid of losing the money. No, no; I didn't mean that. Take these two
gold coins--they are a present from me--that will just make up the sum
that your father wants."

Walter stood as if thunder-struck, unable to understand such generosity,
and thought the stranger was joking with him in giving such a large sum
for nothing.

"Take it, my boy--take it," said Mr. Seymour, smiling. "Your father must
and shall be assisted in his difficulty, for he must be a good man to
have such a brave and affectionate son. But the life of a human being
can't be risked for the sake of a couple of stupid birds."

In surprise and confusion Walter took the money, expressed his
thankfulness in a few mumbled words, and shuffled out of the room. When
he reached the open air, he recovered his self-possession to some
extent, and holding the gold coins fast in one hand, threw his cap up in
the air with the other, uttered a loud shout of joy, and bounded
homeward again at the top of his speed. Having reached the cottage, he
put the money in a corner of the cupboard in which his father kept his
small stock of cash, locked the door, and put the key in a place of
safety, and then left the cottage again.

"Now everything is in first-rate order," said he to himself. "Father
will be sure to find the money when he comes back, and I shall have
plenty of time to see how the vulture's nest is to be got at. Mr.
Seymour shall have the birds, no matter what trouble and danger it may
cost me. He shall soon see that I am neither selfish nor unthankful to
him for his generosity."


       *       *       *       *       *

="I can Swim, Sir."=--During a terrible naval battle between the English
and the Dutch, the English flag-ship, commanded by Admiral Narborough,
was drawn into the thickest of the fight. Two masts were soon shot away,
and the mainmast fell with a fearful crash upon the deck. Admiral
Narborough saw that all was lost unless he could bring up his ships from
the right. Hastily scrawling an order, he called for volunteers to swim
across the boiling water, under the hail of shot and shell. A dozen
sailors at once offered their services, and among them a cabin-boy.
"Why," said the admiral, "what can you do, my fearless lad?" "I can
swim, Sir," the boy replied; "if I be shot, I can be easier spared than
any one else." Narborough hesitated; his men were few, and his position
desperate. The boy plunged into the sea, amid the cheers of the sailors,
and was soon lost to sight. The battle raged fiercer, and, as the time
went on, defeat seemed inevitable. But, just as hope was fading, a
thundering cannonade was heard from the right, and the reserves were
seen bearing down upon the enemy. By sunset the Dutch fleet was
scattered far and wide, and the cabin-boy, the hero of the hour, was
called in to receive the honor due to him. His bearing so won the heart
of the old admiral that he exclaimed, "I shall live to see you have a
flag-ship of your own." The prediction was fulfilled when the cabin-boy,
having become Admiral Cloudesley Shovel, was knighted by the king.


There was a young, rich, and beautiful lady who was about to be married
to a lord. A day or two before the wedding the lord brought his friend,
a gallant and handsome young farmer, to see the lady of his choice. The
lady fell in love at first sight with the farmer, and ere they parted,
the farmer was as deep in love with her.

When the morning of the wedding had come, the lady, love-sick for the
young farmer, instead of betaking herself to the kirk to be married,
took to her bed, and the wedding was put off. Nevertheless, in the
afternoon, she disguised her face, and dressing herself in manly
apparel, went with cross-bow on her shoulder, and with her dogs at her
heels, to hunt on the grounds of the young farmer, which were part of
her own estate.

She crossed and recrossed the fields, whistled and hallooed to her dogs,
without meeting the farmer. As she was beginning to fear that he was
absent, and was about to withdraw, she met him coming up the road.

She professed to be surprised to see him, as she understood he was to be
at the wedding to give away the bride to the lord.

"Ah!" said the young farmer, with a sigh, "I would she were as poor as
myself, that I might ask her to give herself to me."

"Are you, then, in love with the promised bride of the young lord your
friend? How would you answer to him, should the lady favor your hopes?"
said she.

"With sword and axe I would give him a meeting, and let the best man


At parting, the lady drew from her pocket a glove embroidered with gold,
and said to the farmer, "Here is a glove I picked up on the way thither;
as I am a stranger here, I will leave it with you in order that you may
find the owner."

Next day she sent out the crier to say that she had lost a glove
embroidered with gold, and that she would take the man who found it for
her husband, if the man were willing.

The young farmer heard the proclamation, and, half wild with joy, and
half doubting his good fortune, took his way to the house of the lady.
He presented the glove, and modestly reminded her of the reward promised
to the finder, and although that reward was far above his hopes, it was
what his heart most ardently desired.

Before he left her, she confirmed the promise of the crier, and agreed
to take him for her husband. The report was soon spread abroad, and
coming to the young lord's ears, he demanded that the farmer should
resign his claim to the lady, or else meet him in single combat.

The farmer answered that he would never resign the lady while there was
breath in his body, but that he would meet the young lord when and where
he pleased, and with whatever weapons he liked to choose.

Swords and bucklers being chosen, on the day appointed for the fight the
lord and the farmer, accompanied by their seconds, or shield-bearers,
and their friends, met to settle their difference. With the assistance
of their shields the combatants warded off each other's blows for some
time, but at last the farmer clove his adversary's shield in twain, and
following up his advantage, brought the young lord to his knees by a
blow on his helmet.

Then putting his sword to his throat, he made the young lord resign all
claim to the lady, and beg his own life.

Soon the handsome young farmer and the rich and beautiful lady were
married, and after a time she told him of her device of the glove, and
how the game that she hunted that day with her dogs and her cross-bow
was the young farmer himself. Both agreed that for the hunter and the
hunted that hunting was the happiest that had ever been undertaken in

       *       *       *       *       *

=Nature's Barometers.=--Certain movements on the part of the animal
creation before a change of weather appear to indicate a reasoning
faculty. Such seems to be the case with the common garden spider, which,
on the approach of rainy or windy weather, will be found to shorten and
strengthen the guys of his web, lengthening the same when the storm is
over. There is a popular superstition that it is unlucky for an angler
to meet a single magpie, but two of the birds together are a good omen.
The reason is that the birds foretell the coming of cold or stormy
weather, and at such times, instead of searching for food for their
young in pairs, one will always remain on the nest. Sea-gulls predict
storms by assembling on the land, as they know that the rain will bring
earth-worms and larvæ to the surface. This, however, is merely a search
for food, and is due to the same instinct which teaches the swallow to
fly high in fine weather, and skim along the ground when foul is coming.
They simply follow the flies and gnats, which remain in the warm strata
of the air. The different tribes of wading birds always migrate before
rain, likewise to hunt for food. Many birds foretell rain by warning
cries and uneasy actions, and swine will carry hay and straw to
hiding-places, oxen will lick themselves the wrong way of the hair,
sheep will bleat and skip about, hogs turned out in the woods will come
grunting and squealing, colts will rub their backs against the ground,
crows will gather in crowds, crickets will sing more loudly, flies come
into the house, frogs croak and change color to a dingier hue, dogs eat
grass, and rooks soar like hawks. It is probable that many of these
actions are due to actual uneasiness, similar to that which all who are
troubled with corns or rheumatism experience before a storm, and are
caused both by the variation in barometric pressure and the changes in
the electrical condition of the atmosphere.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Slain by her Defender.=--During King William's wars on the Continent,
soon after the Revolution, it was usual, at the end of the campaign, for
both armies to retire into winter-quarters, and numbers got leave of
absence to go home and see their friends. Among others who availed
themselves of this privilege was a young Highland officer, whose
relations lived in the upper parts of Perthshire. He visited about in
that district, and entertained his friends by talking of the battles in
which he had fought, and the wonderful events he had witnessed; and he
everywhere met with the most cordial reception. He was at last invited
to the house of a gentleman who had an only daughter, whose beauty was
the universal theme of admiration. He there, as usual, recited his
martial feats, till, like Othello, he made an impression on the young
lady, which the gallant soldier soon perceived, and he contrived to
settle a plan with her for their eloping together at midnight. They got
off unperceived, and having travelled several miles, they at last came
to an inn, where they thought they might refresh themselves in safety.
The enraged father, however, as soon as he had discovered his daughter's
flight, assembled men, and pursued the fugitives with such speed and
eagerness that he overtook them soon after they got into the inn. The
lover, though he had nobody to support him, yet was determined not to
yield up his mistress, and being well armed, and an excellent swordsman,
he resolved to resist any attack made upon him. When the party pursuing
entered the inn, his mistress ran for protection behind him; but as he
was preparing to give a deadly stroke, the point of the sword accidently
struck her a violent blow, and she instantly expired at his feet. Upon
seeing what had happened, he immediately surrendered himself, saying he
did not wish to live, his earthly pleasure being gone. He was executed
the next day, but we fail to perceive on what ground, either of justice
or of humanity.


By An Old Boy.

Before I had been long at Mr. Gray's boarding-school, to which I was
sent when I was a very young boy, and which was very different from such
schools as St. Paul's, I heard of a mysterious and horrible place
called, as the boys said, the Preay Chamber. We supposed it to be a
gloomy and awful dungeon, but nobody knew just where it was, and nobody
pretended that he had ever been imprisoned in it. The truth was that it
was thought to be a punishment so dreadful that whenever a boy was
sentenced to the chamber of torture, good, motherly Mrs. Gray, whom we
all loved, always interceded for the culprit. Good woman, how we did
bless her!

I am an old boy now, but all younger boys will understand how easy it
was for me one evening when we were all marching out from tea, and I
passed close by the table with the open sugar bowl upon it, to raise my
hand quietly, without stopping or looking, seize a lump of sugar, and
let my hand drop again.

"Joe!" instantly shouted Mr. Gray, who sat in his chair watching us as
we filed out.

"Yes, Sir."

"Come here, Joe, and all the boys remain."

I was a little fellow of seven years old, and I pity my poor little
self as I look back upon that moment. I advanced to the master's chair,
and stood before him in the presence of the school, with my guilty right
hand closed at my side. There was awful silence as the master said,

"Joe, what have you in your hand?"

"Nothing, Sir."

"Joe, hold out your right hand."

I held it out.

"Now, Joe, you say that there is nothing in your hand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Open your hand, Joe."

I opened it, and the lump of sugar dropped to the floor.

It was the first lie I had ever told, and my terror and shame were such
that the recollection has been a kind of good angel to me ever since.
The master said a few solemn words, the justice of which my poor little
heart could not deny, although he had exposed me to a cruel ordeal; and
then, with an air like that of a Lord Chief Justice putting on the black
cap to sentence a murderer to death, he concluded: "Joe, you must be
severely punished. Go to Mrs. Gray, and tell her that you are to go to
the Preay Chamber."

There was a silent shudder of sympathy among the boys as I departed; and
finding Mrs. Gray, I told her, with sobs of terror, my doom. The good
woman listened kindly; and then, with the tenderness of a mother, she
pointed out to me the meanness of the theft and of the falsehood, and we
both sat and cried together. Then she said, "Joe, I am sure that you see
that you have done wrong, and that you are very sorry, and don't mean to
do so any more."

I was utterly broken down, and sobbed in a kind of hysterical paroxysm.

"Now, Joe, go back to Mr. Gray, tell him that we have been talking
together, and that you are truly sorry, and will try to do better, and
that this time, and for my sake, I hope that you may be let off from
the Preay Chamber."

I went back, and with tears and catchings of the breath I repeated the
message. Mr. Gray listened; and when I had done, he said:

"Joe, you are a very naughty boy; but as you say that you are sorry, and
will try to mend, and as dear Mrs. Gray intercedes for you, you need not
go this time to the Preay Chamber. But remember, it is only for this

I was like a victim suddenly released from the stake, and the narrow
escape I had had from the mysterious chamber of doom made that dungeon
still more awful. There were very few sentences to the chamber
afterward, and gradually its name disappeared from our talk and from our
fear. Now and then some boy asked, "What has become of the Preay
Chamber?" But nobody answered. If an older boy asked Mr. or Mrs. Gray,
they only smiled, and said nothing. The terror gradually died away, and
the chamber of horrors became a mere legend. Long afterward it was known
that it was all a kindly but deceitful understanding between Mr. and
Mrs. Gray. If a young boy did wrong, and it was thought that reproof and
the mere dread of punishment would be penalty severe enough, it was
agreed that Mr. Gray would send the offender to Mrs. Gray to be immured
in the Preay Chamber. That message was a hint to her to beg--or, in the
French language, _prier_--that for this once the culprit, upon his
promise to do better, should be pardoned.

There is no doubt that the fear of the chamber exercised some restraint
upon mischievous boys. But it was a kind of deceit which is in itself
mischievous. The very name still haunts my imagination, although I am a
bald-headed old boy, for what the most secret chamber of the Inquisition
was to the timid heretic, the Preay Chamber was to the little boy I used
to be.




The children were thinking of something very important. Anybody could
see that. Papa and mamma wondered why they were so serious and silent at
the breakfast table, and mamma was astonished when Carrie, and even
little Hope, begged to walk part of the way to school with Louis,
because they had never thought of doing such a thing before. Louis was a
bright-faced, rosy-cheeked boy of ten years, Carrie was eight, and
little Hope was only six. Mamma was always very kind to her little
folks, and as the morning was sunny, she said they might go if they
would put on their heavy shoes and their cloaks and hoods, for there was
a white crisp frost all over the grass. Mamma watched them with pride as
they scampered down the garden path leading from the front piazza to the
street, but had she heard their conversation she might have staid at
home from the party she was going to that evening, and put a veto on
their grand plan.

"Now, Louis," said Carrie, as soon as they were away from the house,
"you know you promised to sit up with Hope and me to-night and listen,
because nurse says at midnight all birds and beasts talk so children can
understand every word; and papa and mamma are going to a party, and they
won't come home until ever so late."

"Nonsense!" said Louis, who felt very much wiser than Carrie, she being
to his mind "only a girl;" "I don't believe nurse's story. I can always
understand what Fritz says, and I say he can not bow-wow any plainer
than he did this morning when he bid me good-by."

"Yes, he can," persisted Carrie. "Nurse says so, and she knows, for her
grandfather told her all about it when she was a little bit of a girl,
and he was a real old, old man. If people believed it so many years ago,
it must be true."

Louis's confidence in his own wisdom was somewhat weakened by the
thought of nurse's grandfather, but, boy-like, he only began to sing

  "Into woods where beasts can talk,
  I went out to take a walk."

"I'm going to stay awake anyway, and talk to my kitty," said little
Hope, "because I know what nurse said is true. I saw my kitty laugh when
she heard nurse say it." Carrie was silent. She walked at Louis's side,
kicking the pebbles of the gravelled path with her feet.

"Oh, if you girls are going to make such a fuss about it, I'll sit up
with you," said Louis; "and if nurse's grandfather said so," he added,
hesitatingly, "perhaps it is true, after all. He was a very old man, and
he must have known."

"Of course he knew," said Carrie, "for nurse said he had a cow, a red
and white one, that told him lots of things every year on this very

After the mention of the red and white cow, Louis made no more
opposition, and the children soon separated, Louis to spend the day in
school while Carrie and Hope scampered home, said their lessons to
mamma, and then went to play with Fritz, the big dog, Bess, the white
kitty, Lorito, a large gray parrot, and the new canary which papa had
bought only the day before.

When evening came papa and mamma went to the party, and nurse, who had
forgotten all about her grandfather and the red and white cow, wondered
why the children went to bed so willingly, for they were sometimes very
willful, and made nurse a great deal of trouble when she undressed them.
She was very glad they were good to-night, because, as "missis" was
away, she had made up her mind to go to a party herself, the house-maid
having promised to run up to the nursery if she heard the children
calling. There was little danger, however, that they would call for a
drink of water or anything else that night, for as they were not in the
least sure of nurse's sympathy in their midnight vigil, they had agreed
to go to bed as quiet as mice and watch their chance of slipping
unobserved to the library, where their pets spent the night. Long after
nurse had gone down stairs, and when the house was very, very still,
Carrie sat up in bed and gently called her brother, who slept in a
little room of his own adjoining the nursery.

"Louis! Louis!" she said.

"Oh, don't bother," answered Louis. "It won't be midnight for ever so

"But if we stay in bed we shall go to sleep. Hope is half asleep now."

"No, I'm not sleepy," said little Hope, "and I'm going to get my kitty
and go right down to the library this very minute." She rolled out of
bed, and went to the basket in the corner where kitty was fast asleep,
and bundled her up in her little fat arms.

The children all started to creep down stairs, but they shrank back a
little from the dimly lighted hall below, which somehow did not look a
bit as it did in the daytime. "Come on," said Louis, who felt very grand
as the protector of his sisters; "I've brought my new bow and arrow, and
if there is a villain there, you'll see how quick I'll lay him out. I'm
not afraid, anyway, where Fritz is," he added, half to himself. They
marched along very softly, their little bare feet sinking into the soft
velvet carpet. Louis went boldly ahead with his bow and arrow. Carrie
followed, her jet-black hair streaming down over her white night dress,
and little Hope came close behind, hugging her white kitty, who winked
in astonishment at this strange proceeding. When they reached the
library, Fritz, who was stretched on the Turkish rug before the grate,
in which a piece of English coal was burning slowly, rose to his feet,
amazed at the unusual sight; but he was too lazy for a frolic at that
hour, and after a soft "wuf-wuf" he lay down and went to sleep again.
The library was dimly lighted, and wore an air of wonder and mystery to
the now excited children. Rique, the canary, was curled into a little
round yellow ball, and paid no attention to his visitors. Lorito, who
was perched in a big gilded cage in the corner, had his beak buried in
his feathers and his eyes shut fast. He opened his eyes, however, when
the children came near, and put down his head to be rubbed, but after a
few sleepy grunts he said, "Poor Lorito, poor Lorito," and shut his eyes
again. Evidently the children's pets had no inclination to be sociable
just at present. Just then the ormolu clock on the mantel-piece struck

"We shall have to wait ever so long," said Louis, "because they won't
talk till midnight. Let's lie down on the rug with Fritz."

So the three children cuddled close to the big dog and waited. Louis
pulled mamma's blue and red afghan from the lounge, and after tucking it
carefully over his little sisters, crawled under it himself, and--

"Bow-wow," said Fritz. "Who's got a story to tell, I wonder? I'm not
going to tell one, that's very certain, for I scratched my throat this
morning with a chicken bone."

"Mew-mew," said the white kitty. "I've done lots of work to-day. I
unwound a big ball of green worsted for my little mistress, and I'm
tired. Let somebody else do the talking."

"Peep," said the canary. "I'm a stranger; I only arrived yesterday, and
I ought to be entertained. Some other time I will tell you all my
adventures, but to-night I prefer to listen. I would like to hear from
that gray-coated gentleman over there in the corner, for as he is a very
distant relation of mine, both of us belonging to the great bird family,
I would, I am sure, take great interest in his history."

"Lorito, you will have to do all the talking to-night," said Fritz and
the white kitty both at once. "Tell our new friend Rique all the
wonderful things you have seen, and all the strange adventures you have
been through."

Thus entreated, the gray parrot, after flapping his wings several times,
in a lazy manner, began to tell his history.


[Illustration: PAPA FEEDING MAMMA.]

"I will begin my story," said the gray parrot, "with the good old times
when my grandfather and grandmother lived in the hollow of a giant tree
which grew in the valley of the Congo, whose broad waters flow downward
through the wildernesses of Southern Africa to the Atlantic Ocean. My
grandfather belonged to a very large family, which was increasing
rapidly; indeed, the gray parrots of Africa, with their magnificent
crimson tails, are the chief glory of the country. The children of my
grandfather were very numerous, and no father was kinder or more
skillful than he in providing them with an independent establishment,
for he believed that young people should always set up housekeeping for
themselves as soon as possible. As soon, therefore, as my father was old
enough to be married, and grandpa saw that he had already selected a
pretty wife, he immediately found him a convenient hollow tree on the
very shore of our beautiful river, which he showed to papa and mamma,
saying, 'My children, here is a fine place for your housekeeping; make
your nest at once.' Papa and mamma were a very affectionate couple, and
they aided each other in the work of nest-building. Papa brought the
materials--moss, twigs, and soft grasses--and mamma arranged them
artistically in the interior of the hollow tree, making a pretty and
comfortable apartment. The nest was soon complete, and housekeeping
began. Papa and mamma were not a moment too soon in their preparations,
for no sooner was the nest constructed than it contained three eggs.
Beautiful little eggs they were, papa has often told me, and mamma never
contradicted him. I was in one of those three eggs. My brother and my
sister were in the other two. Mamma kept us warm with the greatest care,
while papa brought her food like a good husband, always choosing the
particular fruits and other delicacies she preferred. As this attention
allowed her to brood us constantly under her warm wings, we soon became
ambitious to escape from our shells. One beautiful morning, to the great
delight of my parents, I burst the delicate prison walls which confined
me. My brother and sister made their appearance in the world a day



The parson's boys were very fond of astronomy. They knew the chief
constellations, and kept the place of the planets as they moved along
among the stars. When their father told them how splendidly the moon and
the planets look through a telescope, they were sadly disappointed to
learn that a telescope costs so much money that he could not think of
buying even one of the smallest size. Happening to hint that _perhaps_
one might be made at home at small expense which would show the moon in
new light and bring Jupiter's moons to sight, they gave him no rest till
he had agreed that he would "see about it."

A few days afterward he showed the boys two common tin tubes which the
stove man had just made. One was about one inch and a half in diameter,
and about thirty inches long; the other was about twelve inches long,
and just enough smaller to slip inside the first, and move easily out
and in. The inside of both was painted black, so that there would be no
reflecting of light inside. It is better--he told the boys--to paint the
inside, if possible, after the tube is made, because the rolling and
pounding in shaping and soldering the tube are likely to make the paint
crack off. Then he took out of his pocket a paper, and unrolled a round
spectacle glass, just big enough to slip into the end of the larger
tube. "What's that?" the children exclaimed, all at once. "This is the
object-glass of our telescope," was the answer. "The light from the
object comes through this into the tube. It is a thirty-six-inch glass;
that is, it brings the rays together at a distance of thirty-six
inches." Frank held it up to the sun, which was getting low, and when
the rays began to burn his hand, Walter brought the yard-stick, and it
was just about thirty-six inches from the glass to the spot on his hand
where he felt the heat. That was the _focus_ of the glass. While the
boys were wondering how the object-glass was to be fastened into the
tube, the parson was already doing it. He had the tinman cut slits in
the end about an eighth of an inch wide and almost twice as deep. Every
other one of these he doubled back inside the tube, and pressed down
with pincers, so that there should be nothing sticking out in the way of
the moon and stars if they should try to get in. These made a rest for
the glass, so that it couldn't slip into the tube. Then he bent the
other slits down over the edge of the glass, but not so as to shut out
any light, and these slits held the glass firmly.

The boys, of course, now wished to see whether the steeple of the church
looked any bigger through this tube and object-glass. They couldn't see
it so well as with the naked eye, and feared the new telescope was a
failure. But their father told them it was too soon yet to vote on that
question. He told Frank to hold out his hand, and see whether the sun
would burn his hand through the glass and tube, as it did through the
glass alone. It did. "Now," said he, "if you hold this tube up to
Jupiter, at thirty-six inches from the glass there will be a very small
image of him and his moons. If we could only see that image or picture
through a microscope, we might see the moons as plainly as we see
Jupiter himself with the naked eye."

"Why won't our microscope do?" asked Walter.

The parson said we couldn't get the image and the microscope together
rightly; but while he was explaining, he was also unrolling another
paper, out of which came a big bulging glass almost as round as a boy's
eye. The edges of this had been ground down so that it would go into the
end of the small tube, and it was fastened in just as the other was,
only the slits needed to be a little longer, because the glass was
thicker. This was a one-inch eyeglass; that is, it must be an inch from
the object or image at which you are looking. He then cut in a piece of
paper a round hole about as big as a shirt button, and pasted this over
the eyeglass, and covered the end of the tube around, so that no light
could come in there except through this small opening in the paper,
which was so put on that the eye must look through the middle of the
glass. He also pasted some strips of brown paper around the other end of
the telescope, jutting over the object-glass just enough to keep it from
breaking, and to prevent any light from coming through the edges, but
not letting the paper touch this glass, as it did the eyeglass. The
object-glass wants all the light it can get.

The boys had the first look; but they could see nothing, though the
woods to which the glass was turned were yet visible.

"What's the focus of the glasses?" asked the parson.

"Thirty-six inches and one inch," was the correct answer.

The boys marked where the thirty-six inches ended, measuring from the
object-glass. They then brought the eyeglass up to within about an inch
of that, and looked through it again.

"Oh-oh-oo!" exclaimed Frank: "I see the trees so near that I can get
hold of them, but they're bottom side up!"

"Yes," said their father, "but that will make little difference when
looking at Jupiter or the moon."

They all had to wait what seemed a long time for the darkness to come,
and let the stars appear. When the parson returned from the post-office
after tea, he said it would be impossible to hold the tube in the hands
_steadily_ enough to see the planets plainly. So he found a strip of
board about a foot long and two or three inches wide, which was hollowed
out on one side. Into this hollow he fixed the tube by common tacks and
small wire. Then through the middle of this strip he bored a large
gimlet hole, and put in a long screw, and went to the workshop in the
basement to make a standard into which to screw the strip which held the
tube. He couldn't find nor make just what he wanted soon enough--the
boys said that "Jupiter had just come out clear"--and so he caught the
first box he could lay hold of, and screwed the tube upon one of its
sides, just tight enough to hold it snug, yet let it move up or down.
Then he called for a light stand, and case knives to make it and the box
stand perfectly _still_. He took his place on the portico, got
everything ready, and said he was "afraid to look for fear the boys
would be disappointed." Frank said he "would like to look," and so, as
he had been the most anxious to have the telescope made, his father gave
him the first chance to be glad or sorry. After moving the box and the
tube a little all kept silent, but soon Frank began a louder "Oo-oo-oo!"
than before, and, much excited, exclaimed: "I see 'em: four red bright
little fellows, all in a straight line," and then he ran as if half
crazy, shouting, to his mother: "We got 'em, mother, all four of 'em! I
wouldn't swap our telescope for any other. Come and see!"

The parson too was much delighted. As he happened to look at the other
side of the box, he was amused to find that he had mounted his telescope
on a "Eureka Soap" box. In a few days he made an upright standard, into
which he bolted the telescope just tight enough to hold it, but let it
move freely. A common screw becomes too loose in a little while. The
instrument cost the parson only forty cents for the tubes; the glasses
were given, but ought not to cost more than a dollar or two. If a
one-inch eyeglass can not be had, a two-inch eyeglass will answer quite
well. The reason for having two tubes is that eyes differ, and that what
is bought for a thirty-six inch glass may be an inch or two more or less
than that, so that the smaller tube must be moved back and forth till
the eye finds where the view is plainest. This instrument shows the moon
beautifully. You read of the circular mountains and the extinct
volcanoes; here you see them. It is especially delightful to see in the
new moon the light breaking over the mountain-tops and through the
notches while all the plain behind is yet in the dark. Though it is now
a good while since the parson made the telescope, he waits impatiently
every month for the new moon to come again.


There are few persons who have not been puzzled, when witnessing the
exhibitions of conjurers and performers of feats of legerdemain, by the
_magic bottle_, out of the neck of which the exhibitor can pour any one
of quite a number of liquids at his will. It may interest the reader to
see an explanation of the means by which the apparently magical effect
is produced, especially as it involves an explanation of a certain
philosophical principle which it is very useful for all to understand.

The pressure of the atmosphere all around us is so great that no liquid
can issue against it from a close vessel, unless air is at the same time
admitted to balance the external pressure by an internal one of the same
amount. In the case of pouring water from a bottle the mouth of which is
tolerably large, the air passes in in large bubbles as the water comes
out, producing the gurgling sound always heard in such a case.

Where the orifice is too small to allow of the admission of these
bubbles of air, the liquid will only flow out as fast as the air is
allowed to enter in some other way, as shown in the engraving, where the
water will not issue from the lower end of the tube except when the
finger is raised from the upper end so as to admit the air.

There are various ingenious contrivances by means of which curious
effects are produced through the operation of this principle. One,
called the magic tunnel, is made double, with a space inclosed between
the walls. There is an orifice communicating with this chamber at the
top of the handle, which orifice is so situated that it can be opened or
closed at pleasure by the thumb of the person holding it without
attracting the attention of the spectator. Now if the body of the tunnel
is filled, or partly filled, with pure water, while the hidden chamber
contains a liquid deeply colored--with cochineal, for example--the
person holding it can cause pure water to flow from it by keeping the
orifice in the handle closed by his thumb, or colored water by simply
raising his thumb and allowing the liquid in the concealed chamber to
flow out and mingle with the clear water as it issues from the tube

[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

The magic bottle acts on the same principle, though presenting it in
another form. The bottle is usually made of tin, though colored on the
outer surface to represent glass. Within, it contains several different
receptacles, as shown in Fig. 1, each communicating by a separate pipe
with the mouth of the bottle. Each of these receptacles is also provided
with another tube, by which air may be admitted so as to allow the
liquid contained in it to flow. These air tubes open by orifices in the
side of the bottle, as shown in Fig. 2, which are covered and concealed
by the thumb and the ends of the fingers of the operator, and may be
kept closed or may be slightly opened at pleasure. By this means any one
of five different liquids may be poured from the mouth of the bottle.

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

Of course it requires some dexterity to manipulate such an apparatus
skillfully, in order to keep all the holes concealed from the
spectators, and to open the right one, just enough to admit the air, and
at the right time. The point of interest, however, for the general
reader in the whole subject is the philosophical principle which is
involved, namely, that the pressure of the atmosphere in every direction
all around us is such that no liquid can issue from any orifice against
the force of it acting _from without inward_, unless by the admission of
air or the providing by some other means of an equal force to act _from
within outward_ as a counterpoise.


  The Sultan awoke with a stifled scream:
  His nerves were shocked by a fearful dream:

  An omen of terrible import and doubt--
  His teeth in one moment all fell out.

  His wisemen assembled at break of day,
  And stood by the throne in solemn array.

  And when the terrible dream was told,
  Each felt a shudder, his blood ran cold,

  And all stood silent, in fear and dread,
  And wondering what was best to be said.

  At length an old soothsayer, wrinkled and gray,
  Cried, "Pardon, my lord, what I have to say;

  "'Tis an omen of sorrow sent from on high:
  Thou shalt see all thy kindred die."

  Wroth was the Sultan; he gnashed his teeth,
  And his very words seemed to hiss and seethe,

  As he ordered the Wiseman bound with chains,
  And gave him a hundred stripes for his pains.

  The wisemen shook as the Sultan's eye
  Swept round to see who next would try;

  But one of them, stepping before the throne,
  Exclaimed, in a loud and joyous tone:

  "Exult, O head of a happy state!
  Rejoice, O heir of a glorious fate!

  "For this is the favor thou shalt win,
  O Sultan--to outlive all thy kin!"

  Pleased was the Sultan, and called a slave,
  And a hundred crowns to the wiseman gave.

  But the courtiers they nod, with grave, sly winks,
  And each one whispers what each one thinks,

  "Well can the Sultan reward and blame:
  Didn't both of the wisemen foretell the same?"

  Quoth the crafty old Vizier, shaking his head,
  "So much may depend on the way a thing's said!"

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

_To our Young Friends:_

As we can not expect to receive letters from you until you have been
notified of the existence of our Post-office Box, we open the
correspondence by writing to you, and asking you to think of us in the
future. We should like to hear from you upon any subject which may
interest you. If you have any questions to ask regarding your studies or
your reading, we shall take great pleasure in advising you; or should
you desire any information which you can not obtain from books within
your reach, we will do our best to aid you. We shall also be glad to
hear about your sports, your pets, or about any curious thing in nature
which may come under your observation.

You must bear in mind that your communications must be very brief,
because there are so many of you that we can not give a great deal of
space to any one. We will endeavor to be kind and attentive to each and
all alike.

It is very easy in these times to send letters in Uncle Sam's big
mail-bag; and when you write on your neat, delicate note-paper, and put
the pretty postage-stamp on the right-hand corner of the envelope,
perhaps you never think of the way your great-grandparents went to work
when they wanted to send a letter. First they took a very large square
sheet of coarse blue paper, or, if they were young ladies and
fancy-minded, one with a bright tint of pink or yellow. As postage was
high, when they had written the pages full, straight across, they would
turn the sheet sideways, and write at right angles to the other lines,
and then corner-wise, perhaps, with a different-colored ink. There were
no envelopes in those days, and the sheets had to be ingeniously folded,
so that no curious postmaster could pry into family secrets. There was
always a portion of the last page left blank, to form the outside of the
letter, which, after being folded and directed, was sealed with a big
red wafer. It was then ready to be started off the next time the
stage-coach came through the town, for there were no railroads in those
days, and often the mail-bag was carried miles and miles on horseback
through wild regions where now the steam-engine whirls along with its
long train of cars.

It was not necessary in those days to prepay the postage, which was much
dearer than it is now. There were no postage-stamps, and big figures
were written or stamped on the outside of the letter to denote the cost
of transportation. In those times it often took weeks to send a letter
to places where now only a day is required.

Do any of you know the name of the man who first thought of the great
benefit cheap postage would be to the world, and can you tell something
about the great work he accomplished in that direction, and when and
where he died?

Our Post-office Box is now open for your contributions, which we trust
will be neatly and correctly written, because an editor's eyes have a
great deal of important work to do, and ought not to be employed in
deciphering illegible writing.

Trusting that our acquaintance may be pleasant and lasting, the editor
bids you welcome to the pages of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

[Illustration: THE ORPHANS.]

[Illustration: FUN]

A Boy who is not fond of fun and frolic may possibly make a tolerable
man, but he is an intolerable boy.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Irish lover remarked that it is a great pleasure to be alone,
"especially whin yer swateheart is wid ye."

       *       *       *       *       *

If a man's horses should lose their tails, why should he sell them
wholesale?--Because he can't retail them.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I'd just like to see you," said a blind man to a policeman who told him
he would lock him up if he didn't move on.

       *       *       *       *       *

A little girl of four years was recently called as a witness in a police
court, and in answer to the question what became of little girls who
told lies, innocently replied that they were sent to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

When a certain King of England visited Scotland, many years ago, the
following conversation took place between two countrymen:

SANDY. "Weel, Jock, hae ye seen the king?"

JOCK. "Oh ay, I hae seen the king; but I wadna gang the length o' the
street to see him again. He's just made like ony ither mon, an' they
tell't me his arms were a lion an' a unicorn."

       *       *       *       *       *

A QUANDARY.--If a boy should catch hold of your ear, and ask if he had
the wrong pig by the ear, would you answer yes or no?

       *       *       *       *       *

A MELANCHOLY CASE OF SUICIDE.--A naughty little boy, having been
threatened with a whipping, immediately hung his head.

       *       *       *       *       *

A little girl being asked by her grandfather where cotton grew, replied,
with the greatest simplicity, "In old gentlemen's ears."

       *       *       *       *       *

A man who lisped, having bought some pigs, asked a neighbor for the use
of a pen for a few days. Said he: "I have jutht been purchathing thome
thwine--two thowth and pigth. I want to put them in your pen till I can
fix a plaith for them." "Two thousand pigs!" exclaimed the astonished
neighbor; "why, my pen will hardly hold a dozen!" "You don't underthtand
me, Mr. Bent. I don't thay two thouthand pigth, but two thowth and
pigth!" "I hear you," said Mr. Bent; "two thousand pigs! Why, you must be
crazy." "I tell you again," exclaimed the man, angrily, "I mean not two
thouthand pigth, but two thowth and two pigth!" "Oh, that is what you
mean, eh? Well, the pen is at your service."

       *       *       *       *       *


  _First_ in long, but not in short;
  _Second_ in hop, but not in malt;
  _Third_ in Ellen, also in Anne;
  _Fourth_ in wagon, not in van;
  _Fifth_ in fun, but not in sport;
  _Sixth_ in teach, but not in taught;
  _Seventh_ in ale, but not in stout;
  _Eighth_ in bawl, but not in shout;
  _Ninth_ in mould, but not in sand;
  _Tenth_ in water, but not in land.
  In these rhymes there may be found
  A living poet much renowned.

       *       *       *       *       *

What is it that always has some hitch about it?--A harness.

Which is the most contemptuous bird?--The owl; he hoots at everything.


_Pole-Leaping._--The pole which is used for this exercise should be of
sound ash, rounded throughout its length, which should be in proportion
to the height of the jumper and the space to be jumped over. It is
advisable to practice this kind of jumping at first without a run. For
this purpose he who is about to jump fixes the end of the pole in the
ground in front of him, at a distance which may be gradually increased
with the efforts of the jumper; then he seizes the pole with his two
hands--the top one a little above his head, and the lower one a little
above the level of his hips. He springs off equally with both feet,
throwing most of his weight upon his arms, and pushing himself forward
as far as possible by bearing on the pole, which he then slackens, and
falls to the ground, trying to alight as softly as possible. If he fall
on his heels, all the body receives a great shock; the brain strikes
against the bones which surround it, which may often result in injuries
to the head. If he fall too much on his toes, he may, perhaps, sprain
them. It is necessary, then, to contrive so as to fall on the sole or
ball of the foot, and only to let the heel touch the ground afterward.

In order to jump over a space with a run, he places himself at a
certain distance from the space over which he is to leap, and after
having seized the pole with his right hand a little above his head (the
thumb in the air), and with his left hand a little above his thighs (the
thumb downward), he starts forward, holding the lower end of the pole in
front of him. Arrived at the edge of the ditch, or whatever it may be,
over which he is to leap, he sticks the pole in the ground before him,
then, by sudden and active effort, he raises his body, bearing his hands
on the pole in such a manner as to turn it from the right-hand side to
the left, and leaps the space, the body being nearly in a horizontal
position; he then reaches the ground by bending the joints of the legs.
He should at first practice at short distances.

_Indian Clubs._--The exercises with the Indian clubs are of a more
recent date than those with dumb-bells. They were introduced into Europe
by a military officer, who had seen the Persians exercise with them.
These exercises are performed alternately with the two hands, and
sometimes simultaneously, with two instruments of a massive conical
form, which in Persia are called _nulo_, and in India _mugdaughs_. They
are very useful for increasing the muscular power of the arms and
shoulders, opening the chest, and strengthening the hands and wrists.
They have also the advantage of rendering the player with them
ambidextrous, or two-handed; that is to say, of making the left hand as
able and vigorous as the right, and enabling him to use one as readily
as the other. As instruments of exercise they are as fitted for women
and girls as for men and boys. Gracefully used, they give a good
carriage and deportment, not always obtained by other means. Dumb-bell
practice should precede the use of the Indian clubs. In beginning with
the latter, take off your coat and cravat, loosen your braces and
waistcoat, and put on a belt.

The most simple exercises with the Indian clubs consist in carrying them
to the shoulder, sometimes with the right arm, sometimes with the
left--in carrying the club before and behind, to the left and to the
right. In the more difficult exercises you move the clubs alternately
around the body, seizing them at first by the hand, and holding them
parallel to the legs, the arms held down without stiffness, the clubs in
a straight line with them. Then raise the right club, without the
slightest jerk, in front and near to the body in the direction of the
left shoulder, until the forearm passes the head, the club always
remaining vertical. Then continue to pass the club behind the body,
bringing it toward the right shoulder, and letting it gradually descend
to the ground. The same movement is repeated with the left club, by
commencing to raise it toward the right shoulder, and so on continually.
Practice all the movements slowly; but when you have once familiarized
yourself with the exercises you may execute them more quickly, always
taking care that one club descends while the other ascends.



A brilliant serial story by GEORGE MACDONALD, with illustrations by

_Harper's Young People._

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE will be issued every Tuesday, and may be had at
the following rates:

Four cents a number.

Single subscriptions for one year, $1.50; five subscriptions, one year,
$7.00--payable in advance. Postage free.

Subscriptions may begin with any number. When no time is specified, it
will be understood that the subscriber desires to commence with the
number issued after the receipt of order.

Remittances should be made by Post-office Money Order, or Draft, to
avoid risk of loss.

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.


HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE _and_ HARPER'S WEEKLY _will be sent to any address
for one year, commencing with the first number of_ HARPER'S WEEKLY, _for
January, 1880, on receipt of $5.00 for the two Periodicals_.

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