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Title: Harper's Young People, October 5, 1880 - 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, October 5, 1880 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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[Illustration: HARPER'S



       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, October 5, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *



A Canadian Story.


"Well, boys, what do you think of _this_ for a play-ground? Something
like, ain't it?"

And well might Tom Lockyer say so. To be out in the woods on a fine
summer morning, with the whole day clear, is a pleasure which any boy
can appreciate, more especially such an active one as Master Tom; and he
and his two cousins had certainly enjoyed it to the utmost. Ever since
breakfast they had been scampering through the woods like wild-cats,
climbing trees, tearing through briers, scrambling up and down rocks,
chasing each other in and out of the thickets, and making the silent
forest ring with their shouts and laughter.

Tom had good reason to remark, with a broad grin, that nothing was left
undamaged except their lunch bags; for all three were muddy from head to
foot, ragged as scarecrows, and so scratched that their hands and faces
looked just like railway maps done in red ink. But none the less were
they all fully persuaded that they had been enjoying themselves
immensely, and were quite ready to begin again as soon as they could
find breath to do so.

"Here's the place for us to lunch, my boys!" cried Tom, flinging himself
down upon the soft turf that carpeted the summit of the ridge which they
had just climbed. "This is one of our best views, and you can feast your
eyes and teeth together."

It was, indeed, a splendid "look-out place." The opposite face of the
ridge went sheer down to the edge of the river, which, narrowed at this
point to less than half its usual width by the huge black cliffs that
walled it in, went rushing and foaming through a succession of furious
rapids for nearly a quarter of a mile, plunging at length in one great
leap over a precipice of nearly a hundred feet--a perfect Niagara in

"I say, Tom, old fellow, didn't you tell us that you went canoeing along
this river every summer? You don't mean to say, surely, that you can
take a canoe over that water-fall?"

"Not _exactly_," laughed Tom; "that _would_ be a little too much of a
good thing. Whenever we come to anything of this sort, we make a
portage, as the French boatmen say--carry our canoes round by land, and
then launch them again below the fall. There's a snug little path just
round the corner, and as soon as we're through with lunch we'll just go
down and look about us."

Tom's "snug little path" proved to be very much like the stair of a
ruined light-house, and would have seemed to most people almost as bad
as going down the precipice itself. But Charlie and Harry Burton, though
new to the rocks of the Severn, had had plenty of climbing elsewhere,
while as for Tom himself, he could have scaled anything from a church
steeple to a telegraph pole.

The view was certainly well worth the trouble. Just at the break of the
fall the stream was divided by a small rocky islet crested with half a
dozen tall pines, the "Goat Island" of this toy Niagara. In the few rays
of sunlight that struggled down into the gloomy gorge the rushing river
with its sheets of glittering foam, and the bright green ferns and
mosses that clung to the dark cliffs around, and the shining arch of the
fall itself, and the rocks starting boldly up in mid-stream, tufted with
clustering leaves, made a splendid picture.

Close to the water's edge ran a kind of terrace, formed by the sliding
down of the softer parts of the cliff; and along this the three walked
till they came right abreast of the fall.

"Hollo!" cried Harry, suddenly, "didn't you say that nobody ever shot
these rapids? Why, there's a fellow trying it now!"

There, sure enough, as he pointed up the stream, appeared a canoe with a
single figure in it, shooting down the river like an arrow, and already
close upon the edge of the rapids.

"Good gracious!" cried Tom, with a look of horror, "it's some fellow
being swept down by the stream! See, he's broken his paddle, and can't
help himself!"

Instinctively all three sprang forward at once, although the doomed
voyager was manifestly beyond the reach of help. But even as they did
so, the crisis came. With one leap the boat was in the midst of the
rapids, banged to and fro like a shuttlecock by the white leaping waves,
amid which it appeared and vanished by turns, till a final plunge sent
it right toward the edge of the fall.

The lookers-on turned away their faces; but all was not over yet. By a
lucky chance the boat's head had been turned straight toward the island,
upon which the current drove it with such force as to dash it in among
the sharp rocks, that pierced its sides and held it firm, while its
occupant was flung forward on his face among the bushes.

"Phew!" said Tom, drawing a long breath, "what a shave! Ugh! wasn't it
horrid, just that last minute? I'm awfully glad he's got off."

"But how's he to get ashore?" asked the practical Charlie. "It seems to
me he's in just as bad a fix as ever."

Meanwhile the unlucky voyager had scrambled to his feet, and was staring
wildly about him.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Tom, "if it isn't my old chum Fred Hope!
I'd no idea he was home again."

"I don't think he sees us," said Harry; "let's give him a hail, just to
show him there's help at hand. I've heard my father say that if a
fellow's left long alone in a place like that he'll go crazy with the
fright and the motion of the water."

Tom was not slow to take the hint. He sprang upon the bowlder behind
which they were standing, and, putting both hands to his mouth, shouted,
above the din of the water-fall, "Hollo, Fred, old boy! how goes it?"

"Who-o's that?" answered a faint voice, tremulous with terror.

"Why, don't you remember Tom Lockyer?"

"Oh, Tom, is that you? Get me out of this somehow, if you can."

"Never fear, old chap; we'll have you out in no time," replied Tom,

"But how on earth are you going to do it?" whispered Harry, amazed at
his friend's confident tone.

"Haven't the least idea, so far," answered the philosophic Tom, coolly;
"but it's got to be done _somehow_. If the worst comes to the worst, I
can always run home for help, while you two stay here and keep his
spirits up."

"If we could only get a rope across," suggested Charlie. "He's got one
there, I know, for I saw it tumble out of the boat as she swamped; but
how are we to get at it?"

"_I_ have it!" cried Tom, suddenly. "Fancy my not thinking of this old
sling of mine, when I've been using it all morning! I've read lots of
yarns about fellows sending messages by arrows: let's see if a stone
won't do just as well for once!"

He produced a ball of twine from his pocket as he spoke, and fastened
one end of it firmly around a jagged stone which he had picked up.

"See if you've got some more string, boys," said he; "perhaps this bit
won't be long enough."

The cord was soon lengthened sufficiently, and Tom, bidding his comrades
keep a firm hold of the other end, mounted once more upon the bowlder,
and shouted, "Fred, ahoy!"

"Hollo!" responded the islander, whose nerves were being rapidly
steadied by the prospect of help, and the sound of Tom's cheery voice.

"We're going to chuck you a line: mind and be ready to catch it."

"All right."

The stone whizzed through the air, and splashed into the water on the
other side of the islet, while Fred promptly seized the cord attached to

"So far so good, as the hungry boy said when he got half way through the
pie," remarked Tom. "Now, old fellow, just knot the string to that rope
of yours, and the job's done."

Fred obeyed at once, and the two Burtons hauled in. The rope, once
landed, was quickly made fast to the nearest tree, while Fred secured
_his_ end to one of the pines on the islet. The communication was

"But what next?" asked Harry. "Do you expect the poor fellow to walk
ashore on that rope, like Blondin?"

"Not quite," said Tom, laughing. "It's a case of Mohammed and the
mountain--if he don't come to me, I must just go to him. Here goes!"

And, our hero, swinging himself up on to the rope, began to slide along
it, hand over hand, in true gymnastic style.

Taut as the line was, it yielded a little with his weight, and he came
perilously near the water midway; but the rope held firm, and in another
moment he was safe upon the islet, shaking hands heartily with the
expectant Fred.

"Mr. Robinson Crusoe, I presume?" said Tom, with a grin. "I'm the Man
Friday, at your service; and a nice little island we've got of it. Now,
old boy, there's your road open, and you've just seen the correct way to
travel it; so off with you, and show us the latest thing in gymnastics."

"What, along _that rope_?" cried Fred, with a shudder which showed that
he had not quite shaken off his panic yet. "Ugh! I couldn't. The bare
sight of the fall below me would turn me sick; it looks just as if it
was watching for me to tumble in!"

"Oh, if it's only the sight of the water that bothers you, _that's_
easily settled," rejoined Tom, struck at that moment with a new and
brilliant idea. "I remember hearing a fellow spin a yarn once about how
he had escaped being ill at sea, by tying a handkerchief over his eyes
so that he couldn't see the jiggle-joggling of the water. If I blindfold
you, do you think you can manage it _then_?"

"Ye-es--I should think I might," replied Fred, somewhat doubtfully.

"Here you are, then," said the ever-ready Tom, producing a tattered red
handkerchief, with which he bandaged his friend's eyes most
scientifically. "Now, old boy, push along--think you're in for an
Athletic Cup, with a lot of ladies looking on!"

The device worked wonders. Relieved from the disturbing sight of the
precipice and the rushing water, and hearing Tom's hearty voice behind
him, cheering him on, Fred went forward manfully; and he was quite
surprised to feel his outstretched wrist suddenly seized in a strong
grasp, and to hear the shouts of the Burtons proclaiming that he had got
safe to land.

"Well done, our side!" shouted Tom, arriving a moment later. "That's
what I call blindman's-buff on a new principle, and no mistake!"



Few boys seem to be aware of the entertainment they may obtain with a
soldering iron, a pair of shears, and a file. With them it is easy to
manufacture working models of machinery, and philosophical apparatus
almost without limit. Skill in the use of the iron is readily acquired
with a little practice. The quickest way to learn is to observe for a
few minutes a tinman at his work. A good-natured one, politely
approached, will quickly explain all the mysteries in the process, and
take pleasure in filling the office of teacher. For heating the iron, a
charcoal fire is generally preferred; a gas stove is also good; and even
a common coal fire can be made to answer. The first point is to make a
little of the melted solder stick to the point of the iron. For this
purpose the iron is filed bright about the point, to remove the oxide
and expose the clear metal; then the iron must be quickly applied to the
solder. If the heat is sufficient, the iron will get coated, and be
ready for use. The oxide has to be removed also from the surface of the
material that is to be united; it is the chief obstacle to successful
soldering, as the solder refuses to unite with anything but pure metal.
Sal ammoniac dissolved in water is good to cleanse off the oxide; better
still is muriatic acid, with a little zinc and sal ammoniac added. This
is known as the soldering mixture.

One of the most convenient materials for use is common tin, which can be
obtained almost everywhere. A tin box can be melted apart, and cut into
any desired shape. Pipes to convey liquids, steam, or gas can be made by
cutting strips of the tin, and rolling them upon an iron rod. To make a
pipe, say, a quarter of an inch in diameter, get an iron rod of that
size, cut a strip of the tin about one inch wide, roll it upon the rod,
allowing the edges to lap a little. If the tin be not bright, make it so
by applying sal ammoniac with a small brush along the seam. Put on a
little powdered resin, and then solder neatly by drawing the heated
iron, with the solder clinging to it, over the joint. In this way a pipe
strong and tight is obtained; and such pipes can be joined to one
another indefinitely, in a straight line or at any angle. To unite them
in a straight line, pass the end of one into the end of the other before
soldering, or else wind an additional piece of tin over the two ends. To
make a turn, or elbow, file the ends on a bevel, or slant, bring them
together, and apply considerable solder for strength. If the solder be
rightly put on, it will hold surprisingly.


A pretty device to illustrate the force of steam is shown in the
accompanying picture. The boiler is a simple tin can, which need not be
more than six inches high and four in diameter. To make the wheel, cut a
circle of tin two inches in diameter, and pieces for the buckets, shaped
as in the diagram. Bend each piece at right angles along the dotted
line, and solder them one after another on the circumference of the
wheel, which will then appear as in the picture. Bore a hole through the
centre, insert a piece of wire for a shaft, and solder it fast at right
angles to the wheel. File shoulders on the ends of the shaft, and mount
it in uprights fastened to the top of the boiler. Make a small opening
through the top of the boiler, and place over it a little spout in such
a position as to send a current of steam directly into the buckets of
the wheel. Make also a larger opening in or near the top of the boiler,
and surround it with a neck to receive a cork. Through this the water is
introduced. For this purpose a small funnel will be found convenient.

When all is complete, the boiler may be filled about half full, and set
on a hot stove. When the water boils, the steam will emerge through the
spout, and propel the wheel. As the steam constantly escapes, no
explosion need be apprehended. To remove all possibility of creating too
much pressure, place the cork in the neck very lightly, so that it will
pop out if more steam is generated than can escape through the spout.
Then the miniature steam-engine and boiler may be regarded as harmless
as a tea-kettle. As the quantity of steam that can be produced is very
limited, care must be taken that there be no leaks, that the mouth of
the spout be quite small, and that the current of steam be discharged
accurately into the buckets. The bearings of the shaft should be oiled,
and everything arranged so that there will be the least possible
friction. Then the wheel may be expected to spin very rapidly.

[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]




Chapter IV.


As Benny Mallow hid himself in a barn in the yard into which he had
jumped, he had only one distinct thought in his mind: he wished that the
Italian had never come to Laketon at all--never come to the United
States, in fact. He wished that the Italians had never heard of such a
place as America: if one of the race had to discover it, he need not
have gone and let his fellow-countrymen know all about it, so that they
should come over with organs and monkeys, and get boys into
trouble--boys that weren't doing a thing to that organ-grinder when he
threw a stick at them. What made the fellow go into the school yard,
anyway? No one asked him to come. Now there would be a fuss made, of
course; and if there was anything that Benny hated more than all other
things, it was a fuss.

But what if the organ-grinder should really prove to be dead? Oh! that
would be too dreadful; all the boys would have to be hanged, to be sure
of punishing the murderer, just as the whole class was sometimes kept in
for an hour because something wrong had been done, and no one would tell
who did it.

Benny could not bear the thought of so dreadful a termination to his
life, for he knew of a great deal worth living for; besides, his mother
would need his help as soon as he grew old enough to earn anything. What
should he do? Wait until dark, and then run away, and tramp off to the
West, where other runaway boys went, or should he make for the
sea-board, and from there to South America, from which country he had
heard that criminals could not be brought back?


But first he ought to learn whether the man was really dead; it might
not be necessary to run away at all. But how should he find out?
Suddenly he remembered that Mr. Wardwell's barn, in which he was, had a
window opening on the alley; so he crept up into the loft, and spent
several moments in trying to look up the alley without putting his head
out of the window. Finally he partly hid his face by holding a handful
of hay in front of it, and peered out. Between the stalks of hay he was
delighted to see the organ-grinder on his feet, although two men were
helping him. They were not both men, either, Benny saw, after more
careful looking, for one of them was Paul Grayson; but the other--horror
of horrors--was Mr. Stott, a justice of the peace. Benny knew that
Justice Stott had sent many men to jail for fighting, and if Grayson
should tell who took part in the attack, Benny had not the slightest
doubt that half of Mr. Morton's pupils would be sent to jail too.

This seemed more dreadful than the prospect of being hanged had done,
but it could be done more quickly. Benny determined at once that he must
find out the worst, and be ready for it, so he waited until the injured
man and his supporters had turned the corner of a street, and were out
of sight; then he bounded into the alley again, hurried home, seized a
basket that was lying beside the back door, and a moment later was
sauntering along the street, whistling, and moving in a direction that
seemed to be that in which he might manage to meet the three as if by
accident. He did not take much comfort out of his whistling, for in his
heart he felt himself to be the most shameful hypocrite that had existed
since the days of Judas Iscariot, and the recollection of having been
told by his Sunday-school teacher within a week that he was the best boy
in his class seemed to make him feel worse instead of better; and his
mind was not relieved of this unpleasant burden until at a shady corner
he came suddenly upon the organ-grinder and his supporters, when he
instantly exchanged his load for a new one.

"Why, what's the matter, Paul?" asked Benny, with as much surprise in
his tone and manner as he could affect.

Justice Stott had just gone into an adjacent yard for water for the
Italian, when Grayson answered, with a very sober face, "You know as
well as I do, Benny, and I saw the whole crowd."

"I don't!" exclaimed Benny, in all the desperation of cowardice. "I
didn't do or see--"

"Sh--h!" whispered Grayson, "the Justice is coming back."

Benny turned abruptly and started for home. He felt certain that his
face was telling tales, and that Justice Stott would learn the whole
story if he saw him. There was one comfort, though: it was evident that
Grayson did not want the Justice to know that Benny had taken part in
the affair.

There was a great deal of business transacted by the boys of Laketon
that night. How it all was managed no one could have explained, but it
is certain that before bed-time every boy who had taken part in the
assault on the Italian knew that the man was not dead, but had merely
been stunned and cut by a stone; that Paul Grayson knew who were of the
party that chased the man up the alley. Various plans of getting out of
trouble were in turn suggested and abandoned; but several boys for a
long time insisted that the only chance of safety lay in calling Grayson
out of his boarding-house, and threatening him with the worst whipping
that the boys, all working together, could give. Even this idea was
finally abandoned when Will Palmer suggested that as Grayson boarded
with the teacher, and seemed to be in some sort a friend of his, he
probably would already have told all he knew if he was going to tell at
all. Some consolation might have been got out of a report of Benny's
short interview with Grayson, had Benny thought to give it, but he had,
on reaching home, promptly feigned headache, and gone to bed; so such of
the boys as did not determine to play truant, and so postpone the evil
day, thought bitterly of the morrow as they dispersed to their several

There was not as much playing as usual in the school yard next morning,
and when the class was summoned into school the teacher had no
difficulty in discovering, by the looks of the various boys, who were
innocent and who guilty. Immediately after calling the roll Mr. Morton
stood up, and said:

"Boys, a great many of you know what I am going to talk about. Usually
your deeds done out of school hours are not for me to notice; but the
cowardly, shameful treatment of that organ-grinder began in the school
yard, and before you had gone to your homes, so I think it my duty to
inquire into the matter. Justice Stott thinks so too. When any one has
done a wrong that he can not amend, the only manly course is to confess.
I want those boys who followed the organ-grinder up the alley to stand

No boy arose. Benny Mallow wished that some one would give the bottom of
his seat a hard kick, so that he would have to rise in spite of himself,
but no one kicked.

"Be honest, now," said Mr. Morton. "I have been a boy myself; I have
taken part in just such tricks. I know how bad you feel, and how hard it
is to confess; but I give you my word that you will feel a great deal
better after telling the truth. I will give you one minute more before I
try another plan."

Mr. Morton took out his watch, and looked at it; the boys who had not
been engaged in the mischief looked virtuously around them, and the
guilty boys looked at their desks.

"Now," exclaimed Mr. Morton, replacing his watch in his pocket. "Stand
up like men. Will none of you do it?"

Benny Mallow whispered, "Yes, sir," but the teacher did not hear him;
besides, Benny made no effort to keep his word, so his whispering
amounted to nothing.

"Grayson," said Mr. Morton, "come here."

Bert Sharp, who sat near the front of the room, where the teacher could
watch him, edged to the end of his seat, so as to be ready to jump up
and run away the moment Grayson told--if he dared to tell. Most of the
other boys found their hearts so high in their throats that they could
not swallow them again, as Grayson, looking very white and
uncomfortable, stepped to the front.

"Grayson," said the teacher, "I have known you for many months: have I
ever been unkind to you?"

"No, sir," replied Grayson; then he wiped his eyes; seeing which Bert
Sharp thought he might as well run now as later, for boys who began by
crying always ended by telling.

"You saw the attack made on the Italian; Justice Stott says you admitted
as much to him. Now I want you to tell me who were of the party."

"May I speak first, sir?" asked Grayson.

"Yes," said the teacher.

"Boys," said Grayson, half facing the school, "you all hate a tell-tale,
and so do I. Do you think it the fair thing to hold your tongues and
make a tell-tale of me?"

[Illustration: "MR. MORTON, I WAS THERE."]

Grayson looked at Will Palmer as he spoke, but Will only looked sulky in
return; then Grayson looked at Benny Mallow, and Benny was fast making
up his mind that he would tell rather than have his friend do it, when
up stood Bert Sharp and said,

"Mr. Morton, I was there."

"Bravo, Sharp!" exclaimed the teacher. "Grayson, you may take your
seat. Sharp, step to the front. Now, boys, who is man enough to stand
beside Sharp?"

"I am," piped Benny Mallow, and he almost ran in his eagerness.

"It's no use," whispered Will Palmer to Ned Johnston, and the two boys
went to the front together; then there was a general uprising, and a
scramble to see who should not be last.

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, looking at the culprits and then about the
school-room; "I believe you're all here. I'm proud of you, boys. You did
a shameful thing in attacking a harmless man, but you have done nobly by
confessing. I can not let you off without punishment, but you will
suffer far less than you would have done by successfully concealing your
fault. None of you are to go out at recess next week. Now go to your
seats. Sharp, you may take any unoccupied desk you like. After this I
think I can trust you to behave yourself without being watched."

The boys had never before seen Sharp look as he did as he walked to a
desk in the back of the room and sat down. As soon as the bell was
struck for recess Grayson hurried over to Sharp, and said,

"You helped me out of a terrible scrape, do you know it?"

"I'm glad of it," said Sharp. "And that isn't all; I wish I could think
of something else to own up to."



BY F. M. M.

One bright summer afternoon Bob and I slipped away from the other boys
as soon as school was out, and went gayly down the road that led to the
big bridge.

We were going birdnesting, and were determined to add something handsome
this time to the collection of eggs that we had been gathering since

The bobolinks knew us perfectly well; and you would have thought by the
way they rose out of the meadows on each side of the road, and sang as
if they were too happy for anything, that they were delighted to see us.
Not a bit of it. Their singing was meant to attract our attention, and
give the Mrs. Bobolinks time to glide through the tall grass, and then
rise up so far away from their nests that we would not know where to
look for them. We were not after their eggs, however, for we had all the
bobolinks' eggs we wanted, carefully blown and laid away in our
collection. Sharp as Mr. Bobolink was, we knew all his tricks, and had
outwitted him often.

"Where shall we go, Bob?" said I. "We haven't been to see whether that
cedar-bird's nest down by the river has any eggs in it yet."

"Oh, bother the cedar-bird! we can attend to his case any day. Let's go
through the bushes on the other side of the meadow, and then down to the
big bridge. We haven't been to the hill where the old dead tree is for
ever so long."

"All right," said I; so we climbed the fence, crossed the meadow, and
plunged into the bushes, watching every bush, and listening to every
noise. Suddenly we heard a rustling of wings, and then a mournful cry
like the wail of a lost kitten.

"Now, Bob, look sharp," I exclaimed; "there's a cat-bird's nest in here,
and Fred Sprague asked me to get an egg for him the first time I came
across any."

The old bird was fluttering from bush to bush, continually "mewing," and
seeming to be in great distress. "There's the nest, Jack," cried Bob,
pointing to a mass of twigs on the top of a tall bush. "You stand
underneath and hold your hat to catch the eggs if they fall, and I'll
bend down the branch."

The cat-bird was now in a terrible state of mind, and flew around our
heads scolding at a great rate. We told her that we only meant to take
one egg, but she wasn't a bit satisfied with our explanation.

Down came the bush as Bob carefully bent it, and presently we could see
into the nest, where four beautiful eggs were lying. We took one of them
out, and let the branch slowly up again; but the cat-bird did not seem
at all grateful.

"Let's blow the egg now," said I; "'twill be easier to carry. Have you
got a pin with you?"

Bob gave me a pin, with which I made a little hole in each end of the
egg. Then putting one end to my lips, I blew gently and steadily, until
out came the clear white and then the yellow yolk, leaving the empty
shell as light as a feather. Wrapping the egg in cotton, and placing it
in a little pasteboard box that I took from my pocket, I felt certain
that I could carry it home safely.

We found no more nests in the bushes, and after a while Bob said: "Let's
make a bee-line for the bridge, and see if there's anything in that dead

So we came back to the road, crossed the bridge, and went to the foot of
a great dead elm-tree that stood on the side hill a little way from the
river. It must have been struck by lightning, for it was nothing but a
shell, and a long blackened crack reached from the top nearly to the
bottom of it.

"I don't believe there's as much as a wasp's nest in there," said I.

"We'll see, anyway," replied Bob. "I'll fire a stone at that hole up by
the top, and you stand back and watch if anything comes out."

Bob could throw a stone straighter than any other boy in school. He hit
the trunk of the tree close by the hole, and in an instant something
darted out with a loud whir, and vanished over the tree-tops.

"Bob," cried I, "that was a hawk."

"Hawks don't build in holes," replied Bob. "Perhaps it was an eagle."

"Eagles don't build in holes either," said I; "but I read yesterday that
the pigeon-hawk does build in old dead trees."

"Then that's a pigeon-hawk sure enough," exclaimed Bob. "And there she
is, sailing round in a circle, and watching us. What won't the boys say
when they see us bringing home a lot of hawks' eggs?"

"That's all very well; but who's going to climb the tree?"

"You are," said Bob. "You know you're the best climber. The hole isn't
more than thirty feet from the ground."

I was ready enough to climb, and pulled off my jacket at once; but I
could not get my arms around the tree, and the lowest branch was a dozen
feet from the ground.

"I tell you what we'll do," exclaimed Bob. "Let's get a fence rail, and
lean it against the tree. I'll boost you, and when you get on the end of
the rail, you can reach that branch."

We selected the longest and knottiest rail we could find, and leaned it
up against the tree. Then Bob boosted me, while he kept his foot at the
end of the rail to prevent it from slipping. By this means I managed to
reach the lower branch, and seat myself on it.

"All right so far," said I; "but, Bob, the next branch is beyond my
reach, and I don't see how in the world I'm going to get any higher."

"Jack," replied Bob, in a solemn tone, "you've got to do it. There's a
hawk's nest up there, and we're bound to have it."

After making a good many trials, I found that by putting one hand in the
big crack of the tree I could get a hold that would support me, and
by-and-by I found myself standing on the upper branch, with one arm
around the trunk, and the hole within my reach.

"Now," cried Bob, "don't waste any time, but go for those eggs, or we
won't get home before dark."

He looked very cool and comfortable on the ground, while I was standing
in a very ticklish place, and was afraid that the dead limb might give
way at any moment. I didn't very much like to put my hand into the hole,
for how did I know but that there might be a big snake in it? However,
it had to be done, so in went my hand. Something hit it a vicious dig,
and you can be sure that I pulled it out in a hurry. To tell the truth,
I was badly frightened for a minute, and nearly lost my balance. Then it
flashed on me that the eggs we were in search of were young birds.

"Bob!" I shouted, "there are young ones!"

"Hooray!" cried Bob. "That's better yet. Throw 'em down, and I'll catch
'em in my hat."

Much as I hated to do it, I thrust in my hand again, and out came a
young hawk, biting, scratching, and screaming. I didn't hold it long,
but in less time than you can say "Jack Robinson," down it went into
Bob's hat.

Just as I threw down the third and last bird I heard Bob shout, "Look
out! the old one's coming." Then something hit me on all sides of my
head at once, just as if half a dozen school-teachers were boxing my
ears at the same time. I put up my hands to defend my eyes, lost my
balance, and, crash!-- I didn't know anything more for the next five

When I came to myself Bob was dashing water in my face by the hatful. I
could just manage to say, "Don't drown me."

"Then you're not dead!" exclaimed Bob. "You gave me an awful scare. Why,
I couldn't make you speak a word. Don't ever go and do it again."

"I'm not dead yet, Bob, but it was a pretty ugly fall, wasn't it? Where
are the young hawks?"

"Oh, they're all right. I've got 'em tied up in my handkerchief. Try and
see if you can stand up."

I did try, but the minute I bore my weight on my right ankle such a
sharp pain went through it that down I fell, and fainted away again.

When I came to, the second time, I heard a man say, "Guess we'd better
carry him right down to the house, and get the doctor to 'tend to him."
Bob had gone to a farm-house near by, and had brought two men to help
him take care of me.

"I'm all right now," said I, "except my ankle, and I guess Bob can wheel
me home in a wheelbarrow."

"I'll wheel you myself," said one of the men. "You've done a good job
breaking up that there hawks' nest, and I owe you something for it."

You'd better believe that the boys stared when they saw Farmer Jones
wheeling me home, and Bob carrying three young hawks in his
handkerchief. I felt pretty proud, but was laid up for three weeks with
my sprained ankle, and I made up my mind that the next time I meddled
with a hawk's nest, I'd shoot the old hawk first.



No. VII.


In April, 1752, David Stinson, Amos Eastman, William and John Stark,
paddled up the Merrimac River in canoes. Just above the junction of the
Contoocook River with the Merrimac they passed the last log-cabin. From
thence all the way to Canada there was not a white man. They made their
way forty miles farther, entered a little stream now known as Baker's
River, winding through a beautiful valley, built a camp, and set their
traps to catch beaver, which were building their dams along the brooks.

There had been war between France and England, but peace had been agreed
upon, and the Indians, who had been on the side of France, came from
Canada and traded with the settlers along the frontier; but the settlers
were ever on the watch, fearing an outbreak of hostilities at any

The young hunters discovered some tracks in the woods, which had been
made by Indians.

"The red-skins are about," they said.

It was agreed that it would be best to take up their traps and leave
quietly, for the Indians claimed the whole country as their hunting
ground. John Stark went out from the camp to take up his traps, when he
found himself confronted by several Indians, who made him their
prisoner. They had come from the village of St. Francis, in Canada, to
Lake Memphremagog, brought their canoes across the divide between the
lake and Connecticut River, and had descended that stream to the present
town of Haverhill, in New Hampshire, and were on their way to plunder
the settlements on the Merrimac. They did not know that John Stark had
any companions near at hand, nor did he inform them.

"Why is John gone so long?" was the question asked by the others.

"Perhaps he is lost. Let us fire a gun."

The report of a gun echoed through the forest.

The Indians' eyes twinkled. There were more prisoners to be had. They
stole through the woods with John, and came upon his three companions.
Eastman was on shore, his brother William and Stinson in the boat. The
Indians seized Eastman.

"Pull to the other shore," shouted John.


Crack! crack! went the guns of the Indians. Stinson fell dead, and a
bullet split the paddle in the hands of John's brother, who leaped to
the other bank, and escaped. Crack! crack! went the guns again, but he
was so far away that they did not harm him. The Indians, enraged at
William's escape, gave John a whipping; but instead of whining, he
laughed in their faces. They gathered up the hunters' beaver-skins, took
their guns and traps, piled them upon John and Eastman, and started for
their canoes, greatly pleased with their luck. The Indians divided, one
party going over the Green Mountains with the furs which they had
captured, going to Albany, where they could get better prices than in
Canada, and the other, with John and Eastman, going up the Connecticut
to Lake Memphremagog, descending the St. Francis River to their village
on the St. Lawrence.

It was a wearisome journey, and John had a heavy pack to carry, but he
was young, strong, brave, and was not in the least down-hearted. He did
not think that the Indians would harm him; they could do better--sell
him to the French.

The Indian town of St. Francis was a collection of miserable cabins and
wigwams. The Jesuit fathers had been among the tribe for many years, and
had won their confidence; had converted them to Christianity; that is,
the Indians had been baptized; they counted their beads, and mumbled a
few prayers that the priests had taught them; but they had learned
nothing of the justice, mercy, or love pertaining to the Christian
religion. They were the same blood-thirsty creatures that they had
always been, and were happiest when killing and scalping the defenseless

The whole population--warriors, squaws, and children--came out to
welcome the returning party. True, the French and English were not at
war; neither were the English at war with the Indians; but what of that?
Had they not made war on their own account? There was no one to rebuke
them, for were not the English always considered as their enemies?

The Indians of St. Francis always made their prisoners run the gauntlet.
It is not quite certain what the word comes from, but it means running
between two files of men armed with sticks and clubs, each Indian to
give the runner a whack as he passes.

The Indians, squaws, children, and all, paraded in two lines about four
feet apart. Eastman was the older, and was the first to run. Whack!
whack! went the sticks and clubs, beating him black and blue.

"Your turn now," said an Indian to John.

He is thirty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles like springs
of steel. He has an iron will, and is quick to think and act.

The Indians grasp their cudgels more firmly to give him a good drubbing.
What fun it will be to bring them down upon his broad shoulders, and see
him cringe!

John comes upon the run. Quick as a flash he seizes the cudgel in the
hands of the first Indian, swings it about his head with the strength of
a giant. Whack! it goes upon the skull of one, whack! again upon the
forehead of the Indian opposite, knocking them right and left. The next
two catch it, the third and fourth. They go down as the Philistines fell
before Samson. His blows fall so fast that the Indians take to their
heels: he breaks up the gauntlet, and marches over the ground like a
conqueror. The Indians, instead of punishing him, are greatly pleased.

It is midsummer, and the corn which the Indians have planted needs
hoeing. They take him into the field, put a hoe into his hands to work
with the squaws.

"You hoe corn," they say. John Stark hoe corn for the Indians! Not he.
He cuts up weeds and corn alike, giving a few strokes, doing what damage
he can, and then flings the hoe into the river.

"Squaws hoe corn. Braves fight," he says.

Do they beat him? On the contrary, they pat him on the shoulder.

"Bono! bono!" (good! good!) they say.

The Indians look down upon work as degrading. They make their wives do
all the drudgery. Women were made to work, men to fight. To humiliate
their prisoners they put them to work, degrading them to the condition
of women. John Stark understood their character, and acted accordingly,
and his captors were so delighted that they wanted him to become an

"We make you chief," they said.

"You be my son. I give you my daughter," said the chief.

But John Stark had no idea of becoming an Indian. Nevertheless, he kept
his eyes and ears open. He studied their ways. They showed him how to
follow a trail over the dead leaves of the forest--how the leaves would
be rustled here and there, turned up at the edges, or pressed down a
little harder where men had set their feet. He saw what cowards they
were unless the advantage was all on their side, and how wily they were
to steal upon their enemies. He picked up a little of their language. He
was ready to go with them upon a deer-hunt; but as for working, he would

Little did the Indians think that they were teaching one who would turn
all his knowledge to good account against them a few years later; that
when they were showing him how to follow a trail they were teaching him
to trace their own footsteps; that when the time came he would pay them
off roundly for having taken him prisoner.

He was so brave, resolute, stout-hearted, and strong that they set a
much higher value upon him than upon his comrade Eastman; for when their
friends sent money to Montreal to ransom them, they asked only sixty
dollars for Eastman, while John had to pay one hundred. So much for
being brave! The money was paid, and the two men were sent to Montreal,
and from there to Albany. As they came through Lake Champlain, John
Stark looked out upon scenes with which he was to become familiar in
after-years, and which we shall read about at another time.

[Illustration: THE RIVALS.]



"Boys have the best of it always!" said Lil, flinging herself in the
hammock with a sigh, as she saw her two brothers, several cousins, and
their comrades, in battered hats, turned-up trousers, and dingiest of
jackets, going down through the maples with their fishing-poles over
their shoulders.

"I think so too," said Ollie, spreading out her dainty dress, and
picking a daring grasshopper off her silk stocking. "It's just too mean
that we can't have some fun. They say we are always in the way, that we
can't even bait our own hooks--it _is_ horrid to stick those nasty worms
on!--but I can catch fish as well as any one, and if boys are around,
why shouldn't they make themselves useful? And they say we scream so,
and make such a fuss about every thing," went on Ollie, in the same
injured tone.

"Everything is better for boys than for girls. All the stories are
written for them; they can ride, and drive, and play ball, and swim, and
skate, and--"

"Lil! Lillie!" called a soft sweet voice, "are you in the sun? Your
complexion will be ruined."

"There! didn't I say so?" was the somewhat incoherent reply. "Isn't it
always the way? See how we are watched: don't go in the sun, you'll be
burned; don't do this, don't do that--all because you're a girl. I'm
tired of it.--Aunt Kit, I'm not in the sun.--I wish I was," was added
_sotto voce_.

"Country girls' mothers are not so particular," said Ollie. "Look at
those Pokeby girls in their calicoes; they climb trees like monkeys, and
they have lots of good times."

"Let's go over and see them; it is not far. Come, Ollie."

"In my new dotted mull and silk stockings?" cried Ollie, in amazement.
"Aunt Kit won't let us."

"See if she don't;" and Lil bounced out of the hammock, and into the
house, where in the cool darkness of a shaded parlor sat a slender lady,
with a pile of flosses in her lap, and a graceful basket in her hands,
which she was ornamenting. "Aunt Kit, I have come to ask a favor. We are
just bored to death doing nothing."

"Lil, how can you use such an expression? I am shocked. You are really
getting very careless in your use of words."

"Well, then, excuse me, but it's the truth all the same. Ollie and I
want some fun; the boys wouldn't take us fishing, and now I want you to
let us put on some old duds and go over to the Pokebys'. We will promise
to come home to tea, we will be as prim as prunes afterward, and I'll
play two extra exercises to-morrow, and learn three pages of French. Now
you can't say no; there's every reason for saying yes, and you will have
a nice quiet time all day, without being bothered. Please--that's a
darling!" and she smothered her retreating relative with kisses.

After some hesitation, and after many protestations that they would
remember every charge given them, the girls received permission to go to
the farm.

"I never was more surprised in my life," said Ollie, as, after donning
plainer attire, she and Lil started out. "Now I am going in for a day's

"What are you going to do?"

"Everything. When I get hold of Clara Pokeby--There she is now!"

"Oh, Clara!" broke out both girls at once, "we have come to spend the
afternoon, if we may. Is it convenient?"

"I'll ask mother," said the quiet little maid, with a sincerity which
somewhat dampened Lil's ardor.

They were joined in a few moments more by two other girls, each a year
older and an inch higher; and now Lil, having an audience, began to
talk, as they left the orchard where they had met, and from which they
were walking to the farm-house, which peered out from its thicket of
lilac-bushes, syringas, and overhanging maples. She was waxing eloquent
over her dissatisfaction with boarding-house amusements, the boys'
neglect, and her aunt's strictness, when they reached the door, and
Clara made known her wishes to her mother.

Mrs. Pokeby had heard the conclusion of Lil's speech, and a smile was
dancing around the corners of her mouth.

"A little more work and a little less play would be my remedy, Miss
Lil." But seeing the girl looked somewhat crest-fallen, she said,
kindly: "Come in, come in, all of you, and welcome. If you can wait till
my girls have helped me a little, you may have all the fun you can make
for yourselves."

The farm kitchen was a very spacious room, and Lil and Ollie thought it
ever so much nicer than the one in their city house. The dresser was
filled with shining tins, the cupboard with blue china enough to stock
two or three cabinets, the floor was white as the fine sand could make
it, and the bunches of sweet herbs perfumed the room so pleasantly that
bees had evidently mistaken the place for a branch of the flower garden
by the way they flitted in and out.

Lil and Ollie sat down to watch Mrs. Pokeby, who was preparing to bake;
but in a trice both had on aprons, and were busily assisting Clara and
her sisters. It was so nice to be trusted to break and beat eggs, to
sift flour, to wash currants, and weigh sugar. They whipped the eggs
till they looked like snow, they made the creamy butter dissolve in the
sparkling sugar, they tasted and tried the consistency of the cake, they
buttered the pans, and watched the oven. Mrs. Pokeby even let them mould
some biscuits, and spread the paste over pie plates, and drop in the
luscious fruit. So intent were they in their occupation that they hardly
noticed the lengthening shadows, and heard Clara Pokeby say it was time
to be off if they were going anywhere to play.

"Oh, wouldn't it be nice to give the boys a supper?--a supper all cooked
by ourselves?" said Lil, with a sudden inspiration.

"Jolly enough," said Ollie.

"And have it in the woods," said Clara. "Do you know where they have
gone?" she asked.

"Yes, they were to fish in Black Creek--down where we gathered
pond-lilies last week."

"That is not too far. Mother, may we do it?"

"To be sure. You may have a share of everything we have made. Let me
see, there's an apple-pie, a pan of biscuit-- I can whip up some

"Oh, please let me do it," said Lil.

No sooner said than done. Again they went to work. By the time the
corn-bread was finished, Mrs. Pokeby had packed the baskets. Lil had
looked about fifty times in the oven, and fifty times more at the
receipt-book, to see if she had followed the instructions properly,
while Clara and Ollie and the other girls had provided glasses and
spoons and napkins.

"Now we are all ready--come on, girls," was at last the order issued by
Lil, and away they went. Mr. Pokeby gave them a lift on the empty
hay-cart, and carried the heaviest basket to the woods. They chose a
lovely spot, grassy and smooth, not far from the path where the boys
would have to pass. They could hear their voices now, and the occasional
splash of an oar. They spread out their table-cloth, made a fire, and
Lil said she was going to scramble some eggs; meanwhile Ollie and Clara
could be on the watch to secure the guests.

It was a delightful afternoon, and a cool breeze was fluttering the
grasses. The water of the creek reflected the overhanging boughs in its
dark surface, water-spiders were spinning their little whirls, crickets
were singing, and swallows had begun their evening hunt.

The boys, tired and hungry, pushed their boat up on the bank. One or two
were elated with their success, and had quite a string of fish to show;
the others, disappointed, had been arguing as to their want of luck, and
had subsided into silence.

"Whew!" said Lil's brother Charlie; "I smell something good; wish I was
home; awful hungry. How is it with you, Ted?"


"And you, Sam?"

"Tired as that trout I chased and didn't kill."

"My! how gamy you are!"

Here the group came to a sudden halt. Two small maids appeared from the
woods, and making a profound courtesy to Charlie as leader, began a

"Those bothersome girls again!" whispered Billy Brittain.

"The Misses Pokeby and the Misses Sinclair have the honor to--to-- Oh,
Clara, what was I to say?" asked Ollie, blushing tremendously.

"Cut it short, please; we're so hungry," put in Charlie.

"Well, I will. We want you boys to come and get some supper which _we_
have prepared for you--a sort of picnic, you know."

The boys gave a shout, flung down their traps, and made for the water to
wash hands and faces, only Ted looked ruefully at his string of fish.

"What is the matter, Ted?" said Lil, coming up, with her face all
flushed from being over the fire.

"Why, I was wishing we could have some of these for supper; but it's no
matter, after all."

"Oh yes, it is. If you'll scrape and fix them, I can put them in the
frying-pan in a jiffy."

So Ted went to work with a will.

Never had the boys tasted anything half so nice as that supper; they ate
till they could eat no more. Lil scrambled eggs, and fried fish, and
made tea, till Ollie insisted upon it that she should sit down and be
served like a princess. Then they sang, and danced, and played games
till Mrs. Pokeby and Miss Sinclair came after them, and carried them all
home in Mr. Pokeby's big wagon.

"Really I never had more fun in my life," said Lil to Mrs. Pokeby, as
they bade her good-by at the farm gate; "and I am so much obliged to you
for letting us give that supper, though the getting it ready was the
best part."

"That's because you seasoned it."

"What with?" asked Lil, wondering.

"With work--actual work."

"Do you think so? Perhaps that's the reason boys have such good times."

"I dare say."

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 47, September 21.]





But before the mountains were quite bare there came a time when even
Conny ceased to interest the family, for Joe was coming home from
college. Joe, the handsome young student, whom father, mother, Betty,
and the servants all agreed to worship. He was to bring with him a
friend, and from garret to cellar the whole house was astir to do them

Conny was in the kitchen, polishing the silver, and listening to Biddy's
raptures. "Sure, thin, Conny, and it's a young gintleman ye'll be seein'
as there isn't the likes in ahl this miserable coontry, bad luck till

"Is he like the master?" asked Conny.

"Indade, thin, I couldn't be sayin' whidder it's likest the masther or
the misthress he is. Tahl an' straight, an' sooch a look in the two eyes
of 'im."

"Conny," said the doctor, coming to the door, "I am obliged to go to
Hampton to see a very sick man. You will have to go for Master Joe and
the other gentleman to-night."

"Yes, sir," said Conny, well pleased with the commission.

"Be sure you start in season. Put Doll into the sulky, and lead Prince
behind. The young gentlemen can drive themselves back, unless Joe
chooses to ride Prince. He was always such a boy for a horse!"

The doctor's rugged face softened, as it always did at the thought of
his boy, and it was no small self-denial to go away to the bedside of
some poor old wreck of humanity, delaying for hours the delight of
greeting his prince.

Early in the afternoon Conny started on his long ride of ten miles to
meet the young gentlemen at Kilbourne, the nearest railroad station. It
was almost November, but the blue haze of the Indian summer hung over
the landscape, and the air was warm and mellow with sunshine. Any eye
but Conny's would have said that the long mountain gorges, and the
thickly wooded glens into which they opened, were deserted of all life
save the squirrels and a few wood birds, but Conny heard a hawk's note
from above the cliff, and caught sight of a man silently watching him
from behind a mossy log. He laughed a little to himself to think how
often he had played the spy in that very hollow, watching to see who
came or went from Kilbourne, and then with a word started Doll into a
quicker pace. He was at Kilbourne in ample time to meet his passengers,
and, as the doctor had anticipated, Joe decided that he would ride
Prince, as he had so often done before, while Conny should take his
friend Douglass in the sulky.

The brief sunshine was already vanishing when they started, and the
warmth rapidly leaving the frosty air. Douglass wrapped himself closely
in his cloak, and Master Joe was glad to start Prince into a brisk
canter. Almost without warning the night shut down, and they found the
deeper cuts among the mountains quite dark. Doll was a swift traveller,
and old Prince could not keep up his pace, so Master Joe gradually fell
back, and kept near the sulky, exchanging words with his friend, and
plying Conny with questions about home.

"We shall soon be there now," he said, as they entered a narrow gorge.
"We really ought to show you some sort of an adventure, Douglass, to
give the proper spice to your first visit to the mountains. If it was
summer, now, we could get something terrific in the shape of a storm,
and slide a few rods of road down the mountain, or pile up the track
with big trees and rocks."

"I should fancy it was just the kind of place for banditti," said his
friend; "and I am sure some of those fellows we saw at the station look
as if they would take naturally to that sort of life."

They were driving slowly, and at that moment a strange, shrill cry went
wavering up from below them.

"That's a murderous voice for a bird," said Douglass.

"It's a hawk. I fancy," said Master Joe; "you often hear it among the
mountains, though I've never been able to find the fellow.-- What's
wrong, Conny?" for Conny had stopped Doll so suddenly that Prince bumped
his nose on the sulky.

Alas for Conny! He knew well enough what that cry meant. It was a
warning sent up to some one at the rocky pass above, to say that danger
was coming up the mountain. He remembered in an instant that old Timothy
had said there were stories of government officers in disguise spying
about Dunsmore, and that the moonshiners would make it uncomfortable for
them if they crossed their tracks.

No dream of fear for himself came to his mind, but how should he save
Master Joe? for he knew more than even old Timothy guessed of the
lawless and desperate characters among the mountains.

"Master Joe," said he, quickly, "would you mind changing with me a bit?
I'm lighter weight to carry, and I'll go on to let old Timothy know.
He'd be vexed not to be ready with his lantern."


Joe was quite ready for the exchange. It was many months since he had
tried the saddle, and an hour of it was quite enough to satisfy him; so
he settled back comfortably in the seat, while Conny went spinning away
in the dusk, as if old Prince had suddenly renewed his youth. They heard
the hoof-clicks on the hard road growing fainter in the distance, and
then the sharp ring of a rifle that woke a thousand echoes among the

Douglass started, but Joe laughed.

"Your banditti are putting in an appearance."

"Attacking an unfortunate rabbit, I suppose," said Douglass, bravely.

Neither of them guessed what had really happened. When Conny rode at
full speed into Hemlock Glen he had hardly a plan as to what he should
do, but the next instant a bullet struck him in the shoulder and almost
sent him from his horse. He caught the lines in his left hand, and
called in a clear but low voice to some invisible foe, "It's I, Conny
McConnell, and the lads in the buggy beyond are just Master Joe, the
doctor's son, coming home from college with a friend, just a laddie like

There was not a sound in response unless a dry twig may have cracked,
but Conny paced slowly along until Doll's quick feet brought her into
the Glen.

"Hullo, Conny!" called Master Joe, "did you hear a rifle-shot?"

"Yes, sir," said Conny; "there's a deal of game running these nights."

"What sort of game do you folks hunt with rifles up here?" asked
Douglass; but Conny did not answer, and in a few moments they came out
upon the open road, and saw the lights of Dunsmore about a mile before

Old Timothy was on the look-out, and long before they reached the house
they saw his lantern moving about the barn.

"Here we are!" called Joe, throwing down the lines and springing out;
and in the happy confusion of the greetings no one looked at Conny,
until the doctor, taking his hand from the side of Prince, started to
see that it was stained with blood.

"What! Why, bless us! Conny, what has happened to you?"

"I think I have a little hurt somewhere in me shoulder, sir," said
Conny, sliding from the horse; "it's nothing much, sir, if you'd have
the goodness to fix me a little at the barn."

But the doctor would not hear to such a thing, and took Conny to the
surgery, where he discovered that the bones of his arm were broken above
the elbow; and most unwillingly Conny told the story.

How he had recognized the cry of warning, and understood that the young
gentlemen were mistaken for revenue officers, and that mischief would
probably be done them unless he could succeed in preventing the attack.

"And so you invited them to empty their rifles on you," said the doctor,
gruffly; but as he spoke he wiped his eyes on a roll of bandages.

"It's good luck it was me, sir," said Conny. "Wouldn't it have spited us
if Master Joe had been spoiled with a broken arm, and all the fun we've
been planning gone for nothing?"

"But the rascals might have killed you."

"I don't think they're that bad, sir; they were meaning a bit of a
scare, and maybe a drubbing or the likes."

"I'll drub them," said the doctor; "I'll make this county too hot for
them," and then, having finished dressing the arm, he threw his own
dressing-gown over Conny. "My boy," he said, gently, "I understand
perfectly well what a brave thing you have done: you risked your own
life to save our Joe. I honor you and love you for it from my heart, but
you and I will keep it a secret between us for the present. I think it
would kill my wife to know her boy had been in such danger. She shall
not know it till that nest of murderers is cleared out."

Conny's part in Master Joe's vacation was not exactly what he had
planned, but he scarcely regretted the wound that brought him such
gentle and loving care from every member of the family, by whom it was
only understood that Conny had been accidentally shot by a careless
hunter, and had borne his pain in silence all the long ride home from
the Glen.

Months afterward, when the last moonshiner had disappeared, and the old
still in the forest had been dismantled, the doctor ventured to tell his
wife of Joe's escape.

"And I have never thanked him," she said, her eyes filling with tears,
as she went straight to the attic, where Conny was so deeply absorbed in
a bit of carving that he did not see or hear her until she put her arms
around him and kissed him again and again.

"I know all about it now, Conny--the brave, beautiful thing that you did
for my boy."

"Oh, ma'am," said Conny, "it was nothing. I was so glad to do it."

Mrs. Hunter kissed him again, as she repeated, gently, "'Greater love
hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"

And Conny, not understanding, said, earnestly, "Maybe you'll think me
presuming to be saying it, but it's that same I'd do for ye, ma'am, or
for little Miss Betty, or the master himself, if it's any good it would
be bringing ye."

"I believe you Conny," said Mrs. Hunter, "but I hope you may never have
a chance to try."





  "Oh, where have you been to,
    My little Miss Turner--
  Oh, where have you been to to-day?
  I've brought you my wagon
    To take you a-riding;
  So why have I found you away?"

  "Oh, I've been to the meadows,"
    Said little Miss Turner,
  "With sweet robin-redbreast at play;
  And the daisies and daffodils
    Made me a bow,
  And said, 'How do you do to-day?"



It is said that an Egyptian Prince dreamed one night of an obelisk, and
when he awoke ordered his engineers and his workmen to carve in solid
stone the strange and useless device. An obelisk resembles nothing so
much as the fanciful figures of a dream. It is a tall square pillar of a
peculiar form, often carved with hieroglyphics, and commemorating the
name and exploits of its founder. These solitary pillars of stone,
sometimes more than a hundred feet in height, are formed of one block or
piece, and must have been cut in the quarry with incessant labor. They
abound in Egypt, and were a common decoration of its immense temples.
Later, several of them were transported on great rafts or ships to the
city of Rome. There are in all twelve in that city. One of them is one
hundred and nine feet high without the base--a solid piece of red
granite. Europe has despoiled Egypt of its obelisks. Paris has one;
London another, crumbling away on the banks of the Thames; and we have
one in New York. The dream of the Egyptian Prince seems to have a strong
interest for all ages.

All Egypt, its history, its cities, its buildings, its mummies, gods,
cats, hawks, bulls, sphinxes, the Memnonium, resemble the fancies of a
dream. The Nile flows through its sandy plain, and covers it with
fertility. Late discoveries have shown that it is one of the longest
rivers in the world, rising among the high mountains of Africa, and fed
by immense lakes. In Egypt it overflows its banks every year, and covers
the land with a rich deposit of mud. On its shores are the ruins of the
strangest of all architecture, the works of the ancient
Egyptians--immense, grand, awful. They are the largest of all buildings.
St. Paul's Cathedral, in London, or the Cologne Cathedral, or even St.
Peter's, at Rome, would be lost in the vast circuit of the columns of
Luxor and Karnak. As one passes them by moonlight on the smooth stream,
they seem, it is said, the palaces of giants. One temple was a mile and
a half in circumference. The Pyramids exceed all other buildings in
strength, height, and durability. Some of them are four or five thousand
years old.

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

Very tasteful ornamental covers for the first volume of HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE, which will conclude with No. 52, issued October 26, 1880, are
now ready, and will be sold for thirty-five cents, or forty-eight cents
if sent by mail, postage prepaid. These covers are not self-binding, but
any book-binder will put them on for a small charge.

       *       *       *       *       *

We wish to call the attention of those of our readers engaged in making
exchanges to the great importance of careful and clearly written
addresses. We receive proofs daily of the neglect of this essential
point. In Post-office Box No. 46 we printed a letter from a
correspondent anxious to make an acknowledgment of a pretty mineral, but
who was unable to do so because she "could not make out the name" of the
sender. Another correspondent, whose correct address was printed in full
in Our Post-office Box, received a letter on which the only correct
portion of the direction was his own name and the city in which he
lived, the name and number of the street, and even the State, being
entirely wrong. That he ever received it at all is a proof of the great
experience and skill of Uncle Sam's Post-office Department. Now such a
very careless method of direction might result in the loss of valuable
minerals, stamps, or other specimens.

Other correspondents report having received letters without name or
address of any kind, and yet the sender expected to be answered, and was
no doubt disappointed, as he was probably unaware that he had omitted a
very important part of his letter.

We have ourselves received large numbers of correct answers to puzzles,
often accompanied by the pretty appeal, "Do, please, print my name in
the list of those sending correct answers," and neither initials, name,
nor even address attached upon which we could base an acknowledgment.
When the answers were published, and those little folks found their
solutions were correct, and yet their names didn't appear, no doubt they
thought themselves very badly treated; but the fault was not ours.

Now when you direct a letter for purposes of exchange, copy the whole
address given in Our Post-office Box very carefully and clearly. And
give your own address in full, very plainly written, or else, even
should your letter reach its destination, you probably will not receive
an answer.

Learn to bestow care and attention upon little things now while you are
young, and as you grow older you will find it easier to be careful in
things of greater importance, and thereby save yourself and others from
much unnecessary trouble.

       *       *       *       *       *


     It would be curious to know how many of the child-correspondents
     of YOUNG PEOPLE are really getting good natural history
     collections. I can not imagine a greater help in educating a
     child. My little girl, known among them as "Wee Tot," is quite
     absorbed in learning everything she can about shells, minerals,
     birds, flowers, and other natural objects, and nearly every mail
     brings or takes some new variety.


       *       *       *       *       *


     Although I am not one of your youngest readers, I wish to tell you
     that YOUNG PEOPLE is the best paper I ever saw for little folks,
     and I very much wish there was one as good in my own country,
     which is France.

     My pet is a little chicken hatched by steam, which I bought at
     Coney Island, at a show where you can see the whole process of
     hatching. The eggs are kept at a certain temperature for
     twenty-one days, the length of time a hen would sit on them, and
     then the little chickens begin to knock on their shells for
     admittance into the wide world. In half an hour they are fairly
     out, and ready to eat some yolk of an egg crumbled in little bits,
     which is given them for the first few days of their life.

     I bought one when it was a day old. The poor little thing was put
     in a card-board box, where it cried all the way home. I kept it in
     a cage made of an old box for several weeks, fearing the cat would
     take it for a bird, and eat it up. I call it Cocotte. It is very
     tame, and follows me everywhere, but its favorite place is in the
     kitchen closet, keeping guard over the oatmeal bag, which contains
     its principal food, although it will eat any kind of meat with the
     cats, and drinks milk with them.

     Cocotte, which is now two months old, is a Spanish Leghorn. She
     sends her best love to YOUNG PEOPLE, and begs me to say that she
     is a very happy orphan.

  A. D.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have some very queer pets. They are craw-fish, which I caught in
     a little creek. There were thirteen, but there are only twelve
     now, for one fell out of the window. We keep them in a pan, and
     they fight each other a great deal. A good many have some of their
     claws bitten off, and in the morning I find a stray claw floating
     on the top of the water. The two smallest are named Budge and
     Toddy. I would like to know how to take care of them.


You must put dirt and small stones on the bottom of your pan, for
craw-fish like to burrow and hide themselves in the mud. Feed them with
worms and bits of meat. If they live, and you watch them carefully, you
will find that the claws they lose will soon grow out again.

       *       *       *       *       *


     As all the children write of their pets, I would like to tell
     about mine. They are ten little silver minnows. They are so tame
     they will come up to me when I go near them. They are very fond of
     moss, which I put in the water for them, and they like to run
     under it.

     In cold weather the water freezes, and I put the glass globe near
     the fire to thaw. The minnows seem so happy when the water is


       *       *       *       *       *


     I send a very simple experiment to the chemists' club. Take equal
     parts of oil and water, and even when shaken violently they will
     not unite. Add a small quantity of ammonia, and they will take the
     form of liquid soap.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am taking YOUNG PEOPLE, and I like it very much, but I like the
     Post-office Box very much indeed.

     I have a pet colt. I raised it on milk. At first I had to feed it
     with a bottle, as it had no mother. Its name is Minnehaha. It now
     eats bread, sugar, or corn. When I call, it answers just like a
     child, and will come to me.

     I have a wax doll named Lily. I had eight dolls, but I sent the
     others to my little cousins.

     My little sister Ruby, five years old, has a pet cat that comes
     every morning and gets in the bed with her, and lies down with its
     head on her arm, like a little baby.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I was very much interested in the account of "Lovewell's Fight
     with the Pigwackets," in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 47, as I live in the
     house in which it is said Chaplain Jonathan Frye was born, and
     from which he started to the fatal fight where he lost his life.
     About sixty years ago my grandfather bought the house and repaired
     it, and my uncle owns it now. The north portion is the oldest, and
     the walls are finished with antique wooden panels. Formerly there
     were very big fire-places, but they have all been modernized.

     Just before starting to fight the Indians, Chaplain Frye brought a
     young elm-tree from the woods, and planted it on the green by the
     road-side near the house. About a month afterward, in May, 1725,
     he was killed, but the tree grew and flourished, and its great
     round crown stood nobly against the storms and winds of a hundred
     and fifty, years. It was known all through this region as the "Old
     Frye Elm." Although it had many dead branches, it was still a
     beautiful tree when in 1875 it was cut down. The trunk was left
     standing about twenty feet high--a silent and mournful monument to
     the memory of him who planted it. The winds carried some germs of
     the solidago to the top of the stump, where they rooted in the
     decaying wood, and for several autumns crowned it with their
     golden blossoms. But the stump is now very much decayed, and must
     soon fall, and this natural monument to the memory of a brave man
     will disappear forever.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I was very much interested in the story of the escape of Hannah
     Dustin, in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 42, because I know many of the places
     through which she passed. The brook that runs by our house empties
     into the Merrimac. Lake Pennacook, now called Long Pond, supplies
     the city of Concord with water. It is a favorite resort for
     picnics and boating parties.

     The monument on the island at the mouth of the Contoocook is near
     Fisherville, one of the suburbs of Concord. There is another
     monument on the west side of Concord, which we pass every time we
     go to town. It is in memory of several white people who were
     massacred by Indians near that spot.

     We have felt three slight shocks of earthquakes here this summer.

     I hope the Moral Pirates will report their next cruise.

  B. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little boy nine years old. My mother, my little sister, and
     myself came from Texas in June to spend the summer in the North.
     We live in Galveston. I think HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE is full of
     pretty stories. I have been very much interested in "The Moral
     Pirates." I found a little row-boat in the creek last week, and
     took possession of it with three of my little friends. We cruised
     to the end of the creek, where we had to leave our boat, as we did
     not know how to turn it around. The boat is there still. It is too
     old to be of any use, and is abandoned by its owner. Mamma said I
     must have been imitating the Moral Pirates. I never enjoyed myself
     so much as I did that day.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have asked my papa to write for me and tell you how much even a
     blind boy may enjoy YOUNG PEOPLE. Mamma, papa, and Arthur read me
     the stories over and over again. I should like to know the Moral
     Pirates, but papa says my brother is one, and that ought to be

     I am almost seven. I used to run all about, chase the butterflies
     and everything else that came in my way. But last year I was awful
     sick, and though I run now as well as I can, my little brother can
     run so much faster. I can see the light of the fire in papa's
     fire-place, and the sunlight coming in at the windows, but the
     things I used to see are so dark, and I can only feel. I have not
     found a word of fault because I can not do like other boys.


       *       *       *       *       *


     My brother Clarence takes YOUNG PEOPLE. I enjoy it almost as much
     as he does, and he says he couldn't do without it.

     I have a doll with great blue eyes and light hair. Her name is
     Dora. She is thirty inches high. Mamma dressed her in my own
     lemon-colored lawn and blue sash. When papa gave Dora to me I
     stood her by the side of my little sister Hallie, fourteen months
     old, and they were the same height.

     My home is near Reelfoot Lake, which is about twenty miles long
     and seven wide. Papa says it was sunk there about 1811.

     There are several mocking-birds tame enough to build in our yard
     and raise young birds. The old ones sing all night when it is
     moonlight. I am seven years old, and began school in September.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE since No. 11, and I think it is a
     splendid paper.

     I have only one pet--a black cat named Nig. He is very cunning. He
     will sit up as well as any squirrel. He never mews unless he wants
     a drink, or to run out-of-doors. He tries hard to turn the door
     knob himself, but has never succeeded.


       *       *       *       *       *

     I have postage stamps I would like to exchange with the
     correspondents of YOUNG PEOPLE, if they will send me a list of the
     stamps they would like, and of those they have to exchange.

  9 West Nineteenth Street, New York City.

       *       *       *       *       *

     My papa has taken HARPER'S WEEKLY for twenty years, and I take
     YOUNG PEOPLE. I like "Old Times in the Colonies" and "The Story of
     the American Navy" the best. I have a collection of about one
     hundred and fifty stamps, and would like to exchange with any
     readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.

  P. O. Box 1093, New London, Connecticut.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I have just begun to take YOUNG PEOPLE, and I like it very much. I
     think "The Moral Pirates" ended splendidly.

     If any boy would like to exchange postage stamps with me, I would
     be much obliged if he would send me a list of his stamps, and I
     will send one of mine in return.

  C. F. MOSES,
  Care of J. J. Cohen & Sons, Augusta, Georgia.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I have about two thousand foreign stamps, comprising about fifty
     varieties, that I would like to exchange with the readers of YOUNG
     PEOPLE, especially beginners, for I have not many rare varieties.
     I have also a number of one, two, three, six, ten, twelve,
     fifteen, twenty-four, and thirty cent War Department stamps to

  P. O. Box 368, Washington, D. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I have some little stone cells, built and occupied by worms. I
     found them in a brook in Mount Alto Park, Franklin County,
     Pennsylvania. The worms were alive when I took them from the
     brook, and perhaps if I had kept them in water they would have
     developed into something different.

     If George M. Finckel, or any other readers of YOUNG PEOPLE, would
     like a few specimens of these worm cells in exchange for stamps, I
     could supply them. My list of stamps is not large, as I am only
     beginning a collection. I have no Chinese or West India stamps,
     and would be glad to exchange for them any of the following, which
     are all the duplicates I have: One zwei groschen Nord-deutscher
     post: one eighty centime, Empire Français; one sixpence; two
     threepence; two two-hundred mils. Correos de Esco. de España.

  LIDIE B. KEITH, Waynesborough,
  Franklin County, Pennsylvania.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I have about four hundred and twenty-five different kinds of
     postage stamps, and would like to exchange with any of the readers
     of YOUNG PEOPLE. I also have a lot of rare postmarks, which I
     should like to exchange for stamps. I particularly wish the ninety
     Interior, and the seven, twenty-four, thirty, and ninety of either
     the War or Treasury Department; or any foreign stamps. I have
     Persian, Turkish, Canadian, German, English, Swedish, and Interior
     Department stamps for exchange.

  P. O. Box 824, New Haven, Connecticut.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I would like to exchange with the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE some
     rare foreign stamps for other foreign stamps and United States
     official issues of 1851, '55, '56, '57, '61, '65, '69, '74, '75,
     and '76.

  Hohokus, Bergen County, New Jersey.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I am making a collection of minerals, and I would gladly exchange
     with any of the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.

  185 Hurn Street, Toledo, Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

J. B.--Honey-bees were unknown in America until they were brought here
by early European settlers. On this account the honey-bee is called
white man's fly by the Indians.

       *       *       *       *       *

W. A.--From your description your "queer animal" appears to belong to
the family of caddis-worms. If he is a member of this family, he is a
scavenger, and will feed himself on the bits of decayed matter in the
water. After a while he will cling to some weed near the surface, and
spin a chrysalis, from which the caddisfly will break forth.

       *       *       *       *       *

"CAPT. FRANK."--The directions you require are in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 26.

       *       *       *       *       *

G. T. T.--Experience has shown that catamarans with two masts are not as
serviceable as those with one.

       *       *       *       *       *

D. C. D.--A very popular Halloween game in Scotland is apple-catching. A
large tub of water is placed in the centre of the floor, and a basketful
of plump, rosy-cheeked apples dumped into it. The young folks then try
to pick them from the water with their teeth. As the apples are
slippery, and bob around merrily, there are a great many laughable
mishaps before the coveted prize is secured. A ten-cent piece may be
hidden in one of the apples, which gives more interest to the sport, as
the lucky possessor becomes King or Queen of the festival. This game has
its disadvantages, as you must play it in the kitchen, where the water
may be spattered on the floor without doing mischief. Then, too, you can
not wear your pretty new winter frock, but must be contented with a
calico dress, which you will get soaked with water, and must change the
moment all the apples are captured and the game finished, or you will
surely take cold, and remember Halloween with sorrow. We do not advise
you to try apple-catching, but give it as one of the few sportive games
associated with Halloween. There are many foolish tricks practiced on
that night, but they are intended for grown-up young men and maidens.
They are most of them innocent, but very silly.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. D. N.--Nellie H.'s recipe for candy is in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 24. The
recipes for white cake and cream candy are both in No. 38. You will find
different recipes for cake and candy in Nos. 19, 27, 28, and 31 to 43

       *       *       *       *       *

Favors are acknowledged from Burt J. Wilson, Hammond W. S., Gracie
Stevens, Harry Kennard, Albert Rareshide, George H. K., Mary E. B.,
Mabel Lowell, Julian H., G. E. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles are received from H. M. P., Ernie Garden,
Allie Maxwell, Hugh Lesley, Nellie Cruger, Artie Winter, J. N. Howe,
Howard Rathbone, J. F. W.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


1. First, lean. Second, part of a door. Third, to fish. Fourth, a
memorial. Fifth, to choose.


2. First, a low shrub. Second, remarkable. Third, a mountain famous in
mythology. Fourth, a region. Fifth, rapidity.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


In HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. Backward. Rancid. A European bird. Greased. A
boy's term for father. In HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


Terrible. One of a wandering race. An affirmation. In Europe. A domestic
animal. Ludicrous. A powerful medicine. Centrals read downward spell the
name of an American author.

  S. F. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


  My first is in symbol, but not in sign.
  My second in creeper, but not in vine.
  My third is in mutton, but not in beef.
  My fourth is in robber, but not in thief.
  My fifth is in terrible, not in fright.
  My sixth is in darkness, but not in night.
  My seventh is in freshet, but not in tides.
  My whole on a dreadful scorpion rides.


       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

  N E M O
  E R A T
  M A N U
  O T U S

No. 2.


No. 3.

    S E W
  R E B E L
    W E B

    N E W
  M E T A L
    W A Y

No. 4.

  L am B
  O hi O
  N es S
  D en T
  O d  O
  N u  N

London, Boston.

No. 5.

Il n'y a que le premier pas qui coûte.

       *       *       *       *       *

Answer to Hand and Windmill Puzzle in No. 46--The first is a sponge, and
the second is a species of sea-anemone.



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     Square 4to, about 300 pages each, beautifully printed on Tinted
     Paper, embellished with many Illustrations, bound in Cloth, $1.50
     per volume.

The Children's Picture-Book of Sagacity of Animals.

     With Sixty Illustrations by HARRISON WEIR.

The Children's Bible Picture-Book.

     With Eighty Illustrations, from Designs by STEINLE, OVERBECK,
     VEIT, SCHNORR, &c.

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     Containing One Hundred and Sixty Fables. With Sixty Illustrations

The Children's Picture-Book of Birds.

     With Sixty-one Illustrations by W. HARVEY.

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     With Sixty-one Illustrations by W. HARVEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

_Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on
receipt of the price._

The Child's Book of Nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Child's Book of Nature, for the Use of Families and Schools:
intended to aid Mothers and Teachers in Training Children in the
Observation of Nature. In Three Parts. Part I. Plants. Part II. Animals.
Part III. Air, Water, Heat, Light, &c. By WORTHINGTON HOOKER, M.D.
Illustrated. The Three Parts complete in One Volume, Small 4to, Half
Leather, $1.12; or, separately, in Cloth, Part I., 45 cents; Part II.,
48 cents; Part III., 48 cents.

       *       *       *       *       *

A beautiful and useful work. It presents a general survey of the kingdom
of nature in a manner adapted to attract the attention of the child, and
at the same time to furnish him with accurate and important scientific
information. While the work is well suited as a class-book for schools,
its fresh and simple style cannot fail to render it a great favorite for
family reading.

The Three Parts of this book can be had in separate volumes by those who
desire it. This will be advisable when the book is to be used in
teaching quite young children, especially in schools.

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

_Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on
receipt of the price._



  A Mandarin owned a wombat
  That grew so exceedingly fat
    That, when it would laugh
    'Twould most break in half,
  And tickle the soul of the cat.

       *       *       *       *       *

=A Dog that could Cipher.=--The well-known English astronomer Dr.
Huggins had a mastiff that bore the name of Kepler. This dog possessed
many rare gifts, and amongst these was one which he was always ready to
exercise for the entertainment of visitors. At the close of luncheon or
dinner Kepler used to march into the room, and set himself down at his
master's feet. Dr. Huggins then asked him a series of arithmetical
questions, which the dog invariably solved without a mistake. Square
roots were extracted off-hand with the utmost readiness and promptness.
If asked what was the square root of nine, Kepler replied by three
barks; or, if the question were the square root of sixteen, by four.
Then various questions followed, in which much more complicated
processes were involved--such, for instance, as "Add seven to eight,
divide the sum by three, and multiply by two." To such a question as
that Kepler gave more consideration, and sometimes hesitated in making
up his mind as to where his barks ought finally to stop. Still, in the
end, his decision was always right. But how did he do it? may be asked.
The solution is easily furnished: the proper answer was unconsciously
suggested to the dog by his master. The wonderful fact is that Kepler
had acquired the habit of reading in his master's eye or countenance
some indication that was not known to Dr. Huggins himself. The case was
one of the class which is distinguished by physiologists as that of
expectant attention. Dr. Huggins was himself engaged in working out
mentally the various stages of his arithmetical processes as he
propounded the numbers to Kepler, and being, therefore, aware of what
the answer should be, expected the dog to cease barking when that number
was reached, and that expectation suggested to his own brain the
unconscious signal which was caught by the quick eye of the dog.



Start with, your pencil from figure 1 and draw a line to 2, from there
to 3, and so on from number to number till you have completed the



  Up in the air I'm lifted high
    Above the worshippers below,
  Yet near their hearts I always lie,
    As reverently they come and go.

  I've many forms, like Proteus old,
    But tell forever the same tale;
  Men gaze, and see by me foretold
    What sometimes makes their cheeks grow pale.

  And through my secret winding course
    There ebbs and flows a mighty tide;
  Alas! what pangs of keen remorse
    Are his who turns that stream aside!

  Yet in the gay and festive throng
    I am what many a maid may be,
  While in the pauses of the song
    Her lover pleads his cause in me.

  Sometimes, a ship, I face the storm;
    Sometimes beneath the earth I bide,
  And then its beauty men deform
    To find the secret that I hide.

  But in the air, or in the breast,
    Whate'er my form, like beast or bird,
  I keep my secret from the rest--
    By man my voice is never heard.

       *       *       *       *       *

The quicksilver mines of Guancavelica, in Peru, are of a prodigious
depth. In their profound abysses are seen streets, squares, and a chapel
where religious mysteries are celebrated on all festivals. Thousands of
flambeaux are continually burning in it. The miners suffer terribly from
the mercurial vapors, which produce convulsions and paralysis. Thousands
of workmen were condemned to forced labor in these frightful
subterranean regions. These mines were discovered about 1566 by Henry
Garces, a Portuguese, who was one day examining a red earth used by the
Indians for making paint. He remembered that in Europe quicksilver was
extracted from cinnabar, and with this earth he made some experiments
which led to the opening of this mine.

[Illustration: QUACK!]

[Illustration: QUACK! QUACK!]

[Illustration: QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!]

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Young People, October 5, 1880 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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