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Title: Harper's Young People, September 26, 1882 - 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, September 26, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.


       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, September 26, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
$1.50 per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




One day nearly a hundred and fifty years ago two elderly gentlemen were
dining together in an old house in Hamburg, Germany. They were
music-masters of great note in those days. Herr Franck was the host; the
guest was Herr Reuter, Capellmeister at Vienna. Their conversation very
naturally was on music, and the new and old musicians, singers, and
conductors. Suddenly Franck declared he had in his house a prodigy, a
boy of nine, whom he had brought from the country. Reuter was delighted.
The boy was summoned from the kitchen, where he was dining with the
cook, and no doubt enjoying his Sunday pudding with great relish, for he
worked hard and did not fare too well.

I like to think of that picture: the old wainscoted dining-room, the
grave musicians looking up from their dinner as the door opened on a
small dark-haired, brown-skinned boy, a dainty, delicately modelled
child, who came in shyly, and stood at a distance from the table, with
his hands behind him, and his head bent down, until his teacher, Herr
Franck, bade him sing. And then the boy's voice broke all the bonds of
restraint. He threw back his little head and sang. It was an
irrepressible burst of melody, and Reuter, the old master, sprang up,
exclaiming, "He shall come to my choir; he is just what I want."

It was a wonderful step onward for the child; but Reuter little knew the
future of the boy whom he took that day, and never dreamed that his
name, Francis Joseph Haydn, would be famous in every civilized country
of the world.

Reuter carried young Haydn off to Vienna, where he was placed in the
cathedral choir, and where his sweet young voice, a marvellous soprano,
filled all the town with delight. His parents gave him freely in charge
to old Reuter; but the master was selfish and exacting. The boy longed
to compose, but Reuter refused to allow him to take lessons in
composition, and made him give his whole time to choir practice. Haydn
had very little money, but he hoarded every penny for a long time, and
when he was thirteen years old he purchased two treatises on music, and
having studied them diligently, actually composed a mass.

I don't suppose it was very fine music, but at all events it showed a
great desire for work, and it was too bad that Reuter should have roared
with laughter over it, and given the eager boy no encouragement. It
seems as though from that time the old master was determined to thwart
and annoy his pupil. The lad found choir work a slavery, but did not
know how to free himself. A piece of idle mischief led to his escape.
One day in a frolic he cut off the tail of the wig of a singer in the
choir. Reuter flew into a rage, turned Haydn out then and there,
actually expelling him from choir, board, and lodging. It was a cruel
winter's night. The lad wandered about the streets of Vienna, until he
remembered the one person who had ever encouraged him. This was a barber
named Keller, and to his humble abode Haydn directed his steps. Keller
gave him a cordial welcome, though he had but little to offer: a
loft--in which, however, stood an old harpsichord--and a seat at his
simple table. In the wig-maker's family Haydn went joyfully to work. He
had some sonatas of Bach's, he picked up odd bits of music here and
there, mastered the science of those who had gone before him, and though
often cold and hungry, was never cheerless. Now and then he went into
the shop, where Keller and his daughter Anne were at work on wigs, and
where Haydn's assistance was quite acceptable. Anne Keller was a plain
dull girl, who knew nothing of the great art of her father's lodger, yet
Haydn was grateful for her rough sort of kindness to him. He became
engaged to her, and later, when he was more prosperous, married her.

It was not long before the young musician had made a circle of friends.
He played on the violin and the organ, sometimes in the churches, and
occasionally in the salons of some great ladies, but his chief enjoyment
was a little club of wandering minstrels. They were a band of
enthusiastic youths who wandered about Vienna on moon-light nights to
serenade famous musicians.

One night they directed their steps to the house of Herr Curtz, the
leader of the opera. Under his windows they began one of Haydn's
compositions, the young musician's violin slowly filling the moon-lit
garden with melody. No demonstration from old Curtz was expected, but
suddenly a window was flung open, out came Curtz's head, and his voice
screamed to know who was playing.

Back came the answer. "Joseph Haydn."

"Whose music is it?"


Down came Curtz, collared the astonished young man, and brought him
upstairs to a big candle-lit room, where stood a fine piano littered
with music. There, when the two had regained their breath, Curtz
explained that he wanted Haydn to compose some music for a new libretto
he had written. Now this was certainly an important moment. Haydn sat
down to the piano, banged away, tried various ideas, and at last hit
upon the right thing. Before daylight he had arranged with Curtz for the
music, for which he was promised one hundred and thirty florins.

It was his first real success, and from that moment prosperity attended
him. He wrote his first symphony when he was twenty-eight, in the year
1759. Soon after he received an appointment in the household of Prince
Esterhazy, where his duty was a curious one. He was obliged to have a
piece of music ready to lay on his patron's breakfast table every
morning. This may seem drudgery, but in reality these years were among
the happiest of Haydn's life, marred only by his marriage with the
barber's daughter, Anne Keller, whose wretched temper at last forced him
to separate from her. He cared for her tenderly, however, and she was
well content with her lot in life.

Around Haydn in England, France, and Germany gathered a band of younger
musicians, eager to watch his developments in music, and to whom he was
familiarly known as "Papa Haydn." It was Mozart, the then youthful
composer, that gave him the endearing title. Between them existed the
most touching friendship, broken only by Mozart's early death.

I can not tell you of all of Haydn's works. His greatest were his
Symphonies. In these he developed instrumental music until he made it
something far greater than it had ever been before; and for this all
generations will owe him thanks and praise.

His oratorio, _The Creation_, was composed in 1799, and with its
performance, nine years later, is associated one of the last scenes in
Haydn's life.

The public of Vienna wished to pay their honored musician a tribute, and
so the oratorio was given with every possible brilliancy of effect and
performance. Haydn was an old man, and very feeble, and he was obliged
to be carried into the theatre; but there he sat near his dear friend
Princess Esterhazy, while all eyes turned lovingly and reverently toward

When the music reached that part in which the words "Let there be light"
occur, Haydn rose, and pointing heavenward, said, aloud. "It comes from
thence"; and indeed all knew that the master's work was always a subject
of prayer and humble supplication that he might be able to do the best
for the good of all.

After that evening Haydn never left his house. He grew feebler daily,
but suffered little pain. One day, when he was thought to be past
consciousness, he suddenly rose from his couch, and by a superhuman
effort reached the piano.

There, in a voice which yet held the cadences of the boy chorister of
long ago, he sang the national hymn, and so, his hands drooping on the
keys, he was carried gently to his bed and to his peaceful death. This
was in May, 1809. Francis Joseph Haydn, born in 1732, died in his
seventy-eighth year.

As I told you, his great work was to reform and partially reconstruct
instrumental music. He followed in the wake of Bach. To him we owe the
symphony as we have it to-day, and with this little sketch of the dear
master I want to tell you what a symphony is.

Properly speaking, a _symphony_ is a long and elaborate composition for
a full orchestra. It contains various movements,[1] and any number of
instruments may be employed in its execution. Voices are also
occasionally added. The movements of a symphony are the _allegro_, the
_andante_ or _adagio_, _minuet_ or _scherzo_, and the _allegro_ or
_presto_. To the first movement are two themes or subjects (we might say
ideas), and these are given in two different keys. The andante movement
is usually in some key related to the original key. When you study
thorough-bass, you will find what beautiful effects this arrangement can
produce. It would be an excellent little study to take one of the
simplest symphonies of "Papa Haydn," and read it carefully--four hands
are better than two. Study the first movement. See how the theme is
worked out, back and forth, up and down; find out when and how it all
returns to the original key, and then observe how the theme is carried
on throughout the whole work. Above all, remember that the perfection to
which the symphony has been brought we owe first to Haydn, then to
Mozart, and finally to Beethoven.

[1] A movement is one definite part of any composition.



  All July and August, so glad and so gay,
  The Butterfly's feasts they were crowded each day;
  But alas for all pleasures, the summer's at end,
  And the guests of the banquets now mourn for their friend.
                              Poor Butterfly's dead.

  The Emmets and Flies will no longer advance
  To join with their wings in the Grasshopper's dance,
  For see his fine form o'er the favorite bend,
  The Grasshopper mourns for the loss of his friend.
                              Poor Butterfly's dead.

  And hark to the funeral song of the Bee,
  And the Beetle who follows as solemn as he;
  And see where so mournful the green rushes wave,
  The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave.
                              Poor Butterfly's dead.

  The Dormouse he came and stood cold and forlorn,
  And the Gnat he wound slowly his shrill little horn,
  And the Moth, being grieved at the loss of a sister,
  Bent over her body and silently kissed her.
                              Poor Butterfly's dead.

  The corpse was embalmed at the set of the sun,
  And inclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun;
  By the help of the Hornet the coffin was laid
  On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made.
                              Poor Butterfly's dead.

  In dozens and scores came the Grasshoppers all,
  And six of their number supported the pall;
  And the Spider came too, in his mourning so black,
  But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back
                              From Butterfly dead.

  The Grub left his nutshell to join in the throng,
  And solemnly led the sad Book-worm along,
  Who wept his poor neighbor's unfortunate doom,
  And wrote these few lines to be placed on the tomb
                              Of Butterfly dead:


  "At this solemn spot where the green rushes wave
  Is buried fair Butterfly deep in the grave;
  A friend unto all, she has run her short race:
  Like a flower on wings with its beauty and grace
                              Was this Butterfly Maid."



"I wonder what I _am_ good for, anyway?" muttered Dick Winworth to
himself as he sucked the finger he had caught in the gate, and gazed
ruefully at the butter stain on his sleeve.

It was just after dinner on a warm summer's day, and at the table Dick
had displayed more than usual awkwardness, for he had upset the salt in
taking his seat, trod on his aunt Phoebe's tenderest foot in getting
up, scalded his tongue with hot soup, and broken a decorated plate
belonging to an old set, which his sister appeared to value more highly
than if it were new. It was in a fit of despair over the latter
catastrophe that the usually gentle maiden had uttered an exclamation or
two, which led her brother to ask the above mournful mental question.

The first delicious freshness of vacation had worn off, and now that
Town Bergen, Dick's great "chum," was away on a visit, young Winworth
had begun to find time hang rather heavy on his hands, especially as he
had just finished a very interesting book, and was quite sure he
couldn't find another as good.

Pondering in his mind as to whether long holidays were such desirable
things after all, Dick strolled on through the quiet village street,
which had been lately dignified by being chosen as the thoroughfare of
the only horse-railroad in the place.

The terminus of the route was not far from the Winworths', at the
entrance to the little park, and as Dick in his walk came in sight of
the latter, he suddenly resolved to take a trip into town and back.

"That'll keep me out of mischief for an hour at least, and besides, I've
been meaning to ride in on the cars all the week," and the boy quickened
his steps in order to catch the "bobtail" he saw standing there.

However, he need have been in no sort of hurry, as he soon discovered
that the horse appeared to be asleep, with the lines wound around the
brake, while there were no signs of the driver anywhere.

There were not more than a dozen cars on the road, and these ran at
intervals of several minutes, and as here at the outskirts of the
village there were as yet very few houses, it was not considered
necessary to have a waiting-room, nor even a starter's box.

"But where can that driver be?" mused Dick, as he gazed admiringly up,
down, and across the neatly painted vehicle, for the cars were all new
and of the latest patent. "However, I seem to be the only passenger; but
no, I guess here's another," as his attention was attracted toward a
very stout old lady, all decked out in holiday attire, with artificial
flowers in her bonnet, fresh roses in her belt, and a huge bouquet in
her hand, who came panting across from the Park gate.

"Hi! hi! wait a minute!" she cried, frantically waving her parasol, and
evidently under the impression that the car had already started off at a

Dick moved away from the step to allow her plenty of room to get in,
when she exclaimed, "Oh, boy, can you tell me how long it will be before
this car leaves?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, much gratified because she had not called him
"_little_ boy," for he had just entered his teens.

"Oh deary me, I'm in such a hurry! I think I'll speak to the driver. But
I don't see any--why, where is he?" and the old lady bustled about from
one side of the car to the other so impatiently that it danced upon its
springs again.

Then she sat down for a minute, wiped her face with a perfumed
handkerchief, took a sniff from her smelling-bottle, and began fanning
herself with a fan which Dick thought she'd never finish opening out.

"I know I shall be too late, after all my promises, too!" and now there
was more of regret than impatience in the old lady's tones.

Meantime Dick had gone on an exploring expedition, and presently came
running back with the news that the driver had "a fit or something," and
was lying on the kitchen floor of a farm-house around the corner.

"How did he get there?" asked the old lady, in her short way.

"He must have felt it coming on and started for the house, for they
found him just outside the gate," replied Dick. "I didn't see him, but a
boy who was running for the doctor told me about it."

The lady looked serious for a minute, took another sniff from her
bottle, and then began: "Look here, boy, if you'll drive this car for me
down to Clayton Street, I'll give you a crisp, new one-dollar bill, and
a great many thanks besides. A friend of mine, whom I haven't seen since
she was a little girl, is going to be married at three o'clock, and I've
always promised I'd come to her wedding, even if I were three thousand
miles away, and here I am, less than three, and likely to miss it after

"I should think she'd wait till you come, ma'am," Dick ventured to
suggest, consolingly.

"Oh, bless you," continued the old lady, "she thinks I'm in California.
She sent the invitation to me out there, and it arrived just as I was
unexpectedly called back to New York, so I determined not to let them
know a word about it, but just walk in on them at the wedding. And now,
if you'll only drive me down to Clayton Street, I think I can do it yet.
I'm not afraid."

That last sentence nearly spoiled the effect of all the others, for Dick
didn't like to have anybody think he couldn't drive a car-horse if he
wanted to; but he graciously overlooked the blunder, promised to do the
driving if his passenger would be responsible to the company, and then
stepped out upon the front platform, feeling as if he had been asked to
ascend the throne of an empire.

As for the old lady, she settled herself comfortably back in a corner,
and began to button her white kid gloves.

Much impressed by this proof of the confidence reposed in his
horsemanship, Dick untied the lines, gave the brake a twirl, chirped to
the lazy nag, and, presto! the bell on the latter's neck commenced to
jingle as loudly as when the regular official held the ribbons.

What fun it was, to be sure! No steering out of ruts and around puddles,
the sole duties of the post being to slap the reins on the horse's back
now and then, and keep a hand on that fascinating brake. Dick's only
regret was that he had lost the opportunity of using the turn-table, but
having found the car headed in the right direction, there was no help
for it.

The street, as has been said, was a quiet one, especially so at that
time of day, and thus no one saw and wondered at the sight of Dick
Winworth, only son of the prominent lawyer, driving a "bobtail" car. As
for Dick himself, he had never imagined so much enjoyment could be had
by such simple means. The tinkle of the bell and the grating of the
wheels on the track were as music in his ears, while the task of keeping
the vehicle from running on to the horse's heels at down grades
furnished most enchanting occupation for hand and eye.

On a sudden the latter chanced to light on the green tin box fastened to
the dash-board, and he recollected that his passenger had not yet paid
her fare. So, with a very broad smile, he rang the "reminder" bell,
which caused the old lady to look up and smile too, as she handed him a
dime. Dick having shut the door that he might have the fun of giving
change through the "flap."

It was while he was thus engaged that he drove past a switch without
noticing it, and at the next corner a young lady held up her finger as a
sign for him to stop.

"What shall I do?" he called through the open window; for he felt that
in a sense the old lady had hired the whole car, and ought therefore to
be consulted before he admitted anybody else.

"Oh, let her get in, by all means," was his passenger's hospitable
response; and to Dick's infinite delight, she pulled the bell.

However, when the young lady had taken her seat, and begun gravely
fishing in her long knit purse for five cents, the serious side of his
situation rather troubled the boy, and for a while he kept his eyes
fixed steadily between the horse's ears, as if trying to see how this
queer sort of an adventure was going to end, when the sharp ring of the
bell over his head caused him to give a very undriver-like jump as he
turned to find out what was wanted.

"Here," whispered the old lady, as she slipped the promised crisp bill
through the flap, "this is Clayton Street. I'm ever so much obliged, and
please stop just as short as you can, for I've only five minutes to walk
to the house."

Then she hastened to the rear platform, and almost before the car came
to a stand-still she had stepped off, and was hurrying up a side street,
the white ribbons of her flowery bonnet streaming out behind.

And what was Dick to do now? He had completed the task intrusted to him,
and been paid for it, but he could not very well walk off and leave the
car standing there.

But if he should keep on, what would they say to him at the dépôt? and
how could he refer to the old lady, when she had forgotten to give him
her address? And there was the young lady patiently waiting inside.

Concluding that the finger of duty pointed onward, Dick was about to
start the horse, when he heard the jingling of a bell down the street
ahead of him. And then it flashed through his mind about the switch,
and he realized that here was another car coming on the same track in an
opposite direction.

What was to be done? For an instant the boy felt a strong inclination to
jump off and run away, but then that would be cowardly; besides, there
was the passenger. So he stuck to his post and the brake, and calmly
awaited the crisis.


It arrived in due course, and came near being a collision as well, for
the other driver, who was behind time, had whipped up. There was a curve
in the street just there, and as Dick's car was standing still, there
was no sound of bell to give warning.

However, no harm was done; but how that driver did scold when he saw the
state of affairs!

Dick's young lady passenger fled in terror at the outbreak of the storm,
while Dick himself stood up as if under a shower-bath of cold water.

And now, to make matters worse, two more cars arrived from down town,
where it seemed there had been a blockade.

"The driver had a fit up at the Park," cried Dick, when he could make
himself heard; and then he told his story of the old lady and the
wedding, exhibiting the new dollar bill as proof of its truth. The three
drivers shook their heads over the story, but looked more respectfully
at the bill, which gave Dick an idea.

"Here," he cried, waving the dollar above his head, "you can divide this
amongst you to pay for any trouble I've made. Will that do?"

They all exclaimed at once that it would. Then a passenger appeared, who
knew Mr. Winworth, and who promised to explain matters to his neighbor,
the superintendent of the road.

Then they-- But Dick didn't wait to see how they got the cars
straightened out. He walked back home as fast as he could, wondering if
that dollar wouldn't have bought a pretty plate to replace the one he
had broken. However, he consoled himself with the thought that it was
easier to keep from breaking them in future than it was to earn whatever
they might cost by driving a car.


Geese are not remarkable for bravery or for thoughtful care of the
interests of their owners, yet the Romans firmly believed that geese
once saved their Capitol from capture.

The Gauls, a savage people coming from the North, once captured the city
of Rome, and burned it. Some of the Romans fled to Veii, a town not very
far distant, and others shut themselves up in the Capitol, which was a
strong building on the top of a steep and rocky hill. The Gauls encamped
at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and resolved to wait until the Roman
garrison should be forced to surrender through hunger. One night a young
Roman came from Veii, and climbed up to the Capitol to encourage his
countrymen to resist the Gauls until help should come. In the morning
the Gauls saw the foot-prints of the young man, and said to themselves
that they could climb wherever he could. So the next night a strong
party of Gauls tried to capture the Capitol by climbing up the rocks.


Now a temple, sacred to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, three of the
divinities of the Romans, stood on the top of the hill close to the
place where the Gauls were stealthily climbing. There were some geese in
the temple that were supposed to belong to Juno, and although the Gauls
made so little noise, that neither the Romans nor their watch-dogs heard
them, the geese knew that something was wrong, and they set up a noisy
cackling. This awoke Marcus Manlius, a brave Roman soldier, who seized
his sword and shield, and calling to his comrades to follow him, rushed
upon the Gauls, and hurling one of them backward who had just reached
the top of the hill, he so alarmed the other Gauls that they hastily
retreated. Some years afterward the brave Manlius was cruelly put to
death by the Romans on a false charge of treason, but the Romans always
professed to feel great gratitude to the geese.

There is good reason for believing that this story is not strictly true,
and it is probable that it was invented in order to account for the fact
that among the Romans geese were sacred to Juno. Still, it is so good a
story that people will always be quite willing to believe it.



Mr. Thompson says that he was sitting under an old oak-tree, not far
from the Long Island Sound; he had been watching the sunset, and was now
musing, with his eyes wandering from the gold and crimson clouds to the
blue water and the ground at his feet. Suddenly his attention was
arrested by a globular object by his side, about the size of a small
marble. He poked it attentively with his cane, and murmured: "Owls'
pellets; there must be a nest in the tree. Now those owls must be
strange birds; they eat a mouse or bird entire, and then spit out the
bones and skin, or feathers, in a round ball like this. Let me see," he
continued, turning the pellet over carefully with his knife; "this
fellow has been eating a mouse, for here is the skull and skin. I wonder
where the nest is? I'd get the young ones, and--and--" and Mr. Thompson
began to nod--"and give 'em to--"

"To who-o?" inquired a voice just above his head.

"To--to--to Miss--" continued Mr. Thompson, drowsily.

"To who?" repeated the voice.

"Who-o-o-o?" echoed Mr. Thompson, in strong nasal tones, and his head
dropped on his breast.

"Now you begin to talk," said the voice. "I have watched you for a long
time, and I knew you must be a relation of ours from your looks and
actions, and now it is proved by your voice, though you don't speak

Mr. Thompson says that the moment he nodded he was perfectly aware of
all that was going on, and looked up to see who was speaking. There on a
branch just above his head sat a large white owl, with his great eyes
staring directly at him.

"Come up here," said the owl.

"How?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"Fly, stupid!" replied the owl.

Mr. Thompson flapped his arms obediently, and for a moment was somewhat
surprised to find that he had become transformed into an owl.

"That was done very quietly," he murmured.

"Of course; owls do everything quietly."

Mr. Thompson settled himself on the branch, and fluffed up his feathers
as naturally as if he had been used to it all his life.

"So you have had field mice for dinner," he said, after a few moments'

"Yes," answered the owl, "and very good eating they are, too. Do you
know," he continued, reflectively, "I can't see why the farmers are so
opposed to us. We eat up lots of mice and grubs of different kinds."

"And young chickens sometimes," ventured Mr. Thompson.

"Barely," replied the owl; "not when we can get anything else. But come
down-stairs and see the family;" and leading the way into the hollow
tree, the owl climbed down to the nest. It was quite at the bottom of
the tree, and was made of dried grass and feathers. In it were four
young owls, and comical-looking birds they were, too, with their great
round eyes and fluffy gray down.

After complimenting the old owl on the beauty of his family, Mr.
Thompson remarked, "I notice that your feathers are not like other
birds', but a sort of soft furry down."

"That is in order that we should make as little noise as possible when
flying, so that we can come upon our game unaware of our presence," said
the owl, climbing out of the nest. Mr. Thompson followed, and seated
again on the limb, he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.

Presently the owl remarked, reflectively: "It seems strange that every
one should hate us as they do. If I fly near the house in the evening,
the farmer shouts, 'Shoot the owl! he is after the chickens.' If I sit
on a tree during the day, all the birds find me, and bother me half to
death. And some naturalist comes along and tries to take my children

"I don't see how they can get them at the bottom of that hole," said Mr.

"Well, you see, everybody don't know how," replied the owl, "but Frank
Buckland, the great English naturalist, gives the best way. You see, our
two weapons of defense are our beaks and our claws, so if we can't get
the better of an enemy with our beaks we turn over on our backs and
clutch it in our claws, and we don't let go in a hurry either. So you
see this Buckland lets down a ball of worsted into the nest, and keeps
it bobbing up and down till we catch hold of it; then he draws it up."

"That makes me think," said Mr. Thompson, aloud, forgetting the presence
of the owl, "that I wanted one of the young ones to take to Miss--"

"To who?" interrupted the owl, angrily.

"To Miss--"

"To who-o-o-o?"

"To Miss Angelina," answered Mr. Thompson.

The owl puffed his feathers angrily, and the movement so disconcerted
Mr. Thompson that he lost his balance and fell from the branch. As he
picked himself up, the owl uttered a derisive "To who," and flew away.
It was quite late, and as Mr. Thompson walked slowly home, he murmured,
"I'll try that ball and string method of catching owls to-morrow, but if
they do more good than harm it seems a shame to disturb them, though I
do want to give one to--"

"To who?" came the voice of the owl from the depths of the woods.

Mr. Thompson paused. "I guess I'll leave them alone," he muttered, as he
strode along again.

"Good for you-u-u," shouted the owl, which last reply settled Mr.
Thompson's resolution, and Miss Angelina had no young owl.


[2] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.




A council was held at the hotel, and a dozen different water routes were
discussed. As the boys still wanted to carry out their original design
of making a voyage to Quebec, they decided to take the canoes by rail to
Rouse's Point, and from thence to descend the Richelieu River to the St.
Lawrence. The railway journey would take nearly a whole day, but they
thought it would be a pleasant change from the close confinement of

As it would have taken three days to send the canoes to Rouse's Point by
freight, the canoeists were compelled to take them on the same train
with themselves. They went to the express office on Monday morning, and
tried to make a bargain with the express company. The agent astonished
them by the enormous price which he demanded, and Harry, who acted as
spokesman, told him that it was outrageous to ask such a price for
carrying four light canoes.

The man turned to a book in which were contained the express company's
rates of charges, and showed Harry that there was a fixed rate for
row-boats and shells.

"But," said Harry, "a canoe is not a row-boat nor a shell. What justice
is there in charging as much for a fourteen-foot canoe as for a
forty-foot shell?"

"Well," said the agent, "I don't know as it would be fair. But then
these canoes of yours are pretty near as big as row-boats."

"A canoe loaded as ours are don't weigh over one hundred and ten pounds.
How much does a row-boat weigh?"

"Well, about two or three hundred pounds."

"Then is it fair to charge as much for a canoe as for a row-boat that
weighs three times as much?"

The agent found it difficult to answer this argument, and after thinking
the matter over he agreed to take the canoes at half the rate ordinarily
charged for row-boats. The boys were pleased with their victory over

At ten o'clock the train rolled into the Sherbrooke station. To the
great disappointment of the boys, no express car was attached to it, the
only place for express packages being a small compartment twelve feet
long at one end of the smoking-car. It was obvious that canoes fourteen
feet long could not go into a space only twelve feet long, and it seemed
as if it would be necessary to wait twelve hours for the night train, to
which a large express car was always attached. But the conductor of the
train was a man who could sympathize with boys, and who had ideas of his
own. He uncoupled the engine, which was immediately in front of the
smoking-car, and then had the canoes taken in through the door of the
smoking-car and placed on the backs of the seats. Very little room was
left for passengers who wanted to smoke; but as there were only four or
five of these, they made no complaint. The canoes, with blankets under
them to protect the backs of the seats, rode safely, and when, late in
the afternoon, Rouse's Point was reached, they were taken out of the car
without a scratch.

There was just time enough before sunset to paddle a short distance
below the fort, where a camping ground was found that would have been
very pleasant had there been fewer mosquitoes. They were the first
Canadian mosquitoes that had made the acquaintance of the young
canoeists, and they seemed to be delighted. They sung and buzzed in
great excitement, and fairly drove the boys from their supper to the
shelter of their canoes.

Harry had a long piece of mosquito netting, which he threw over the top
of his canoe tent, and which fell over the openings on each side of the
tent, thus protecting the occupant of the canoe from mosquitoes without
depriving him of air. None of the other boys had taken the trouble to
bring mosquito-netting with him, except Charley, who had a sort of
mosquito-netting bag, which he drew over his head, and which prevented
the mosquitoes from getting at his face and neck.

As for Joe and Tom, the mosquitoes fell upon them with great enthusiasm,
and soon reduced them to a most miserable condition. Tom was compelled
to cover his head with his India-rubber blanket, and was nearly
suffocated. Joe managed to tie a handkerchief over his face in such a
way as to allow himself air enough to breathe, and at the same time to
keep off the mosquitoes. Instead of covering the rest of his body with
his blanket, he deliberately exposed a bare arm and part of a bare leg,
in hopes that he could thus satisfy the mosquitoes, and induce them to
be merciful. At the end of half an hour both Tom and Joe felt that they
could endure the attacks of the dreadful insects no longer. They got up,
and stirring the embers of the fire, soon started a cheerful blaze.
There were plenty of hemlock-trees close at hand, and the hemlock boughs
when thrown on the fire gave out a great deal of smoke. The two
unfortunate boys sat in the lee of the fire and nearly choked themselves
with smoke; but they could endure the smoke better than the mosquitoes,
and so they were left alone by the latter.


The wind died down before morning, and the mosquitoes returned. As soon
as it was light the canoeists made haste to get breakfast and to paddle
out into the stream. The mosquitoes let them depart without attempting
to follow them; and the boys, anchoring the canoes by making the ballast
bags fast to the painters, enjoyed an unmolested bath. As they were
careful to anchor where the water was not four feet deep, they had no
difficulty in climbing into the canoes after the bath. Joe's mishap on
Lake Memphremagog had taught them that getting into a canoe in deep
water was easier in theory than in practice.

Later in the morning the usual southerly breeze, which is found almost
every morning on the Richelieu, gave the canoeists the opportunity of
making sail. The breeze was just fresh enough to make it prudent for the
canoes to carry their mainsails only, and to give the canoeists plenty
of employment in watching the gusts that came through the openings in
the woods that lined the western shore.

About twelve miles below Rouse's Point the fleet reached "Ile aux Noix,"
a beautiful island in the middle of the stream, with a somewhat
dilapidated fort at its northern end. The boys landed, and examined the
fort and the ruined barracks which stood near it. The ditch surrounding
the fort was half filled with the wooden palisades which had rotted and
fallen into it, and large trees had sprung up on the grassy slope of the
outer wall. The interior was, however, in good repair, and in one of the
granite casemates lived an Irishman and his wife, who were the entire
garrison. In former years the "Ile aux Noix" fort was one of the most
important defenses of the Canadian frontier, and even in its present
forlorn condition it could be defended much longer than could the big
American fort at Rouse's Point. The boys greatly enjoyed their visit to
the island, and after lunch set sail, determined to make the most of the
fair wind, and to reach St. John before night.

The breeze held, and in less than three hours the steeples and the
railway bridge of St. John came in view. The canoeists landed at the
upper end of the town, and Harry and Charley, leaving the canoes in
charge of the other boys, went in search of the Custom-house officer
whose duty it was to inspect all vessels passing from the United States
into Canada by way of the Richelieu River. Having found the officer, who
was a very pleasant man, and who gave the fleet permission to proceed on
its way without searching the canoes for smuggled goods, Harry and
Charley walked on to examine the rapids, which begin just below the
railway bridge. From St. John to Chambly, a distance of twelve miles,
the river makes a rapid descent, and is entirely unnavigable for
anything except canoes.

The first rapid was a short but rough one. Still, it was no worse than
the first of the Magog rapids, and Harry and Charley made up their minds
that it could be safely run. The men of whom they made inquiries as to
the rapids farther down said that they were impassable, and that the
canoes had better pass directly into the canal, without attempting to
run even the first rapid. Harry was inclined to think that this advice
was good, but Charley pointed out that it would be possible to drag the
canoes up the bank of the river, and launch them in the canal at any
point between St. John and Chambly, and that it would be time enough to
abandon the river when it should really prove to be impassable.

Returning to the canoes, the Commodore gave the order to prepare to run
the rapids. In a short time the fleet, with the _Sunshine_ in advance,
passed under the bridge, and narrowly escaping shipwreck on the remains
of the wooden piles that once supported a bridge that had been destroyed
by fire, entered the rapid. There was quite a crowd gathered to watch
the canoes as they passed, but those people who wanted the excitement
of seeing the canoes wrecked were disappointed. Not a drop of water
found its way into the cockpit of a single canoe; and though there was
an ugly rock near the end of the rapid, against which each canoeist
fully expected to be driven as he approached it, the run was made
without the slightest accident.

Drifting down with the current a mile or two below the town, the boys
landed and encamped for the night. While waiting at St. John, Joe and
Tom had provided themselves with mosquito netting, but they had little
use for it, for only a few mosquitoes made the discovery that four
healthy and attractive boys were within reach. The night was cool and
quiet, and the canoeists, tired with their long day's work, slept until
late in the morning.

Everything was prepared the next day for running the rapids, which the
men at St. John had declared to be impassable. The spars and all the
stores were lashed fast; the sand-bags were placed in the
after-compartments; the painters were rove through the stern-posts, and
the life-belts were placed where they could be buckled on at an
instant's notice. After making all these preparations it was rather
disappointing to find no rapids whatever between St. John and Chambly,
or rather the Chambly railway bridge.

"It just proves what I said yesterday," remarked Charley, turning round
in his canoe to speak to his comrades, who were a boat's-length behind
him. "People who live on the banks of a river never know anything about
it. Now I don't believe there is a rapid in the whole Richelieu River
except at St. John. Halloo! keep back, boys--"

While he was speaking, Charley and his canoe disappeared as suddenly as
if the earth, or rather the water, had opened and swallowed them. The
other boys in great alarm backed water, and then paddling ashore as fast
as possible, sprung out of their canoes and ran along the shore to
discover what had become of Charley. They found him at the foot of a
water-fall of about four feet in height, over which he had been carried.
The fall was formed by a long ledge of rock running completely across
the river; and had the boys been more careful, and had the wind been
blowing in any other direction than directly down the river, they would
have heard the sound of the falling water in time to be warned of the
danger into which Charley had carelessly run.

His canoe had sustained little damage, for it had luckily fallen where
the water was deep enough to keep it from striking the rocky bottom.
Charley had been thrown out as the canoe went over the fall, but had
merely bruised himself a little. He towed his canoe ashore, and in
answer to a mischievous question from Joe, admitted that perhaps the men
who had said that the Chambly rapids were impassable were right.

Below the fall and as far as the eye could reach stretched a fierce and
shallow rapid. The water boiled over and among the rocks with which it
was strewn, and there could not be any doubt that the rapid was one
which could not be successfully run, unless, perhaps, by some one
perfectly familiar with the channel. It was agreed that the canoes must
be carried up to the canal, and after two hours of hard work the fleet
was launched a short distance above one of the canal locks.

The lock-man did not seem disposed to let the canoes pass through the
lock, but finally accepted fifty cents, and, grumbling to himself in his
Canadian French, proceeded to lock the canoes through. He paid no
attention to the request that he would open the sluices gradually, but
opened them all at once and to their fullest extent. The result was that
the water in the lock fell with great rapidity; the canoes were swung
against one another and against the side of the lock, and Charley's
canoe, catching against a bolt in one of the upper gates, was capsized
and sunk to the bottom, leaving her captain clinging to the stern of the


[Illustration: "O NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME?"]



When the showman came to our town, he told the audience a great many
things as he passed from cage to cage in his combined circus and
menagerie. He told them of the great wangdoodle, two of which were
brought from South Africa in three ships, and he told them other
stories, which made the very little people open their eyes and mouths
wide, but which the intelligent boys and girls only smiled at.

He was a great humbug--there is no doubt about it. But one day I found
him alone, and cornered him. Then he told me what he didn't tell to his
audiences, and that was much more interesting than a great part of his
lecture. When he found that I did not believe in the immense sums which,
according to his posters, some of his articles cost, he said:

"But we _do_ pay big prices for good curiosities, and no mistake, though
our posters and show-bills do tell some pretty big stories. I once paid
twenty-five thousand dollars for a baby hippopotamus, and if I could get
another one to-day, I'd pay just as much, or more. A full-grown
hippopotamus is pretty expensive too. That one over there cost us four
thousand dollars. Elephants, as a rule, are not dear, and you can
usually buy a fine specimen for about two thousand dollars. A giraffe
costs all the way up from one thousand to five thousand; a tiger or a
lion, about five hundred; a zebra, fifteen hundred; and a polar bear,
about a thousand dollars. Polar bears," he added, meditatively, "are
delicate. 'Why don't you dye him black?' said a fellow in the audience
to me once. 'Because,' said I, 'he'll die quick enough.' They do like a
good cold snap, with the thermometer away down below zero, the polars

"'Is the wild-beast trade a reg'lar business?'" he said, repeating a
question of mine. "I should say it was, and more than one large fortune
is invested in it. Some of it is done in Hamburg, a good deal in the
sea-ports of Holland, some in Falmouth, and some in London. Probably
more of it is done in New York than anywhere in Europe. There's a man in
Falmouth who boards every ship approaching the English coast off the
Lizard, and buys most of the curiosities the sailors have brought with
them from the foreign lands in which they have been. But only a very
small part of the whole supply comes through sea-captains and sailors.
Expeditions go out into Africa and South America to hunt and capture the
wild beasts of those continents, and there is one man whose last camp
included ninety-two servants, seventy-two camels, twelve mules,
twenty-seven horses, and three donkeys.

"This dealer is a Maltese, who, when a boy, used to knock about the
docks, and seeing the strange animals on board some of the ships,
promised himself that he would make wild-beast-hunting his trade when he
became a man. He has lost more than one fortune, and is probably poor
now. It's a wonder that he's alive; the business is full of dangers, and
there is no certainty of profit in it.

"He usually goes from Alexandria to Suez, and down the Red Sea to
Khartoum. The natives expect animal buyers, and nearly always have a
stock to sell. 'Buy my little lion,' they will say, 'and I will throw
into the bargain a young boy or girl.' The lions are carried in cages
slung between two camels, and until the camels have become used to the
growling of their burden they give the greatest trouble. Sometimes the
natives are not friendly, and between their attacks and the ravages of
fever, the expedition loses many of its men.

"The cost of such an expedition is not less than thirty thousand
dollars, and while the buyer may double this sum in selling, he may lose
all. Leaving Africa with a stock worth one hundred thousand dollars, it
is not likely to be worth more than half that when it reaches Malta. The
risk is so great that a monkey which can be bought for five cents in
Africa is worth twenty dollars in New York, and the increase in the
value of large animals is proportionate. You can buy a very good lion in
Africa for the price that you would give for a monkey here."

The showman gossiped on in this way for some time, and had begun to be
something of a bore, when a little man entered from a side door--to
speak properly from one of the canvas folds of the tent, in the middle
of which the showman and I were seated before a brazier of glowing
coals. He was pale-faced and delicate-looking, but his dress was
striking, consisting of a jaunty little velvet jacket, yellow corduroy
breeches, and Hessian boots with enamelled leather tops.

"He," said the showman, "is Señor Delmonio, the Emperor of the Jungle,
the greatest lion-tamer in the world." I had heard of this celebrity,
whose name and portrait appeared in gigantic posters of the show, with
the announcement that his services only had been obtained at an outlay
of several thousand dollars a week. "Bill," he called out, "here's a
gentleman interested in the business."

"What did you call him?" I asked.

"Well, you see," was the answer, "he's a Boston man, and his name is
Bill Smith."

Señor Delmonio, or Bill Smith, came toward us and shook hands, and then
quietly went to the back of a cage containing a pair of savage and
uneasy lions. He was out of sight for a moment, but re-appeared entering
the cage from the rear. The lions did not pounce upon him, as I
shiveringly feared they would do. They curled themselves against the
bars, and uttered low growls, as if they were anxious to avoid him; they
sat on their haunches at his command, and leaped through hoops which he
had taken into the cage with him; they showed docility, but it was with
an unwillingness that made itself known in continuous growls.

This was a rehearsal, and when it was finished, the "Emperor of the
Jungle," as quiet as ever, came back to where we were sitting. He seemed

"Yours is dangerous work," I said, not having any liking for those
exhibitions in which the peril of the performer is what attracts the

"Yes," he answered, with a sigh, "I suppose it will end badly for me
some time; it usually does end badly. You see it's against nature. I
know that very well. The beasts don't like it, and sooner or later they
take their revenge on poor fellows who, like me, trifle with them. It's
the whip alone that keeps them under control. If I dropped my whip while
I was in the cage with them, they would fancy that I had lost my power,
and they would attack me in a moment. How do I begin in training them?
Well, the usual way is to make acquaintance with them from the outside,
by doing chores around the cage, and getting them familiar with your
face, and above all with your voice. It's pretty ticklish to enter the
cage for the first time. I expected to come out bleeding, if not dying.
But they behaved well, and I've not been afraid since.

"When they are accustomed to you and you to them," he continued, "the
next thing is to teach them tricks, and this takes a good deal of time
and a good deal of whipping. The lions are the smartest. You can train a
lion to do the ordinary tricks, such as jumping through hoops and over
gates, in about five weeks, and a lioness in about six weeks. The
leopard is next in intelligence to the lion, and learns almost as
readily. A tiger would take eight weeks to learn what the leopard learns
in six, and a tigress would take nine weeks for the same work. The hyena
is the stupidest, and you can't do anything with him in less than four
months. The most difficult thing of all is to teach a wild beast to let
you lie on it without eating you. I do this every night with one of the
tigresses, but she don't like it one bit; it aggravates her inwardly.

"The great secret of wild-beast taming is to know when to use the whip
and when not to use it. But as a matter of fact there is no such thing
as really taming a tiger or a lion. A man may have some influence over
it, but he is never quite safe with it. No wild beast has ever been
actually tamed. A lion will tear you merely out of bad temper
occasionally; but a tiger is more vicious, and will attack you from
sheer love of blood."

It was now time for the exhibition, and I wished the showman and Señor
Delmonio good-day. Some time afterward, when I again met the latter, he
had abandoned the foolish business of trifling with the angry passions
of wild beasts, and was devoting himself to the more sensible business
of training horses.




Jennie Bartlett's father and mother had been suddenly called away for
the night to Parnassus Centre, where Mrs. Bartlett's sister had been
taken very ill, and Jennie was left to keep the toll-gate alone. It was
not a difficult task, for scarcely any one travelled over the Barrington
Road after nine o'clock, and those who did passed through the open gate
without paying toll.

But even if it had been harder, Jennie would have been equal to it. She
had lived at the toll-gate ever since she was a baby, and knew perfectly
well what to charge, and how to make the proper change. Indeed, she
often kept the gate for her father when he was at home, and people
passing through would be apt to wonder how so bright and pretty a girl
could grow up in so lonesome a place. Jennie, however, did not mind the
lonesomeness. Her dearest wish was to go off to boarding-school; but so
long as she was at home it mattered little to her that Barrington was
three miles off on the one hand, and Leicester ten miles on the other,
and that there was scarcely a house between. She even liked the
solitude, and was almost sorry when the telephone connecting Barrington
with Leicester made a connection by the way with the toll-gate. Before,
they seemed to be out of the world, and the people coming through the
gate were like visitors from another sphere; now, the frequent ringing
of the call-bell reminded her that civilization was not so far distant,
after all.

On this particular night there were not likely to be even the usual
number of passers-by. It was dark and threatening. Looking out of the
door about nine o'clock, Jennie could hardly see more than a hundred
feet either up or down the road. It would be a bad night, she thought,
for the gate to get accidentally shut; anybody coming along might run
into it without warning; for that matter, people might run into the
posts on either side. She hung a lantern on one post to prevent this
accident, and going in the house, locked the doors and went to bed. The
fact that she was alone in the house did not disturb her in the least,
and in ten minutes she was fast asleep.

Some time in the night she was suddenly awakened by the ringing of the
telephone bell. She listened confusedly to hear if it rang three times,
which was the toll-gate signal, or oftener, to call up some of the other
people on the same wire. Two of the connections she knew were in
Leicester, the third was their own, the fourth was in the Barrington
Bank, the fifth in the tannery, and the sixth in the central office at
Barrington. In her bewilderment Jennie could not at first determine how
many times it did ring; but at last she decided it was six--for the
Barrington central office. That did not mean the toll-gate, and Jennie
prepared to turn over for another nap, when a sudden thought aroused
her. It was certainly after midnight, and the central office did not
keep open later than twelve o'clock. The bank, too, was shut up, and so
was the tannery; on the whole line she was probably the only person who
could hear the bell. What if it should be something important! Indeed,
it would hardly ring at that time of night unless it were important.
Quickly jumping out of bed, she ran to the instrument, put the receiver
to her ear, and called through the transmitter, "Hello! hello!"

A voice came back to her, so distinct that it seemed almost in the same
room, saying, "Hello! is that the central office?" The tone was quick
and sharp, and Jennie felt sure that something must have happened.

"No, sir," she called; "it's the toll-gate. I'm Jennie Bartlett."

"Tell your father to come here right away," the voice said; "it's very

Jennie felt a little sinking at her heart. "Father's away," she said,
"and I'm here alone."

She heard the voice exclaim something in an impatient tone, and then the
sound of two or three other people talking as though there was some
doubt as to what could be done.

"Can I do anything?" she inquired, almost hoping that she could not.

Another conversation followed, which Jennie this time overheard; the
speakers were no doubt nearer the telephone.

"Why do you want to let them get into Barrington at all?" one voice
asked. "Why not stop them at the toll-gate?"

"To be sure!" said another. "If they get past the gate, like as not
they'll turn down the Riverton road, and throw Allen off the track. They
can't turn off before they get to the gate; we're sure of them as far as

"Tell the girl--" and then the speaker turned away, and Jennie caught
only a confusion of sounds.

Presently she heard another "Hello!"

"Hello!" she responded.

"The Leicester Bank has been robbed," the voice went on, hurriedly, "by
two men with a wagon and a white horse. They have driven toward
Barrington, with Mr. Allen and two constables in pursuit, half an hour
behind. You must--" Here the voice stopped as suddenly and completely as
though it had had an extinguisher put over it. Even the hum of the
electricity was checked, and Jennie knew enough about the telephone to
be aware that in some way the connection had been abruptly cut off. It
was in vain that she rang the bell and called "Hello!" No one answered.
Jennie felt once more the old sense that she was out of the world.
Leicester seemed all at once removed hundreds of miles away.

But what was it that she must or must not do? Why had not the connection
lasted only a minute longer, when her instructions would have been
complete? When were the robbers to be expected? Jennie made a little
calculation. If they had been gone thirty minutes before any one started
in pursuit, that would carry them, by fast driving, half-way to the
toll-gate. If ten minutes had gone by before the telephone bell had
rung, she might look for them within a quarter of an hour. What was she
to do? The conversation which she had overheard came to her mind. "Stop
them at the toll-gate," one of the voices had said. Very likely they
would have told her to do that if the telephone had kept on. But how
could a little girl arrest two armed and desperate men?

By this time she began to feel chilly. She could not go back to bed with
this responsibility upon her, even though she did not know how to meet
it; so, dressing herself, she opened the front door, and looked and
listened. The night was darker than ever. A little space around the gate
was lit up by the warning lantern. It would not help in stopping the
burglars, she suddenly thought, to illuminate their way; so, going over
to the light, she blew it out, and left the road in total darkness. That
was at least one step toward the desired end.

All at once she thought of the gate. "How stupid!" she said to herself.
"Why didn't I think of that before?" It was fastened back against the
front of the house, but in a moment she had unhooked it and swung it
around, until it stretched completely across the road. There was only a
latch on the gate, but going in the house she brought out of one place a
padlock, and from another a chain, with which she fastened it so
securely that no ordinary strength could force it open. "They can't get
through that," she said to herself; "and there isn't any way of getting
around it." Then she went in the house, locked and bolted the door,
rolled a bureau up against it, fastened all the windows, pulled down the
shades, and waited in the dark for the sound of wheels.

It was not long before they came, but to Jennie every minute seemed an
hour, while every rustling leaf outside sounded like a man's stealthy
tread. When at last she heard them coming, far up the road, her heart
stood still. Nearer and nearer they came. Would they not see the gate?
she wondered. The horse still kept on; and instantly there was a sudden
exclamation outside, a crash as though something had come into collision
with the gate, the sound of splintering wood, and the noise of a
plunging horse. Jennie did not venture to move; she dared not go to the
window, but sat in the middle of the room, shaking with fear, and
listening anxiously for what might happen next. Presently steps sounded
on the planks outside, and in a moment there was a rap on the door.

Jennie remained perfectly quiet, though her heart beat so loud that she
thought they must hear it outside. In a moment the knocking ceased.

"Folks asleep," she could hear one of the men say.

"Asleep, or dead, or run away," the other one growled.

"Shall we try the window?"

Jennie trembled all over, but the sash held firm.

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed his companion. "Don't let's waste time here; we
can splice the shafts with the halter."

They moved off again, and Jennie breathed more freely. If the shafts
were broken, it would be a work of some minutes to mend them, and the
pursuing party might yet arrive in time. Mr. Allen, who Jennie knew to
be the president of the Leicester Bank, had the fastest horses in the
county, and ought to be able to make up at least ten minutes in ten
miles. For a while there was quiet outside. The men were evidently
working at the shafts, and only the stamping of the horse's feet gave
any signs of life. Jennie began to get nervous, and to listen more
intently for the pursuers' approach. By this time they could not be far
off. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, she crept upstairs, and
sitting down on the floor by the open window of the attic, ventured to
look out. The white horse was quite distinctly visible as it stood by
the gate, but the men, bending over the wagon, were hardly more than an
outline. Presently they seemed to have finished, and backing the horse
around, proceeded to hitch him in the shafts. Would the others never
come? The gate was not yet opened, but Jennie began to fear that
burglars would not find that a serious difficulty. Suddenly through the
woods came the sound of horses' hoofs galloping as if for life. Did the
men hear it too?

Apparently they did.

"Open the gate," she heard one of them say.

His companion went to it and vainly tried to pull it open. "It's
padlocked," he exclaimed, after a minute.

The other muttered an angry oath. "Pick it!" he cried. "They've put up a
job on us here. I knew we didn't cut that wire quick enough."

It was a minute before the burglar's skill could pick the lock, and by
that time the pursuing wagon was dangerously near.

"Open the gate!" shouted the first man, pulling back his horse to escape
its sweep.

The other pushed, and the great bar swung slowly back. But before it had
opened wide enough to let them through, the other wagon had dashed in
upon the scene.

"Stand where you are," Jennie heard Mr. Allen's voice call out, "or I'll
shoot you down!"

What immediately followed Jennie did not see, for leaving the window,
she rushed down-stairs, lit the lantern, rolled back the bureau,
unlocked the door, and went out. When she had gained the road, the two
burglars, captured and tied, were being guarded by the constables, while
Mr. Allen was investigating the contents of the wagon, and making sure
as far as he could in the darkness that all was right. At Jennie's
approach he looked up.

"Ah!" he said. "Are you the toll-gate keeper's daughter? Just ask your
father to step out here, won't you?"

Jennie smiled. "Father isn't at home, sir," she said.

"Oh, well, your mother, then, or any one who keeps the gate."

"Mother isn't at home either, sir; I am keeping the gate."

The gentleman looked at her in surprise.

"You!" he exclaimed. "What made these fellows stop here?"

"They broke their wagon, sir."

"How did they happen to do that?"

"The horse ran into the gate, sir."

"Was the gate shut?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't usually shut the gate nights?"

"No, sir, but I did to-night."

He looked at her for a further explanation, and Jennie, who never liked
to tell of her own exploits, was obliged to go on.

"They telephoned me about it from Leicester, sir," she said, briefly.

"Did they tell you to shut the gate?"

"No, sir; the telephone stopped before they got as far as that; these
men cut the wire, and I had to think for myself what I should do."

"And you thought of that?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said, modestly.

"Well," he said, "you are a thoughtful little girl. You've saved me a
great deal of money to-night, and I'll never forget it."

And he never did. The directors of the bank passed a vote of thanks, at
their next meeting, to Miss Jennie Bartlett "for her prompt and
efficient services in arresting the burglars who feloniously entered the
bank building on the evening of September --, and abstracted the
valuable contents of its vault"; and more than that, sent her a purse of
money, with which she was able that winter to carry out her
long-cherished plan of going to school. It was a disagreeable experience
to go through, but Jennie will always date whatever success she has in
the world from that night at the Barrington toll-gate.


  Merrily, merrily dancing away,
  Who is this dancing the long summer day,
  Over the meadow and through the lane,
  Then through the orchard, and then back again?
  Who is this girlie that's dancing away,
  Who but our own little Edith, I pray.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Swinging, swinging, swinging,
    Here I sit and swing,
  But I'm only resting,
    Now each weary wing;
  Very soon you'll see me fly,
  Upward, upward, oh, so high;
  Onward, onward through the air,
  But I'll never tell you where.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Sleep, my baby, angel forms
  Are bending now above you,
  And mother dear is watching here,
  Who'll always guard and love you.
  Safe her baby boy she'll keep
  When the night-fall brings him sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Cuckoo, dear Cuckoo, has fallen so ill,
    And here on the ground he is lying.
  Oh, what shall we do the summer night through,
    When our own darling cuckoo is dying?

  At the earliest dawn we must send for the mole,
    And tell him that cuckoo has left us,
  He'll dig a deep grave where the willow-trees wave,
    While we mourn the sad fate that bereft us.

  The owl and the eagle, the parrot and dove,
    Will watch while the nightingale's singing,
  And solemn and slow, in tones soft and low,
    The funeral song will be ringing.



  A, B, C, D--oh, what fun!
  For our baby-school's begun.

  Little head will grow so wise,
  And how bright the big blue eyes!

  Little fingers soon will learn
  Pretty letters well to turn.

  A, B, C, D--oh, what fun!
  For our baby has begun.



     This is an old Mexican town. Many of the people live in adobe
     houses. Adobe is made of clay mixed with straw, moulded in frames,
     turned out on the ground, and sun-dried. Mamma says that the
     Mexican villages resemble those in Southern India, among the Tamil
     people. The Mexicans here are a mixed race, descended from
     Spaniards and Indians. There are families, however, of pure
     Castilian blood. The Mexicans are very kind, courteous, and
     hospitable. Some years ago papa and mamma went to Zuñi, and in
     doing so crossed the entire Territory of New Mexico. At night they
     encamped either in or near the different villages, and everywhere
     received nothing but kindness. Many of the women and little girls
     are very pretty indeed. They are fond of gay colors, and while a
     few wear hats, most prefer a scarf or a bright shawl, one end of
     which is thrown over the head, and forms a wrap for the neck and
     shoulders. Their food is very plain, consisting of mutton, coffee,
     bread, and beans. Nearly everybody owns a little burro, or donkey,
     though all do not possess horses. It is droll to see boys riding
     these docile little burros, with feet on either side almost
     touching the ground.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am an English boy twelve years old, but I have spent only two
     years of my life in England. I lived a year on the Isle of Jersey,
     in the English Channel, and when I was three years old came out to
     Virginia with my father and mother, two brothers, and two sisters.
     After we had lived here three years we went over to France. We
     staid in Rouen, which is a fine old city, with its cathedral and
     churches. We used to go rowing up and down the Seine, and sometimes
     took our dinner on an island in the middle of the river up toward
     Paris. I used to go nearly every morning with my father to the
     market on the very spot where Joan of Arc was burned by the
     English. I taught our French bonne to speak in English, but I could
     not speak plainly myself then, and taught her to count "one, two,
     free." We staid a year in Rouen, and then came out here again,
     where we have settled down.

     My eldest brother Hugh is in London, a student at Guy's Hospital.
     Two years ago he joined the Volunteers, and once he and his corps
     had luncheon, after a review, at Baron Rothschild's. The last time
     he wrote he was expecting to go out to Egypt as assistant surgeon.
     I hope he will go, as he will be able to tell me all about the
     fighting when he comes home.

     We have a little German Dachs-hund (badger-hound) that came all the
     way from Germany; his name is Fritz. Once we dug for rats with him,
     and he killed twenty-five. Wasn't that pretty good sport for one

     I like this country very much. I used to go fox-hunting with an
     English friend, but he has gone to New Zealand now. We fish in the
     James River, and catch plenty of black bass. I hope this letter is
     not so long that no room will be found for it in the Post-office
     Box. If I see it in print, I will write again and tell YOUNG PEOPLE
     how we camped out up in the mountains last month. Good-by.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I want to tell you of a parrot we used to have. Of course her name
     was Polly. She would sit on the fence, and if she saw any of the
     children playing in the water, she would call to them: "Get out of
     that water! Didn't I tell you not to play in that water? What's the
     matter with you, Polly? Are you crazy? Ha! take care of yourself
     now!" Then she would scream and flap her wings. At breakfast she
     would march into the dining-room, and walking around my chair,
     would say: "Come along, Harry--come along, get coffee. Did you have
     any coffee this morning, Polly? Ha! bad people in this house didn't
     give poor little Polly any coffee this morning." She would let me
     pull her tail; but if others attempted to do it, she would fly at
     them and bite them. One day she cut all the buttons off a pair of
     shoes, and when discovered she screamed, "What you want, ma'am?
     what you come here for?" She was very fond of swinging on the
     clothes-line, and would begin to scold herself, saying: "What are
     you doing on that line, Polly? Don't you hear me, Polly--don't you
     hear me talking to you? Get off that line this minute." We had an
     old colored nurse--Auntie we called her--who used to scold Polly in
     this way, and who would say, when she heard the parrot mocking her,
     that Polly was taking all the text off her. She could sing "Shoo
     Fly," and say many other funny things. We think HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE is just splendid.


Polly learned to scold because Auntie scolded her, did she? Some little
children learn cross words in the same way.

       *       *       *       *       *


Now that the evenings are growing long, some of you may like to hear of
a pleasant way of passing them. In capping verses, every one at the
table around which the players sit is supplied with a sheet of paper and
a pencil, and at the top of the paper is written by each player a line
of poetry, either original or from memory. The paper must then be folded
down so as to conceal what has been written, and passed on to the right;
at the same time the neighbor to whom it is passed must be told what is
the last word written in the concealed line. Every one must then write
under the folded paper a line to rhyme with the line above, being
ignorant, of course, of what it is. Thus the game is carried on until
the papers have gone once or twice around the circle, when they may be
opened and read aloud.


is another amusing game. After dividing the company into two equal
parts, one half leave the room. In their absence the remainder fix upon
a verb to be guessed by those who have gone out when they return. As
soon as the word is chosen, those outside are told with what word it
rhymes. They then consult together, and silently act the word they think
may be the right one. Supposing the verb thought of should have rhymed
with "sell," the others might come in and begin cutting down imaginary
trees with imaginary hatchets, but not uttering a single syllable. If
"fell" were the right word, the spectators would clap their hands, on
seeing what the actors were doing, as a sign that they were right in
their guess. But if "tell," or any other word, were chosen, they would
either hiss or solemnly shake their heads. While this play is going on
every one must be silent. Whoever speaks must pay a forfeit.

       *       *       *       *       *


     Brother Charley takes YOUNG PEOPLE, and we like it very much. Even
     mamma and papa like to read it. I like the letters. I have no pets,
     as we live near the school-house, and the bad boys either steal or
     kill them. I have eight dolls. The largest one is thirty-six inches
     long. Brother and I go to the Baptist Sunday-school, and last
     Easter the scholars all took playthings to the school as an Easter
     offering to the little poor children. The Ladies' Aid Society gave
     them out.


What a pity the boys who attend that school should be so cruel! I just
wish I could talk to them about their behavior. They need a missionary.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little boy just ten years old, and have been reading your
     excellent paper for some time. I can hardly wait for it to come.
     I'm so anxious to read the continued stories. I liked "Mr. Stubbs's
     Brother" ever so much, and think "The Cruise of the Canoe Club"
     splendid. I want to tell your readers about what fun we have had
     lately. My brother and I thought that we would have a circus. We
     put up an acting pole and trapeze, caught a mud-turtle and a
     pigeon, and had a spotted cat, which we exhibited for a leopard.
     This is my first letter, and I hope you will print it.


I would like to have visited your circus, Willie, and especially to have
seen the spotted cat. If I had been there I should have helped you all I

       *       *       *       *       *

Some little folks may be glad of a few hints at this season on the
subject of cultivating house plants:

     Though most persons like to see flowers in a room, comparatively
     few know exactly how to manage them so as to keep them healthy and
     fresh. Nothing is so delightful as to see plants in a window, and
     yet how common it is to discover them in a drooping and sickly
     condition, and all for the want of a little knowledge and care!

     Where the plants grow from a single stem--as in fuchsias,
     geraniums, etc.--it is a good plan to cover the mould with fresh
     green moss, which will hold a good quantity of moisture without
     injuring the plants. Never water the plants except when they really
     require it. This you may soon ascertain by simply putting your
     finger into the soil; when, if it feels moist, no water will be
     needed; but if the soil be dry, which will not happen more than
     every other day in autumn, or once a week in winter, then water the
     plants thoroughly, so that the moisture sinks right through the

     Never allow plants to stand in the water; that is, if your pots
     stand in saucers, take care to remove all the surplus water which
     runs through the soil. Never use pump water if you can obtain river
     or rain water; but if you can get only pump water, let it stand for
     two or three days in the open air previous to applying it to your

     The temperature of the room in which you place your plants should
     be as regular as possible, all extremes of heat and cold being
     destructive to good flowers. Let the plants stand near the window
     on mild sunny days, but in cold cloudy weather remove them to the
     middle of the room. When the day is warm, open the window, so as to
     give the plants the benefit of the fresh air, or remove them into
     the garden. Many of the hardier kinds of flowers will bloom well on
     the outer sill of the window from May to November. In sultry
     weather you must shade your choicest flowers from the direct rays
     of the sun, or they will get parched, and their blossoms will fall
     off. This is especially the case with the more delicate sorts of
     fuchsias and fancy geraniums; though the hardy plants of this kind
     stand a wonderful amount of ill usage before they cease to throw up
     flowers. You must constantly examine your flowers to see that their
     pots do not get too full of roots. You may easily discover whether
     this is the case by turning the pot upside down, when a slight tap
     will loosen the mould, and leave the plant and its soil in your
     hand in one compact mass. If you find that the roots run in
     irregular circles over the surface of the mould, it is a sign that
     the pot is too small, and your flower must be shifted to a larger

     It will be well occasionally to sprinkle a little water over the
     foliage of your plants, which should always be kept fresh and
     clean. Some of the larger leaves of geraniums and other plants will
     want now and then to be cleansed of the dust, which will accumulate
     about them, with a sponge or soft flannel; or you may give them a
     good wetting by means of a syringe with a fine rose top, taking
     care to avoid the flowers that are in full bloom. Flower buds,
     however, thrive well by being constantly refreshed. Twenty drops of
     liquid manure added to a quart of water will be found useful in
     hastening the blooming of flowers. This mixture must, however, be
     applied to the soil, and not to the plant. A good and safe
     stimulant may be made of four ounces of ammonia, two ounces of
     nitre, and one ounce of brown sugar, dissolved in a pint of boiling
     water. This solution, when cold, is to be put in a stoppered
     bottle, and added to the water you use for your plants in the
     proportion of a tea-spoonful to a gallon. Generally, however,
     ordinary rain-water, not too cold, will suffice to keep in-door
     plants in good condition. If you notice that blossoms fall off
     before they are fully developed, it is a sure mark that the plant
     is sickly, and needs removal to a larger pot, or into the open air;
     but if you attend to the above directions, your favorite flowers
     can scarcely fail to prosper.

     For the outside of windows nothing is prettier than ornamental
     boxes of mignonette, with a climbing rose or a canary creeper, or
     even a few pots of convolvulus or creeping-jenny.

     The best plants for in-door culture are fuchsias, geraniums,
     calceolarias, begonias, balsams, cinerarias, dwarf roses,
     heliotropes, campanulas, hydrangeas, stocks, and mignonette; while,
     if you are fond of bulbs, a choice variety of tulips, crocuses,
     lilies, jonquils, hyacinths, scillas, etc., may be reared in
     separate pots, and then transplanted carefully and tastefully into
     that pretty receptacle for Nature's loveliest children, the
     ornamental flower-basket.

       *       *       *       *       *


     We had a picnic in papa's grove some time ago, and had a nice time.
     It is seven and a half miles from here. I have just begun taking
     music lessons, and I think music is very hard. My auntie takes
     YOUNG PEOPLE for me, and I think it is just splendid. I have no
     pets but a little sister named Pansy.

  MIRA K. A.

Poor darling! so you find music hard. Never mind, it will be easier
after a while, and you will have a great deal of pleasure in playing for
papa when he comes home tired at night. Your exchange will appear with
the others on the cover.

       *       *       *       *       *

Complaints reach us from time to time that some of our exchangers act
very unfairly toward each other. In some instances large and valuable
articles have been sent, for which the owners have received nothing in
return. We wish to call attention to our standing notice at the head of
the exchange columns. In every case, boys and girls, write to the person
with whom you wish to exchange, and send nothing until you have received
his reply. Arrange all details fully by correspondence.

Please be very sure that you have sufficiently stamped the articles you
send through the mail. For want of postage your much-prized treasures
may be sent to the Dead-letter Office, and you may be blaming a person
wrongfully for not making the right return.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONSTANT READER.--A wooden wedding celebrates the fifth anniversary of
marriage. After ten years comes the tin wedding. The silver wedding is
kept at the end of twenty-five years, and the fortunate people who are
spared together for fifty years are entitled to a golden wedding. For
the anniversaries which fall between these dates any pretty and tasteful
article you choose will be appropriate.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.



     The officers of the Indiana State Fair last year offered a prize of
     a ten-dollar suit of clothes to the boy under fourteen years of age
     who should saw the largest pile of wood in a given time.

     You may be sure that many boys who hated the sight of a wood-pile
     now began to exercise their muscles, and vigorously set to work to
     earn the prize. One of the ladies on the committee told me that her
     own son worked night and morning for a week before the fair, trying
     to persuade the family that he would stand a chance for the prize.
     And when the day came round he left his breakfast untasted, so
     anxious was he to get to the grounds and begin the race.

     At least a dozen boys entered the lists with their saws, but one by
     one they dropped off, thoroughly exhausted. There were but two
     others left when the little fellow of whom I told you gave up the

     "He went off and lay down," said his mother, "the sorriest
     spectacle you ever saw."

     The two remaining boys now bent all their energies to conquer each
     other. The wood fairly flew from under their hands, and their saws
     kept up a humming noise, and seemed to drive their sharp teeth into
     the hard wood with a never-say-die spirit.

     Minute after minute went by, and not a word was spoken. Sparks of
     fire sometimes flew from the heated metal. The boys glanced at each
     other like lightning flashes.

     Oh, how hard they worked! They forgot the prize; I think they
     forgot everything except that so many people were looking at them,
     and it would never do to fail.

     At last the stroke of one saw began to waver. It grew more and more
     feeble, and looking at the little arm that guided it, they saw that
     he was yielding. He flung down the saw at last, and closing his
     lips desperately over his disappointment, walked hurriedly away.
     The other boy worked the allotted time, and received the prize.

     He was barely twelve years old, but it was no new thing for him to
     saw wood. His father had been dead for many years, and he had often
     sawed wood to earn money to help support his mother and his little

     And what do you think happened to this little sister that day? She
     got a prize too. Yes, she had been taught to do something useful
     for her mother and brother.

     There was a prize offered for the best _patchwork_ by children
     under twelve, and this little girl had mended her own poor clothes
     ever so many times, and put patches upon her brother's, in the long
     evenings. So when she heard of the offer of the prize, she said to
     herself, "Brother will saw wood; why may not I take some
     patchwork?" And with her mother's consent she took a pair of her
     brother's pants which she had neatly patched and mended, and her
     work took the premium.

     "A five-dollar hat!" She could hardly believe her senses at first
     when they told her, but there were few happier children in the
     world than this little brother and sister, who started down town to
     "pick out" a hat and a suit of clothes. Mr. Woodsaw walked as
     proudly as a peacock when he had trimmed himself up in his new
     suit, and Miss Patchwork, in her beautiful hat, with flower and
     feather, looked as sweet as a rose. Their feet seemed to have
     wings, and they flew along the street.

     "Oh, look, mother, look!" they cried, as soon as they were in sight
     of the door; but the curious people could not see their mother's
     joy, for she closed the door instantly upon the outside world, and
     held _her_ prize boy and girl to her happy heart.

I am sure that everybody will read this true story with a feeling of
satisfaction that the prizes were won by a brother and sister who so
thoroughly deserved them. But I want you to notice two or three things.
The little fellows who tried wood-sawing, simply to get the prize, for
two or three weeks, were distanced by a lad who had made wood-sawing his
business. He had helped his widowed mother by working in a manly way,
and so he had a great deal more strength than if he had taken up the
work for mere amusement. The little sister, too, had done the hardest of
all patchwork when she mended her brother's old jackets and pants. I
felt so pleased that she gained the prize, and I am sure the other girls
who tried were glad to see her sweet face under her pretty hat at
Sunday-school next Sunday. The boy who started off without his breakfast
made a mistake. When you have hard work to do, or a journey to go upon,
or a tough problem to solve, always take a good breakfast if you can.
Excitement will not take the place of food. Finally, dears, I think the
boys who honestly tried, and failed, were worthy of a great deal of
credit. It is no disgrace to be beaten after you have done the very best
you can.

       *       *       *       *       *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to Mrs. John Lillie's
interesting article entitled "Papa Haydn," and "What the Showman Did not
Tell," by Mr. William H. Rideing. The latter article contains a great
deal of information which our boys and girls will probably remember
better by hearing it from the "Showman" than if they had learned it in
volumes on Natural History.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


1.--1. Danger. 2. A species of hard wood. 3. A pirate. 4. To inoculate,
as a tree or bud. 5. Certain stringed instruments.

2.--1. A satellite. 2. To join. 3. A salt. 4. Endless. 5. Long-winged
aquatic fowls.


3.--1. A very small particle. 2. A river in England. 3. The beginning of
many old stories. 4. Gentle.

4.--1. A garden. 2. A bird. 3. Duration. 4. A Roman Emperor.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.



  My first a lofty station holds,
    My second holds a lowly;
  But each has care enough to share,
    And earns his living wholly.
  My whole's a bird with pinions free,
  You'll see him often near the sea.



  My first is what you're doing now,
    My second's made of stone;
  Within my whole you often gaze,
    And longest when you are alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


1.--1. A letter. 2. Fleshy. 3. Covered in front. 4. Terse. 5. Stretched.
6. To expire. 7. A letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. A covering. 3. A city in Egypt. 4. A despicable
knave. 5. A mark made by impression. 6. Frequently. 7. A letter.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


1.--1. To dazzle. 2. To throw away. 3. To question. 4. A prefix. 5. A

2.--1. An incident. 2. A climbing plant. 3. To finish. 4. Not. 5. A

3.--1. A prickly shrub. 2. To run swiftly. 3. Something often done to
cake. 4. Two vowels. 5. A letter.

  J. M. ILES and C. M. EYRES.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

  M O O N   S W A N
  O H I O   W A N E
  O I L S   A N N A
  N O S E   N E A R

  P A P E R
  A L I V E
  P I N E S
  E V E N T
  R E S T S

No. 2.


No. 3.

Golden-rod. Crocus. Hickory. Aster.

No. 4.

Bunker Hill Monument.

Kite. Number. Home. Mullen. Lent.

No. 5.

Esther. Ida. Hilda. Edith. Mabel. Eliza.

Ella. Ellen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from D. T. O., William A.
Lewis, Eddie S. Hequembourg, Frederica Wortmann, Mabel Keith, Samuel H.
Molleson, Ada McCoy, Anna Griffith, Fuller Whiting, Jack Tice, Harry
Johnston, David Sanderson, "Princess Feather," "Eureka," Ernest Frantz,
"Puss Lester," Helen M., Archie Dixon, Phebe D., "Faithful Readers,"
"June Bug," Malcolm P. Black, Arthur Bates, Mollie Preston, and W.

       *       *       *       *       *

[_For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover._]

WIGGLE No. 29.]

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enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.