[to be continued.]
[GOOD TIMES AT THE HORSE SHOW.]
BY WALTER CLARK NICHOLS.
It was really the young people who enjoyed most keenly the eleventh annual Horse Show in New York two weeks ago. Even the horses could have told you that; for the best-bred and wisest among all the well-bred and wise ones that were there on exhibition knew that it was in the daytime, when the boys and girls were out in force, that they, the horses, received the undivided attention.
It was all very brilliant in the evening, when the glittering lights around the vast dome of the great Garden gleamed upon the red, yellow, and white bunting, and shone down on a wonderful scene of splendor—beautiful women in gorgeous gowns, handsome men in evening dress, in the seats—thousands and thousands of them—and a thick crowd of people constantly moving around the promenade surrounding the large tan-bark arena. But it was so brilliant and so crowded that few people could or would see the horses. They came to see and be seen, and many a prize-winning horse must have felt very discontented at not receiving the attention which he felt due to him.
But it was very different in the mornings and afternoons, when the attendance was much smaller, when the young folks were out, in full force, and when the interest of each was centred gleefully or excitedly on the events in the ring. Here you would see some keen young sportsman of thirteen recounting earnestly to his girl friends, younger than himself, why such a horse won, what his "points" were, and what his "father said." Probably in ten years he will be "jumping fences" with his hunter in the evening events at the show, and talking to those same girls, then women-grown. Over there a nurse would have in tow two youngsters whose father has a big stock-farm. Hardly an event came along on the programme but one of "papa's horses" was entered, and as they breathlessly watched these horses shown "through their paces," their comments more than audible, the children's excitement reached fever-heat when the blue ribbon, the sign of the first prize, was given to one of their father's entries. You would see there at the Garden in the afternoon boys and girls just out from school chattering freely their comments, and nurses with little tots who scarce could gurgle out a pleased "Horsy!" Once in a while, at the eastern end of the building, you might observe, shyly peeping in at the moving horses and the gayly dressed children, more poorly clad young people, friends of some of the grooms, who had smuggled them in at the back door for a "look at the show." Though the hackney, the hunter, the tandem, and other competitions were, of course, watched closely by the young people, the keenest and most gleeful interest was shown in the ponies, and particularly in the little Shetland horses, of which there were more exhibited this year than ever before.
Even the big hunters and coach horses felt a trifle jealous in their stalls down-stairs, for the children came from the main floor, and passed the big fellows by to feast their eyes on the dear little ponies and cunning Shetland horses. Some of the ponies were stalled at the east and north sides of the basement, among their larger brothers, and how provoked the latter would look, how angrily they would twitch about, when a bevy of youngsters devoted their pleased attention to a little brown pony in a neighboring stall, patting him and caressing him! You could almost hear the great beast say: "What, that insignificant little chap? All your attention for him, only one-quarter my size and one-tenth my strength?"
But it was towards the western wing of the basement that the daytime patter of the young people's footsteps was loudest. For here all the Shetlands and many of the ponies were daintily and comfortably housed, here were all the groom-servants they could wish to attend to their wants, and so many callers waiting to be introduced that you might have thought each a young débutante at her coming-out tea. There were gray and black, brown and white ponies, their silky skin and cropped manes contrasting strangely with the shaggy hair and long tumbled tresses of their Shetland neighbors. They were haughtier, too, and bore their petting, of which there was much, more proudly.
The Shetlands were the democrats of the establishment. No fine feathers and coxcomb airs for them! No clipping of the tails to put them in fashion! But there they were, as rough and as long-haired, as fearsome and as kind, as were their ancestors fifty years ago in the bleak Shetland Islands to the northeast of Scotland. Very eager for attention were they all, and every now and then, after a particularly large number of pattings and caressings had been showered on them, they would half turn their heads and whinny out thankful recognitions. Happiest of all were several Shetland mothers with their wee colts beside them, and as the exclamations of delight over the tiny little horse came to each mother's ear, she would turn, and as much as say to her young audience, "Ah! was there ever such a child as mine?"
Shetland ponies, you must know, never really existed in the United States till about thirty years ago, when two small herds were brought over from their native isles to Beliot, Wisconsin, and Allegheny City, Pennsylvania. Since that time they have so increased that there are to-day over two thousand ponies regularly registered in an association which is composed of all the leading owners of Shetland stock farms in the United States. The largest of these is the ranch owned by Mr. J. Murray Hoag, at Maquoketa, Iowa. Here between three and four hundred ponies have their grazing-ground and stalls, and from here they are shipped, when sold, to the various cities, East and West. They are bought almost exclusively for children in the larger cities, and the average price paid for a pony is about $200, somewhat more than an ordinary horse brings. The average height of a Shetland pony is forty inches. Some of them when born are very tiny, and one little Shetland baby, the smallest ever known, weighed but sixteen pounds, when a day old. And a few days afterwards one of the girls on the farm carried him around as she would a puppy. To the little Shetland baby the girl of fifteen probably appeared as one of the giant women did to Gulliver when he was on his travels.
The temporary home of the Shetland horses and the other ponies, down in the basement of the Madison Square Garden, was filled with excitement before each of the events in which some were to take part. The unfastening of chains, the rushing around of grooms, and the mild beat of small hoofs out of the door told the rest that some of their large household were on their way to the ring upstairs to compete for the prize. And there were very few that did not take part in more than one of the many competitions for ordinary ponies and for Shetlands. There were prizes for ponies of various sizes, led by grooms and driven to carts; for colts, and for older ponies; and for pairs of ponies driven to Park traps.
But best of all, from the children's as well as the grown people's stand-point, was the competition for the best Shetland herd of five or six, including mothers and any little colts they might have. What a bustle there was down-stairs as the different ponies, composing the three herds trying for the competition, were let out of their stalls and led or driven up the inclined board walk to the arena entrance! But what a time it was for three baby Shetlands, scarcely three or four months old, who accompanied their mothers upstairs! Patter, patter, patter went the hoofs up the boards. Frightened and shy, the little fellows kept close to their mothers, and almost hid themselves as they came to the entrance of the ring.
Then, as their fathers and mothers trooped in as sedately as Shetland horses ever can walk, their heads proudly arched, and their manes waving gracefully, on trial for the prize which was to go to the best family of the three, a funny thing happened. The tiny Shetland colts, who had been cooped up with their mothers in a narrow stall all the week, began to open their eyes with excitement. They saw a huge tan-bark ring in a great building, plenty of air and space for a romp.
Scat! As if shot from a bow each little woolly horse scampered away, past its father and mother, who, as they were judged, vainly endeavored to stop their scapegoat children by a reproving neigh. Faster and faster flashed the hoofs around the arena. It was a series of races in which each began when he wished and stopped when he chose. Now they would roll over in the delicious tan-bark and spoil their fuzzy coats, with a dim consciousness, perhaps, that maternal scoldings would follow their actions. Not a whit did they care as they capered gleefully to forget a week's confinement. The spirit of their hill-climbing, wild, fearless Scotch ancestors was in them.
The audience, which had clapped mildly before this, began to applaud enthusiastically and to cheer at the gambols of the Shetland infants. Two of them, somewhat scared, went to their respective families. But the third, a mass of black furry deviltry, only played and scampered the harder, and dually capped the climax by a leap on the platform where the judges themselves were. Shout after shout greeted this feat, and then he too became scared and ran straight to his mother. She, however, did not rebuke him, but only said, as he nestled timidly beside her, "Never mind this time, my son, for our family has won the prize!"
The little colt, hardly half the size of a St. Bernard dog, seemed to understand, for as he scampered proudly along by his mother when the family went down stairs again, his manner seemed to say: "All right, mother. But you just wait till I am grown up. What a horse I'll be then!" And the children, as they left the great amphitheatre where such fun had been in store for them for the days past, as they thought of the driving and the hunting and the jumping and the other great things they would do in later years, appeared to voice the same sentiment, "Just wait till we are grown up!"
THE JUDGING RING OF THE HORSE SHOW.
[INEXPENSIVE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.]
BY JANE GRANT.
If our purses were only as large as our hearts, how good it would be; but most often the biggest heart owns the smallest purse. There is no meanness in inexpensive Christmas presents, and no one will bethink of the money value of your dainty gift. Bits of silk or velvet, when not found in the family scrap-bag, are obtainable at any milliner's for about fifty cents per pound.
A pretty pin-cushion is soon made of a small Japanese "cat basket," which may be gilded, in the mouth of which is put a velvet cushion.
A key-bag is absolutely necessary to the housekeeper or traveller. It is made of chamois-skin, lined with a bit of brown silk, with a double drawing-string closing the mouth. From an old kid glove cut the letters "KEY," and sew them diagonally across the front of the bag.
Sachets are always acceptable, and a dainty one is made by covering a bag of lavender flowers with a slip of white linen, on which are embroidered the words "Sweet Lavender," and a few scattered flowers.
Grandma will gratefully accept a black silk bag in which to carry her Prayer-book, spectacles, and handkerchief to church.
A scrap of pretty silk or embroidered linen bound with narrow ribbon transforms an ordinary pin-book into a dainty ornament for the dressing-table.
Out of a pretty embroidered handkerchief, such as is sold in any shop, a combined sachet and handkerchief case is made by folding the four corners to the centre, embroidering scattered flowers and the word "Mouchoir" on the corners.
A stick-pin cushion is made of an egg or heart shaped cushion covered with a bit of silk, edged with a frill of lace, and suspended by strings of baby-ribbon.
To make a catch-all, sew three Japanese baskets in a triangle, line each with a bit of silk and cover, and join with a bow.
A spectacle-case is easily made of a twelve-inch piece of one and a half inch black ribbon doubled to form a bag, to which are added strings of baby-ribbon.
An old-fashioned braid pin-ball is made by cutting six pieces of colored dress braid each four inches long. Sewn together with fringed edges, the seams are covered with cat-stitch, and a ball of hair makes the cushion.
A sheet of yellow tissue-paper, some fine wire, two black beads for eyes, and a bit of pasteboard cut in the shape of a huge butterfly, may be soon transformed into a pretty lamp shade.
Cover two five-inch circles of card-board with silk or embroidered linen, fasten on each side by a few stitches, add ribbon strings and bow, and, behold! a whisk-broom-holder.
For a Prayer-book mark a yard of inch-wide ribbon, either cardinal, purple, or lavender, and cut into three pieces with fringed ends. Pass through a small brass ring, fasten with a few stitches, and on each ribbon write with gold paint the words "Gospel," "Collects," "Epistle," etc.
From the girl who knows how to knit, a pair of white wool bed-socks or silk wristers will be a welcome present.
Particularly appropriate to Yule-tide is a poker or tongs holder, well padded, covered with dark velvet, on which are embroidered the words "Ye Fireside Companion."
A holder to keep the pages of music open on the rack is made of ribbon in bag form ten inches by one inch. Fill with small shot, fringe the ends, and tie with baby-ribbon.
Two yards of blue jeans make a splendid play-rug for baby. Line with an old blanket, and sew on the jeans figures of birds, beasts, and letters cut from bright cloth.
Handkerchiefs are always dainty gifts, especially for sending by mail to distant friends. A sheer handkerchief already hemstitched may be ornamented with a band of drawn-work, a strip of insertion with lace edging, or the monogram, favorite flower, or name flower of the future owner.
No matter how small the gift, it is the loving thought and friendly wish which are appreciated by the receiver.
[A CASE OF PURE PLUCK.]
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
Outside of Life-Saving Station No. 5 it was blowing a whole gale of wind. The sky was a flying tangle of ragged gray clouds that were driving at dizzy speed down into the southwest before the mad force of the northeaster. The beach was a desert of flying sand that struck the face of the staggering patrolman like a thousand red-hot needles. The ocean itself was a wilderness of writhing waters. The seas were running high, and the gale was tearing off their foaming crests and sending them swirling down to leeward in sheets of smokelike spoondrift. But the offing was clear of sails, and the life-saving crew sat in the cheery living-room of the station and smoked their pipes at ease.
"It's a-blowin' putty fresh," said old Dan Ferns. "It sort o' 'minds me o' the night the Dora A. Baker came ashore. That was twenty-five year ago, an' her ribs is stickin' out down there now. They get covered up in these here big gales, but the pond runs out an' scoops the channel right through 'em sometimes. I remember the wrack o' the Dora A. Baker jess as if 'twas yistiddy. She was loaded with corn an'—"
"Say, Dan," said Sammy Wardell, the youngest member of the crew, "I remember hearin' Wall Green say ten year ago that you'd been a-tellin' that yarn fur twelve year."
"Anyhow," said Dan, "her skipper had real pluck, he did, an' when the corn—"
"Oh, stow it, Dan! Stow it!" came a general chorus. Then Henry Slocum, the only member of the crew who had been a deep-water sailor, and who was noted for his reserve, suddenly spoke.
"I don't know what you fellows call pluck exactly," he said, with fine unconsciousness of the fact that he was talking to some of the bravest men alive; "but I'll bet I saw a case once that none of you can trump."
"Let's have it, old shell-back," exclaimed the Captain.
The other men knew that Slocum's experience at sea had been extensive and varied, so they settled themselves in their chairs to hear a yarn.
"This is a true story," began Slocum, "that I'm going to tell you—"
"O' course," interjected Dan Ferns; "all sea-yarns is true."
"And it all happened," continued Slocum, ignoring the interruption, "a good thirty years ago. It ain't so very much of a story, either, but it's a case of real pluck, and so it's worth telling about. I suppose some of you fellows may know that New Bedford, Massachusetts, used to be a whaling-port. Well, thirty years ago the business wasn't as near dead as it is now, and once in a while a man that had a notion for throwing an iron might get a chance to ship for high latitudes. I don't remember exactly how it was that I came to be knocking about up there without anything to do—"
"Waal, Hen, we won't ask no questions," said Dan Ferns.
"But, anyhow," continued Henry, who never paid any attention to Dan, "there I was. I had about made up my mind to work my way to New York on a coaster when I happened to see a bill which said that men were wanted for the celebrated whaler Duke of Wellington. Somehow or other the name caught my fancy, and I read the bill through. It told all about the fine grub and clothes that they were to furnish, but I'll allow that I wasn't fooled by that rubbish. I knew pretty well what to expect in the forecastle of any ship outside of Uncle Sam's navy—salt-horse, weevily biscuit, and tea made out of sawdust. But I got a notion that I'd like to go to the arctic and see some whale-chasing. So I went down and took a look at this Duke of Wellington. She was a wall-sided old hooker, with a stern that looked like an ace of hearts painted black, and a main-yard half as long as her keel. But her bow was clever, and made her look as if the great spread of canvas promised by her yards would carry her up to whaleland in good time. While I was hanging around the wharf looking at her, and expressing by my face the sort of an opinion I had of the way her crew went about their work, a mean-looking fellow came up to me and asked me if I didn't want to ship. He turned out to be the shipping-agent, and he said he knew I was a sailor, and they needed one or two more old hands to set that green crew going. So I up and shipped, and in less than six months I wished I hadn't, because I didn't expect ever to see green grass again.
"It was a bright and glorious morning about the end of May when we passed Clark's Point bound out. The wind was brisk westerly, and the old man clapped the cloth on her. I found she had the heels I suspected, for we were less than an hour in doing the nine knots to Quick's Hole. Then we squared away up the Vineyard Sound, and when night fell we had doubled Menomoy Point and were at sea. I'm not going to tell you about life aboard that whaler, except to say that most of the hands were green, and that made it pretty steep work for the others. In a month the green hands could go aloft and reef and furl, and they knew where to find the halyards, sheets, and tacks. When it came to a job of splicing or sewing, why, the sailormen had to do it. We had fairly good weather up to the entrance to Davis Strait, where we fell in with a gale. After that our old man got crazy to push to the north, and so away we went. At Upernavik we took aboard four Esquimau guides. One of them was a boy called Toko; and this miserable sawed-off little savage is the fellow that afterward showed us all how to be plucky. He could talk a good deal of English, but he seemed to be a very quiet boy, and seldom said anything till he was spoken to. He actually seemed to be stupid; but we found out in good time that all he needed was to be waked up.
"I must get on with this yarn or it'll be as long as Dan Ferns's story of the Dora A. Baker. We worked our way well up into Baffin Bay—or maybe it was Smith Sound. I've always had a notion that we were a good deal further north than the old man was willing to admit. Anyhow, it came about that all of a sudden we discovered that it was getting pretty close to the edge of the arctic winter, and that we were in danger of being shut in by the ice. So now the old man began to push her for the south with all the cloth she'd carry. But the second day it came on to blow right dead ahead. Before night it was a howling gale, and to add to the terror of our situation we could hear the terrific grinding and crashing of the ice away off in the darkness all around us. The Esquimaux huddled together in sheltered spots, but refused to leave the deck. The night passed at last, and when morning dawned it showed us a raging, crazy sea, with ice all around the horizon.
"Well, boys, gradually that ice came nearer and nearer. It was something dreadful to watch it. We knew that we were driving to leeward pretty fast, and that accounted for the approach of the ice on that side; but think how fast that ice up to windward must have been moving to gain on us the way it did. We were helpless, and when at last we drove against the ice, we could do very little indeed. We struck with a great crash, and our fore-royal and mizzen-topgallant-masts went by the board. We made up our minds that we were bound for Davy Jones's locker, when along came another big sea and forced the ship bodily right up on the ice. The ice to windward gradually closed in, and the next day there we were, shut in hard and tight in a field of broken and jagged ice, and with bergs all around us.
"Well, there was nothing for it but to prepare to stay where we were until spring. Then began the terrible business of living through the winter. And it was then that Toko woke up. As our spirits began to go down, his began to rise. The other Esquimaux were contented to sit and wait, but he had pluck. 'Give Toko gun,' he said, 'he get fresh meat.' We gave him a gun, and away he went over the ice and through the blinding snow with the unerring instinct of a savage. The very first day he came back as far as the summit of a hummock half a mile away, and waved his arms. Some of us went to him, and he led us to a polar bear which he had killed single-handed. We dragged the carcass home, and feasted on the juicy steaks. The next day he found a crevice in the ice and killed a seal that had come up. But as the long days moved by on leaden feet we became listless and discouraged. Bill Hedding fell sick and, after lingering three weeks, passed away. We were a dispirited lot after that. But not Toko. He said: 'Not give up. Spring come again. Ice open. Get away in boats. Toko show the way.' But we shook our heads, and did not believe him. He danced strange dances and sang strange songs for us, while the other Esquimaux looked on with grave disapproval. He staid up night after night keeping watch to see that polar bears did not get aboard and attack our scanty provisions. He cooked and hunted for us. He told us the legends of his people, and gave us regular lectures on the habits of arctic animals. More men fell sick, and that tireless boy with the figure of an India-rubber doll and the face of a Chinese idol found time to nurse them, to pat them on the back, and to bid them keep their courage up through all the ghastly gloom of that arctic night.
"'Byme-by lights'—he meant the aurora—'go out in sky,' he would say; 'bears go 'way an' birds fly. Den soon daylight come 'long, an' byme-by he sun come up. Den crack! de ice break, an' we get away. Dat be spring.'
"Boys, I once read about a prisoner who was shut up in a tower in France for twenty years, and I began to feel like that fellow. I guess we all did, for when the light did begin to dawn again, and there were signs of spring, we were all so utterly hopeless that we didn't have spirit enough to get up and set to work. We knew that the ship was a wreck underneath, and we hadn't courage for the struggle in boats to the southward. But Toko never rested till he had got some of us on our feet and set us moving. Action breeds activity, I've been told; and it's a fact that the more we worked the more we wanted to work. Finally one day we heard a series of reports like the firing of great guns.
"'De ice! De ice! Him break!' cried Toko, dancing about. 'See! Dere water! Water!'
"'All hands to the boats!' shouted the Captain."
WITH THE STRENGTH OF GIANTS WE FORCED OUR BOATS OVER THE ROUGH ICE.
"Men, I've seen fellows work desperately; but we were like crazed people. With the strength of giants we forced our boats over the rough ice till they reached open water. Then we set up a great cry of joy, and all of us embraced Toko. Next we set sail for the south. In three weeks we reached an Esquimau settlement, where men were found to guide us on our way. And then Toko fell in a swoon.
"'He not eat enough,' said an old native, gravely, after examining him.
"We found it to be true. The brave boy had half starved himself while providing for the needs of the rest of us. Fellows, we didn't leave that settlement till Toko was well enough to go with us. We took him back to his home, and I don't believe there was a man of us that didn't shed tears, when we parted from him, after securing passage on a homeward-bound whaler."
"By gosh!" exclaimed Dan Ferns, "he was a plucky little cuss, but—"
"Tumble out, lads!" came the hoarse voice of the patrol, as he put his head into the room. "Here's a schooner drivin' on with her foremast gone."
And the yarn-spinners became life-savers once more.
