[to be continued.]
[AN ENCHANTED SHIP; OR, THE DUTCH CAPTAIN'S DEVICE.]
BY DAVID KER.
"Sail on the starboard bow!"
"What is she?" asked Captain Martin Pieterszoon, looking anxiously in that direction; for in the Eastern seas, two hundred years ago, every strange sail was a terror to the captain of a well-laden Dutch merchantman.
"Can't quite make her out yet," answered the look-out at the mast-head; "looks like a brigantine—very rakish cut altogether."
The Captain's face darkened, and his lips tightened. They tightened still more a few minutes later, when the look-out hailed again, "She's an armed brigantine, bearing right down upon us."
Every face among the crew seemed to harden suddenly, but no one spoke. Indeed, what need was there of words? All on board understood in a moment what was before them. They were about to be attacked by pirates, and there was not a single cannon—not even an old musket—aboard the vessel.
It was a terrible moment for them all—more terrible still for the poor Captain. For years he had been toiling and saving, bearing every kind of hardship, and facing every kind of danger, until he made enough money to become part owner of the ship that he commanded. He had made three successful trips in her, and was now going home for good, to settle himself in a snug little house on the great canal at Amsterdam, with rosy-cheeked Gredel Voort, his old neighbor's only daughter, for his wife. And now, all in a moment, he found himself face to face with a hideous peril, which threatened him with the loss of all he had in the world, and his life to boot.
The crew stood looking moodily at the approaching vessel, which came sweeping over the bright blue sea with its huge white sails outspread like the wings of a swan—a perfect picture of beauty, though it brought death along with it. Some of the bolder spirits were already beginning to mutter to each other that it would be better to set fire to their own ship, and die like men, than be flung into the sea like dogs, when the Captain's gloomy face suddenly lighted up as nobody had ever seen it light up yet, and he burst into such a loud, hearty laugh that the doomed men stood amazed to hear him.
"Cheer up, lads," he cried, still laughing; "all's not over with us yet. Come, knock the head out of that cask of butter, and smear the deck with it—sharp, now!"
The men only stared blankly at him, thinking he had gone mad, and even the stolid mate opened his heavy mouth in amazement.
"Do you hear?" shouted the Captain. "Look sharp, will you? there's no time to lose. Grease the whole deck fore and aft, and the rigging too as high as you can reach. We'll give these rascals a slippery job of it, anyhow."
Then the sailors began to understand, and the shout of laughter that broke forth would have mightily astonished the pirates had they been within hearing. In a twinkling the deck was greased until it fairly shone, bulwarks and all.
"Now, boys," cried the Captain, "on with your sea-boots, and put sand on the soles to keep you from slipping, and then each of you take a handspike, and be ready."
The pirate was now so near that they could see quite plainly the rabble of gaunt, sinewy Malays, woolly-headed negroes, and sallow, black-haired Portuguese that crowded her decks. A few minutes more, and she ran alongside, and almost before the two vessels had touched, three wild figures leaped from the pirate's rigging upon the merchantman's deck.
But it was a very unlucky jump for all three. The first man spun across the slippery deck as if it had been a skating rink, and went right out into the sea on the other side. The second tumbled head-foremost down the hatchway into the cook's galley, where the black cook considerately piled a heap of iron pans on him to keep him quiet.
"Aha, Massa Pirate," said he, grinning, "dis ship no de Flying Dutchman, him de Sliding Dutchman!"
The third pirate had leaped on board as fiercely as if he meant to kill the whole crew at one blow; but the only man he hurt was himself, for he hit his head such a whack against the mast that he almost knocked his brains out, and fell down roaring with pain. All this so frightened the other pirates that they thought the ship must be bewitched, and rushing back to their own vessel with a howl of dismay, made off as fast as possible.
For many years after, one of the familiar sights of Amsterdam was a portly old gentleman with a jolly red face, at sight of whom the boys used to begin singing,
"Captain Martin Pieterszoon
Made his ship a buttered bun,"
and his wife was never tired of showing the huge silver butter-dish presented to him in honor of his repulse of the pirate with a cask of butter.
[INDIAN CHILDREN.]
Although Indian children have their games and good times as well as their more civilized brothers and sisters, they also have much hard work to do, and are taught to help their poor tired mothers almost as soon as they learn to walk. One of the principal duties of Indian children is that of supplying their camp or village with water. These camps are always near a river or stream, for of course wandering tribes of Indians can not have wells or cisterns, and from the river the children must carry up to the lodges all the water used in cooking.
In this work they call to their aid their playmates, the dogs, always plentiful in Indian villages. To the collars of the dogs are fastened two long light poles, one on each side, that drag on the ground some distance behind them. On these poles, about half way to the ground, is fixed the kettle or earthen jar that is to be filled with water, and then the dogs are driven down to the river.
Some of the larger boys have ponies, to which they attach heavier poles in the same way that the light ones are fastened to the dogs, and on which they can carry as much as a barrel of water at a time.
At the river-side the children have great fun while filling their various jars and kettles; they duck and splash each other, run, scream, laugh, and often forget entirely that the village is waiting for its daily supply of water, until the shrill voice of some squaw mother warns them that they are neglecting their duty, and if they do not attend to it at once they will have to suffer the consequences.
GETTING WATER FOR THE VILLAGE—Drawn by W. M. Cary.
The sketch for the accompanying picture was made in Dakota one bright morning last summer, and represents the children of a Sioux village near Fort Berthold, going down to the Missouri River with their dogs and ponies for a supply of water. These dogs look more like wolves than the dogs to which we are accustomed, and to strangers or those whom they regard as enemies they are very savage, but with their little Indian masters they are very patient, and from them will bear any amount of abuse.
The jars that the children are filling are made by their mothers from the clay of the river-banks, and resemble in shape those borne on the heads of the Egyptian women who carry water on the banks of the Nile.
[SO VERY STRANGE.]
BY CHARLES BARNARD.
It was the office-boy who heard it all. He told it to the janitor, and the janitor told it to the night-watchman. Both of them said they never heard anything like it.
"Ghosts and spooks and spirits ain't anything to it," said the watchman.
"You ought to know," said the janitor. "You prowl about here all night."
"I never heard a single book say a thing, much less a lot of letters."
Then the office-boy had to tell the whole story all over again.
The letters had come up from the office, and were laid on the desk ready for the editor of Harper's Young People, when the office-boy came into the room. All the letters had been cut open, and lay in a heap on the desk, and the boy was just going to take one up, when he heard a thin, rustling, papery voice speak right out, and say, "Can't you let a fellow out?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy, opening the door.
There was no one there. Besides all that, the doors were all unlocked, and any one who wished to do so could get out. The office-boy thought it was very queer, and he went back to the desk and sat down.
"Oh, come now, I say! Do let a fellow out."
The office-boy jumped right out of the chair, and said, "Yes, sir."
Well! Of course you won't believe it. There was nobody there. The office-boy sat down again, and said, in a solemn manner, "I swan!"
"Oh!" cried a very thin crickling voice, "I never expected to come to such a place to hear such dreadful words."
The office-boy blushed deeply, and then began to take the letters out of their envelopes and lay them open on the table ready for the editor. Each time he did so some one said, "Thank you; you're very kind; much obliged," in the politest manner possible.
"Guess these letters come from that beautiful country where all the children say, 'Yes, marm,' and 'Thank you,' and 'If you please.'"
And then the whole thing went on in the most startling way. Every letter had something to say. Talk! Letters talk? To be sure. When you read a letter, does it not tell you something? Anybody can understand everything they say the moment you look them in the face. When the office-boy heard all the letters talking at once, he puckered up his mouth, and tried to whistle, but his lips only made up a round O of surprise. He didn't say a word, but tried to remember what the letters said.
"I came from Chicago, and I want to find a boy or girl who will trade postage stamps for minerals."
"I've got a new wiggle. I'd show it to you if I could only unfold myself. I'm too stiff. It's awful cold up here, isn't it?"
"Cold? It's nothing to Chicago. I nearly froze to death in the postal car. It's as much as I could do to keep my ink from freezing, and as for the mucilage on the envelope, it was quite stiff, and full of little crackles. I did think it would be warmer in New York."
"It was so warm in Oclahama, Mississippi, when I left, that the ink wouldn't dry."
"I'm nine years old, and I came all the way from Des Moines."
"You ought to be pretty yellow by this time."
"It isn't me. It's my writer. She's a girl, and she says she didn't like the 'Moral Pirates.'"
At this every one of the letters gave a thin groan, and the office-boy sat right up and said, "My!"
The letters didn't seem to mind this singular remark, for they all began to talk at once.
"I've got two Mexican and one Peru stamp, and some sea-shells. I live in Philadelphia, and I'm ten years old."
"Any fellow want some iron ore? I've come from Marietta, Ohio, and I'll exchange it for real Indian arrow-heads."
"Here I've come all the way from Strasburg, in Alsace, with a new puzzle. I'm sure nobody can read it."
"Yes, they can. It's in English."
"We take Harper's Young People in Germany. I'm nine years old."
"How can you talk about travelling? I've been shut up in four different mail-bags for nearly two months. I came all the way from Samarang, Java."
"I thought there was a dreadful smell of coffee in the mail-bag," said a letter from Buffalo.
"Coffee!" said the postal card from Java, in a thin straw-board sort of voice—"coffee! I was made out of grass that grew next to a coffee plantation, and one day, just before I was cut down—"
"Gracious me!" said a piping voice that sounded as if it was made of rice-straw. "Did they cut you down?"
"No! It was the grass. That's before I was born. Well, I was a-saying, before I was interrupted, that—"
"Oh, do let 'er alone," said a note from Detroit.
"Ah!" cried all the letters; "let 'er alone. That will do for Detroit."
"Now I came from Manitoba," said a letter that had a crackling voice, as if the ice was breaking. "There's not a house for sixteen miles, and it's very lonesome in winter. We have plenty of ice and snow, and the thermometer stays down near zero so much of the time that they do say it has cold feet. Sometimes we do not see any one for a week; but we do not care."
Just then the editor came in, and the office-boy jumped up and said, "Good-morning, sir; nice lot of letters to-day."
Perhaps you don't believe this story: it's true, for all that. At any rate, the last part is true; for every day there comes to Harper's Young People a great pile of letters from boys and girls in all parts of the civilized world.
A LITTLE TAILOR
THE YOUNG ART STUDENT.
[MY PIG.]
BY JIMMY BROWN.
I don't say that I didn't do wrong, but what I do say is that I meant to do right. But that don't make any difference. It never does. I try to do my very best, and then something happens, and I am blamed for it. When I think what a disappointing world this is, full of bamboo canes and all sorts of switches, I feel ready to leave it.
It was Sue's fault in the beginning; that is, if it hadn't been for her it wouldn't have happened. One Sunday she and I were sitting in the front parlor, and she was looking out of the window and watching for Mr. Travers; only she said she wasn't, and that she was just looking to see if it was going to rain, and solemnizing her thoughts. I had just asked her how old she was, and couldn't Mr. Travers have been her father if he had married mother, when she said, "Dear me how tiresome that boy is do take a book and read for gracious sake." I said, "What book?" So she gets up and gives me the Observer, and says, "There's a beautiful story about a good boy and a pig do read it and keep still if you know how and I hope it will do you some good."
Well, I read the story. It told all about a good boy whose name was James, and his father was poor, and so he kept a pig that cost him twenty-five cents, and when it grew up he sold it for thirty dollars, and he brought the money to his father and said, "Here father! take this O how happy I am to help you when you're old and not good for much," and his father burst into tears, but I don't know what for, I wouldn't burst into tears much if anybody gave me thirty dollars; and said, "Bless you my noble boy you and your sweet pig have saved me from a watery grave," or something like that.
It was a real good story, and it made me feel like being likewise. So I resolved that I would get a little new pig for twenty-five cents, and keep it till it grew up, and then surprise father with twenty-nine dollars, and keep one for myself as a reward for my good conduct. Only I made up my mind not to let anybody know about it till after the pig should be grown up, and then how the family would be delighted with my "thoughtful and generous act"! for that's what the paper said James's act was.
The next day I went to Farmer Smith, and got him to give me a little pig for nothing, only I agreed to help him weed his garden all summer. It was a beautiful pig, about as big as our baby, only it was a deal prettier, and its tail was elegant. I wrapped it up in an old shawl, and watched my chance and got it up into my room, which is on the third story. Then I took my trunk and emptied it, and bored some holes in it for air, and put the pig in it.
I had the best fun that ever was, all that day and the next day, taking care of that dear little pig. I gave him one of my coats for a bed, and fed him on milk, and took him out of the trunk every little while for exercise. Nobody goes into my room very often, except the girl to make the bed, and when she came I shut up the trunk, and she never suspected anything. I got a whole coal-scuttleful of the very best mud, and put it in the corner of the room for him to play in, and when I heard Bridget coming, I meant to throw the bed-quilt over it, so she wouldn't suspect anything.
After I had him two days I heard mother say, "Seems to me I hear very queer noises every now and then up stairs." I knew what the matter was, but I never said anything, and I felt so happy when I thought what a good boy I was to raise a pig for my dear father.
Bridget went up to my room about eight o'clock one evening, just before I was going to bed, to take up my clean clothes. We were all sitting in the dining-room, when we heard her holler as if she was being murdered. We all ran out to see what was the matter, and were half way up the stairs, when the pig came down, and upset the whole family, and piled them up on the top of himself at the foot of the stairs, and before we got up Bridget came down and fell over us, and said she had just opened the young masther's thrunk and out jumps the ould Satan himself and she must see the priest or she would be a dead woman.
You wouldn't believe that, though I told them that I was raising the pig to sell it and give the money to father; they all said that they had never heard of such an abandoned and peremptory boy, and father said, "Come up stairs with me and I'll see if I can't teach you that this house isn't a pig-pen." I don't know what became of the pig, for he broke the parlor window and ran away, and nobody ever heard of him again.
"I'd like to see that boy James. I don't care how big he is. I'd show him that he can't go on setting good examples to innocent boys without suffering as he deserves to suffer."
[MY MOTHER'S DÉBUT.]
BY B. A. N.
"Tell you a story?" said dear old grandma. "Dear me! dear me! I think I've told you all I know. Shall I tell you 'Cinderella' over again? or—"
"No, no, grandma," says a chorus of voices; "tell us something about when you were young."
"Well, if you wish, I'll tell you about my mother's first party. It was a winter night, and mother was to go at eight, and that was considered very late; but Uncle Robert, who was to take her, couldn't get home before. Her dress was beautiful—a peach-colored satin, with lace on it already a generation old, and the hair-dresser was to come out from town to arrange her hair, and she was to take with her Abigail, our poor half-witted maid, to put on the finishing touches after they arrived.
"Now Abby had, as some poor weak-brained creatures have, a passionate admiration for anything particularly bright and showy, and she had one treasure which she guarded as the apple of her eye. It was a very large bow of arsenic green, golden yellow, and tartan plaid, fastened in the centre by a huge buckle of green and white glass. She also adored mother.
"Well, the eventful night came, and mother at last was dressed and ready. They say she looked beautiful, and she was a very handsome woman in her day, my dears. The satin gown went on just right, and did not even ruffle the powdered hair, and mother, Abigail, and Uncle Robert departed in the sleigh at eight precisely.
"When they arrived they were ushered up stairs to uncloak. Just as mother turned to go down stairs, one of the maids came running in and said, 'Miss Dolly, Mr. Robert has forgotten a very important message he was to give Mr. Grey, and he says he will come back as soon as he can, and for you to go down.' It was rather hard to make her first entry alone, but still mother mustered up courage and went down. The host and hostess received her very kindly, and she was soon enjoying herself very much. There was only one drawback to her happiness: wherever she passed, the people slightly turned, looked rather surprised, and then hastily looked away, in vain trying to repress a smile. At last mother began to get seriously worried, and running up stairs, asked Abby what the trouble was. 'Why, nothing, Miss Dolly,' said she; 'it looks beautiful.' So mother, satisfied, went down again. But now it was worse than before. Audible titters and looks of surprise greeted her wherever she turned, until from excitement and vexation she was ready to cry; so you may imagine it was not long after Uncle Robert came before they were on their way home.
"As they entered the parlor poor mother dropped her cloak, and sinking into a chair, was on the verge of a deluge of tears, when a burst of laughter from the assembled family made her spring to her feet, pale with anger. What are you laughing at?' she demanded. 'I never was treated so before. I never knew there were such rude people in the world.' And fairly overcome, she sank down and cried as if her heart would break. And then, in the midst of sobs and laughter, grandmother moved forward and unpinned from the middle of my mother's back Abby's green bow, to which was added a long string of artificial pansies! The poor girl had felt hurt that she could do nothing for mother's first party, so when they arrived she had added this decoration, thinking she put the crowning touch to the costume.
"And this is the story of 'My Mother's Début.'"