the end.
"ME'S SICK."
[THE "FIRST GRENADIER OF FRANCE."]
BY C. W. FISHER.
How many of the young people have ever heard the story of that simple-hearted, brave soldier of Napoleon's empire, so long known as the "First Grenadier of France"?
Born in the provinces, La Tour d'Auvergne received a thorough military schooling, and entered the army when quite young.
Throughout a career of nearly twoscore years, he served ever with fidelity and distinction, yet always refused the promotion which was constantly offered him, preferring, as he said, the familiar duties of the grenadier to even the glories of a marshal.
His wishes were, in a measure, respected. He held always the rank of Captain, though eventually his command equalled in numbers almost ten regiments.
After his death, which occurred in action, there was instituted in the regiment with which he had been connected, and by the express directions of Bonaparte himself, a most touching tribute to his faithful service. His name had never been stricken from the roll, and at its call, upon the daily parade, the oldest veteran present would step forward, and saluting, answer, "Died on the field of battle."
The details of his history show that his life was well worthy the honors thus paid to his memory, and many incidents are told of him which illustrate his unselfish devotion to the profession he loved so well.
Upon one occasion, being on furlough, he paid a visit to an old friend in a section of the country as yet remote from actual war.
While there, he learned that a detachment of several hundred Austrians, having in view the prevention of a certain important movement of the French, was on the march to a spot where this purpose could be easily accomplished. To reach this they must pass through a narrow defile, guarded by an old stone tower, which was garrisoned by perhaps half a company of French soldiers.
To warn these of their danger in time to prepare for defense was the aim of our hero, and putting up a slender store of provisions, he started off.
To his dismay he found on arriving at the tower that his comrades had been only too well warned already, and had fled, even leaving their muskets and a goodly supply of ammunition behind them.
He knew that if the Austrians could be held in check long enough to allow the completion of the French manœuvre, by that time tower and pass would be of little use to either side. He determined, single-handed, to make the fight against a regiment.
There were many conditions which favored the successful carrying out of this brave resolve. The tower could be approached only through a narrow ravine, in which but two or three men could walk abreast, and as he was abundantly supplied with arms, the grenadier did not despair of at least partial success. He barricaded the doors, carefully loaded all the muskets, which he placed in convenient positions for instant handling, made a good meal off the food he had brought with him, and then sat down to await the enemy.
He was unmolested until near dawn, when unusual sounds without announced the Austrians' approach.
They halted at the mouth of the defile, and almost immediately an officer, bearing a flag of truce, appeared with a demand for surrender.
D'Auvergne answered the call, replying that "the garrison would defend itself to the last," and the messenger, little suspecting that the entire garrison was comprised in the person of the single soldier who stood before him, retired.
A small cannon was shortly after brought to bear upon the tower; but our grenadier made such good use of his weapons that half a dozen of the Austrians lay wounded upon the ground before they could fire a single shot. Finding this mode of attack ineffectual, an assault was ordered; but as the head of the column came within range of the tower, so deadly a fire was poured upon it that it was ordered back amid great confusion.
Two further attacks were made, with like results, and when night fell, the solitary grenadier was still in possession of his stronghold, and unhurt, while nearly fifty of the enemy were either killed or wounded.
Sunset brought a second summons to yield, with an intimation that, if refused, a regular siege would be entered upon, and kept up until hunger should compel submission.
Deeming the twenty-four hours which had elapsed sufficient time for the accomplishment of the French move, D'Auvergne returned answer that the garrison would surrender the following morning if allowed safe-conduct to the French lines, and permission to retain its arms. These terms, after a little parley, were acceded to.
At daybreak on the morrow, accordingly, the enemy were drawn up to receive the vanquished garrison.
The door of the tower opened, and a soiled and scarred veteran, literally staggering under the weight of as many muskets as he could carry, walked slowly between the ranks, and depositing his load at the feet of the Colonel, saluted. To the surprise of the latter, no one followed.
"But where is the garrison, grenadier?" asked he.
"Sir, I am the garrison," replied the soldier.
For a moment astonishment held the Austrian dumb; then ordering his command to present arms, and raising his cap, "Grenadier, I salute you," said he: "so brave a deed is without parallel."
The desired escort was provided, and with it was sent a dispatch relating the whole affair.
When the circumstance became known to the Emperor, the offer of promotion was renewed, and again declined, and D'Auvergne remained to the day of his death simply the "First Grenadier of France."
[A NIGHT ON CHOCORUA.]
BY ESEMEE.
"Where's your Tom Matthews, Ned?" said Phil Hartshorn. "Here it is half past nine by my watch, and he was to be on hand at nine sharp."
As he spoke a little freckled boy came panting up to them, saying: "Tom says as how he can't go up 'Corua to-day nohow. He's sick with suthin I've forgot the name of. He's awful sorry, and said if yer'd only hold on till to-morrer, he'd go; and he thinks it'll be a sight better day, too, for he's 'most sure there'll be a thunderin' big shower to-night."
"Nonsense!" said Dick; "there isn't one chance in a million of a shower; sky is as clear as a bell."
"But," says Arthur, "there are no two ways about it. Mother said we were not to go if Tom Matthews were not here."
"You don't suppose mother really meant that?" said his brother Phil.
"Now, Cousin Arthur," said Dick, "you just put that conscience of yours to sleep as fast as you can.
"'Hush-a-by, conscience, on the tree-top,
Dear Mrs. Hartshorn would never say stop.'"
"But, Arthur," interrupted Ned, "she wouldn't care if she knew how many times I've been up Chocorua. Why, I've been to the top thousands of times. I know the way just as well as Tom."
Though Arthur's duty was as clear to him as at first, he decided to take Dick's advice, and silence his conscience.
Half an hour later they were climbing up the steep side of the mountain, laden with the tent, provisions, and other necessaries for their night's encampment.
Chocorua is one of the most difficult of the New Hampshire hills to ascend, not so much on account of its height as its rocky and steep outline. To Ned Brown, however, accustomed to scrambling over the hills of his native place, it was simply a very tiresome walk; but to the three city boys, who for the first time were spending part of their vacation among the mountains, it was a novel and rough experience. Nevertheless, their spirits did not flag, and about two o'clock they had reached the rocky summit, as tired and hungry a set of boys as you ever saw.
They soon found a comfortable spot, where they threw themselves down at full length, and at Dick Harris's suggestion pitched into the eatables which Mrs. Brown had put up for them.
After a while Ned exclaimed: "Look here, boys, you can't spend the whole afternoon eating. Just clap two or three doughnuts into your pockets, and come along. We've got to get ready for the night."
"Wait a week," said Dick, "until I take one more drink of coffee; then we'll go and explore the country."
"Can't you remember, Ned, where you generally pitch your tent?" said Arthur.
"Tom Matthews pretty much always bosses that business," answered Ned.
"I guess we can find as good a place as Tom Matthews," said Phil. "There it is now, right ahead—don't you see?—down in that hollow under that tall tree."
"All right; let's make for it, then," said Ned. "We haven't any time to lose."
Some hours later Ned called out: "Now that everything is ready for the night, you shall have a high old supper. You needn't any of you put your fingers in the pie either. I'm goin' to make a regular lumberman's pudding. Dick, just hand me that tin plate, will you?"
"No, sir, I can't even do that; it might be putting the very finger into the pie, or rather pudding, which would spoil the whole. I am not going to run any such risk."
"That's too thin—a capital excuse for laziness—but I can do it myself fortunately. First, you see, I cut a slit in this stick, and slip the edge of the plate into it, and that makes a tip-top spider. Next I put in some pieces of fat pork, and am goin' to fry them over this blazin' fire. When the pork is done, I'll take that out, and crumb this pilot-bread into the fat."
"What a mess!" the boys all exclaimed. "You don't expect us to eat that stuff, do you?"
"You needn't trouble yourselves; I can eat every bit of it. Wait till I sprinkle white sugar all over it thick and heavy, and then it is done. Come, do you want any, or shall I eat it all myself?"
"As Caterer Brown has made it, we won't hurt his feelings by refusing," said Arthur. "Hand it along."
"Well, Ned," said Phil, "this is capital. Do they teach cooking in your school, or has Miss Parloa been in this part of the country?"
"Oh, last winter when I camped out up North with father and the other lumbermen, they used to make this 'most every night, and I tell you it tasted mighty good."
After supper the boys whiled away the time telling stories. The most interesting one was the legend of Chocorua, the Indian chief after whom the mountain was named.
Chocorua had a son, a boy of ten or twelve years, who often visited the house of a white man who lived in Albany, at the foot of the mountain. One day while there he accidentally ate some food which had been prepared for a fox, and soon after died. This brought out the Indian spirit of revenge in Chocorua, so that he watched his opportunity, and when the father was away, killed the wife and children. Cornelius Campbell, the father, though a white man, was not a Christian, and the same revengeful spirit took possession of him. Not long after, Chocorua, while standing on the edge of a precipice, was shot by Campbell. He lived only a few moments, uttering fearful curses against the white men. He was never buried, but his bones were left to whiten on the rocks.
All Ned's talk tended to make the boys ready to start at every sound, and Arthur inwardly began to wish he had not disregarded the warning voice he had heard in the morning. Even the other boys felt a little dismal; but they all forced out loud exclamations over the pleasure of the day, and the moment after they had dropped on their bed of pine boughs were all sound asleep.
The clouds which, unnoticed by the boys, had been forming behind the hills, gathered heavily in a threatening mass over the mountain-peak, the air trembled with peal after peal of rolling thunder, the sky was brilliant with lightning flashes which sent gleams of intense and livid light over the white cliffs. Still the boys slept on. The furious storm-clouds gradually dropped lower and lower, until at last they burst in one torrent of hail and rain. Every hollow was fast filling up, until the one in which our boys were encamped became as it were the bed of a pool, and the white canvas of their tent seemed like the tip of a sail flapping in the wind.
One of those fearful claps of thunder which seem to shake the whole earth, and which are heard only among the mountains, at last roused the boys. In terrible alarm, they waded from their tattered tent, just in time to see the tall tree near whose roots they had been sleeping hewn into fragments by the glistening blade of the axe which the angry storm was wielding. For a moment they gazed on each other with mute horror, then, as with one voice, exclaimed, "Where's Ned?"
They wildly called "Ned! Ned! Ned Brown!" but there was no answer. They groped back for him in the darkness, lighted only by the uncertain flashes, which were growing less and less frequent; but the tent had been swept away, and their fire wholly extinguished, so they had nothing to guide them to the exact spot of their former encampment. For hours they searched in vain. Drenched and chilled, weary and bruised, at length, as day dawned, they found themselves in a dense forest, with no path and no guide.
"What shall we do?" said Arthur. "Why did we come? I will never do what I know to be wrong again."
"'No use to cry for spilled milk,'" said Dick, trying to speak cheerfully, while his face contradicted his words.
"Let us get out of these woods and down this mountain if we possibly can," said Arthur. "Then, if we don't find Ned, we can send some one up for him who knows something about the way."
"All right," said Phil. "It don't look as if we should have anything to eat till we do get down, and I'm 'most starved. Hark! What's that noise? I do believe that's a bear's growl. He is coming nearer, surely."
"Pshaw! nonsense! it isn't a bear; it's only the rustling of the leaves," said Dick.
But every little while some noise would cause them to fear that some wild animal was on their track.
Several times they were stopped by a precipice so steep that no human foot could descend it, and were obliged to retrace their course and seek another less difficult way.
Just at dusk they reached a farm-house, where, as it was on the opposite side of the mountain from their boarding place, they were obliged to spend the night.
Oh, what a night it was! The heavy supper after the long fast made them ill, and every limb was aching with pain and fatigue. Then the terrible anxiety about Ned! What might he not be suffering alone on the mountain, and what report could they give to his mother when they made their way back to the boarding-house? Surely three boys were never more severely punished for disobedience. Never again would Dick sing,
"Hush-a-by, conscience, on the tree-top."
When morning came three miserable-looking objects dragged themselves up to the gate of the old boarding-house. But who was that walking up and down the piazza at such a troubled pace?
Nobody less than Ned, who was fretting himself half crazy waiting for the party who had arranged to go in search of three lost boys. Ned had been more fortunate than they, for after the wash-out, which had separated him from his companions, he had happily strayed into the very path which led home.
Presently Mrs. Hartshorn came out, but after one good look at the party she apparently concluded that they needed no word of reproof from her. Conscience had evidently preached every effective sermon, for which the experience of the past thirty-six hours had supplied a powerful text.
[THE DAISY TRAIL.]
You'd think such a small boy would not know
How to get back if he should go
Without his mother so far away
Beyond the garden fence to play.
But he lays a trail of daisies white,
That gleam in the grass like stars at night;
So running home he can never stray,
With the scattered daisies to show the way.
[MILLIE'S NILE-BIRD HAT.]
BY ARTHUR LINDSLEY.
"Why, Millie, where did you get that bird-skin which you wear in your hat?"
"I am sure I do not know, papa. But it is very seldom you take notice of my hats, and I am very glad that for once I am wearing one which interests you. Mamma bought the bird somewhere down town; I did not ask her where. I think he is just lovely; don't you?" and off came Millie's hat for the Professor's inspection. "Only see his breast, so bright that it almost looks to be on fire, and just above it his throat as white as a patch of snow! Isn't he perfectly splendid?"
Her father had taken the hat in his hand, and was examining the bird with an expression of face that showed he was thinking of something more than what was before him. He stood so long without speaking that Millie broke out in her usual lively manner:
"Why, papa, I never saw you look at a girl's hat so closely before—mine or any one's else. I have had handsomer hats than that, and you did not say a word about them. The bird is very beautiful, I know, but what do you see so wonderful in him?"
"I was wondering how he could come here, my child. You do not know where your mother bought the skin, but do you know where the bird lives?"
"No, sir, not at all. I have no doubt you do, but I never thought of it. Did you ever see them in their native country?"
"Yes, Millie, I have seen them often. The species is African; I saw them very often in South Africa—once, I recollect, at Zanzibar, and on the West Coast I have seen them in Senegambia and at the mouth of the Gaboon. Shall I tell you where I first saw the bird?—for I can never forget it, and the sight of this skin brought back that day to me so forcibly, that for a moment I forgot where I was."
"Oh! do, papa, do. You know how I rejoice in the stories. What a favorite hat this will be!"
"Let us go into the library, then, where I can show you an engraving that I have. Please hand me the russet-leather portfolio from that lower drawer. See, I have opened at once to the very one I wished to find. It will give you an excellent idea of the two bright little kingfishers that I saw that day on the west bank of the Nile."
"The Nile, papa! I wonder if mine came from the Nile? Only think of my Nile-bird hat!"
"That I can not tell, Millie. But before I go on with my story it is well that you should know something about the family of birds to which this one belongs, for he has many relatives, and they are scattered in almost all countries, and one at least of them has been famous among poets for two thousand years. Did you ever hear or see the expression used of halcyon days, meaning days of great prosperity and happiness?"
"Yes, sir, I recollect it was in one of the pieces of poetry we read only last week in school, and I wondered at the time what it meant, and I intended to ask you."
AFRICAN KINGFISHERS.
"I will tell you. This little bird of the drawing and of your hat is a kingfisher, and the kingfishers are found, as I explained, in almost all parts of the world. We have one species, not at all uncommon, throughout the United States, which is known in the books as the belted kingfisher. Our little African here, you see, is not larger than a sparrow, but his belted brother is almost as large as a common pigeon, and well do I recollect what a time a lot of us had, when I was a boy about twelve years old, in trying to get at the nest of a pair of them. Kingfishers the world over build their nests in deep burrows which they make in river-banks and similar places. Eight of us gathered one Saturday, with Tom Perkins—a stout boy of fifteen—for a sort of Captain, and Charlie Mason for Lieutenant. We worked all that day, and then nearly until night, of the following Saturday, before we found the end of the burrow. Tom said he really thought we should dig across Deacon Moseley's farm and out into Widow Whitman's pasture lot. It was sixteen feet and a half that the birds had burrowed into a very hard bank of clay.
"This was our American species, whose name is Ceryle alcyon; but all about the shores of the Mediterranean a similar smaller species is found which by the old Latins was called Alcyon or Halcyon, though in ornithological works, now it is named Alcedo hispida. Most absurd stories have always been told concerning it. It was said to have the power of preventing storms, of keeping the sea perfectly quiet, so that while the female was sitting on her eggs the weather was always calm and peaceful, and you see readily how the word halcyon came therefore to have in poetry the meaning to which I have referred. Of course this was all foolishness, but it was only one of many tales which have been told about that very bird, and some of which I have no doubt are believed by ignorant people to this day."
"Is he a handsome bird, papa, like this one in my hat?"
"Oh no; on the contrary, he is of quite plain plumage. You must not fancy that our species or the European possess any such brightness of color. Now look at the picture again. You see both the male and the female. Notice, by-the-way, that they are sitting near the mouth of their burrow. Look at those long crest feathers. They are shining blue, almost like the sky, with light ashy green spots, while the jet-black ones fairly sparkle on their blue background. And then his blazing red lower surface, with his white throat and that enormous bill of bright vermilion, makes such an assemblage of brilliant color as you seldom see."
"Let me get the map, papa, and then please show me just where you found my little bird."
"That is right, Millie; you will be more interested the more definitely you fix the knowledge. How well I remember that day. It seems as though it had been but yesterday. Among all the rivers of the world, there is not one which can be compared with the Nile. It does not seem like any other water. There's a sort of magic about it. All the time that I spent there I felt myself living in dreamland rather than in anything that belonged to this life and this world. It is not the river itself, for I have seen a number of much finer and grander streams of water in other countries. The Danube or the Ganges can either of them surpass it, while here in America I could select half a dozen which are more than its rivals. But any one of them I always felt that I could understand. They were beautiful, they were grand, with charming banks and forests and fields and cities, but there was nothing strange about them. They seemed like other parts of the world. But the Nile is not like them; it never looked to me like a reality. Everything about it was so mixed with mystery that if I had waked any morning and found that there was no Nile to be seen where I saw it the night before, I should have thought it was all right.
"All around me were monuments and temples and houses so old that those who built them had died and been forgotten hundreds and perhaps thousands of years before the earliest history of which we have any knowledge commenced. Who were those people? I could tell how they looked, for there were their figures and faces carved on the stones, but—who were they? Where did they come from? Negroes, Asiatics, Egyptians, such as were about me every day; there they were carved, and sometimes painted, on the ruins, and I used to wander around and wonder, and dream, and wonder, and it was in the midst of just such wondering as that that a little kingfisher flashed upon me, and it is not strange that I remember him. Do you see the First Cataract, Millie, on the river?"
"Yes, here it is. P-h-i-l-a-e, Philæ; is that it?"
"That is the name of an island there with some extremely beautiful ruins upon it. Few travellers ascend the river further; they stop there and return; but I did not; I continued on to the south a long distance. One day, just before I reached the Second Cataract, I had stopped on the west bank of the river to rest my men for an hour or two. It was a burning hot afternoon, perfectly calm, with the sun blazing down on the white sand of the desert and on the glass-like water of the river, until it was enough to almost fry one's brain. Three or four palm-trees grew at this point, and it was their shade which had induced me to stop; but I found to my great delight that what was probably a temple had formerly stood there, and some of the fragments still remained. One of these fragments represented a human figure seated. The head was gone, and one arm; the other arm was perfect, with the hand lying on the knee, and I began to make a drawing of the whole.
"Just as in my drawing I reached the hand, and was sketching its shape on the paper, a little blue and red bird passed me, with a cry somewhat like the one you may hear any morning from our American species, and swinging up he perched himself on the very hand which I was drawing at the moment. It was a lovely little kingfisher. He sat there but a moment, and then darted to a hole in the river-bank, which he entered, and which I knew must contain his nest. It was such a burrow as our American species makes, and forthwith came back to my mind the time when I was a boy, and when Tom and Charlie and the rest of us worked so hard at digging toward Deacon Moseley's lot.
"I watched till the little fellow came out. Then he flew away, and I soon lost sight of him. His name is Corythornis cyanostigma, and the sight of another here in your hat carried me away so completely that for the moment I almost fancied I was on the Nile again, the association was so powerful."
"Well, papa, I am very glad of it. I will wear him only a day or two, and then I will take him out and give him to you, and get mamma to put something else in his place. You may be sure I shall never forget my Nile-bird hat. But did you not say that there are kingfishers found in other countries? I suppose they must be like this, even if they are not so beautiful."
"Yes, there are; and I must tell you of one most remarkable species, Millie—remarkable for his voice, though not for any beauty of color. We will call him Dacelo gigas—gigas meaning very large, for he is a great clumsy bird. He lives in Australia. The first night I ever spent there 'in the bush'—which means out in the wild country—I was waked just before daylight by a most outrageous racket in the thicket close to me. I started up in some fright, and roused a man near me. 'Oh, go to sleep; that is nothing but a jackass.' But as we were where a donkey would not be likely to come, I could not tell what to make of it, and I did not go to sleep, and by-and-by I heard him again and again, but my comrades paid no attention to the sound, and so I said nothing further.
"After breakfast I took my gun, and started out to look for birds. Among others I shot a great coarse-looking kingfisher, larger than a crow; and when I returned to camp, the man whom I had roused in the morning remarked, as I laid out my game: 'There, you have got him. That is the very fellow that you heard this morning. We always call him the laughing jackass.' And often after that I heard their harsh cry, like laughing and braying together."
[MAX RANDER'S WILD TIGER.]
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
I didn't like that little French village. Thad and I were at our wits' end to find some way to amuse ourselves. There wasn't any river to row on, nor any hills to climb, and not a single person we could talk to out of the family.
Then you sort of felt as if you were a lunatic in an asylum; for instead of fences, every house had a high stone wall around it; that is, every house except the one where we boarded, which was surrounded by an iron railing, with the bars just far enough apart to make it look like a cage in a menagerie. At least this is what Thad said it reminded him of, and sometimes I used to see him tearing up and down behind it, playing he was an African lion. I didn't tell him it was silly, because once in a while I turned panther myself. It was an awfully poky town.
About three times every day Thad and I used to beg father to go somewhere else, but he always said, "Have patience, boys." I wonder if anybody ever counted the number of times fathers and mothers say, "Have patience"? If it's as tiresome to say as it is to listen to, I feel sorry for them.
Well, one morning when they both were out driving, and the landlady had gone to market, and there was nobody at home but the French cook and us boys, I was that sorry for Thad, not to mention how awfully dull I was myself, that I felt I must do something. So I called Thad down-stairs, and told him I'd invent a new play for him.
"We can use the fence just the same for a cage," I explained, "and you're to be a tiger a keeper's trying to tame. I'll be the keeper, and at first you must snap at me through the bars; but I'll look you straight in the eye all the time (that's the way keepers do), and then all of a sudden I'll open the door, rush into the cage, and you'll be tamed."
Thad said that would be fun, and then I got father's cane, and we both went out into the front yard. Hardly anybody ever walked on that street, so I wasn't afraid of being interrupted.
I went outside, shutting the gate behind me, and Thad having curled himself up close to the railing, pretending to be asleep, I began operations by poking him with my stick.
At first he only gave a low growl (I wasn't sure whether tigers growled or howled, but I told him a growl would do); but when the cane slipped and tickled him under the arm, he jumped up, and neither growled nor howled, but screamed, until I was obliged to remind him that he wasn't a wild-cat.
"But tickling's no fair," he cried, still squirming a little.
"All right," I answered, beginning my taming operations, and keeping my eye on him in a way that I think really began to frighten him.
Then he started racing up and down inside the fence, I after him on the outside, until we were both quite out of breath, and then he stood still, and snapped at me between the bars.
We were right by the gate, and while he had his head out, pretending to gnaw my stick, I suddenly let go of it, and slipping through the gateway, rushed up behind him before you could say "Jack Robinson."
"Now you must turn around, and we'll look at each other for a minute, and then you'll give in," I cried, making believe crowd into a corner of the cage.
"But I can't turn round," exclaimed Thad. "I can't get my head out."
"Why, how did you get it in, then?" I replied, stepping up to examine into matters. "Twist it the other way."
Thad thereupon obediently gave a fresh tug, but all in vain; his head remained stuck between the bars like a cow's in the patent stalls.
I was scared then, and never thinking about tigers, took him by the neck, and tried my best to get him free; but I couldn't. Then he set up a very unbeastlike yell, which brought the French cook out of the house, with a bunch of garlic in her hand.
When she saw what had happened, she screamed louder than Thad. The noise they both made together was something frightful, while I ran first one side of the fence, then the other, wondering dismally if we'd have to live in that town always because Thad couldn't get his head out.
If we'd had any neighbors except a deaf old man, a woman who never left her bed, and two young men who went to work three miles away, I suppose we'd soon have had a crowd around us, but as it was, nobody appeared but a little girl with a hunk of bread, the sight of which caused Thad to stop hollowing, and declare that we must bring him something to eat.
When I had opened and shut my mouth several times, pointing my finger down it and then at Thad, the cook comprehended what was wanted, and rushing outside of the fence, put that bunch of garlic right under my brother's nose.
"Pah!" he exclaimed, and wrenched his head back so suddenly that I half expected to see both his ears drop off.
"Oh dear," I groaned, "if he can't free himself with such a jerk as that we can never get him out at all."
Then recollecting that Thad hated the smell of garlic as much as I did, and seeing that the cook was still trying to feed him with it, I motioned sternly toward the house, and ordered her to "departez," which wasn't hard to say, as you just take an English word and put a little French end to it.
She understood me at once, and seemed to feel quite insulted, for she walked straight back to the kitchen, slamming the gate after her.
The next minute somebody slapped me on the shoulder, and turning, I jumped as if I had seen a ghost, for it was Thad, and I was at least five feet from the fence. You see, when the gate was open the space between those two particular bars was a little smaller than when it was shut. Thad and I might have remained in that pickle for any length of time, he screaming at the top of his voice, and I dancing around him in agony. Who knows how long it would have taken us to find out that all we had to do was to shut the gate, if that woman hadn't got mad and given it such an awful slam?
[RUSTIC ADORNMENTS FOR LAWN AND GARDEN.]
BY A. W. ROBERTS.
Small fingers always want to be kept busy. No matter how warm the weather is, they can not lie comfortably quiet, but must be doing something. Why not try a little rustic-work, setting up a good-natured rivalry with florists and landscape gardeners? It will require the boys and girls both—the boys to do the heavy work, and the girls to supply the grace and minor ornamentation.
Rustic-work is a term that by general consent is now applied to all structures of wood the forms and surfaces of which are left in their natural shape, or covered with material such as bark, cones, fungi, etc.
Fig. 1.
Fig. 1 is an excellent example of nature's rustic-work. How kindly the golden-rod, blackberry, Virginia creeper, and ferns have ranged themselves about the old stump to increase the picturesque beauty of its decay!
Now imagine this stump transplanted to a lawn or garden with its wealth of wild plants and shrubs, while in strong contrast to these are planted in the hollow of the stump a variegated mass of drooping vines, and the most beautifully marked and colored of the so-called "foliage" plants. Truly no imported and expensive jardinet (small garden) of highest artistic workmanship was ever made that could compare with this of nature's wild and cultivated beauty.
There are thousands and thousands of just such stumps that with a little care and trouble might easily be converted into beautiful lawn and garden adornments.
When digging out such a stump, the ground must be well excavated from about and under the main roots, which are sawn (not chopped) off about one foot below the surface of the ground. In replanting the stump, try to imitate all the natural features of the ground surrounding it, even to rocks and toad-stools. The latter are not poisonous unless eaten, and are very picturesque.
The best soil for filling in the spaces about the roots and the bottom of the stump is the black and rich "vegetable mould" found in all old woods. Next to this comes peat, which can be obtained from dried-up ponds and ditches, only care must be taken to crush it fine, and mix with it about one-third of ordinary garden soil; otherwise it will be apt to cake after rains.
When setting up a stump jardinet it is the easiest thing in the world to establish at the same time a small menagerie. Tree-toads, common garden-toads, all varieties of land-snails, field-mice, chipmunks, can be induced to make their homes in and about your stump if they are well treated and cared for.
Fig. 2.
To set up a successful stump menagerie, little nooks must be formed under the roots by means of stones so placed together as to leave open spaces of various sizes. These must connect with one another, as shown in Fig. 2. When covered with earth, these chambers are entered by means of runs which connect with the under-ground chambers. All creatures that set up a home in these chambers will have a good time if you do not dig them out every other day, "just to see, you know, how they are getting along."
But now let us imagine that no such rotted-out and picturesque stump is to be obtained. There is still quite an easy way to make a jardinet.
Fig. 3.
First obtain from a grocer a half butter-keg, which will cost about twenty cents. Wash it out thoroughly with hot water to cleanse it of all salt, that might prove injurious to growing plants. In the bottom bore a number of small holes, and place a layer of broken flower-pots or pieces of charcoal two inches in depth. The holes are for the purpose of draining off all surplus water. The layer of charcoal is to prevent the soil at the bottom of the tub from being carried away through the draining holes. If these precautions are not taken, the earth in the tub will "sour," and the roots of the plants will rot. Next obtain a log of wood of rough exterior, and also some rough bark. The tub must be fastened to the top of the log, as shown in Fig. 3, and the latter firmly planted in the desired spot. The bark must be nailed to the tub so as to join and match the bark on the stump.
Fig. 4.
On dead and decaying white-birch-trees many kinds of fungi are to be obtained, and at the bases of very old trees many varieties of lichens. These, when fastened to the jardinet as shown in Fig. 4, produce a very natural and picturesque effect. About the base of the jardinet rude-shaped stones are piled up. The spaces of earth between the rocks are dug out to the depth of from one-half to three-quarters of a foot. These are technically known as "pockets," and are for the reception of vegetable mould. The rookery is now in condition for planting with cultivated and wild ferns, and also low-growing varieties of plants. The tub is also filled with mould, and planted with "foliage" plants and vines.
Fig. 5.
Fig. 5 is a jardinet, vinery, and fernery combined. The upright post is of red cedar or locust, with the bark on. A square piece of board two inches in thickness is nailed on top of the post, and on this is placed a half butter-tub, on which pointed slats half an inch thick and two inches wide are nailed. These slats are painted green, and a light and graceful trimming of rustic vinery is tacked on near the top and bottom of the slat-work. Instead of slats, straight rustic branches split in half and pointed at both ends can be used.
The branch-work consists of a circle of branches of drooping habit, the ends or stocks of which are both nailed and bound with wire or stout twine, so as to support the weight of vines when they reach it from the tub above and the trellis below. The twine-work for the vines consists of gray or green twine. There is a twine sold by florists by the name of "invisible twine," which is of a light green color, and is used for training vines; this is far superior to the white cotton cord generally used, which always looks cheap and inartistic, and in course of time frays out and breaks. But this cheap cord can be made very durable and pleasing in color by running it through hot yellow bees-wax in which has been mixed any of the cheap chrome greens.
A small wooden hoop is securely fastened to the bottom of the post close to the ground by means of four wooden hooks; to this hoop the lower ends of the twine are securely fastened; the upper ends are tied to the branch-work, which helps to retain them in a drooping position. To obtain the best results and light and graceful effects, always plant Madeira or cypress vines; avoid the fancy gourds and other heavy climbers, as they are apt to break down the twine-work during heavy storms. At the base of the structure a heavy rockery is massed, containing numerous pockets. In these, ferns and the English ivy and the so-called German ivy are planted.
All rustic-work should present the appearance of solidity and durability, and must be strongly put together. Never use in any way marine forms or material in conjunction with rustic-work or rockery. They are entirely out of keeping and harmony with nature, and indicate a great want of taste. Nothing can exceed the ugliness of a bordering of clam or oyster shells, or Florida conch shells; they are worse than calcimined or white-washed rocks.
[JAPANESE FAN TALES.]
BY KIRK MUNROE.
A bright little Jap is Tommi Taroo,
And he swings on a piece of round bamboo;
For round bamboo is the very best thing
That a boy can use as a seat for a swing.
He lives in the town of Hiogo—
A very nice place to live, you know,
Because it's such fun to go to Kobé,
The city of strangers, just over the way:
A city of Yankees and English too—
Comical fellows to Tommi Taroo—
French and Dutch and Portuguese,
And many another from over the seas.
Fish-day, fish-day in Hizen;
Fish for the women, but not for the men;
Fish for the girls, but not for the boys.
To-day only women know fishermen's joys.
And all on account of Queen Jungu,
Who once caught a fish as fishermen do;
The fish said, "Go and conquer Corea,"
And this she did within a year.
And that is the reason the girls to-day
Are all out fishing, instead of at play;
And I think the fish they show to you
Is as fine as that of Queen Jungu.
Lu-wen lived in Hakodadi;
Lu-wen was a little laddie.
Lu-wen's head was nicely shaved.
He was very well behaved.
Suzume was Lu-wen's mother;
Nakamura was his brother.
Very fine was Nakamura,
And his dress was silk of Surah.
His umbrella and his fan
Were the largest in Japan.
Once he gave them to Lu-wen,
But bade him bring them back again.
This Lu-wen was glad to do
When he'd gone a block or two;
For people left their tea and soy
To stare at him, and call out, "Halloo, big umbrella! where are you going with that little boy?"
Three little Satsumas and old Satsuma,
Or four Satsumas in all,
Laid aside their tasks, and put on their masks
For a grand Matsuri ball.
They howled and growled, and acted like
Wild animals born and bred.
To make an impression they formed a procession,
With old Satsuma ahead.
Just then the clown, of all the town
The funniest man to be found,
Jumped on to the back of the first of the pack,
And merrily rode him around.
Now, when he begun, they thought it was fun,
And acted as though they'd gone mad,
Until old Satsuma, in very bad humor,
Said, "Enough of this thing we have had."
Eight little girls of Japan,
All running as fast as they can
For fear she'll be late,
Each one of the eight
Is running as fast as she can.
Did you ever see children so fat?
In Japan, though, they say, "What of that?"
To be fat is a duty;
It adds to your beauty.
And that is the reason they're fat.
