Chapter II.
It was some time before the canoes were ready, and in the mean time the young canoeists met with a new difficulty. The canoe-builders wrote to them wishing to know how they would have the canoes rigged. It had never occurred to the boys that there was more than one rig used on canoes, and of course they did not know how to answer the builders' question. So they went to the Commodore, and told him their difficulty.
"I might do," said he, "just as I did when I told you to go and ask four different canoeists which is the best canoe; but I won't put you to that trouble. I rather like the Lord Ross lateen rig better than any other, but as you are going to try different kinds of canoes, it would be a good idea for you to try different rigs. For example, have your 'Rob Roy' rigged with lateen sails; rig the 'Shadow' with a balance lug; the 'Rice Laker' with a sharpie leg-of-mutton, and the canvas canoe with the standing lug. Each one of these rigs has its advocates, who will prove to you that it is better than any other, and you can't do better than to try them all. Only be sure to tell the builders that every canoe must have two masts, and neither of the two sails must be too big to be safely handled."
"How does it happen that every canoeist is so perfectly certain that he has the best canoe and the best rig in existence?" asked Tom.
"That is one of the great merits of canoeing," replied the Commodore. "It makes every man contented, and develops in him decision of character. I've known a canoeist to have a canoe so leaky that he spent half his time bailing her out, and rigged in such a way that she would neither sail nor do anything in a breeze except capsize; and yet he was never tired of boasting of the immense superiority of his canoe. There's a great deal of suffering in canoeing," continued the Commodore, musingly, "but its effects on the moral character are priceless. My dear boys, you have no idea how happy and contented you will be when you are wet through, cramped and blistered, and have to go into camp in a heavy rain, and without any supper except dry crackers."
While the boys were waiting for their canoes, they read all the books on canoeing that they could find; and searched through a dozen volumes of the London Field, which they found in Uncle John's library, for articles and letters on canoeing. They thus learned a good deal, and when their canoes arrived, they were able to discuss their respective merits with a good degree of intelligence.
The "Rob Roy" and the "Shadow" were built with white cedar planks and Spanish cedar decks. They shone with varnish, and their nickel-plated metal-work was as bright as silver. They were decidedly the prettiest of the four canoes, and it would have been very difficult to decide which was the prettier of the two. The "Rice Laker" was built without timbers or a keel, and was formed of two thicknesses of planking riveted together, the grain of the inner planking crossing that of the outer planking at right angles. She looked strong and serviceable, and before Tom had been in possession of her half an hour he was insisting that she was much the handiest canoe of the squadron, simply because she had no deck. The outside planks were of butternut, but they were pierced with so many rivets that they did not present so elegant an appearance as did the planks of the "Shadow" and the "Rob Roy." The canvas canoe consisted of a wooden skeleton frame, covered and decked with painted canvas. She was very much the same in model as the "Shadow," and though she seemed ugly in comparison with her varnished sisters, Charley claimed that he would get more comfort out of his canoe than the other boys would out of theirs, for the reason that scratches that would spoil the beauty of the varnished wood could not injure the painted canvas. Thus each boy was quite contented, and insisted that he would not change canoes with anybody. They were equally contented with the way in which their canoes were rigged, and they no longer wondered at the confident way in which the canoeists to whom the Commodore had introduced them spoke of the merits of their respective boats.
Of course the subject of names for the canoes had been settled long before the canoes arrived. Joe had named his "Rob Roy" the Dawn; Harry's canoe was the Sunshine; Tom's the Twilight; and Charley's the Midnight. The last name did not seem particularly appropriate to a canoe, but it was in keeping with the other names, and as the canoe was painted black, it might have been supposed to have some reference to her color.
The boys had intended to join the American Canoe Association, but Uncle John suggested that they would do well to make a cruise, and to become real canoeists before asking for admission to the association. They then decided to form a canoe club of their own, which they did; and Harry was elected the first Commodore of the Columbian Canoe Club, the flag of which was a pointed burgee of blue silk with a white paddle worked upon it. Each canoe carried its private signal in addition to the club flag, and bore its name in gilt letters on a blue ground on each bow.
Where to cruise was a question which was decided and reconsidered half a dozen times. From the books which they had read the boys had learned that there is, if anything, more fun in cruising on a narrow stream than in sailing on broad rivers; that running rapids is a delightful sport, and that streams should always be descended instead of ascended in a canoe. They therefore wanted to discover a narrow stream with safe and easy rapids, and also to cruise on some lake or wide river where they could test the canoes under sail and under paddle in rough water. They learned more of the geography of the Eastern States and of Canada, in searching the map for a good cruising route, than they had ever learned at school; and they finally selected a route which seemed to combine all varieties of canoeing.
The cruise was to begin at the southern end of Lake Memphremagog, in Vermont. On this lake, which is thirty miles long, the young canoeists expected to spend several days, and to learn to handle the canoes under sail. From the northern end of the lake, which is in Canada, they intended to descend its outlet, the Magog River, which is a narrow stream emptying into the St. Francis River at Sherbrooke. From Sherbrooke the St. Francis was to be descended to the St. Lawrence, down which the canoes were to sail to Quebec. They wrote to the post-master at Sherbrooke, asking him if the Magog and the St. Francis were navigable by canoes, and when he replied that there was one or two rapids in the Magog, which they could easily run, they were more than ever satisfied with their route.
The previous cruises that the boys had made had taught them what stores and provisions were absolutely necessary, and what could be spared. Each canoe was provided with a water-proof bag to hold a blanket and dry clothes, and with a pair of small cushions stuffed with elastic felt, a material lighter than cork, and incapable of retaining moisture. These cushions were to be used as mattresses at night, and the rubber blankets were to be placed over the canoes and used as shelter tents. Although the mattresses would have made excellent life-preservers, Uncle John presented each canoeist with a rubber life-belt, which could be buckled around the waist in a few seconds in case of danger of a capsize. Harry provided his canoe with a canvas canoe tent, made from drawings published in the London Field, but the others decided not to go to the expense of making similar tents until Harry's should have been thoroughly tested.
When all was ready, the blankets and stores were packed in the Sunshine, the cockpit of which was provided with hatches which could be locked up, thus making the canoe serve the purpose of a trunk. The four canoes were then sent by rail to Newport, at the southern end of Lake Memphremagog, and a week later the boys followed them, carrying their paddles by hand, for the reason that if they had been sent with the canoes, and had been lost or stolen, it would have been impossible to start on the cruise until new paddles had been procured.
Newport was reached, after an all-night journey, at about ten o'clock in the morning. The canoeists went straight to the freight-house to inspect the canoes. They were all there, resting on the heads of a long row of barrels, and were apparently all right. The varnish of the Dawn and the Sunshine was scratched in a few places, and the canvas canoe had a very small hole punched through her deck, as if she had been too intimate with a nail in the course of her journey. The boys were, however, well satisfied with the appearance of the boats, and, being very hungry, walked up to the hotel to get dinner and a supply of sandwiches, bread, and eggs for their supper.
Dinner was all ready, for, under the name of breakfast, it was waiting for the passengers of the train, which made a stop of half an hour at Newport. A band was playing on the deck of a steamer which was just about to start down the lake, and the boys displayed such appetites, and called for so many things, as they sat near the open window looking out on the beautiful landscape, that they astonished the waiter.
A good, quiet place for launching the canoes was found, which was both shady and out of sight of the hotel. It was easy enough to carry the three empty canoes down to the shore; but the Sunshine, with her heavy cargo, proved too great a load, and about half-way between the freight-house and the shore she had to be laid on the ground and partly emptied. Here Joe, who tried to carry the spars and paddles of four canoes on his shoulder, found that there is nothing more exasperating than a load of sticks of different sizes. No matter how firmly he tried to hold them together, they would spread apart at every imaginable angle.
Before he had gone three rods he looked like some new kind of porcupine with gigantic quills sticking out all over him. Then he began to drop things, and, stooping to pick them up, managed to trip himself and fall with a tremendous clatter. He picked himself up, and made sixteen journeys between the spot where he fell and the shore of the lake, carrying only one spar at a time, and grasping that with both hands. His companions sat down on the grass and laughed to see the deliberate way in which he made his successive journeys, but Joe, with a perfectly serious face, said that he was going to get the better of those spars, no matter how much trouble it might cost him, and that he was not going to allow them to get together and play tricks on him again.
It was tiresome stooping over, packing the canoes, but finally they were all in order, and the Commodore gave the order to launch them. The lake was perfectly calm, and the little fleet started under paddle for a long sandy point that jutted out into the lake some three miles from Newport. The Sunshine and the Dawn paddled side by side, and the two other canoes followed close behind them.
"'Boys, isn't this perfectly elegant?" exclaimed Harry, laying down his paddle when the fleet was about a mile from the shore, and bathing his hot head with water from the lake. "Did you ever see anything so lovely as the blue water?"
"Yes," said Charley; "the water's all right outside of the canoes, but I'd rather have a little less inside of mine."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry. "Is she leaking?"
"SHE'S HALF FULL OF WATER."
"She's half full of water, that's all," replied Charley, beginning to bail vigorously with his hat.
"Halloo!" cried Joe, suddenly. "Here's the water up to the top of my cushions."
"We'd better paddle on and get ashore as soon as possible," said Harry; "my boat is leaking a little too."
Charley bailed steadily for ten minutes, and somewhat reduced the amount of water in his canoe. The moment he began paddling, however, the leak increased. He paddled with his utmost strength, knowing that if he did not soon reach land he would be swamped; but the water-logged canoe was very heavy, and he could not drive her rapidly through the water. His companions kept near him, and advised him to drop his paddle and bail, but he knew that the water was coming in faster than he could bail it out, and so he wasted no time in the effort. It soon became evident that his canoe would never keep afloat to reach the sand-spit for which he had been steering, so he turned aside and paddled for a little clump of bushes, where he knew the water must be shallow. Suddenly he stopped paddling, and almost at the same moment his canoe sank under him, and he sprang up to swim clear of her.
[to be continued.]
[PHRONY JANE'S LAWN PARTY.]
BY SYDNEY DAYRE.
"Now, Johnny, leave your saw."
"Ah, mamma, can't I just finish this bracket?"
"No, dear. All your Saturday evening's work is to be done yet."
It was hard, Johnny thought. A half-hour more would finish the beautiful deer bracket; the scroll-saw still had the charm of novelty, and the delicate pattern was a most attractive one. Johnny worked away harder than ever (a way he had of delaying obedience), and was beginning to hope he might yet complete his work, when a bright-faced little colored girl came in. She tied on an apron, and began beating eggs into a foam, adding a new clatter to the din made by Johnny's saw.
"Stop. Johnny, stop, I say!" and Johnny began moving his darling machine back into its corner with rather an ill grace. "Well, Phrony Jane, have you had a pleasant time?"
"Yes, 'm, splendid. Miss Lawton she's a-gwine to do lots o' nice things this summer—gwine to hev a lawn party next week out to her uncle's in the country for we uns."
"Who's we uns?" asked Johnny, teasingly.
"Why, her class—all o' we uns."
"Can't I go, then?"
"No," said Phrony Jane, a little disdainfully; "Miss Lawton don't approve o' boys, I guess. Ain't got a single one in her class."
"Couldn't get one," retorted Johnny, going out.
"Come back, Johnny," called his mother, "and put away your patterns, and pick up your chips." She sat down to look over some blackberries, while Phrony Jane, finishing her egg-beating, and relieved from the disadvantage the noise had placed her under, resumed her talk as she set the table for tea.
"Must 'a ben mighty sca'ce times when der was famines 'round." She looked admiringly at a loaf of bread she was cutting into slices. "Not a mite o' bread 'n' butter, nor beefsteak, nor canned fruit, nor nothin'. Miss Lawton she tole us all 'bout how 'Lijah he went to a po'r woman, 'n' says he, 'Gi' me jus' a little speck o' bread,' 'n' says she, 'Bless yer heart, mas'r, I ain't got but jus' one handful o' co'n meal, 'n' jus' as soon as me 'n' de little chap eats dat up we's gwine to die, sho's you live!' But says he, 'Don't ye be skairt now, aunty; you go 'n' make some co'n-cake fer you uns, 'n' some fer me, 'n' you see ef tings don't hold out.' An' she did, 'n' every day dere was more co'n meal in de bar'l. Now you know, missus, dat was de Lord!"
Mrs. Dent assented.
"How d'you s'pose He done it?"
Phrony Jane looked as if she would like to know very much indeed.
"We can't tell, Phrony Jane. The Lord has His own way of doing wonders."
"'Twould be an awful handy way o' gittin' tings down to our house, whe' de bacon 'n' molasses is all out. But, missus"—Phrony Jane now came to help with the berries, and it was plain there was something more weighty on her mind than bacon and molasses—"d'you s'pose 'twould do to war a gingham dress to a lawn party?" Mrs. Dent laughed.
"Why, Phrony Jane, a lawn party has nothing to do with a lawn dress. It means a party in the open air—on the lawn. People who have pretty grounds often give lawn parties."
"You sho' o' dat, missus? I hearn dat Phylly Jackman tell how she's gwine to w'ar her lawn dress—all ruffles 'n' a over-skirt."
"Well, if you are anxious about it, Phrony Jane, you know I told you I'd give you my brown lawn. Do you think you can alter it in time if I help you?"
"By nex' Friday? Course I can." Phrony Jane's face beamed as she thus happily arrived at what she had been aiming for.
All day long she was in such a state of delight that Mrs. Dent began to fear that her little hand-maiden's wits were quite lost. Milk pails were upset and dishes broken, and when the good lady saw Phrony Jane, in the middle of the afternoon, sitting in the swing with the baby in her arms, and singing
"Nobody knows de trubble I hab"
at the top of her voice, she actually began to tremble lest the little thing might meet with some dreadful accident through her nurse's wild excitement. Toward evening, when the day's labors were ended, Phrony Jane announced confidentially to Johnny:
"I's jus' gwine to run up 'n' tell dat Phyl Jackman she ain't de on'y one's got a lawn dress!"
Early the next morning Phrony Jane received news which struck dismay to her heart. Her mother, living two miles away, had broken her leg by a fall, and wanted her. Mrs. Dent packed a basket of comforts which would surely be needed in the shiftless family, and poor Phrony Jane departed in grief, wishing the news had not reached her until after Sunday-school, when she might have heard more about the lawn party.
Johnny had appeared that morning with a suspicious hobble. He had slightly sprained his foot the day before, and had avoided speaking of it through fear of being forbidden to saw brackets, and he had used it so imprudently as now to be unable to hide it any longer. So with a good supply of Sunday reading, a lunch handy in case of need, and many injunctions on the proper keeping of the day, Johnny's papa and mamma left him, each having a Sunday-school class to attend to.
Johnny meant well, but, as is the case with some other boys, needed a little looking after in order to carry out his good intentions. When the stories in the papers were exhausted, and a marvellous amount of gingerbread and milk consumed, he found that Sunday-school-time was not yet over. Church would not be over until after twelve. Coaxing a quarrel between the dog and cat took up ten minutes more, resulting in the cat's springing to the top of the scroll-saw, and scattering in every direction the pieces of work piled there, covered with a towel.
Johnny jumped to pick them up, much concerned at seeing that a slender point of a leaf was broken off one of his pieces of fine work. He thought it might be remedied by being rounded off with the saw. His foot was near the treadle, and the saw almost rose and fell of itself as he shaved the broken place. Then the other side had to be curved to make things even. Then he happened to be just where he was when he had been obliged to quit work the evening before. His foot did not hurt much as still that saw seemed to cut of its own accord into the graceful leaves. On it went, just going to stop every moment, Johnny inwardly assuring himself he never would think of doing such a wicked thing as saw on Sunday, but still following that enticing pattern until he at last stopped in alarm at seeing there was only one leaf more to do. It could not make things worse to finish that. It was done, and Johnny covered the saw feeling more guilty than ever in his life before, and hoping mamma would not look right into his eyes when she came home.
Phrony Jane came back on Tuesday evening, her wages being important enough in her family to lead them to try to get along without her. She inquired anxiously about the lawn party, but Mrs. Dent, who went to a different Sunday-school, and had not seen Miss Lawton, knew nothing further concerning it. Phrony Jane worked hard, every spare minute at the lawn dress, sitting up late on Thursday night, too busy to run and ask Phylly Jackman about the party. Still no word came from Miss Lawton, and on Friday afternoon Phrony Jane stood astounded in the back porch as two spring-wagons passed carrying Miss Lawton's class out for their country frolic.
"I never 'd 'a thought she'd 'a used me so dretful cruel." Poor Phrony Jane went to her room and cried.
"You here, Phrony Jane?" asked Miss Lawton, in surprise, as she took her place in class next Sunday.
"Yes, 'm. Didn't you spect me to come no more?" she asked, wondering what could have come over her teacher.
"Why, certainly, always when you're in the neighborhood, but I heard you had gone home."
"I did, 'm, but I come back a-Tuesday."
Miss Lawton called on Phylly Jackman next morning, and after some talk, took her with her down to Mrs. Dent's. Johnny was still kept in by his sprain, which, much to his mother's surprise, had been worse since she had left him at home on Sunday to keep it quiet. Many a rueful glance had he since cast at his saw, reflecting on the amount of enjoyment he had lost for such a poor bit of fun, and wishing he had courage to tell mamma.
"Now, Phyllis," said Miss Lawton, after courtesies were exchanged, "I want you to tell Mrs. Dent exactly what you told the girls about Phrony Jane."
"Well, 'm, I come here Sunday mornin' was a week, right after Sunday-school, to see why Phrony Jane wasn't dar, 'n' when I come to de door I hearn a noise, 'n' dar was dat sinful gal a-workin' away on de sewin'-machine on de holy Sabba' day!" Phylly's head shook virtuously.
"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Dent, in great surprise. "Did you come in?"
"No, 'm, I jus' went 'n' peeked in de winder—de w'ite curting was pulled down, but I seen de shadder ob her woolly head on it."
"And what did you tell the girls?"
"I tole 'em dat wicked Phrony Jane was a-workin' at her lawn dress, she felt so stuck up about, on de Sabba' day, 'n' Mis' Dent ought to send her home, 'n' not keep no such trash about. She did, you see!" Phylly was triumphant.
"That was the story which reached me," said Miss Lawton.
"It's a very strange one," said Mrs. Dent. "Phrony Jane left here early on Sunday morning to go to her mother, who had met with an accident, and Johnny was here all the time. Of course no one was at the sewing-machine, Johnny?"
"No, ma'am," said Johnny, very positively.
Phylly was puzzled and crest-fallen, but stuck to her statement in a stubborn fashion, which made both ladies feel out of patience with her. Phrony Jane being called, was not informed of the dark accusation which had been out against her, but was so cheered by her teacher's kindly regrets for her disappointment, growing out of a misunderstanding, as to spend no more regrets over the pleasure she had lost.
But Johnny, after this, became so woe-begone and peak-faced, was so evidently drooping from his confinement to the house, that his mother grew concerned. She cooked nice things for him, read to him, brought boys to see him; but all to no effect. But when she staid at home from Sunday-school with him, alone with her in the quiet of the Sabbath morning, Johnny's reserve broke down, and in a great flood of penitential remorse out came the burden on his conscience. Then listening to his mother's words of sorrowful surprise, forgiveness, and loving admonition, he formed earnest resolutions of never again forgetting the sacredness of Sunday hours.
Then Mrs. Dent began to wonder over this queer unravelling of the mystery of the sewing-machine story, laughing as she remembered the "woolly head" that figured in it.
"No wonder Phylly was so sure poor Phrony Jane was running the machine when she heard the roar of that saw of yours," she said, giving Johnny's curly hair a pull.
"And you see," said Johnny, "the worst of it is, it was me that made Phrony Jane miss going to the lawn party, and I'd like to make it up to her somehow."
"Yes." They laid their heads together, and the outcome of it was that Miss Lawton was spoken to, and she brought out her lively little colored crowd one day, and Phrony Jane had a lawn party of her own—a surprise lawn party, for which Johnny freely spent all his savings for candy, and strode about with a lofty sense of having "made up" for his injury to Phrony Jane in a most magnanimous manner.
"Why didn't you w'ar your style dress wid de ruffles 'n' over-skirt, Phylly?" asked Phrony Jane of that young lady, observing that her attire by no means exhibited the grandeur which might reasonably have been expected.
Phylly had felt guilty over the result of her meddling and gossiping about Phrony Jane. Moreover, Mrs. Dent had just explained to her the mistake which Johnny's Sunday sawing had led her into making, and she felt too proud at this recognition of herself as a truthful character to feel inclined to tell any lies just now.
"Well, de fact ob it is, Phrony Jane," she whispered, confidentially, "I ain't got no such a ting as a lawn dress—'n' it ain't got no ruffles, nor yet no over-skirt."
THE FRESH-AIR FUND.