TIM AND TIP;
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.
Chapter II.
SAM, THE FAT BOY.
Tim stopped as quickly as if he had stepped into a pool of glue, which had suddenly hardened and held him prisoner, and peered anxiously ahead, trying to discover where the voice came from.
"Didn't know there was anybody round here, did yer?" continued the voice, while the body still remained hidden from view.
Again Tim tried to discover the speaker, and failing in the attempt, he asked, in a sort of frightened desperation, "Who are you anyhow?"
"Call off yer dog, and I'll show yer."
These words made Tim feel very much braver, for they showed that the speaker as well as himself was frightened, and he lost no time in reducing Tip to a state of subjection by clasping him firmly around the neck.
"Now come out; he wouldn't hurt a fly, an' it's only his way to bark when he's kinder scared."
Thus urged, the party afraid of the dog came out of his place of hiding, which was none other than the branches of a tree, by simply dropping to the ground—a proceeding which gave another shock to the nerves of both Tim and Tip.
But there was nothing about him very alarming, and when Tim had a full view of him, he was inclined to be angry with himself for having allowed so short a boy to frighten him. He was no taller than Tim, and as near as could be seen in the dim light, about as broad as he was long—a perfect ball of jelly, with a face, two legs, and two arms carved on it.
It was impossible to gain a good view of his face, but that did not trouble Tim, who was only anxious to learn who this boy was, and whether he might be sufficiently acquainted with Captain Babbige to send him news of the runaway.
The new-comer did not appear to be in any hurry to begin the conversation, but stood with his hands in his pockets, eying Tim as though he was some strange animal who might be expected to cut up queer sort of antics at any moment.
"Hullo!" said Tim, after he thought the fat boy had looked at him quite as long as was necessary.
"Hullo!" was the reply.
"Where did you come from?"
"Outer that tree there," replied the boy, gravely, as he pointed to the place where he had been hiding.
"Yes, I saw you come out of there; but that ain't where you live, is it?"
"No."
"Where do you live?" And Tim was beginning to think that it required a great deal of labor to extract a small amount of knowledge from this fat party.
"Oh, I live over the hill, about half a mile down the road. Got anything good to eat?"
The question seemed so unnecessary and out of place, considering all the circumstances, that Tim took no notice of it, but asked, "What's your name?"
"Sam."
"Sam what?"
"I dunno, but I guess it's Simpson."
"Well, you're funny, if you ain't sure what your name is," said Tim, thoughtfully, forgetting his own troubles in his curiosity about this queer specimen. "What makes you think your name's Simpson?"
"'Cause that's my father's name."
By this time Tim had released his hold of Tip's neck, and the dog walked around Sam on a sort of smelling tour, very much to the boy's discomfort.
"Don't be afraid," said Tim; "he won't bite you. He's the best dog in the world if you only let him alone."
"I'll let him alone," replied Sam, still in doubt as to Tip's good intentions—"I'll let him alone, an' I wish he'd let me alone."
"He's only kinder gettin' acquainted, that's all. Say, do you s'pose your father would let me sleep in his barn to-night?"
"I dunno. What do you want to for?"
"'Cause I ain't got any other place."
If Sam hadn't been so fat, he would probably have started in surprise; but as it was, he expressed his astonishment by a kind of grunt, and going nearer to Tim he asked, "Where do you live?'
"Nowhere. Me an' Tip are tryin' to find some place where we can earn our own livin'," replied Tim, in doubt as to whether he ought to tell this boy his whole story or not.
"Ain't you got any father or mother?"
"No," was the sad reply. "They're both dead, an' me an' Tip have to look out for ourselves. We did live with Captain Babbige, but we couldn't stand it any longer, an' so we started out on our own hook."
"Where do you get things to eat?"
"We've got some money to buy 'em with."
"How much you got?"
"I had two cents when I left Selman, an' Mr. Sullivan, that keeps a store down to the mills, gave me two dollars."
"I'll tell you what let's do," said Sam, eagerly, as his eyes sparkled with delight. "Jest the other side of my house there's a store, an' we can go down there an' get two big sticks of candy, an' have an awful good time."
Tim reflected a moment. He knew that he ought to keep his money; but Sam's idea seemed such a good one that the thought of the pleasure which would come with the eating of the candy was too much for his notions of economy; therefore he compromised by saying, "I will, if you'll let me sleep in your barn."
Sam quickly agreed to that (in order to get the candy he would probably have promised to give the entire farm away), and the three—Sam, Tim, and Tip—started off, the best of friends.
But before they had gone very far, Sam stopped in the middle of the road, as he said, mournfully, "My! but I forgot all about the cow."
"What cow?"
"Father sent me down here to find old Whiteface, an' I forgot all about her when I saw you."
"Well, why don't you find her now? Me an' Tip will help you."
"But it'll take so long, an' before we get back the store will be shut up," objected Sam, who stood undecided in the road, as if he had half a mind to leave old Whiteface to her fate while he made sure of the candy.
"Never mind if the store is shut up," said Tim, earnestly. "We can get the candy just as well in the morning, an' perhaps we'll find her so quick that there'll be plenty of time."
"Will you buy the candy in the mornin' if you don't to-night?"
"Yes, I will, honest."
"Cross your throat."
Tim went through the ceremony of crossing his throat to make his promise more solemn, and search was made for the cow.
Up to this time it was plain that Sam did not feel any great amount of love for or confidence in Tip; but when, after a few moments' search, his loud bark told that he had discovered the missing cow, his future was assured so far as Sam Simpson was concerned.
"Now that's somethin' like," he said, after they had started homeward. "When you've got such a dog as that, all a feller's got to do is to sit down an' send him after 'em. It's the awfulest hateful thing in the world to go off huntin' cows when you don't want to."
Tim had many and serious doubts as to whether Tip could be depended on to go for the cows alone, but he did not think it best to put those doubts in words, lest he should deprive his pet of his new-found friend.
It was only a ten minutes' walk to Sam's home, and when the cow had been led to her stall Tim proposed that Sam should ask permission for him to sleep in the barn.
"There's time enough for that when we come back," was Sam's reply, the thought of the candy he was to have in case they reached the store before it was closed for the night driving all else from his mind. "Come on; we'll catch Mr. Coburn if we hurry."
Now Tim would much rather have had the question settled as to his sleeping quarters before starting out for pleasure; but Sam was so eager for the promised feast that he felt obliged to do as he said, more especially since it was through his influence that he hoped to receive the favor.
Naturally Sam Simpson was not a quick-motioned boy, but no one could have complained of the speed with which he went toward Mr. Coburn's store that night, and Tim found it hard work to keep pace with him.
The store was open, but the proprietor was just making preparations for closing. The candy, placed in two rather dirty glass jars, was in its accustomed place, and beamed down upon them in all its sticky sweetness, delighting Sam simply by the view to such an extent that his face was covered with smiles.
With a gravity befitting the occasion and the amount of wealth he was about to squander, Tim asked to be allowed to see the goods he proposed to buy, in order to make sure they were of the proper length.
Old Mr. Coburn rubbed his glasses carefully, wiped his face as a sort of preface to his task, and set about making this last sale of the day with the air of a man who knows he is called upon to deal with very exacting customers.
PEPPERMINT, OR LEMON?
It was fully five minutes before Tim could settle the weighty question as to whether it was better to buy a stick of peppermint and one of lemon, and thus by dividing them get two distinct treats, or to take both of one kind, and thus prevent any dispute as to whether he had made a just and equal division.
While this struggle was going on in the purchaser's mind, Sam fidgeted around, standing first on one foot and then on the other, watching every movement Tim made, while Tip searched over every portion of the store, very much to Mr. Coburn's annoyance.
The decision was finally made, but not before Mr. Coburn hinted that he could not afford to burn a quart of oil in order that his customers might see how to spend two cents, and with a peppermint stick in one hand and a lemon stick in the other Tim left the store, followed by Sam and preceded by Tip.
To make a fair division of the sweet feast was quite as great a task as the purchase had been, and it was begun in the gravest manner.
The two sticks were carefully measured, and by the aid of Sam's half-bladed jackknife broken at the proper place. A large rock by the side of the road served as seat, and there the two boys munched away as slowly as possible, in order that the feast might be prolonged to the utmost.
Tip sat close by, watching every mouthful in a hungry way, but refusing the portion Tim offered him.
Now that the feast was fast fading away into only a remembrance, the thought of where he was to spend the night began to trouble Tim again, and he asked, anxiously, "Sure your father will let me sleep in the barn?"
Before the candy had been purchased, the fat boy had been perfectly sure Tim could sleep in his father's barn, but now that the dainty was in his possession, he began to have some doubts on the subject.
"I'll tell you what we'll do," he said, his mouth so full of candy that Tim could hardly understand him. "Father an' mother will be in bed when we get home, an' it won't be any use to bother 'em. You come right up stairs to bed with me, an' we'll fix it in the morning."
"I'd rather ask them, an' sleep in the barn," said Tim, not half liking this plan.
"But they'll be asleep, an' you can't," was the quiet reply.
"Then I'd rather go in the barn anyway."
"Now see here," said Sam, with an air of wisdom, as he sucked the remaining particles of candy from his fingers, "I know father an' mother better 'n you do, don't I?"
"Yes," replied Tim, glad that Sam had made one statement with which he could agree.
"Then you do jest as I tell you. We'll creep up stairs like a couple of mice, an' in the morning I'll fix everything. Mother wouldn't want you to sleep in the barn when you could come with me as well as not; an' you do as I tell you."
It did not seem to Tim that he could do anything else, and he said, as he slid down from the rock, "I'll do it, Sam, but I'd rather you'd ask them."
Sam, content with having gained his point, walked silently along with Tim by his side, and followed by Tip, who acted as if he knew he was going out to spend the night without a proper invitation.
When they reached the house, not a light was to be seen, and the three crept up stairs, not quite as softly as mice, but so quietly that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson did not hear them.
That night Sam, Tim, and Tip lay on one bed, and neither of them lost any sleep by thinking of his possible reception in the morning.
[to be continued.]
[BITS OF ADVICE.]
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
ABOUT BEING OBLIGING.
Did you ever think that a person may be very selfish and very unselfish at the same time? Ethel is very fond of making presents to her friends. If Edith or Nannie admires a work-box, a book, or a pencil of hers, it is at her service. She delights to surprise her school-mates with little gifts, and often Mattie finds a bunch of violets on her desk, which have come from Ethel's conservatory, or a great golden orange is added to Sadie's luncheon, and it is sure to have been brought from Florida by Ethel's Uncle Tom. Ethel is full of kind thoughts, and is as liberal and generous as possible with things that cost her nothing. But still I do not regard her as unselfish, and I will tell you why.
She is not the least bit obliging. If she is seated in her little rocker by the south window, and mamma or auntie comes in, ever so tired, it does not occur to Ethel to offer her chair, that either of the ladies may rest. Indeed, if you hint it to her, she shakes her head and says, "There are plenty of chairs in the room; why should I give up mine?" Not long since Cousin Polly and little Agnes Lee arrived unexpectedly, and as there were other guests in the house, mamma was compelled to ask Ethel to give up her pretty room, and sleep for the night with her younger sister. Would you believe it, Ethel was so vexed that she pouted and sulked in Cousin Polly's face, would take no notice of the child, and finally cried herself to sleep? Not one of the family ever dreams of asking Ethel to run up stairs or down on an errand, to mend a ripped glove, to carry a message, or to do the slightest thing which will put her out of her usual way. They know that she is not an obliging girl, and, strangely enough, the very school-mates who accept her flowers and oranges, are much more fond of Mary Ann, a plain, dumpy little body, who never has anything to give away, but who is always greeting everybody with kind looks and words, and who, wherever she goes, is helping along.
[JIM, THE FERRY BOY.]
BY WADE WHIPPLE.
Waterview is in West Virginia. It overlooks the Great Kanawha River, and a very pretty river it is, too. You would think so if you were permitted to look out of any of the eastern windows of Waterview some bright summer morning, and see the willow and plane trees nodding to you from the opposite shore, and opening here and there to give you a glimpse of beautiful hills crowned with snowy clouds and bright blue sky.
And maybe if your eye chanced to rest on the cabin just at the foot of those beautiful hills, with its white-washed face peeping out of the maze of green and gold that almost hid it from view, you might wish to live there, even though the only way to bring it about would be by exchanging homes and natures with Jim, the Ferry Boy.
Jim was the light of that little cabin—yes, the light, for though his skin was as dark as the dusk, his happy and contented spirit shone out of his laughing eyes like sunbeams breaking through the chinks in a black cloud.
He was the ferryman at Waterview—a boy, and yet a man in all that was needed to fit him for his calling, being strong, courageous, and faithful. To be sure, "the ferry" was nothing more than a skiff of one-boy power, but it called upon Jim to get up at all hours of the night, and face the wettest kind of storms and the roughest kind of people, and these elements would have taken all the picnic flavor out of the business for you.
It was all the same to Jim, however. You could shake him out of the knottiest of naps, and drop him into the dingiest of nights, and he would take hold of the oars with as good a will as any of you would reach out for a box of bonbons. But with not quite as good a will, perhaps, as he would take to an old family fiddle during the gaps between work. His "mammy" insisted upon it that Jim got his good-nature out of that fiddle.
"Dar's a drefile heap o' fun in dem chil'en w'en dey's togedder," she would say; "and wedder Jim stirs de fiddle or de fiddle stirs Jim dar's no tellin', on'y dey tickles each udder mos' pow'ful, now I tells yer."
And it is a little circumstance connected with that very same fiddle that I have undertaken to tell you of. You see, Jim had a habit of taking that instrument with him on his trips across the river, and when waiting for a passenger he would prop himself up on the shore end of his boat, and coax "Dan Tucker" and "Clar de Kitchen" out of the strings in a way that might have made the frogs dance if there had been any one else about to call off the figures.
Well, on one occasion Jim had just laid his fiddle on the bank to help a passenger aboard, when a signal from the other side of the river caught his eye, and in his haste to get over and "bag his game" he rowed away without his old musical friend. On a bluff overlooking this part of the river, standing at his doorway, as Jim moved away, was Colonel Turner; and seeing the deserted fiddle lying on the ground, under cover of the trees and rocks along shore he stole down there, captured it, and brought it into the house. You see, he had a joke in mind.
Among his household goods was an old bass-viol—one of those very, very big fiddles you have seen in orchestras, that keeps a man bobbing up and down over its giant body like a washer-woman doing her best to rub the wrinkles out of a wash-board.
Well, the Colonel took that out of its hiding-place, and in a few moments it was lying in the very spot whence he had taken Jim's queer little music-box.
Presently the swarthy young ferryman came paddling across with his passenger, and running his boat into the little cove his frequent landings had cut in the river-bank, landed fairly on shore before he discovered the bass-viol lying there, with its great neck reaching out toward the river as if to take a drink.
Was he surprised? You would have thought so if you had seen his eyes bulge out, and his mouth open in a way that suggested the yawn of an alligator, as he exclaimed, "Sakes! how dat fiddle's growed!"
Then, with a degree of reverence in keeping with the measure of his surprise, Jim walked about from side to side of the monster, and finally ventured to reach out and thrum one of the great strings. If it had been run through him it could not have shaken him more than did the whirring sound which followed, and caused him to exclaim:
"Massy me! I done feel de ruts ob dat note movin' 'way down un'er my heel!' Lucky I warn't big 'nuff ter set de hull machine go'in', else dar'd been a earfquake sho' 'nuff.—Hullo dar!"
This exclamation was caused of the fact that his interest in the wonderful growth of the fiddle had caused him to forget his boat, which had meanwhile drifted from shore, and was being carried down stream as rapidly as a rather brisk current could bear it.
Before the Colonel (who was watching the comedy from his doorway) suspected his intention, the little ferryman had seized an oar that was lying on the bank, launched the big fiddle, and, astraddle of its bridge, was vigorously paddling in the wake of the escaping truant.
"Hey! you Jim!" shouted the Colonel, "where are you going with that fiddle?"
"Whar de fiddle's gwine wid me, I 'speck," was Jim's response, as he glanced back over his shoulder.
"But don't you know the water'll shrink that machine, and take all the music out of it?"
"Hit'll stan' a heap o' shrimpin', Kurnel, 'fo' it gits back ter my meshure; but dis chile's bizness won't stan' any shrimpin', an' dat's why I's ticklar 'bout dat ar boat. Bizness 'fo' pleshure, Kurnel."
Did he catch the boat? He was gaining on it when they turned a bend in the river, and it is very likely he caught it. At least he "caught it" from the Colonel when he came back with that soaked fiddle.
[SWIMMING.]
AT EASE.
On the first day of June the public swimming-baths in New York city were opened for the season. It is only a few years since the "City Fathers," as the Board of Aldermen are sometimes called, came to see the advantage of providing places where those of their children whose lives are passed in crowded tenement-houses and hot, dirty streets could wash and be clean. The aldermen built schools and paid teachers, and thought they had done their duty; but cleanliness is next to godliness, and health is even more important than reading and writing. The bath-tub is not in great favor with persons who have not been brought up to it, but every boy and girl likes to paddle about in the water in hot weather; and where there is a chance to swim, very few will long be content with paddling. Swimming is natural to most land animals, and a man could swim as readily as they but that he lacks confidence. It is very easily learned, however, and when learned, how delightful and healthy an accomplishment it is! and to what noble deeds does it not open the way!
A FREE SWIMMING-BATH—WOMEN'S DAY—Drawn by Jessie Shepherd.
TEACHING THE LITTLE ONES TO SWIM.
You will read in the newspapers from time to time of persons who have risked their lives to stop runaway horses, or to rescue helpless persons from an awful death in a burning house; but the heroes who have distinguished themselves by saving life in the water far outnumber those; for among a travelling people such as ours, danger by water is much more frequent than fires, or any other situations where the act of a single person may save life. Prince Bismarck, the great German Chancellor, may cover the breast of his uniform with medals and stars and orders of knighthood; but the decoration which he wears most frequently, and values more highly than all, is a medal which he received for rescuing his groom from drowning many years ago.
FISHING.
There is a story of a loving and overcautious mother who forbade her children to go into the water until they had learned to swim. Of course it is impossible for any one to swim before he has had an opportunity of trying; but in the absence of a teacher, a beginner will learn much more easily if he studies the positions and movements as given in the following hints. The first rule in learning to swim is, take things coolly. Remember that you can swim naturally if you can only put aside all nervousness and excitement.
Salt-water is the best to swim in on account of its greater buoyancy, but it is very difficult to learn in the surf. If you bathe in still or running water, be careful to choose a place free from weeds, and with a hard bottom, sloping gradually down to deep water. Be cautious about holes which would take you over your head, especially when bathing in an unknown place. Never venture out into deep water trusting to corks or life-belts to keep you afloat. Such help will never teach you to swim, and may lead you into danger. You need have no fear of taking cold in the water; but if you stay in long enough to get chilled, you will most likely take cold when you come out.
A JUMP FROM THE ROOF.
If you find that you do not get warm as soon as you are dressed, you may be sure you have staid in the water too long, and your bath has done you more harm than good.
It is a great mistake to think that swimming is a sport solely for men and boys; for not only do those girls who learn to swim enjoy doing so, but it is quite as important for girls to know how to swim as for boys. Nearly every large city is provided with swimming-baths, private and public, where every facility is afforded for swimming and learning to swim. In New York city there are seventeen of these baths, nine of them private, to which a small admission fee is charged, and eight of them public. In the private baths certain compartments are always reserved for women and girls, and the public baths are devoted to their use on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
On the preceding page are a number of sketches made by Mrs. Shepherd in one of the largest of these public baths. Some of the girls who visit these baths become very expert swimmers, and think nothing of taking a flying leap from the roof of the bath-house, swimming the entire length of the bath under the water, and doing other feats that appear very wonderful to the little ones just learning to swim by the aid of lines made fast to their waists.