[to be continued.]
[PETIT JEAN.]
AT THE BATTLE OF THE PYRAMIDS, JULY 21, 1798.
BY MARY A. BARR.
Up rose the sun o'er Egypt's tents,
O'er Egypt's pyramids and sands,
O'er fierce and fiery Mamelukes,
And o'er Napoleon's veteran bands;
The palms stood still in the hot air,
The sad and silent Sphinx looked on,
While over all the Afric sun
In burning, blinding splendor shone.
The Mamelukes fretted on their steeds,
Their cimeters all bright and bare;
The French stood grimly watching them,
Napoleon in the centre square.
He pointed to the Pyramids:
"Comrades, from those grand heights, I say,
The brave of forty centuries
Will watch you draw your swords to-day!"
They answered him with ringing shouts,
And ere the echoes died away
The van, like a tornado, charged,
Led by the brave and bold Desaix.
Then while the trusty "Forty-third"
Stood waiting for the word to charge,
They saw their little drummer-boy
Come from the column of Dufarge.
With tottering steps and bleeding breast,
But bravely beating still his drum,
He said, with sad and tearful face,
"Oh, Forty-third, to you I've come;
I've come to you, my Regiment,
For nothing but a child am I;
I've come to you, my comrades brave,
That you may teach me how to die!
"I'll never shame you, Forty-third;
I want to be as brave and true;
I want to die as brave men die;
So tell a poor child what to do."
Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard,
And Joubert turned his head away:
The lad had been the pet of all,
And now they knew not what to say,
Till Regnier kissed the boy, and spoke:
"Our Petit Jean, I see 'tis plain
Your place is with the Forty-third;
So beat us now the 'charge' again,
Then follow, and we'll show you how
Death comes unto the soldier brave.
Comrades, salute the nine-year-old
Who'll bravely fill a soldier's grave!"
The men's hearts glowed like living coals,
And Regnier cried, "Why do we stay?"
And to the roll of the little drum
They rode upon their vengeful way;
But each one as he passed the child
His sword with earnest purpose drew,
And cried in brave or tender tones,
"Mon Petit Jean, adieu! adieu!"
"I come, my Regiment, I come!"
But never Petit Jean again
His drum beat for the Forty-third:
They found him lying with the slain.
They put the medal on his breast,
Together clasped his childish hands,
And dug, with many a bitter tear,
A grave for him in Egypt's sands.
'Tis near a century ago,
But still his memory is green;
The Regiment has not a name
So dear as that of Petit Jean;
And many a weary soldier has
To brave and noble deeds been stirred
By the tale of the little nine-year-old
Who died among the Forty-third.
[THE MILKMAIDS OF DORT.]
Girls often declare that boys have all the fun. Well, they certainly do seem to get the larger share of it in a good many ways. Then, when they grow up, they are very apt, too, to carry off all the honors, the literary fame, the military glory, the professional success, while the girls are left at home to do worsted-work.
Now and then, however, the girls come to the front in art, in literature, in science, and even in war. You all know how Joan of Arc led the armies of France to victory, and how Moll Pitcher stood at the mouth of her cannon, pouring confusion into the British ranks.
Not so great as these women of martial fame were the "Milkmaids of Dort," but still they have their place in history. If any of you ever go to Holland, the land of wooden dikes and windmills, it is quite possible that you may find yourselves some day in the ancient town of Dort, or Dordrecht. It is a grand old city. Here among these antiquated buildings, with their queer gables and great iron cranes, many an interesting historical event has taken place.
In the centre of the great market-place of Dort stands a fountain, and if you will look close you will see upon the tall pyramid a relievo representing a cow, and underneath, in sitting posture, a milkmaid. They are there to commemorate the following historical fact:
When the provinces of the United Netherlands were struggling for their liberty, two beautiful daughters of a rich farmer, on their way to the town with milk, observed not far from their path several Spanish soldiers concealed behind some hedges. The patriotic maidens pretended not to have seen anything, pursued their journey, and as soon as they arrived in the city, insisted upon an admission to the burgomaster, who had not yet left his bed. They were admitted, and related what they had discovered. The news was spread about. Not a moment was lost. The Council was assembled; measures were immediately taken; the sluices were opened, and a number of the enemy lost their lives in the water. Thus the inhabitants were saved from an awful doom.
The magistrates in a body honored the farmer with a visit, where they thanked his daughters for the act of patriotism which saved the town. They afterward indemnified him fully for the loss he sustained from the inundation, and the most distinguished young citizens vied with each other who should be honored with the hands of the milkmaids. Then, as the years went by, the fountain was erected, and the story commemorated in stone.
[MAX RANDER'S YOUNG NOBLEMEN.]
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
It was only a day or so after my bicycle ride that I received a letter from father, telling me that he and mother were detained in London, and asking if Thad and I could do without them for a week longer.
So in view of our "to-be-continued" lonely condition, the landlady kindly offered to introduce us to "three young gentlemen" who were attending school in the town, and who boarded with her sister.
They all came of noble families, she informed me, adding that it would be a great honor for me to know them.
Thus my expectations were raised to the highest pitch, and the morning of the day they were to call I spent in polishing my watch chain to its brightest, and deciding whether a blue or a red bow would be most appropriate to wear.
I know now that I must have seen scores of little dukes and lords walking about the streets of London just like other boys, but I didn't know it then, and always had an idea that they all wore red velvet cloaks and cream-colored tights, carried swords dangling at their sides, and never went out except in a gilded chariot, preceded by two men on horseback blowing brass horns to clear the way.
Therefore I was considerably astonished when I saw three boys of about my own age turn in at the gate, all dressed in short black coats and tall black hats, exactly like any common English school-boy.
"Now, Thad," I said, as I turned away from the window, "be sure and make a low bow when you are introduced, because—" But the Landlady's knock was on the door, and in she came, followed in close order by Malcolm Heppingham, the son of a Duke, Douglas Galton, whose father was an Earl, and Ralph Maisley, who was an "Honorable."
I was presented to these high and mighty individuals with great ceremony, and then the landlady went out and left us to ourselves.
For a moment there was dead silence, while Thad stood staring at our visitors as if afraid to sit down in their presence. The three English chaps stared at us too, and then all at once began to ask questions about America.
And such questions! Why, they made me think of it as some island away off in the Arctic Ocean, which people never heard from except every two or three years, when a ship managed to break its way through the ice, and carried back the news that a new barn had been built or half the inhabitants killed off by the natives.
Nevertheless, I was deeply impressed by the grand airs the young noblemen gave themselves, and the queer way they had of pronouncing their words.
Their call was a very formal one, for they only staid about ten minutes, and then filed out in solemn procession, after making me promise to come and see them the very next afternoon. Nothing was said about Thad, so I concluded they thought him too young for company.
Well, of course I felt very much honored by the pressing invitation to visit them so soon, and promptly at the hour named presented myself at their boarding-house, where I was immediately pounced upon by all three of my titled friends, who in a very lively manner, and all talking at once, informed me that I had arrived just in the nick of time to see the "jolliest sight"—no less than the ascent of the dining-room chimney by a boy sweep.
Then they took me into the long dining-hall, with its great fire-place, which, though big enough to hold two boys, was anything but a pleasant spot to poke one's head into.
The sweep quickly and quietly made his preparations, and with our four pair of eyes riveted upon his sooty form, speedily clambered out of sight.
"I say," cried Duke Malcolm, when there was nothing more to be seen, "while he's up there, come on out and take a look at my dog-kennel."
"And my rabbit-burrows," put in the Earl.
"And you must see my pony too, you know," added the Honorable Ralph.
This last inducement was not to be resisted, so I hurried out into the back yard after my hosts, wondering why the chaps with the biggest titles should have only dogs and rabbits to show, while the fellow who was merely an Honorable rejoiced in the possession of a pony.
The kennel and burrows were duly inspected and admired, and we were crossing the yard to visit the stables, when the Earl suddenly stopped, struck one hand against his forehead, and with the other pointed to the chimney over the dining-room, out of which smoke was ascending.
"The sweep!" cried the Duke, staggering back against the barn door, which banged to with a crash.
"He'll be roasted alive! Quick!" exclaimed the Honorable, and then they all three started on a run for the house.
I followed as fast as I could, but not knowing the ins and outs of the yard as well, I completely lost sight of them before I reached the back door. However, I remembered where the dining-room was, and dashing in, found nobody there but the maid, who was blowing the already fiercely crackling fire into a brighter blaze.
Not stopping to wonder why the others were not there, I rushed up to her, and snatched the bellows out of her hands so suddenly that she immediately set up a cry of "Murder!" while I began to shout "Fire!" at the top of my voice, expecting every instant to see the charred body of the sweep come tumbling out of the chimney at my feet.
Before I could explain to the girl the awfulness of the deed she had done, the landlady, the butler, the rest of the servants, and all the lady boarders had crowded into the room, and as the maid was too frightened to say anything except that one word, they all began to stare at me as if I were a burglar.
But all my thoughts were with that poor sweep roasting alive in the chimney, and rushing up to the landlady, I entreated her to have the fire put out, and— But at that moment I saw looking in at the window the faces of my three noble friends, all distorted with suppressed laughter, while directly behind them stood the sweep himself, grinning from ear to ear.
"I say, Rander," called out the Duke, "why don't you cable to New York for one of your American fire-engines?"
"Perhaps we can induce the Queen to present you with a leather medal in honor of your mighty efforts at life-saving," added the Earl.
Then all three vaulted into the room to explain how they had caught a glimpse of the sweep walking off just as they reached the house, and forgetting me entirely, had run after him to see if he was scorched.
However, I consoled myself with the reflection that not one of those chaps with handles to their names can ever be King of England, while I have the chance of becoming President of the United States.
THE GAME OF TCHUNGKEE.