HOW THE PENNANT WAS WON.
AN ICE-BOAT STORY.
BY J. O. DAVIDSON.
Bump, bang, clatter, clatter.
"Eh! hello, who's there?" and Arthur jumps from his warm bed, and starts, shivering, to open the window-shutter; but ere he can reach it, another thump from without, and the rattle of a broken snow-ball on the tin roof of the veranda greets his ears.
He gets the shutter open just as Joe Henderson is about to throw another snow-ball, to knock at his door, as it were.
"Hello, Joe! what's up? Phew! ain't it cold!"
"Oh, Art, hurry up and dress, and come down," cries Joe. "I've splendid news for you. The river is frozen clear to Tarrytown, and the ice-boats from there are coming over to race with the Nyack boats to-day, and Uncle Nye is going to enter his new yacht, the Jack Frost, in the regatta, and says you and I may go along to help make up the crew. Won't it be fun, though? There's an elegant breeze."
"I should say so," chattered Arthur, as he shivered before the window. "But I'm afraid I can't go. I don't dare miss school, it's so near examination-day."
"Oh, that's all right," cried Joe. "I stopped with a letter at Dominie Switchell's on my way up, and he's laid up with another attack of rheumatism, and can't teach school to-day. Ain't it glorious?"
"Elegant! Hooray! I'm with you!" shouted Arthur, as he disappeared from the window. Hurrying on his clothes, and scarcely dipping his face in the icy water, he completed a hasty toilet, bounded down stairs two steps at a time, and tumbled over a chair that grandma had placed before her door to trip up burglars.
"Oh dear, what's the matter?" cried a voice from the room, as grandma opened the door and peeped into the hall.
"Why, Artie dear, how you frightened me! What is the cause of—"
"Ice-boat regatta to-day," shouted Artie, rubbing his ankle; "and there's no school, and I'm going on the Jack Frost. Won't be back till afternoon; keep my dinner hot, and—" The rest of the sentence was inaudible to grandma, for the boy was down the back stairs and in the kitchen, where, joined by Joe, he hurriedly ate the breakfast which good-natured Julia quickly set before them, for she knew just how to treat boys, having been a romping country girl herself.
In a few minutes the back door banged to, and our lads ran down the slippery pathway toward the river, where the bright sails of the Tarrytown fleet were already gliding toward the hither shore, as if in challenge to a contest. A minute's steady trot brought the boys to the steamboat dock where the ferry-boat lay frozen in. A number of graceful ice-yachts were gliding hither and thither over the glassy surface, while several near the wharf stood with sails flapping in the crisp, freshening breeze, as numbers of men and boys hurried about making the last preparations for the race, while shouts and halloos resounded on all sides. An animated group was gathered about one large and very stanch-looking boat.
"Oh, ain't she a beauty?" exclaimed Artie, as they ran and slid over the ice toward her.
"Why, it's the Jack Frost!" replied Joe. "Look at her flag; and here comes Uncle Nye, and Marc, and Charlie Haines, who built the boat."
"Good-morning, boys; just in time," called Mr. Nye. "It's a fine day for our sport. Jump aboard now, and let's be off. Haines, you take the windward runner; Joe, you stand by the peak halyards; Marc, you take the jib sheets; while Artie minds the main, and I'll tend the helm. Now tuck in the buffalo-robes. Are you all ready there forward?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Let go; steady now; there she fills;" and as the beautiful craft gathered headway, and glided over the smooth ice, a cheer went up for the new yacht. As they gained the open ice, several other racers ranged alongside to test the speed of the new-comer.
"What boat is that, Charlie?" called Mr. Nye, pointing to a fine boat close to.
"That's Mr. Snow's boat, the Icicle, sir; and here comes Mr. Voorhees's flyer, the Avalanche. There's Mr. Smith's Snow Squall, from Tarrytown. Look out, sir; here comes Mr. Hoff's boat, the Marie, trying to cross our bows. But she can't do it."
In a few minutes the Jack Frost had drawn away slightly from her rivals; and putting about, Mr. Nye ran back, and brought the boat to a stand-still near the dock.
"Oh, uncle, do you think we'll win the race?"
"I can not tell, of course, Joe, but Haines says she handles beautifully, and we stand a good chance if nothing breaks."
"Is Artie there?" called a voice from the dock to Joe.
"Yes, Ed, he's here."
"Tell him that grandma sent him this muffler, and wants him to wrap well up, and not catch—"
"There goes the signal to get ready!" exclaimed Charlie, as he jumped on the windward runner; and they ran rapidly down to the starting-point, where a long line of boats was drawn up like white-winged birds, their sails trembling in the breeze.
"What is the course, sir?" asked Artie.
"From Hook Mountain to Piermont Dock, two miles out in mid-river, then back to the Hook, three times—about thirty miles."
"There, Artie, there's the new pennant the young ladies offered as a prize last year, and Tom Hackett and Jim Burger, from Tarrytown, won it on the Eagle; but the boys say they didn't win it fairly, for they started ahead of the rest, and crowded one of our boats into an ice crack, and broke her runner."
"Now, boys, attention," ordered Mr. Nye, sharply. "Let her come into the wind."
"Are you ready?" came a clear voice down the wind; and a pistol report cracked on the air.
"Jib sheet—quick, Marc; more main sheet, Art; now sway down on the peak halyards, Joe; lie close, Haines. That's it—all snug;" and they were off on the race.
After our boys had attended to their duties, they had time to look about at the rest of the fleet.
Away on either side stretched a line of swiftly moving yachts, white sails flat as boards, flags fluttering, the wind humming through the rigging, while their glittering runners cut feathery flakes of glistening ice in their tracks.
"Oh, ain't it too bad!" cried Joe. "The Eagle and Icicle are both ahead of us."
"Never mind, boys; it's early in the race yet. Wait till we get on a wind," replied Haines. "Now watch the turning-point, sir; don't let the Snow Squall get inside of us; ready, about," and the three leading boats turned the stake together.
"Phew! how we fly!" cried Art. "Isn't she a hummer?"
"I wonder why they call a boat Jack, and then call it 'she,' as if it were a girl?" queried Joe.
"Give it up," replied Marc.
"Because they require so much rigging," promptly responded Mr. Nye.
"Oh, uncle, that's not fair," cried Joe; "you knew the answer before."
"Well, I've two daughters, and ought to," replied Mr. Nye; and they all joined in his jolly laugh.
"Look out for the crack ahead!" shouted Charlie, as they rushed by a split in the ice. "Ready, about!" away they went on the other tack; and so the exciting race went on. Now one boat would be ahead, again another would dart by and take the lead, but some had fallen so hopelessly in the rear, that only a half-dozen remained in the race, and of these it was hard to tell which was the swiftest.
"I'm afraid we're going to have a snow-squall, sir," shouted Charlie. "There's a black cloud coming over the Hook Mountain."
"Let it come; I think the heavier it blows, the better for us," replied Mr. Nye.
The race was now three-quarters run, and everything must be decided in a few minutes. The squall had come over the Hook, darkening the heavens, and the gale made the boats dart along with lightning speed.
"The Marie is ahead of us," exclaimed Charlie Haines, peering into the flying snow. "Hello, something's the matter with her! Boat ahoy! Sheer off, or you'll run into us. Steady, boys," and a phantom shape rushed out of the mist and darted across their wake with peak halyard parted and the mainsail thundering in the wind.
The snow now hid everything in a wild whirl of mist.
"Here comes the Eagle, sir," as another yacht appeared close aboard in the gloom, with her flag streaming wildly on the gale.
"Keep off! keep off!" roared Charlie Haines to Tom Hackett, who was steering the rival yacht.
"Clear the track!" came back the answer, in angry tones.
"Keep on your course, Mr. Nye!" yelled Charlie. "You have the right of way, and he dare not run us down."
Scarcely had he spoken when Hackett altered his boat's course.
"Luff, sir, luff!" shouted Charlie Haines, and with a light touch of the helm, Mr. Nye avoided the collision. Not entirely, though, for the Eagle caught her jib-stay under her rival's main-boom; a sharp snap followed, a heavy lurch, and the Eagle, devoid of her jib, whirled about and upset, throwing her crew along the ice.
"Served them right!" exclaimed Haines. "They tried to crowd us out of our course, but got upset themselves. Now, boys, hold on tight."
A terrific gust of wind and snow drove them swiftly on; it blew so hard, that the windward runner, with Charlie clinging to it, was lifted high in the air, and it seemed as though the boat must capsize.
"Shall we drop the peak?" called Mr. Nye. "I hardly think she'll stand it."
"Yes, she will, sir," answered Charlie. "Hold hard, every one!" and a moment later he added, "Hurrah! I see the stake ahead," and a burst of sunshine through the clouds revealed the flag close by.
Several other boats now emerged from the squall, but much of their canvas was shivering, and most of their peaks had been dropped before the fury of the gale.
It was no use trying to recover their lost ground, and our friends on the Jack Frost darted by the flag, winners of the race by several seconds, and also of the champion pennant of the Tappan Zee.
[BITS OF ADVICE.]
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
GOING TO A PARTY.
I remember that when I was quite young going to a party was nearly as much a trial to me as a pleasure. Being diffident, I dreaded entering the room, and encountering the eyes of the people already assembled there; and once fairly in, I was overshadowed all the evening by the dreadful necessity of, by-and-by, retiring. Besides, I felt a sense of responsibility which was very oppressive, and was so afraid of not doing or saying what was expected of me, that I moved and acted awkwardly, and no doubt looked perfectly miserable.
Perhaps some of you may have had experiences similar to mine. Now let me tell you that I have lived to laugh at my foolish shyness, and to be very sorry for boys and girls who suffer from the same thing. When you are invited to a company, the first thing in order is to reply to the invitation. This is polite, whether you accept or decline, and it is imperative if you decline. Send your answer as soon as possible, in some such simple phrase as this: "Harold," or "Florence, thanks Mrs. ---- for her kind invitation for Thursday evening, and accepts it with pleasure," or "declines it with real regret," as the case may be. Arrived at your friend's house, you will be directed to the proper place for the removal of your wraps, and the arrangement of your toilet, and then you have only to proceed to the parlor, where your hostess will relieve you from embarrassment by meeting you at once. She is, of course, the first person whom you are to greet. Having spoken to her, you are at liberty to find other friends. Do not think that people are looking at you, or noticing your dress or your looks. They are doing nothing of the kind. Engage heartily in whatever amusement is provided for the occasion, but do not put yourself needlessly forward. If spoken to, reply modestly but intelligently, even though for the moment there may be a hush in the room. If you really wish to enjoy yourself, seek out somebody who seems to be more a stranger than yourself, and try to do something for his or her pleasure. Forget that you are not acquainted with everybody, and remember that it is your duty to help your hostess in making her party a success. Should your greatest enemy be present, you must of course be perfectly civil and agreeable in your manner to him, for in your friend's house you are both under a flag of truce.
When you say good-night to your entertainers, be sure to thank them for the pleasure you have had. Do not stay too late, but avoid being the first to go; or, if you must leave early, do it as quietly as possible, lest your withdrawal should be the signal for others to leave, thus breaking up the party too soon.
[POPPING CORN.]
BY GEORGE COOPER.
This is the way we drop the corn—
Drop the corn to pop the corn:
Shower the tiny lumps of gold,
All that our heaping hands can hold;
Listen awhile, and blithe and bold,
Pip! pop-corn!
This is the way we shake the corn—
Shake the corn to wake the corn:
Rattle the pan, and then behold!
What are the tiny lumps of gold?
Pretty wee white lambs in the fold!
Tip-top corn!
[THE WEEPING-WILLOW.]
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
You have seen and admired the weeping-willow tree—the Salix babylonica—upon which the captive Hebrews hung their harps when they sat down "by the rivers of Babylon" and "wept when they remembered Zion." It is a native of the garden of Eden, and not of America, and I will tell you how it emigrated to this country.
More than a hundred and fifty years ago a London merchant lost his fortune. He went to Smyrna, a sea-side city in Asia Minor, to recover it. Alexander Pope, one of the great poets of England, was the merchant's warm friend, and sympathized with him in his misfortunes.
Soon after the merchant arrived in Smyrna, he sent to Pope, as a present, a box of dried figs. At that time the poet had built a beautiful villa at Twickenham, on the bank of the river Thames, and was adorning it with trees, shrubbery, and flowering plants.
On opening the box of figs Pope discovered in it a small twig of a tree. It was a stranger to him. As it came from the East, he planted the twig in the ground near the edge of the river, close by his villa. The spot accidentally chosen for the planting was favorable to its growth, for the twig was from a weeping-willow tree—possibly from the bank of one of "the rivers of Babylon"—which flourishes best along the borders of water-courses.
This little twig grew vigorously, and in a few years it became a large tree, spreading wide its branches and drooping, graceful sprays, and winning the admiration of the poet's friends as well as of strangers. It became the ancestor of all the weeping-willows in England.
There was rebellion in the English-American colonies in 1775. British troops were sent to Boston to put down the insurrection. Their leaders expected to end it in a few weeks after their arrival. Some young officers brought fishing-tackle with them, to enable them to enjoy sport after the brief war. Others came to settle on the confiscated lands of the "rebels."
Among the latter was a young officer on the staff of General Howe. He brought with him, wrapped in oiled silk, a twig from Pope's weeping-willow at Twickenham, which he intended to plant on some stream watering his American estate.
Washington commanded an army before Boston, which kept the British imprisoned in that city a long time against their will. On his staff was his step-son, John Parke Custis, who frequently went to the British head-quarters, under the protection of a flag, with dispatches for General Howe. He became acquainted with the young officer who had the willow twig, and they became friends.
Instead of "crushing the rebellion in six weeks," the British army at Boston, at the end of an imprisonment of nine months, were glad to fly, by sea, for life and liberty, to Halifax. Long before that flight, the British subaltern, satisfied that he should never have an estate in America to adorn, gave his carefully preserved willow twig to young Custis, who planted it at Abingdon, his estate in Virginia, where it grew and flourished, and became the parent of all the weeping-willows in the United States.
Some time after the war, General Horatio Gates, of the Revolution, settled on the "Rose Hill Farm," on New York Island, and at the entrance to a lane which led from a country road to his house he planted a twig from the vigorous willow at Abingdon, which he had brought with him. That country road is now the Third Avenue, and the lane is Twenty-second Street. Gates's mansion, built of wood, and two stories in height, stood near the corner of Twenty-seventh Street and Second Avenue, where I saw it consumed by fire in 1845. The tree which grew from the twig planted at the entrance to Gates's lane remained until comparatively a few years ago. It stood on the northeast corner of Third Avenue and Twenty-second Street. It was a direct descendant, in the third generation, of Pope's willow, planted at Twickenham about 1722.
INDIAN CHILDREN PLAYING "BUFFALO."—Drawn by W. M. Cary.