MR. CHALKER'S RUSE.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
Every country boy in New England knows that the village school-house is generally located upon the top of the bleakest hill in the neighborhood, and is the sport of every eddying gust of wind that drives down from the great pine wilderness of Maine, heaping the great drifts across the road and about the door for the children to break through, and then shake themselves free of the clinging snow like so many young Newfoundlands.
And where, by any chance, was there ever a school-house containing a stove that didn't roast the scholars seated near it, and leave the others to freeze?
All wide-awake boys who know the pleasures of skating will agree with me that however cold and stormy it is upon the hill-tops, the mill-pond (and what does a village amount to without a mill-pond, indeed?) is always down in the coziest nook between the hills, where the winds can't come with more force than is needed to blow the falling flakes across its smooth surface, piling them in great heaps among the bordering willows, and leaving the ice in tempting order for "shinny."
In fact, upon this the coldest morning of the winter, the school-house on the hill-top is not to be mentioned or thought of in comparison with mill-ponds for comfort or attractiveness, and it is hardly surprising that Mr. Chalker, the school-master, walked to and fro in solitary state, surveying with vexed air an array of vacant desks.
He was not altogether alone, however, for three boys had fought bravely through the drifts, and now sat huddled by the red-hot stove, trying hard to look as though they, at least, didn't think the weather a good excuse for staying at home to hunt hens' nests in the depths of the haymow.
Now School-master Chalker was a shrewd observer, and loved a good joke as well as any one. He had adopted many original plans of instruction. He could see one end of the mill-pond, half a mile away from his window, and as he gazed out upon the bleak waste of snow-clad fields he saw a couple of small black figures gliding over its surface, and a trace of a smile shone among his wrinkles as an idea seemed to strike him.
Perhaps he had recalled the time, ever so many years ago, when he too was a lad and the "wildest cub in the town," as his father often declared. Turning to one of the boys, he said, "Ben, it seems to me that the pond's a much nicer place for us than the school-house to-day. Let's go fishing. I can't skate, but perhaps I can show you how we used to catch pickerel down there fifty years ago."
Ben and his two companions looked at Mr. Chalker with eyes widely opened, but they soon found that he was in earnest, and they agreed to the proposition joyfully.
"Now," said Mr. Chalker, "two of you get out the bob-sled, and heap on plenty of sticks from the wood-pile. Be sure and get some big ones; and you, Berton, go down to Mr. Sampson, the miller, with this note. He will let you have some lines, and a few minnows for bait."
When the school-house had been properly locked up, and they had started, dragging the sled after them, it occurred to Ben to suggest a slide. So all three got upon the wood, and slid away merrily toward the pond. The road was steep but straight, though near the bottom there was a sharp curve, where the wind had blown away the snow, leaving a crust of smooth ice. Over this they sped at a lively pace, Ben steering. Poor Ben couldn't turn the corner, and in another second the sled, school-master, and all plunged into the depths of a big drift. Nothing was to be seen of Mr. Chalker for a moment but his heels; but he shortly emerged, puffing and laughing heartily, much to the boys' relief, who had begun to think the fun was all over. But Mr. Chalker shook himself, and declared he enjoyed it, and was ready to try it over; in fact, he didn't act a bit like a school-master, but just like a boy let loose—a very old boy, to be sure, but a very hearty one, for all that.
It only required a few minutes to cut a couple of round holes in the ice, and to build a roaring fire upon a platform of heavy sticks and flat stones—a fire that flung its forked tongues into the keen air in merry defiance of the Frost King and all his servants.
The half-dozen boys already on the pond viewed these preparations with considerable wonder; but gathering courage, finally skated up and warmed their fingers at the fire.
Then somewhat more than a dozen other boys looked out from the windows of the houses scattered along the hill-side, and said something like this: "Mother, I guess there ain't any school to-day; I don't see any smoke comin' out of the chimney. Can't I go down to the pond?"
And an equal number of mothers replied: "Why, of course not. It's much too cold for you to go out. You said so yourself, and, besides, you don't feel very well."
"There's lots of the boys on the pond, mother, an' the skating's splendid. I don't feel so badly now. Can't I go? I won't stay long. I think you might let—"
Upon which all the mothers said, in effect, "Well, do go along; but mind you don't get into any air-holes."
Thus, before an hour had passed, nearly all of the boys in the school were gliding over the pond, or gathered in the group watching Mr. Chalker and his fishing party.
Meanwhile the school-master and Ben had enjoyed remarkable luck. Four fine pickerel lay on the ice, and a fifth (much the biggest ever seen in the pond, of course) had been lost by Ben in pulling him up.
Now it occurred to Mr. Chalker that it would be much nicer if everybody had seats, so he suggested to the boys that they should bring some fence rails, and sit down in a circle about the fire; all of which was done with a merry good-will, and Mr. Chalker surveyed them with infinite satisfaction through his glasses as he hauled in another struggling victim of his hook.
"Now," said he, "I see plainly that it is all a mistake to hold school up there in that uncomfortable building on the hill in such weather as this, and so I'm going to propose that on all cold days this winter we shall meet here on the pond and hold our classes; in fact, I think we may as well begin now." Without further ado the teacher pulled a supply of spellers from his several capacious pockets, and said, "The first class in spelling will take seats on this side."
Then it dawned upon the minds of the boys that they had been fairly trapped, and they nearly choked with inward laughter as they went through with spelling, arithmetic, and reading, taking turns at keeping their toes warm by the fire; and though a big pickerel was doing his best to carry off one of the lines, none of them dared to pull him up, for Mr. Chalker looked like a very severe and dignified pedagogue indeed, and Ben could scarcely realize that he had seen him tumbled head over heels into a snow-drift but a couple of hours before.
When he thought that the real lesson of the day had been well impressed upon the scholars, Mr. Chalker dismissed his school, and as he landed the last fish, and strung him through the gills with the others upon a willow twig, he chuckled to himself, "I don't know who's had the most fun to-day, the boys or the master, but I'll venture to say they'll be on hand, cold or no cold, after this."
[JOHN'S "CAMEL-BIRD."]
BY LOUISE STOCKTON.
"Now," said John, "if you are really good, I'll give you something you like."
The ostrich looked at John out of his small bright eyes, and he gave his dingy-looking plumes a little shake, but he did not stir from the spot where he was standing; so John took out of his pocket a handful of nails, and gave one to the ostrich, who immediately swallowed it, and then bobbed his head down for another, and got it.
"But you must not be in such a hurry," said John; "it is not good for your health to eat so fast."
But really, if any creature can eat nails and screws and bits of glass, as John's ostrich could, it makes little difference whether it eats fast or slow. These things, however, never made the ostrich sick. He ate them just as the canary-bird eats gravel, and they agreed with him.
After John had finished feeding his ostrich he turned and went into the house, and the ostrich, knowing he was to get nothing more, put up his funny little wings, and off he went on his long legs like the wind. No one tried to stop him, although two or three men stood by, for in the first place, no one could do it, and in the second, Perry—that was his name—used to go off this way every day.
Of course John did not live in this country, but in the southern part of Africa, where his father was an English officer. Perry was a tame ostrich, and had been given to John when the boy was quite a little fellow, and many a good time they had had together. Sometimes they would go out walking; but Perry was not fond of this, because John went so slowly, even when he ran. The best arrangement was for John to ride. Perry would stand perfectly still, and Captain Richards would put John on his back. John would catch tight hold of Perry's neck, and away they would go. Go! Why, a race-horse was slow to him. His legs just twinkled as he ran, and you could no more have seen them than you can count the spokes in a carriage wheel when it is rapidly turning. Perry was strong enough to carry Captain Richards, but the Captain could not bear his speed as John did, for it almost took his breath away; and once, he said, he began to be afraid he would die before Perry stopped. But John did not mind it. He liked it, and when he came to England on a visit, and rode his cousin's pony, he thought it was like going to a funeral.
When Perry was standing still he was not very handsome. He was dull in color, and his splendid feathers often looked dingy and ragged. His head was small, but his legs were so long that when John was seven years old he did not come to the top of them. When he ran, however, Perry looked splendid. He held his head firmly, he opened his queer little wings, his fine plume-like tail was erect, and every feather seemed to make him swifter and lighter, and he would go round and round like a gust of wind, and then, swooping closer, would fly back to John for a bit of iron, or perhaps a handful of grass.
Captain Richards told John why the ostrich was called the "camel-bird." The Arabs have a story that a King once said to the ostrich, "Fly," and it answered, "I can not, for I am a camel." So then he said, "Carry," and it replied, "I can not, for I am a bird." So, while it has the endurance of a camel and the swiftness of a bird, it will neither bear a burden nor fly through the air; and so, as John said, is neither, and yet both.
But one thing he could do. He could see very far. Some of the natives said he could see six miles, but John did not believe that. He thought no creature could see from his father's house to General Howard's, and that was only five miles away.
The one person who did not like Perry was Mrs. Richards. She used to be afraid to see John mounted on him, and, as she said, if Perry chose to run off into the wilds with John, who could stop him?
"But he won't," said her husband. "A tame ostrich is sure to come home to be fed."
"Well, he may throw the child off," she would reply.
"That depends on John himself, and I don't believe he will let go."
"Very well," she would say, "I am glad you are so content; but if you had the feelings of a mother you wouldn't be."
To this Captain Richards could make no reply. He had the feelings of a father; but then he was a soldier, and was used to taking risks.
And once Perry, roaming around, looked in a window, and on a table close by lay Mrs. Richards's coral breast-pin. It was pretty, and it looked good; so in went Perry's head, and in a flash the pin was down his throat.
Then, also, he would eat the little chickens. No one cared how many rats and grasshoppers he ate, but it was very provoking to have a pretty little brood of chickens gobbled up by this long-legged camel-bird. Even John did not like this, and he was glad when his father had a slatted coop made for the hens and their little ones. For a time all went well, but suddenly the chicks began to disappear, and then Mrs. Richards set a man to watch.
After a while up walked Perry, and stood watching the chickens. Presently a little one came near the slats. Quick as a flash in went Perry's head, and that little chicken was gone.
But they spoiled Perry's fun very quickly, for the men went to work at once and fixed the coops so Perry could not reach one of the chickens.
Every year Perry used to lose some of his feathers, and after Mrs. Richards had saved quite a number of them she sent them to her sister in London, and told her what to do with the money for which they were to be sold.
John knew nothing of it, and you may know he was surprised when one hot Christmas-day he received a box of books and a fine microscope from London. He showed them to Perry, but as the ostrich did not seem to care for them, John gave him all the nails and clamps from the box, and these Perry really did enjoy.
[THE LOST STANDARD.]
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
On the glorious field of Austerlitz
Napoleon stood when the day was o'er;
"Legions of France!" he cried, "pass by,
Bearing your eagles, stained with gore,
And torn with shot; but show to France
That none are lost. Advance! advance!"
Then with a shout the legions rose—
Napoleon watched them marching by;
Each flung its banner to the breeze,
And proudly sought their Emperor's eye.
Above the surging thousands toss'd
The precious eagles—not one lost.
Not one? Without its fife and drum
A silent legion sadly tread;
The weary men were dull and dumb—
There was no flag above their head:
The eagle that Napoleon gave
Floated no longer o'er the brave.
Then, white with anger, "Halt!" he cried,
And sternly called the legion's name.
"Your eagle, men!—the flag I gave?
Why die you not for very shame?
Life hath been bought at shameful cost,
If honor and your flag are lost."
With martial tread two veterans step
From out the sad and silent band:
"Sire, we have fought where'er you led,
In Italy, or Egypt's land.
Amid the thickest of the fray,
Our eagle touched the earth to-day.
"And we, unable to retake,
Pressed where the Russian foe came on—
Behold, our Emperor! for thy sake
Two Russian standards we have won;
Yet if our honor thou still doubt,
Then let our lives the stain wipe out."
The Emperor bared his head; then said,
With misty eyes and eager breath:
"Heroes! you've won your eagle now—
Won it from out the jaws of death.
Pass on! these flags shall bear your name
Among the standards kept by Fame."
Beneath the Invalides' grand dome
These Russian standards still find room;
'Mong royal flags of many lands
They droop above Napoleon's tomb.
Such praise and glory have the brave,
Who knew when honor's sign was lost,
At any price, at any cost,
Honor itself to save.
