[to be continued.]
THE MANGOSTEEN.
FROM ADVANCE SHEETS OF "THE BOY TRAVELLERS IN THE FAR EAST." PART SECOND.
BY THOMAS W. KNOX.
During their stay upon the island of Java, Dr. Bronson and his young travelling companions took a trip on a railway from Batavia to Buitenzorg, in order that they might learn something of the interior of the island. While on this trip the boys observed, among other things, that the trees in some instances grew quite close to the track. Doctor Bronson explained to them that in the tropics it was no small matter to keep a railway line clear of trees and vines, and sometimes the vines would grow over the track in a single night. It was necessary to keep men at work along the track to cut away the vegetation where it threatened to interfere with the trains, and in the rainy season the force of men was sometimes doubled. "There is one good effect," said he, "of this luxuriant growth. The roots of the vines and trees become interlaced in the embankment on which the road is built, and prevent its being washed away by heavy rains. So you see there is, after all, a saving in keeping the railway in repair."
At several of the stations the natives offered fruit of different kinds, and nearly all new to our young friends. They had been told that they would probably find the mangosteen for sale along the road; they had inquired for it in Singapore, but it was not in season there, and now their thoughts were bent upon discovering it between Batavia and Buitenzorg. Two or three times they were disappointed when they asked for it; but finally, at one of the stations, when Fred pronounced the word "mangosteen," a native held up a bunch of fruit, and nodded. The Doctor looked at the bunch, and nodded likewise, and Fred speedily paid for the prize.
Perhaps we had best let Fred tell the story of the mangosteen, which he did in his first letter from Buitenzorg:
"We have found the prince of fruits, and its name is mangosteen. It is about the size of a pippin apple, and of a purple color—a very dark purple, too. The husk, or rind, is about half an inch thick, and contains a bitter juice, which is used in the preparation of dye; it stains the fingers like aniline ink, and is not easy to wash off. Nature has wisely provided this protection for the fruit; if it had no more covering than the ordinary skin of an apple, the birds would eat it all up as soon as it was ripe. If I were a bird, and had a bill that would open the mangosteen, I would eat nothing else as long as I could get at it.
"You cut this husk with a sharp knife right across the centre, and then you open it in two parts. Out comes a lump of pulp as white as snow, and about the size of a small peach. It is divided into sections, like the interior of an orange, and there is a sort of star on the outside that tells you, before you cut the husk, exactly how many of these sections there are. Having got at the pulp, you proceed to take the lump into your mouth, and eat it; and you will be too busy for the next quarter of a minute to say anything.
"Hip! hip! hurrah! It melts away in your mouth like an overripe peach or strawberry; it has a taste that is slightly acid—very slightly, too—but you can no more describe all the flavor of it than you can describe how a canary sings, or a violet smells. There is no other fruit I ever tasted that begins to compare with it, though I hesitate to admit that there is anything to surpass our American strawberry in its perfection, or the American peach. If you could get all the flavors of our best fruits in one, and then give that one the 'meltingness' of the mangosteen, perhaps you might equal it; but till you can do so, there is no use denying that the tropics have the prince of fruits.
"Everybody tells us we can eat all the mangosteens we wish to, without the slightest fear of ill results. Perhaps one might get weary of them in time, but at present we are unable to find enough of them. If anything would reconcile me to a permanent residence in the tropics, it would be the hope of always having plenty of mangosteens at my command.
"You may think," Fred added, "that I have taken a good deal of space for describing this fruit, but I assure you I have not occupied half what it deserves. And if you were here, you would agree with me, and be willing to give it all the space at your command—in and beyond your mouth. But be careful and have it fully ripe: green mangosteens are apt to produce colic, as Frank can tell you of his own knowledge."
ROBINSON CRUSOE'S ISLAND.
The island of Juan Fernandez has always been said to be the island on which Robinson Crusoe was cast away. Nothing can be further from the truth. Crusoe never saw Juan Fernandez, and, so far as we know, never once so much as thought of casting himself away there.
No man has ever charged Robinson Crusoe with not telling the truth. He may have had his faults—and he certainly did show very little judgment when he built his first boat so far from the shore that he could not possibly launch it—but he always told the truth. We ought therefore to believe what he says about the situation of his island. He informs me that, having sailed from Brazil on a voyage to the coast of Guinea, he was driven northward by stormy weather, and was finally wrecked somewhere between the mouth of the river Orinoco and the Caribbean or West India islands. Now the island of Juan Fernandez is in the Pacific Ocean, about three hundred and sixty miles southwest of Valparaiso. To suppose that Crusoe was wrecked on Juan Fernandez, while on his way from Brazil to Guinea, is like saying that a ship on her way from New York to Liverpool was wrecked on one of the Sandwich Islands. Such a story would be perfectly absurd. However, when we have Crusoe's word that he was cast away near the mouth of the Orinoco, there is an end of the matter. He probably could not have told a lie if he had tried to.
In the year 1704 an English vessel called the Cinque Ports came to Juan Fernandez. One of her officers, Alexander Selkirk by name, had quarrelled with the Captain, and he said he would much rather stay on this island than sail any longer on board the Cinque Ports. The Captain was glad to get rid of him, and therefore sailed away, and left him behind. What Selkirk and the Captain had quarrelled about has never been certainly known, but when we reflect that Selkirk was a Scotchman, we can understand that very likely he was unwilling to practice piracy on Sunday, while the captain insisted that any day was a fit day on which to rob a Spanish ship. This would have led to a quarrel, and very possibly was the precise cause of the quarrel which resulted in Selkirk leaving the ship at Juan Fernandez. It is true that the Cinque Ports was called a buccaneer, instead of a pirate, but no man can see the difference between buccaneering and piracy without the help of a large-sized compound microscope.
Selkirk remained all alone on the island for four years and four months, when another English vessel took him off. When he reached home, he wrote an account of his adventures, and very stupid people have since claimed that Daniel Defoe, the author of the story of Crusoe's adventures, had read Selkirk's book, and that it suggested to him the idea of inventing Robinson Crusoe. To suppose that so great a man as Defoe could not write a book without stealing his ideas from Alexander Selkirk is ridiculous. Selkirk and Crusoe were as unlike as two men could well be. The only resemblance between them was that both had lived alone on unfrequented islands, as many other unfortunate men have done before and since.
We thus see how it came to pass that people have mixed up Selkirk's island with Crusoe's island, and have finally convinced themselves that Crusoe was wrecked on Juan Fernandez. Selkirk's island is firmly believed by nearly everybody to have been Crusoe's island, though we might just as well call it Smith's or Jones's island.
It must be admitted that Juan Fernandez is a beautiful island, with every convenience that Crusoe could have wished for, except cannibals. Selkirk, however, could do nothing with it. He did contrive to catch goats by running after them until they were tired out, but he never thought of taming them—fattening them on tomato cans—as Crusoe did. Of course he never had a Man Friday, and he never built himself a canoe, or periagua. In fact, he did very little that was creditable to him, and there is only too much reason to believe that if he had seen a foot-step on the sand, he would not have known that it was his duty to be terribly frightened.
Juan Fernandez is about sixteen miles long and five and a half miles wide. The shore, especially on the northern side, is steep and rocky. The interior is very picturesque, and contains several beautiful valleys separated by high ridges. On the north side of the island is a very steep mountain of lava, which is eight thousand feet high, the top of which is said to be inaccessible. Part way up this mountain is the place where Selkirk used to watch for passing vessels. In one of the valleys there is a cave where Selkirk lived. It is thirty feet in length and about twenty feet in breadth, with a ceiling of nearly twenty feet in height. While it is a fair substantial cave, it can not be compared for a moment with the cave which Crusoe had on his own island, and which he enlarged with so much perseverance.
The island belongs to Chili, and more than a hundred years ago the Chilian government sent convicts to Juan Fernandez as a punishment. A fort was built, which has now crumbled away, and cells were dug in the solid rock on the side of a hill, and the convicts were locked up in them every night. The convicts, not liking their treatment, rebelled, killed their guards, and seizing on a vessel that had visited the island, escaped to Peru. Since then Juan Fernandez, or Mas-a-tierra, as the Chilians call it, has been inhabited by a few Chilian farmers, who raise, with very little labor, food enough to live on. They also catch fish, which they send to the mainland, and at certain seasons of the year they kill large quantities of seals, which frequent a little rocky island half a mile from Juan Fernandez. At the present time the island is governed by a Mr. Rhode, who rents it from the Chilian government, and proposes to raise quantities of cattle.
In 1868 the British man-of-war Topaz touched at Juan Fernandez, and her officers erected an iron tablet in honor of Selkirk. It bears the following inscription:
In memory of Alexander Selkirk,
Mariner,
a native of Largo, in the County of Fife, Scotland,
who lived on this island in complete solitude for four years and four months.
He was landed from the Cinque Ports galley, 96 tons, 16 guns, a.d.
1704, and was taken off in the Duke privateer, 12th February, 1709.
He died Lieutenant of H. M. S. Weymouth, a.d. 1722, aged 47 years.
This tablet is erected near Selkirk's Look-out by Commodore
Powell and the officers of H. M. S. Topaz, a.d. 1868.
As there is excellent water at Juan Fernandez, vessels occasionally touch there to fill their casks, but it has no regular communication with the rest of the world.
Of course Juan Fernandez will always continue to be called Robinson Crusoe's island, though it is certain that Crusoe was never within three or four thousand miles of it. As for the unbelieving people who pretend that Robinson Crusoe never lived, nobody should listen to them for a moment. There never was anybody more thoroughly real than Robinson Crusoe. Selkirk was not half so real; and in comparison with the shipwrecked mariner of Hull, Julius Cæsar was grossly improbable. Crusoe's island undoubtedly exists somewhere "near the mouth of the great river Orinoco."
PHILEMON'S CIRCUS.
BY MARY DENSEL.
"—together with fifes and drums. The gigantic procession, headed by the stupendous gilded chariot, will move through the town at seven o'clock a.m. precisely,'" ended Tom Tadgers, quoting from the handbills.
"Through this town?" asked Philemon, much excited.
Tom Tadgers gave him a withering glance.
"Do you suppose that N. Ticeum and B. Phoolum's 'Great Moral Show,' with 'six tigers, five elephants, a giraffe, hippopotamus, kangaroo, in-nu-mer-a-ble monkeys, wild men of Borneo, living skeleton, educated bull, and a ship of the desert,' would come to a mean little village like this? Skowhegan's the town it's going to move through, and it will pass Tucker's Corner at five o'clock to-morrow morning. So Silas Elder says to me, 'You get into the back of my milk cart, Tadgers'" (Tommy felt deeply the dignity of being "Tadgers"), "'and I'll give you a lift as far as the Corner, Tadgers. Then you can follow the procession, and go to the show at Skowhegan, Tadgers,' says he. Now, Philemon, how would you like to come along too?"
"And Romeo Augustus with me?" questioned Philemon, eagerly.
Tadgers shook his head.
"Come by yourself, or not at all," said he, firmly. "What's more, you must be on hand by four o'clock to-morrow morning."
How could Philemon wake at that early hour? It was his wont not only to "sleep like a top all night," but also to "sleep at morn."
Tom, however, agreed to manage that. So when Philemon went to bed at night, it was with one end of a piece of stout twine tied to his ankle, while the other end hung out at the open window.
Neither Elias, John, nor Romeo Augustus, who shared his chamber, spied the cord. Philemon waited till they were sound asleep before he arranged it.
The sun had not begun to show his face above the horizon when there came a brisk twitch on the twine. Philemon was broad awake in a twinkling, and rolled out of bed to dance a one-footed ballet, by reason of a series of jerks given to the cord by the sprightly Thomas below. It was only after Philemon had knocked over two chairs and a cricket that he managed to hop wildly to the window, and to call out in a hoarse whisper, "You'll wake the whole house if you don't quit," that Tom condescended to desist; and a few minutes later the two comrades were climbing into the back of Silas Elder's cart, all ready to start for "The Great Moral Show."
The cart was not spacious, and its springs were few and far between, as Philemon's bones bore witness. He began, all at once, to wonder if it might not have been polite to have mentioned to his parents that he intended to be absent the greater part of the day.
He recollected, with a pang, that it was his mother's custom to be anxious when one of her six precious boys was long out of her sight.
Suddenly, "Look there! there! there!" shouted Tom Tadgers.
Sure enough; there—there—there, in the distance, was a caravan moving slowly toward Tucker's Corner. It must be—it is N. Ticeum and B. Phoolum's show.
Nearer and nearer it came. Tom and Philemon jumped out of the cart, that they might be ready to join the "gigantic procession."
And now they were in its midst. To be sure, the glories of "the stupendous gilded chariot" were shrouded by brown canvas; the monkeys, tigers, and the hippopotamus were shut up in their cages; neither were the giraffe and kangaroo visible as yet. But here were the elephants marching majestically along; here was the educated bull, with a ring through his nose; and so near that Philemon could have touched him was the living skeleton in all his enchanting leanness.
Philemon actually danced up and down in ecstasy. The man who seemed to have charge of affairs caught sight of his beaming face, and broke into a good-natured laugh.
"Hallo, my little chap, would ye like a ride to-day?" said he, and before Philemon knew what was going to happen, he found himself astride of the back of a huge gray elephant.
Was there ever such a morning! It did seem as if the sun fairly outdid itself, such billows of light did it pour forth. The rollicking breeze danced round and about the caravan, and would by no means be left behind. The corn in Farmer Tucker's field waved its silken tassels in a delighted frenzy. All the golden-rod and asters were alert to see the sight.
At last the coverings were taken from the gilded chariot; fifes and drums struck up a tune. All the Skowhegan boys came flocking out of town to meet the caravan. Some one put an American flag into Philemon's hand. What an honor! The lad's heart swelled with pride. He held his head high. He was actually a part of "The Great Moral Show."
So absorbed was he in his new dignity that he did not notice that they were nearing the bridge which stretched across the Kennebec River, just outside of Skowhegan. Neither did he observe that the elephants were separating themselves from the rest of the train, until, just as the gilded chariot passed on the bridge, the animal Philemon rode broke into a trot—and what a trot!—starting down the river-bank, followed by the other four elephants. Philemon clung with both his hands.
Into the stream plunged the beasts, wading clumsily along until the water was breast-high, when they began to swim. Philemon stuck like a little burr to the gray back.
At last the elephants gained a foot-hold once more. But they were by no means ready to give up the cool water. They snorted; they tramped; they plunged; they sucked the water into their trunks, and poured it out again in great streams. Never had Philemon had such a shower-bath. One of the elephants lay down and rolled playfully over and over. Philemon was frightened nearly out of his wits: suppose his elephant should do likewise? Instead of that, he rose to within a few feet of the bank, and, having first treated his rider to a few extra bucketfuls of water, twisted his trunk round one of Philemon's legs.
There was a jerk, a dizzy whirl through the air, and our friend lay "high," but by no means "dry," upon the earth.
The crowd gathered round. He heard Tom Tadgers's voice in a terrified wail: "He's dead! he's dead!"
Then some one else spoke: "Bring water."
That was adding insult to injury. Up as straight as a ramrod sat the afflicted Philemon. "If anybody dares to put another drop of water on me, I'll—I'll—I'll go home!" gasped he.
There was a burst of merriment at that tremendous threat, and the young hero was lifted on some one's shoulder, and borne along in triumph. Strange to say, he was not even bruised, and he almost forgot his mishap, when, an hour later, he was permitted to help in spreading tan around the open space where Madame Lucetta Almazida was to ride the famous horse Pegasus, and perform her "world-renowned feat" of jumping through seventeen hoops and a "barrel wrapped in flames."
That noon Philemon was actually invited to dine with Mons. Duval, the "incomparable gymnast," and a host of other circus celebrities.
"You're a plucky little fellow, and fit to feed along o' us," said Mons. Duval, with a grin.
Philemon was much pleased by the compliment, which, though perchance not expressed in the most refined language, showed a kindly appreciation of his merits.
He entirely forgot Tom Tadgers, who, not having had the luck to meet with an accident, was left outside. In fact, Philemon saw Tom no more that day, and the latter, at the close of the afternoon, met Silas Elder once more, and rode peacefully home, where he went to bed, quite omitting to say a word to anybody about Philemon.
In the mean time that worthy ate his dinner with his new companions. He wondered vaguely what his mother would say if she knew where he was.
He might have wondered more had not one of the men poured a yellow liquid into a cup, and handed it to him.
"Drink this, my man," said he.
Then everybody laughed. The liquid was sweet. Philemon liked it. He drank every drop. Soon he began to feel very bright and merry; and when a new song was sung he joined lustily in the chorus. He had a clear, high, ringing voice.
"Bless us!" exclaimed Mons. Duval. "Tip us a song yourself, boy."
Not a whit abashed, Philemon began to sing.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mons. Duval. "Tim Luker, what used to do our first tribble, was took sick this morning. What d'ye say, youngster, to being blacked up, and singing this evening to the circus along o' our minstrel troupe?"
That yellow liquid was in Philemon's blood. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks flamed.
"Yes, I'll sing," cried he, boisterously, "and I'll go to the ends of the earth with you."
After dinner—it was strange—he felt very drowsy. Mons. Duval, for some reason, was extremely amused, and considered it a great joke.
"You lay down here and take a nap," he said, and actually took off his own coat to put over Philemon. The boy slept all that afternoon; indeed, he never opened his eyes till it was nearly time for the evening's entertainment to begin.
The big dingy tent where the performance was to come off was lighted. Philemon followed Mons. Duval into the small tent behind the large one, where those who were to take part awaited their several turns.
He stood meekly silent, while his face, hands, and neck were daubed with some sticky black stuff; and then, as bidden, he arrayed himself in some extraordinary baggy yellow clothes, and a big paper collar.
He caught sight of himself in a bit of glass. He looked like a little black imp. What would his mother say to see him? A feeling of intense shame surged over him. He crouched down in a corner, wishing he could hide himself from the eyes of all men.
Philemon looked around him, and there, close by, was a boy about his own age, with large brown eyes and white cheeks. He was dressed in flesh-colored tights.
"Who are you?" asked Philemon, as the boy stared and half smiled.
"I'm the 'Phenomenal Trapezist,'" announced the lad, solemnly.
"What do you do?"
"Oh, I go up on the trapeze, at the tiptop of the tent, and my father and uncle—they're the crack gymnasts, you know—they toss me about as if I was a ball. By-and-by I'm going to learn to hang by my toes, and take a flying leap, sixty foot, to the slack-rope near the ground."
"Aren't you frightened?" exclaimed Philemon.
"Ye—" began the boy, and then quickly changed his tone, as a man clad in scarlet and gilt came near. "No, I ain't scared. I like it."
"Of course he ain't scared," said the man, roughly. "Come, Bill, it's time for you and me to show ourselves."
They were joined by Bill's uncle, and the three passed into the outer tent. Philemon put his eye against a hole in the canvas to watch them.
Like monkeys the two men and the child swung themselves aloft, and reached the tent roof. Here they twisted, they turned, they made fearful leaps from one trapeze to another, until Philemon trembled to see them. At last both men hung by their knees, head downward, and Bill crept carefully to the end of a long rope, gave a spring, and caught his father's hands. There was an awful pause; then small Bill was sent spinning through the air, sixty-five feet from the ground, to be caught by his uncle, tossed back to his father, now seized by an arm, now by a leg, now almost missed, now twirled round and round like a ball. Philemon caught his breath, and stretched out his hand in an agony of fear. His hand touched another, which was as cold as ice. Glancing up, he found Madame Lucetta Almazida close by, her eye glued to another hole in the canvas, her breath coming short and thick, her face livid and drawn. Not knowing what she did, she clutched Philemon's hand, and he heard her mutter,
"My baby! my baby!"
"Bill" was her own "Phenomenal Trapezist," and under Madame Lucetta Almazida's shabby bodice a mother's heart beat wildly.
Philemon's heart beat too. What if he had been a "Bill," and his own sweet mother had worn short skirts and ridden Pegasus? Horrible!
Poor Lucetta Almazida! Poor little Bill!
But there was time to think of them no more. The band of negro minstrels was ready to sing. A clown seized Philemon's hand, and hurried him into the ring. There was a shout from the spectators. Some one gave him a nudge.
"Pipe up, boy. We're ready for 'Massa's in the cold, cold ground.'"
Philemon opened his mouth, but no sound came. The eyes on every side burned into him. His one desire was to rush away from those blackened men, from the choking odor of tan and kerosene, from the disgrace of standing there, like a little black fiend, to be hooted at and expected to make fun for the crowd. His brain reeled. With a cry he broke from a detaining hand, and ran headlong across the arena, his yellow coat tails flapping about his heels.
Through the back tent he sped, past Madame Lucetta Almazida, who was holding the "Phenomenal Trapezist" in her arms, past Mons. Duval, out into the night. Home—home—home—that was the place toward which, if he had had wings, he would have flown. Being neither an angel nor even a bird, only a little wretched boy, all he could do was to stumble along the dark road. Eight miles away was his home. On and on he went, and at last his weary feet began to flag.
It seemed as if the chirping crickets were hissing at him. The frogs in the ponds croaked disapprovingly. Even the stars winked reproachfully.
He was growing exhausted. He sank down by a fence, and his eyelids closed heavily.
The sun was high when he awoke, and then a colder, hungrier boy you never saw. Six miles from home was he. There was nothing for it but to plod along, for there were no houses on that road. One mile, two miles, he walked. He picked some apples by the road-side, but they were sour and hard. Sometimes he tried to run, but had to give that up.
At five o'clock that afternoon the cook at a certain farm-house was frying doughnuts in the back kitchen. She was looking very sober, and near her sat a very sober boy, who every now and then drew his hand across his eyes. At last he spoke.
"Cerinthy," said he, "do you cal'late they'll ever find him?"
Cerinthy put another doughnut into the expostulating fat. "Romeo Augustus," said she, "it's my opinion that maybe they may and maybe they mayn't; an' like as not if they do, it'll only be his body, and— Oh!"
Cerinthy gave a great scream, and dropped her panful of doughnuts on the floor, for on the threshold of the "pump-room" stood a boy as black as the ace of spades, clad in startling yellow clothes, his neck ornamented with a huge paper collar.
This image opened his mouth and spake. "Where's my mother? Give me a doughnut."
Cerinthy shrieked louder than ever. An opposite door opened, and out rushed a lady whose eyes were swollen with crying.
"Mother!" called out the black boy, as he flew into her open arms.
"Philemon! mother's own little boy!" she sobbed; while Romeo Augustus performed a war-dance about the two.
I think Philemon's father was so relieved when he beheld his fifth-born, that he would have whipped him soundly. But his mother would by no means allow that. She gave him preserved peach and cream toast instead.
"For you'll never do such a thing again, will you?" demanded she, tenderly.
Philemon gazed lovingly at her, with a mouth full of toast. "Catch me," said he.
