Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.
Chapter XVI.
A LOST MONKEY.
When they reached the kitchen, the sounds which came from the hen-house told plainly that the party they were in search of had not ceased his work because the household had been alarmed. The snapping of wood could be heard, and if Aunt Olive had not been thoroughly aroused before, she was then, for laths were being broken, and one of her choicest broods of ducks was secured only by such frail barrier against either two or four legged thieves.
"Stop them quick, or all the ducks will be out," she screamed; and, thus urged, Uncle Daniel made a bold stand.
"Get behind me, and hold your hand over the light," he whispered; and then he shouted, as he brought the gun up to his shoulder in a very threatening manner, "Come out here, and give yourselves up at once."
There was no answer made to this peremptory command, and, strangely enough, the work of destruction was continued as vigorously as if Uncle Daniel and his broken gun were a thousand miles away, instead of on the spot and ready for action.
"Come away from there instantly, and save yourself any further trouble," shouted Uncle Daniel, in a louder voice, stamping his foot, while Aunt Olive brandished the fire-shovel to give emphasis to his words.
There was silence for a moment, as if the burglar had stopped to consider the matter, and then the work was continued with greater energy than before.
"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Daniel, as he brought the butt of his gun down on his own foot with such force that he was obliged to give immediate attention to the wounded member.
Toby had always had a wholesome dread of a gun; but his fear became greater than ever when he saw how much mischief could be done with one as near a total wreck as that was, for Uncle Daniel had seated himself on the grass, regardless of the dew, and was hugging his foot as if he feared he should lose it.
Even though her husband was wounded, Aunt Olive could not stop to offer any aid while her precious ducks were in such peril, as the breaking of the laths proved them to be; and she started forward alone and unarmed, save with the shovel, until a loud quacking indicated that the robber had made at least one prisoner. Dropping the shovel, but still clinging to the candle, Aunt Olive seized the gun, and dragging it along by the muzzle, she cried:
"I'll shoot you if you don't let them ducks alone, and go right straight away from here!"
The loud quacking of another duck proved that she had not alarmed the burglar; and as she was now quite near the bold robber, by holding her candle above her head she could discern in the darkness what looked like a boy, with a duck tightly clutched in each hand.
"It's only a boy," she cried to Uncle Daniel, who had given over attending to his foot, and was coming up; and then, as she ran toward the thief, she cried, "Put down them ducks, you little rascal, or I will whip you soundly!"
The boy did not put the ducks down, nor did he stay for the whipping; but, with both the noisy prizes held in one hand, he began to climb the hen-house in a manner surprising in one so small.
By this time both Toby and Uncle Daniel were on the spot, and the former saw that the supposed boy was using a long tail in his work of climbing the hen-house.
"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother; don't shoot him!" he cried, forgetting, in his excitement, that the gun was dangerous only when dropped on one's foot; and then he too tried to climb upon the hen-house.
"The monkey?" cried Uncle Daniel, as he felt on his forehead for his spectacles, to enable him to see better. Aunt Olive made use of almost the same words; but instead of feeling for her spectacles, she ran toward the building, as if she fancied it to be the easiest thing in the world to catch a mischievous monkey.
Toby knew, if Aunt Olive did not, that it would be the work of some time to catch Mr. Stubbs's brother, and that no threats would induce him to come down. Therefore he put forth all his energies in the vain hope of overtaking him.
Although the monkey was encumbered by the two ducks he had stolen, he could climb twice as fast as Toby could, and Aunt Olive realized the fact very soon.
"Scare him till he drops the ducks," she cried to Toby; and then, to do her portion of the "scaring," she brandished the fire-shovel, and cried "shoo!" in a very energetic manner.
Uncle Daniel waved his arms, and shouted, "Come down! come down!" as he ran from one side of the building to the other; but the only reply to his shout was the quacking of the half-strangled ducks.
"Catch him, Toby, catch him, before he kills the ducks!" cried Aunt Olive, in an agony of fear lest these particular inmates of her poultry-yard should be killed.
"That's what I'm tryin' to do," panted Toby, as he chased Mr. Stubbs's brother from one end of the roof to the other, without even a chance of catching him.
The quacking of the ducks was growing fainter every moment, and knowing that something must be done at once, Uncle Daniel hunted around until he found a long pole, with which he struck at the monkey.
This had the desired effect, for Mr. Stubbs's brother was so nearly hit two or three times that he dropped the almost dead ducks, curled his tail over his back, and leaped to the ground. He alighted so near Aunt Olive that she uttered a loud shriek, nearly falling backward over the wood-pile; but the monkey was out of sight in an instant, going in the direction of the road.
As his pet disappeared in the darkness, Toby scrambled down from the roof of the building and started in pursuit; but before he had gone far he heard Uncle Daniel calling to him, while at the same time he realized that pursuit would be useless under the circumstances.
"He's run away, an' I won't ever find him again," he said, in so mournful a tone that Uncle Daniel knew the tears were very near his eyelids.
"He won't go very far, Toby boy," said Uncle Daniel, consolingly, "and you can soon find him after the sun rises."
"He'll be more'n seven miles off by that time," said Toby, as he choked back his sobs, and tried to speak firmly.
"I don't know much about the nature of monkeys," replied Uncle Daniel, speaking very slowly; "but I am inclined to the belief that he will remain near here, since he has come to consider this his home. But it will be daylight in less than an hour, and then you can start after him. I will drive the cows to the pasture, so that you will have nothing to delay you."
Aunt Olive had caught up the ducks as soon as Mr. Stubbs's brother had dropped them, and believing it was yet possible to save their lives, she had started toward the house for the purpose of applying some remedies.
"It's so near morning that I sha'n't go to bed again," she said; "and I'll get you something to eat, and put up a lunch for you, so you can stay out until you find him."
This offer on Aunt Olive's part seemed doubly kind, since the monkey had done so much mischief among her pets, and Toby realized that it would be ungrateful in him to complain, more especially as Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive were willing to do all in their power to enable him to catch the fugitive.
"I'll mend the cluck pen," he said, resolutely putting from his mind the thought of Mr. Stubbs's brother, who he firmly believed was trudging up the road in the direction taken by the circus when it left town.
Uncle Daniel thought it would be just as well to remain up also, and he dragged the wreck of the gun into the house, putting it carefully away lest some one should be injured by it, before he commenced to build the fire.
Mr. Stubbs's brother had labored industriously when he set about reducing the cluck pen to kindling-wood; and although Toby worked as fast as possible, it was nearly time for the sun to rise before he finished the job of repairing it.
By that time Aunt Olive had a nice breakfast ready for him, and a generous lunch done up neatly in paper.
Abner had not wakened, therefore Toby was obliged to go away without knowing whether he was better or worse; but Aunt Olive told him that she thought he need have no fear regarding the invalid, for she felt certain he would be much better when he awoke.
Toby ate his breakfast very hurriedly, and then started down the road in the direction of his partners' homes, for he thought there would be a better chance of capturing the runaway if four or five boys set out in pursuit than if he went out alone.
Fully two hours were spent in arousing his partners, explaining what had happened, and waiting for them to get their breakfast; but at the end of that time every one of the circus managers was ready for the search.
There was a decided difference of opinion among them as to which direction they should take, some believing the monkey had gone one way, and some another, and the only plan by which the matter could be settled was to divide the force into two parties.
Bob, Reddy, and Ben formed one division, and they started into the woods in a nearly straight line from Uncle Daniel's house. Toby, Joe, and Leander, making up the other party, went up the road. Toby insisted on this course because he was sure that Mr. Stubbs's brother would attempt to follow the circus of which he had once been a member, although so many weeks had elapsed since it had passed along there.
Leander was of the opinion that they ought to have borrowed a dog, with which to track the monkey more easily, and even offered to go back to get one; but Toby thought that would be a waste of valuable time, more especially as it was by no means certain that Leander could procure the dog if he did go back.
Joe thought each inch of the road should be examined with a view to finding traces of the monkey; but that plan was given up in a very few moments after it was tried, for the good reason that the boys could not distinguish even their own footprints, the road was beaten so hard. They could only walk straight ahead, hoping to come up with the fugitive, or to hear some news of him.
THE BOYS INQUIRING FOR MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.
At each house on the road they stopped to ask if a stray monkey had been seen; but they could hear nothing encouraging until they had walked nearly three miles, and were just beginning to think it would have been wiser to remain with the party who went into the woods.
At last, however, a farmer told them that he had seen an animal come up the main road, just about sunrise, and that it had gone up through his field into an oak grove. He had had no idea at the time that it was a monkey, and had intended to take his gun and go in search of it as soon as he could spare the time.
Toby trembled as the man said this, for Mr. Stubbs's death was too vivid in his mind for him to think without a shudder of any one going in search of this monkey with a gun. He started for the grove at full speed, fearing that some one with more time at his disposal had seen his pet, and might even now be in pursuit of him.
Of course the boys did not know certainly that the animal the farmer had seen was Mr. Stubbs's brother, but all were quite sure it was; and before they had been in the oak grove ten minutes they saw the monkey himself, hanging by his tail and one paw from the branch of a tree.
Toby was so delighted at seeing his pet safe and alive that he set up a great shout; and the monkey, thus warned that boys who would chain him down to the drudgery of a circus ring were on his track, started off at full speed, scolding furiously as he went.
To catch a monkey in the woods was even a harder task than to "scrape" him from the tent, or to capture him on the roof of the hen-house; but he must be caught, and the three boys started after him, fully aware of the difficult task before them.
To Mr. Stubbs's brother this flight and pursuit was simply the wildest kind of a frolic, and he fairly screamed with delight as he leaped from one tree to another, sometimes allowing them to touch him, and then starting off, at full speed until nearly out of sight.
[to be continued.]
[AMUSING "HIS HIGHNESS."]
BY MARY D. BRINE.
His little Highness sits in state
Upon his rightful throne,
And from his kingly brow all sign
Of royal care has flown.
His little Highness smiles at us
Who kneel before him there,
The while we kiss his gracious hand
And bonny face so fair.
His little Highness, it is plain,
His subjects should amuse;
And of all entertainments, pray
Which will his Highness choose?
There's "This wee pig to market went,"
Played with his royal toes;
And "Trot, trot, trot, on mother's knee,
To Boston baby goes";
And "Patty-cake, O baker's man!"
Played with the dimpled hands;
And many another game like that
Which baby understands.
But best of all his Majesty
His mother's kiss prefers;
For though we dearly love our king,
There is no love like hers.
So in her arms she clasps him tight,
He and his dignity.
He's only baby, after all,
And sleepy as can be.
His throne into a cradle turns—
'Tis mother's knee, you know—
And presently to slumber-land
His Majesty will go.
[CATCHING BUTTERFLIES.]
BY HELEN S. CONANT.
The boy or girl who wishes to form a valuable and pretty collection of butterflies must set about it in the right way. The first thing is to prepare a net. The brass rings with handles sold by all dealers in sportsmen's goods for landing-nets for fish will answer the purpose, but any ingenious boy can make his own frame. Get a smooth, light hoop about fifteen inches in diameter. If you can not find one small enough, make it from a barrel hoop. Bind the hoop firmly to a rod about three feet long. Now go to mamma and ask her to cut out a round piece of mosquito netting about three-quarters of a yard in diameter, and fasten it to the hoop. Now the net is ready.
The permanent case for your specimens must be a neat shallow box of some pretty wood, with a glass cover. Thin pieces of cork should be glued on the bottom at intervals, according to the size of your butterflies, upon these the insects are mounted by a slender pin which runs through the body. When the case is full, it should be sealed air-tight, for if there is the finest crack, moths will get in and ruin your collection.
You can not take your case to the fields, so you must have some small paper boxes in which you can mount your specimens until the wings are dry, and they are ready to place in the case.
The best thing for a youthful naturalist to use to kill the butterfly is ether. As it evaporates very quickly, it does not injure the color or texture of the beautiful insect, and it ends the life of the butterfly instantly, and without giving pain. There are other things often used by naturalists, such as cyanide of potassium, but they are dangerous chemicals for little folks to handle, and we recommend ether as being safe, and sure to kill the butterfly.
Now swing your net over your shoulder, take the ether which should be in a bottle with a glass stopper to prevent evaporation, the box for mounting specimens, and some fine pins, and let us start out in search of butterflies. We will go first for some of the large ones that fly about the fields and by the road-side.
Down in the old lane by the stone wall is a great clump of milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), and in June there were some big black, white, and yellow caterpillars crawling about among the leaves. Two weeks ago they changed into green chrysalides spotted with black and gold, and it is time now to look for the great Danias archippus butterflies, which will come out of the chrysalides in these hot July days. Yes, there is one now perched on the Asclepias, its large wings opening and shutting in the sun. Go softly, for it is a shy fellow. A quick throw of the net, and—off goes the butterfly sailing away across the sunny field. Hurry over the wall and give chase after it. The boy who would intrap a butterfly must follow where it leads, and stop neither for walls, ditches, nor swamps, or the prize will be lost. There are few butterflies so strong on the wing as the Archippus. But it is worn out at last, and stops to rest for an instant on a field lily—a fatal instant for the butterfly, for now the net descends skillfully, and the great insect is fluttering in its meshes. Gather the net carefully in your hand so that the creature will have no room to flutter and break its wings. Now pour a very little ether on its head—two drops are enough—and it lies motionless. As the Archippus is a very strong fellow—you have already, perhaps, felt the tight grip of its tiny feet on your finger—it may be necessary to repeat the dose of ether, but for ordinary butterflies one dose is sufficient.
Take the dead insect in your hand, touching the wings as little as possible, as the delicate down is easily injured, and passing a pin through its body, fasten it in the bottom of your box. Open the wings carefully, and arrange them at once while they are soft and flexible. A pin fastened between the wings, not through them, will hold them in place until they are dry.
Examine the Archippus carefully, for it is a very beautiful creature. Its wings expand over four inches. They are tawny orange veined with black, and with a black border ornamented with rows of white dots. On the front border of the fore-wings are several yellow and white spots. The under side of the wings is deep yellow, veined and bordered the same as the upper side. Be very careful not to injure the antennas, or feelers, which project from the head; they are very delicate and easily broken. But do not be discouraged if your first attempt to mount and arrange a butterfly is unsuccessful. The first butterfly will no doubt be a forlorn-looking creature, its wings twisted and broken. Persevere, and your fingers will soon become skillful, and you will arrange the wings as neatly as an experienced naturalist could do it.
The dark butterfly in the background of the engraving is an Archippus, and the large one in front, with bands crossing its wings, and with little tails on its hind-wings, is the Papilio turnus—a brilliant yellow butterfly marked with black and blue. The latter is usually found in old apple orchards. It leaves the chrysalis early in June, which is the best time to capture it, as the specimens found fluttering about late in the season are too faded and dilapidated to be valuable in a collection. But there is another very beautiful member of this same family called Papilio asterias, which may be found in country gardens all through the month of July. It is usually fluttering over sweet-scented phlox and parley beds, because it is on these plants that it deposits its eggs, from which the caterpillar, commonly known as the parley worm, is hatched. The papilio asterias is a large butterfly, with black velvety wings, dotted with yellow on the margin. The hind-wings are tailed like those of the Papilio turnus, and ornamented with seven blue spots between two rows of yellow spots, and at the hind angle with an orange-colored eye with a black centre.
There are two pretty butterflies of the genus Nymphalis, which are found all through the summer. The Nymphalis disippe is very similar in color and markings to the great Archippus, but it is much smaller, as its wings expand only about three inches. Look for it near willows and poplars, for it is on those trees that its caterpillar lives and forms its chrysalis.
Its sister, the Nymphalis ephestion, is a creature entirely different in appearance. The caterpillars and chrysalides of both are similar, but, except in size and form of the wings, the gorgeous orange and black Disippe bears no resemblance to the Ephestion in its suit of dark navy blue with black and white trimmings.
Another beautiful butterfly is the Argynnis idalia. Its hind-wings are blue-black, with two rows of cream-colored and orange spots, while the fore-wings, which expand over three inches, are tawny-orange spotted with black. The under side of its wings, like those of nearly all butterflies of the genus Argynnis, is ornamented with silvery spots in a black border. The Idalia loves grassy fields and way-side flowers, and is not difficult to capture.
The tiny butterfly with bluish-brown and copper-colored wings ornamented with black, which is found in great numbers all through the summer fluttering over the grass and white clover by the road-side, is the Lycæna americana; and the small yellow butterfly with black markings on its wings, which flies in such quantities over clover fields that a single throw of the net will often intrap a dozen, is the Colias philodice. These two are the most common of our small butterflies, although there are many more you will find in your rambles through woods and fields. There are the skippers (Hesperiadæ), of which there are said to be more than eighty varieties, that fly near the ground with a jerking motion, as if they were skipping instead of flying from flower to flower. A peculiarity of the skipper is that when at rest it erects only the fore-wings, the hind pair remaining horizontal like those of a moth.
During the latter part of summer a family of delicate brown butterflies may be seen in the shady woods fluttering about beds of fern and moss. They, are called Hipparchians, and are the only butterflies which love shade better than sunshine. Their wings are very fragile, and the net should be thrown over them as gently as possible, as they are broken and ruined by careless handling. The Hipparchia alope is one of the largest of this pretty family. Its brown wings expand a little over two inches. Near the margin of the fore-wings is a broad yellow band in which are two round black spots with a blue centre. The Hipparchia eurytris is a delicate little beauty. It is smaller than the Alope, and each of its little pale brown wings is ornamented with two black spots with a tiny lead-colored centre.
Through the summer and autumn there are so many butterflies fluttering away their short lives in the sunshine that a description of them all would fill many pages of Young People. But catch all the different kinds you can find, and preserve them carefully; and if you have no good illustrated text-book in the country, you can obtain one next winter, and spend many long evenings in classifying your collection, and studying the habits of these pretty inhabitants of the fields and woods.
A SWEET KISS FROM DOLLY.
[TOM FAIRWEATHER GOES TO BASSORAH, THE HOME OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR.]
BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY.
Tom awoke late one morning, to his disappointment, because the night before his father had told him that the next day they would anchor off the Shat-el-Arab River. He sprang on deck eagerly. "Land! Land!" had an ever-fresh fascination for him.
But where was the land? He gazed about him in surprise. The ship was anchored, by all the signs, but anchored apparently in mid-ocean. Directly ahead of them, however, was a black buoy, which, as Tom knew, was not an ordinary feature of mid-ocean scenery.
Tom pointed out this buoy to his father. "What a queer place for a buoy, father!"
"Not at all. It is put there to mark the middle of the river channel. But I see what you mean. You don't realize that is the mouth of a river. Water, water everywhere, and no land in view, eh? Nevertheless this is the Shat-el-Arab River, which we now propose to ascend. Here comes the pilot."
Do you remember, Young People, that the Shat-el-Arab is at the head of the Persian Gulf? Tom realized this distinctly, as they had been steaming up this Gulf for the past week. But could that be indeed a river-mouth?
It was not until they were under way, and had been running along for an hour, that the river narrowed sufficiently for its banks to become visible. At this point it might fairly be termed a magnificent river, with a depth of from thirty to forty feet, whereas at its bar, off which they had first anchored, there was but eleven or twelve feet of water. Yes, a splendid river all the way along its splendid course of a hundred and fifty miles, to the place where the Euphrates and Tigris mingle their floods with its own.
But Tom's ship stops short of this point, at Bassorah, with which city Tom had most vivid associations, for was it not from here that Sindbad the Sailor had set forth on his wonderful voyages?
It was late in the afternoon when they neared the shore, but not too late to distinctly note the character of the place. It was very much better built, and with more of an air of civilization about it, than other Eastern towns Tom had seen lately. The buildings were, some of them, of brick, with glass windows facing the outer world. In short, Bassorah gave evidence on its face of being a prosperous city.
"It is a great grain dépôt," one of the officers said to another. "Those high buildings are grain warehouses."
"Yes, and they are almost always well stocked with grain," Captain Fairweather remarked. "A perpetual contest is going on between the grain merchants and the rats in consequence. The warehouses are in a constant state of siege by the rats trying to get in. Every now and then the rats win the day. They undermine the foundations, and over goes a warehouse."
"How I wish they'd do it while we are here!" cried Tom, fervently.
"Perhaps they may," returned Tom's especial Lieutenant, in an encouraging tone.
The next morning Captain Fairweather made up a party, of which Tom was one, to visit the shore. He pulled to the creek leading to the town, and then embarked in a long narrow native boat. Tom inspected it curiously when he had taken his seat.
"They call this boat a bellem," said his father. "It is hewn out of a tree. Something like canoe-riding, isn't it?"
Two lithe, active Arabs shoved the bellem forward with long bamboos, which they thrust against the bottom or the banks of the creek—or perhaps I might better say canal.
When they left the bellem, one of the boatmen went with them as a guide through the town, and first of all through the bazars.
The bazars were well-built structures, vaulted over with brick. But they were dismally dark, being lighted only by very small windows at the top. A large trade in grain was in progress. They saw thousands of tons of wheat in open spaces, the heaps being covered over with mats.
"Do they only trade in grain here?" Tom asked.
"No, but the season for the grain trade comes first; then comes the wool trade, and later on the trade in dates. First one thing and then another."
As they walked out, Mr. Jollytarre said to the guide: "What dirty streets! Do you ever sweep them?"
"When the Pasha he come," replied the boatman.
"How they do smell!" said Tom, sniffing the air.
"And they will go on smelling," said the Captain, "until some fine day the plague comes and makes a clean sweep of the town. The only clean sweep it ever gets, some one has said."
"The plague!" cried Tom, in horror.
"Yes, the plague. All these filthy Oriental towns are scourged by it every now and then; Bassorah has had its share in the visitation. A long time ago Bassorah had a large population—as high as 800,000, they say, but that is an Oriental way of saying it was very populous. But pestilence, and war, and capture by the Persians, and recapture by the Imam of Muscat for the Sultan, have reduced it to very modest proportions indeed. The Turks founded it, to begin with. One of their early Caliphs gave it the first start 'way back—let me see—in the seventh century."
"Six hundred a.d.," put in Tom.
"Yes; the Turks wanted to keep the way open for trade to the Gulf. These Turks generally know what they are about. But of course the best business men in Bassorah are the Jews."
Here a curious coincidence occurred. A procession slowly approached, coming down the narrow street.
"Jew funeral," said the Arab boatman.
The officers and our Tom gave way, crowding themselves against the houses, as the procession advanced. In front of them it halted. The corpse about to be buried lay in an open coffin placed on a bier hung with black. The persons comprising the procession had been chanting doleful funeral songs, but when they halted they ceased singing, and instead repeated in a mournful monotone funeral prayers as they all marched around the coffin. On the corpse was placed an urn, and as each person passed it he threw into it a piece of money. Seven halts were made, the routine being the same in each instance. At the final one the priest who was conducting the ceremonies uplifted the urn and said, in solemn tones: "We know that no one in the world is free from the sin Sera Lebathalah. We therefore give to thee this money, in order that thou mayst let his body and his soul rest in peace. In the name of the Eternal and His Holy Word, and with the consent of the members of the congregation here present, we lay upon thee the Anathema, which shall compel thee to flee into wild and solitary regions, where thou canst no more persecute any one."
As a matter of course Tom was completely mystified. The Lieutenant had been studying his guide-book. "It's this way, Tom," he explained. "This Jewish community have this curious custom peculiar to themselves. That great long word Sera Lebathalah is the name of a mystic sin or spirit, who is said to be the father of countless dark fiends who torment a man after his death, under the pretext that they are his children and ought to have part of his inheritance. Anathema is a Greek word, signifying that a thing shall be condemned or devoted to destruction. So the friends of the dead buy off this spirit as you have seen, and get rid of him in that way."
"But what becomes of the money?" asked Tom.
"That's more than I can say," said his friend. "But here we are at the grave."
The procession marched solemnly around the grave, and having placed the body in it returned to the town.
Tom and the Lieutenant had quite a walk to take before they again fell in with their companions. They discovered that the next feature on the programme was a further pull up the canal, in accordance with which arrangement they again embarked in the bellem. The canal was full of other boats, which passed them going and coming, the boatmen singing Arab ditties. Great loads of grain came down the stream.
"A good deal of that grain," said the Captain, "goes to Jeddah, and is sold to the pilgrims arriving at that port for Mecca."
In places remote from the Shat-el-Arab or the Tigris it is difficult and expensive to find means of transportation, so a large quantity of grain is used for fuel, and some rots away, or is consumed by rats in the granaries.
"Look at that," cried Mr. Jollytarre, pointing toward a warehouse close to the river-bank, tottering to its fall, as though an earthquake had suddenly overtaken it. "The rats have been having a fine time there."
As he spoke, the building he had pointed out fell with a loud crash.
"Pull ashore," cried the Captain. "We must see what all this means. Jollytarre, you must be dreaming. Rats, indeed!" Hastily running ashore, they came up against a sedate, imperturbable Turkish official, who re-assured them: "It is only one of the government grain stores that has fallen. It often happens. The rats undermine the walls to get at the grain, and from time to time a building gives way."
"Extraordinary!" cried Tom's father. "Well, I don't see that we can do anything here." So they re-embarked.
"These embankments are very well built," remarked some one, when they were again moving up the creek.
The boatman told them they were built by Nassir, a powerful Sheik; that he made a general levy of laborers for the purpose, without pay, although, to be sure, the villages around were compelled to provide food. The laborers made a strike for regular pay, whereupon Nassir built a few of the refractory men into the embankment, and declared he would construct it all of the bodies of the strikers if they did not at once go on with their work. There the strike ended. "As well it might, with such an employer," said the Captain. "And now," he added, "we'll turn around, for if you propose to start for Bagdad to-morrow, Tom, you'd better have a rest."
[JOB'S TURKEY.]
BY J. R. GALBRAITH.
"De ole speckle hane's done gone en keel ober, missus. Wot's we gwine ter do wid de young turkey?"
These words were addressed to me one fine spring morning by a small and very black boy, whose name was Job. Job always took a great interest in the poultry, and, indeed, was of no little assistance to me in its care. To be sure, he sometimes caused a great deal of trouble, when the chickens were hatching, by his great anxiety to know how they were getting on. He would lift up the hens to see if the little chicks were all out of their shells, and would even try to assist them in breaking the latter open, by which kind-hearted operation he invariably caused their death.
The speckled hen to which he referred that morning had been so unfortunate as to lose all her brood of young turkeys except one, and now she herself was dead. What to do with the young turkey was indeed a puzzling question. It was too young to take care of itself, and none of the other hens would take it, because their broods were not of the same age.
"Well, Job," I said, "I really do not know what we will do with the poor little thing: there is no mother for it."
"Dat's so," said Job; "but it make me feel moughty bad ter see dat leetle turkey a-cryin' roun' de dade hane. De ole rooster-cock he go er crowin' roun' jes ez big ez ef nuffin ain't done gone en happen. Oh, he's a precious vilyen, is dat same ole rooster-cock!"
I reflected a few moments, and then I said, "Job, you may have that little turkey, and when it gets big enough to sell, you can have the money all for your own."
"You don't mean dat, do you, missus?"
"Yes."
"Well, den, dat ar turkey ain't gwine ter die, not ef dis chile kin help it."
Any one who is familiar with poultry knows what delicate little things young turkeys are, and how difficult they are to raise under the most favorable circumstances. What, then, were Job's chances? Not one in a thousand.
JOB WATCHING HIS TURKEY.
Job went at once and put the young turkey in a coop by itself. He then procured some soft grass, with which he covered the floor; and having placed some water and food where the little thing could get at them, he spent the remainder of the day in lying on the ground before the coop, looking in at his new possession.
That night when I went out to superintend the feeding of the young chickens, which duty had devolved upon Job, he informed me that it was necessary to be very careful in regard to the rooster, and from what he said I inferred that he believed that fowl entertained some wicked scheme against not only all the young of its own kind, but all young poultry in general.
"De ole rooster-cock," said Job, as we paused before the coop that held the young turkey, "he come up en look through de slats at dat ar turkey—he did, sho. I hez ter keep a moughty close watch out, I duz. 'Member de time w'en he picked de young goslin' en de leetle chicken ter def, kaze dey wanted ter foller him. He'd do jes dat ar way wid de turkey ef he had half a chance. Oh, he's a precious vilyen, is dat same ole rooster-cock!"
To the surprise of us all, Job's turkey lived to be a full-grown bird, and, unlike the traditional Job's turkey, grew as plump and fat as any turkey need wish to be.
Yes, it lived and grew fat, but perhaps, after all, it was an unenviable kind of life, for it lost that which is the pride of all young gobblers—its tail. There was not a single feather of it left. Job in catching it had so often pulled out so many tail feathers that at last they were all gone.
Nor was this the only trial it had to bear. Job was continually shutting it up, and then changing his mind and letting it out again. One morning, when his mother was picking geese, Job caught his turkey, and gave it to his grandmother to hold until he could fix a coop to put it in. His grandmother, who was entirely blind, thinking that it was a goose, picked almost every feather from its body.
One day Job's father invited a few friends to take dinner with him. The dinner was to be given on the Fourth of July, and Job was very much afraid that his turkey would be sacrificed to the occasion.
"I's moughty feerd dat pap is gwine ter kill dat turkey," he said. "Ef he do, I won't hab no way ter git no money, kaze I won't hab nuffin ter sell w'en de hux'er comes roun'. I hope you won't let him kill dat turkey, missus, he am sich a fine gobbler. Ef 'twas de ole rooster-cock I wo'dn't keer, kaze eberybody knows he ain't no 'count. All he duz is ter walk roun' en 'tend like he's foun' suthin, en scratch up de groun'. Ef he'd git inter de yard, he'd scratch up all de flowers—he wo'd, sho."
"Oh, I guess he'll hardly kill your turkey, Job," I said, trying to re-assure him.
"I don' know," said Job; "I's feerd he will. Yuther day Elder Sales wuz ter our house, en a-readin' outer de Bible 'bout Job. Pap he tole me ter lissen how de man wot I woz named after wuz 'flicted. Den presently he axed de elder whar wuz de passage wot tole 'bout 'Job's turkey.' De elder said he didn't know jes zactly, but he 'lowed he'd soon fin' it. Dey look en dey look, but dey didn't fin' whar 'twas. 'Well,' sez pap atter a while, 'I knows a boy wot's got a turkey, ennyhow, en it's dat ar Job dar; en a moughty fine fat one too. It'll make a good ros' fer us some dese yere days.'"
From a remark that I overheard Old Dick make, I found that he actually did intend to kill Job's turkey. It was too bad, after the trouble the boy had taken to raise it. So that evening when I saw Old Dick, I told him not to kill Job's turkey, and that I would give him one. He bowed and made a great to-do thanking me.
"I'll kill de turkey to-morrow ebenin', so's ter hab it all ready in good season."
Job, who had been weeding a flower bed near by, came up just in time to hear this, and I noticed a peculiar expression on his face, but thought nothing of it at the time. Old Dick then made a low bow, and making Job do the same, the two departed in the direction of their cabin.
Everything went on as usual until about dusk the next day, when Old Dick made his appearance at the sitting-room window, and informed me that Job was missing.
"I's looked ebery whar, high en low, en I can't fin' de po' boy no'ers," he said.
"Oh, he will turn up before long; don't be frightened," I said. "Very likely he has climbed up into the haymow and fallen asleep. You remember we found him there once."
"I clar, missus, I's done look all fro de barn; but I'll go look agin ef yer say so. I 'members now I didn't look in de ole mangers in de wagon-house; but I don't reckon he'd git in dem hardly."
I went about my work, having little doubt but that Job would turn up all right, as he always had done before. But in a few minutes, happening to glance out of the window, I saw Old Dick running toward the house, having lost his hat, and making wild gestures with his arms. As soon as he caught sight of me he commenced to cry: "Oh, missus! Oh! oh! oh! Joby's done gone en fell in de barn well."
I ran out to him at once. "You must be mistaken," I said.
"Oh dear no, missus; I wisht I wuz. De bucket wuz hangin' down de well, en I jes let it down inter de water, thinkin' I'd draw up a leetle, w'en I heerd him a-splashin' roun' down dar."
"It was only the bucket when it struck the water."
"Oh no, 'twan't; I drawed de bucket up, en could atterwa'ds hear de po' boy. Can't nobody help me git him out? De po' boy is drownin' down dar—he is sho'. Whar is Mr. Williams? Oh, missus, whar is Mr. Williams?"
Great excitement ensued. Dinah, the cook, having seen Old Dick come running toward the house, had come out to see what was the matter. Now she ran back to my husband's study, and addressed him in these words. "De Lord help us, Marster Williams, Job's done gone en fell in de barn well."
He jumped up at once, and came running out in his dressing-gown, which, being of light material, was taken up by the wind and floated out behind him like a streamer. We three repaired to the well, where Old Dick had preceded us. Dinah was armed with the rolling-pin, my husband had the notes of a prospective sermon in his hands, which were scattered to the four winds, and I had some fancy-work, which, in my excitement, I had forgotten to lay aside. Truly we were well equipped for extricating a drowning boy from a well.
When we arrived at the well, it had begun to grow dark, and when we looked down into it, it appeared a deep black hole that might extend to the centre of the earth. Old Dick was leaning over the frame gazing into the dark depths below.
"Joby," he cried, "jes keep yo' hade 'bove water till we git down to yer. Hole onter de stones on de side, Joby. Does yer hear me, honey?"
No response from the well.
"Joby," he cried, in a louder voice, "does yer hear me?"
This was succeeded by a confused splashing at the bottom of the well.
"Oh, de po' boy!" cried Old Dick, wringing his hands; "he'll be drown', sho! Joby, o-o-oh, Joby, does yer hear me, honey?"
"HE WOULD HAVE PITCHED HEADLONG INTO THE WELL."
Here Old Dick leaned so far over the well frame that if Mr. Williams had not caught him he would have pitched headlong into the well.
Mr. Williams, having detached the rope from the bucket, fastened it around his waist, and telling Old Dick to hold on to the crank and let the rope unwind slowly, began to descend into the well, holding on to the sides with his hands and feet.
"Oh, dear me!" muttered Old Dick, as he unwound the rope; "ef he wuz ter lose his holt, en de cord wuz ter break, wot wo'd become ob po' Joby den?"
"Here he is!" Mr. Williams cried from the bottom of the well.
"Dade, I reckon?" said Old Dick.
"No," said Mr. Williams; "for a wonder he is alive. Wind up the rope, Richard."
Old Dick slowly wound up the rope. We were leaning over the well frame, peering anxiously into its black depths, when Mr. Williams came in sight, bearing in his arms poor Job? No. What? Job's turkey.
Dinah and I shouted with laughter, but Old Dick looked more distressed than ever.
"Where's Joby?" he cried. "You ain't gone en lef him dade at de bottom ob de well?"
"No," said Mr. Williams; "he is not there."
Old Dick could not seem to realize this at first. When he did, his features broadened into a smile. "Well, I thought," he said. Then he suddenly became grave again, as he remembered that, after all, we had not found Job.
We hunted all over the premises, and Old Dick went around to the neighbors and made inquiries, but it was all in vain. Job was nowhere to be found.
The next day, as I was passing through an unoccupied room at the back part of the house, I thought I heard a noise, like something falling, in a long disused closet. I opened the door to see what it was. All that I could see was a pair of bright eyes peering out from the cave-like blackness of the closet. I started back in fear.
"Don't be skeered, missus."
"Job!" I cried.
The boy tumbled out on to the floor at my feet.
"Don't whip me, missus, please don't whip me."
"Whip you, Job? of course not."
"Is de turkey alibe, missus?"
"Yes. What ever put it into your head to play such a trick as this?"
"Well, yer see, missus, I heerd pap say he wuz gwine ter kill dat turkey las' night. I had tole him 'twa'n't no fittin' time ob year ter eat turkey, but he boun' ter kill it er bust. Well, I seed dat dar wuz water nuff drawd fer de hoss, en I jes cotch dat turkey, en chuck him in de well bucket tight, so he can't git out, en let him down de well."
When Old Dick was informed of Job's whereabouts it was with great difficulty that I prevailed upon him not to whip the boy. He, however, at length consented to let him off that time.
"But ef eber I heers ob sich cuttins up agin I'll larrop him sho. A pirty-lookin' creeter he is, a-skeerin' his mammy en me half outen our senses!"
Job's turkey lived without any more adventures until he sold it for a good price to the huxter. He took the money and bought himself a pair of red-top boots, and when he put them on and walked about the yard he was indeed a happy boy.
