THE SHEEP AT GRANDPA'S FARM.
Of all the lovely things we do, my sister Maud and I,
In summer days, at grandpa's farm, where hills are green and high,
There's nothing that we like so well as being sent to keep,
All through the shady afternoon, a flock of milk-white sheep.
You see, each lambkin knows its name; and when we call aloud,
From every corner of the field the fleecy darlings crowd.
At twilight when the sun goes down, to let the stars outshine,
We bend for them some willow boughs, or dainty budding vine.
And grandma bids us give them salt; they think it quite a treat,
Just as we think of sugar-plums, or bonbons nice and sweet.
But when the frisky little ones eat quick and run away,
"Excuse them, please, they're very young," their mothers seem to say.
I wonder people think them dumb. I'm sure the wise old ewes
Could tell some things to giddy girls who have no wit to lose.
How patiently they pace along, and let the lambkins play,
And chase their shadows on the grass, and skip about all day.
One never sees them looking cross; and that's what grandpa meant—
That "silly" once, in older days, was pure and innocent.
And in the Good Book Maud and I together love to read
Of pastures green and waters still, where happy flocks may feed.
We know the Shepherd loves the lambs, and oft we pray to Him
At eve low kneeling by our beds, when all the earth is dim;
And when we wake and laugh and play, and when we go to sleep,
We trust that He will keep us safe, as we have kept the sheep.
[DARE'S CRUISE;]
OR, THE DORY THAT FOUND ITS WAY HOME.
BY ELIOT McCORMICK.
"What a pretty boy!"
Dare laughed and blushed as she jammed down the tiller of her little dory to let the larger boat, from which the remark had come, pass by.
"That ain't a boy," she heard a rude voice reply; "that's that Peters girl from Star Island."
Dare's laugh died out, and the flush turned into an angry red. The first speaker she did not know. It was a girl—a little younger than herself, Dare thought—with a frank, pleasant face and winning voice. But the other was a familiar foe, who had tormented Dare for ten years. Tom Suydam, she verily believed, was the most hateful boy that ever lived. Because he was a rich man's son, and boarded at the hotel every summer, while she was a fisherman's daughter who lived on the beach, he seemed to feel at liberty to tease and annoy her in every possible way. When she was a little girl he had amused himself by destroying her castles in the sand; and now that she was thirteen years old, and did not build sand castles, he would make uncomplimentary remarks loud enough for her to overhear. Dare almost hated Tom Suydam.
It was not surprising that she should be mistaken for a boy. Her short clustering hair, firm mouth, and ruddy complexion gave her face a boyish look, while the sailor hat, and blue flannel waist open sailorwise at the throat, added to the illusion. The costume was nothing more than a girl's bathing suit; but Dare found it convenient for boating, and not in the way when the boat capsized, as had once or twice happened, notwithstanding her good seamanship, and she had to swim. She could sail a boat, Captain Peters proudly declared, better than any boy around the Shoals, and there wasn't a trick of the wind she did not know. In this respect, at any rate, Dare felt a sense of superiority over Tom Suydam. He might be richer, and know more, but he couldn't manage even a row-boat. Dare wondered, as she looked back over her shoulder, and saw the little skiff driving ahead under the fresh southeasterly breeze, how the sweet-faced, gentle-voiced girl who was his companion would trust herself to his care, and how, indeed, she could go with him at all. Dare knew that Tom had no sisters. "She must be his cousin," the girl concluded, as she hauled over the sail on the other tack.
Dare was going back to the Island, having taken her father over to Portsmouth on his way to Boston. The wind was against her, and she had had to beat down the river, and was now going on a long tack to the north. It was not a steady wind, but a fitful gusty blow that warned Dare to keep her hand on the tiller and her eye on the sail. She knew precisely how much wind the boat would take, and she knew too that one's calculations might be upset by an unexpected puff. She looked up at the sky critically, and decided that the wind was shifting. There were clouds in the west indicating a thunder-storm. "It will blow me straight to the Shoals," Dare reflected, bringing the boat a little closer to the wind. The slight change of direction brought into view Tom Suydam's skiff, which, as she looked, seemed to have put about, and to be running on the same tack as herself. Tom had no doubt seen the clouds, and was making for home. It was now a race between the two boats, at a distance of perhaps half a mile apart.
Meanwhile, with every instant the sky darkened and the wind grew fresh. Dare took a reef in the sail, and kept the halyards free, so that she could drop it at the slightest warning. The other boat, however, kept on under a full head of canvas. Was Tom Suydam crazy? Dare wondered. She had hardly framed the thought before a gust struck his boat, and laid it so far over on its side that the mast seemed to touch the water. It righted, however, while Tom, evidently uncertain what to do, hauled the sail over, and attempted to run on the opposite tack. For an instant the sail napped in the wind; then it suddenly filled, and for a second time careened until Dare never expected to see it come up again.
"They'll surely be drowned!" she cried, letting out her own sail another point, while she steered the dory so as to intercept the other's course. The skiff had righted once more, but was lurching wildly, and threatening to capsize with every gust.
"Drop your sail!" she cried, excitedly; but at that instant the skiff lay over again, and Dare saw that this time it would not come up. Dare had already skillfully brought her boat up within a few yards of the skiff, and dropping her sail, she now steered it close enough to take in Tom and the girl, who, though, in the water, had succeeded in clinging to the wreck.
"Well!" she exclaimed, when the two were safely on board, "Tom Suydam, I should think you had lost all the little sense you ever had."
For once Tom was humbled.
"Oh, I say, Dare," he cried, "don't hit a fellow when he's down. Just look after my cousin Mollie, won't you? She's all broke up. I'll sail the boat for you," he added.
Dare gave him a warning look. "You go sit in the bow," she said. "When I ask you to sail a boat for me, I guess you'll know it. There's nothing to be afraid of now," she said, re-assuringly, turning to Tom's cousin, who was shivering with fear and cold. "Only I wonder you ever went out with him. He doesn't even know how to row. Take my coat," she said, producing a heavy jacket from a locker underneath the seat. "I sha'n't need it, and you're just soaked through."
The impulsive little stranger threw her arms around Dare's neck and kissed her.
"You're a dear," she said. "I thought so the minute I laid eyes on you—only I supposed you were a boy."
Dare laughed.
"I heard what you said," she replied, softly. "Now if you will sit here with me at the stern, it will trim the boat, and we can make for home."
But the wind, with the uncertainty of a thunder-storm, had shifted further to the north, and it was apparent even to Mollie that they were being driven far away from the Shoals.
"Why don't you hoist your sail," cried Tom, from his seat in the bow, "and steer for the Island? You'll go to Boston if you keep on this way."
Just then a fresh squall drove the boat ahead with such force that the water broke over the bow, and Tom was for the time suppressed. Fortunately the dory was stanch and seaworthy. It rode the waves lightly, and so long as Dare could keep it before the wind she had no fears of its capsizing. But every breath of wind carried them further away from home. Presently the rain began to fall; and then Mollie, that Dare might not be wet, insisted upon covering her shoulders with the jacket also.
"But I never take cold," Dare protested. "I'm wet through half the time when I'm out in the dory, and don't know what it is to be sick."
"But I sha'n't feel right unless you take part of it," the other declared. "I'll sit close to you, dear, like this, and there'll be enough for both of us."
So Dare did not resist. It was a new experience for her to be affectionately treated, and she did not need the jacket to make her feel warm. As Mollie's arm crept round her waist, and the girl's little head rested on her shoulder, she felt that something had come to her which all her life had lacked. Leaning over, she kissed the upturned forehead.
"You're not frightened, dear?" she asked.
Just then a sharp flash of lightning forked across the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening peal of thunder. Mollie hid her face in Dare's dress.
"Oh yes, I am," she cried; "I'm awfully frightened. Do you think the boat can stand it, Dare? Do you think we will ever get home?"
Dare looked out toward the horizon. The rain was falling even more heavily; the wind was blowing steadily from the north, and the darkness was shutting down. It was an angry-looking night, and Dare had to fight hard to shake off a thrill of terror from herself.
"There's no danger, dear," she said, bravely. "I've been out in a heavier blow than this, and so long as we can keep her before the wind we're all right. Only I'm afraid, Mollie, we'll have to spend the night out here. But you needn't mind that. You needn't even be hungry, for I've got some biscuit and a can of water in the locker; and in the morning we'll run in somewhere down the coast, or, if the wind has changed, come straight home. I wouldn't dare put up the sail until after the storm is over," she added.
They ate the biscuits and drank the water; and then, as the night grew darker and darker, and finally shut out all surrounding objects, Dare insisted that Tom and Mollie should go to sleep. Tom could lie down in the bow, using one of the seat cushions for a pillow, and Mollie in the stern, resting her head in Dare's lap. Dare would watch, she said. Tom, who was quite used up by exposure and fear, at once accepted the suggestion; and Mollie, after some persuasion, also consented to it, though she insisted that Dare should keep the jacket for herself. Before she lay down she hesitated a moment.
"May I say my prayers?" she asked, softly.
Dare bent over her and took the little folded hands in her own.
"Say them for me too," she whispered.
So Mollie said her prayers; and then, while the wind roared and the boat rocked and the rain fell, she went peacefully to sleep, covered by the jacket which, without her knowing it, Dare had taken off and transferred to Mollie's thinly clad shoulders. For a long time Dare watched the quiet little form, resting one hand protectingly on the child's wavy hair, while with the other she held the tiller and kept the boat still before the wind. By-and-by, however, the clouds broke and the wind veered. The water gradually calmed, the boat rocked less and less, and Dare too had fallen asleep.
Early the next morning Mrs. Peters came to the door of the little cottage on Star Island, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out over the sea. It promised to be a fair day. The storm had cleared off in the night, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the southwest. Nothing, however, could be seen of the dory, and as the dory ought to have been home the afternoon before, Mrs. Peters began to be a little worried. She had not worried until now, because Dare could not be expected to come home in a storm. The child had no doubt put into Kittery Point, and staid all night with the Grays, as she had done before under like circumstances. But in that case she ought to be coming home now. Mrs. Peters looked toward the little cove where the dory was accustomed to lie; and to her great surprise discovered a mast-head rising above the intervening rocks. The mast was not rocking, as it would be if the dory were in the water. The boat must be drawn up on the beach. But who had done that? Had Dare come home in the night? With a quick beating at her heart, Mrs. Peters ran over the rocks down toward the beach. There was the dory sure enough. How had it got there, and who was in it?
Dare was in it for one. Her head, from which the hat had fallen off, rested on the gunwale; her eyes were closed in sleep; and though the position must have been very uncomfortable, her lips were parted in a half-smile. On her lap rested the head of another girl, whom Mrs. Peters did not know, but who was also sleeping, while a boy reposed in the bow. What did it all mean? With an unusual display of feeling, Mrs. Peters leaned over and kissed Dare.
The girl opened her eyes.
"Is it time to get up?" she asked, dreamily.
"I should think it was," said Mrs. Peters, briskly. "And what I want to know is how you got here."
Dare looked around in bewildered surprise. "Why, we must have drifted," she exclaimed. "We were miles away from here last night. Mollie dear," she cried, leaning over and kissing the head that rested in her lap, "it's morning, and we've got home."
Mollie sprang up, rubbing her eyes. "Why did you let me sleep so long?" she cried, penitently. "I might have helped you with the sail."
Dare laughed. "I've been asleep myself all night," she confessed, "and the dory found its own way home."
Nobody could ever understand by what peculiar conjunction of wind and current the little boat had been carried on through the darkness to the strip of sandy beach that formed its haven. "It wouldn't happen once in a million times," Captain Peters exclaimed, when he was told the story; while Mrs. Peters declared, with equal emphasis, that no one could make her believe that it wasn't a providence. As for Mollie's father and mother, they didn't care how it happened, so long as Mollie was safe; and when they had satisfied themselves as to that, they began to look about for ways in which to express their gratitude to Dare. And though Dare declares that she does not want any thanks, and that it is pleasure enough for her to know Mollie, it is quite likely that something will be done for her benefit. For one thing, she is going to spend next winter with Mollie, and go to school in New York—a prospect which delights Mollie not less than it does Dare. "Only I'm afraid," Mollie remarks, apprehensively, when they are discussing the arrangement, "that Tom won't be civil."
And Dare, to whom Tom has already shown several awkward attentions, answers, with a smile and a blush: "Oh, Tom is such a goose! But I think he'll be civil, dear."
[A BRAVE BOY.]
Evvie Jerome is a little New York boy who is spending the summer at Bath, Long Island. There is a beautiful shelving beach at this place, and the children have good times there wading in the surf, digging in the sand, and building mimic bridges and forts with snowy clam shells.
On Friday, July 7, a merry group was playing on the shore as usual, when suddenly there was a scream of fright and horror. A great wave had come rolling in, and had caught and carried out of sight a sweet little girl.
There was not a man within reach. The ladies were paralyzed with fear. The bright head had gone down under the dark waters.
But there was a little boy there who had the heart and courage of a man, though he was only seven years old. He had what many men have not—the sense to see what ought to be done, and the will to do it quickly.
Evvie Jerome caught hold of the life-rope, and by wading and swimming reached the place where the little girl had gone under.
The spectators watching the young hero saw him dive. Up he came, dragging the child with him. Clinging to her with one hand, and to the friendly rope with the other, he brought her, half-drowned but safe, to her mother's arms.
All honor, says Harper's Young People, to so noble a boy.
THE YOUNG BAGGAGE-SMASHER.
[HARRY MILLER'S STURGEON.]
BY BENJAMIN KARR.
Thirty-four years ago, boys who lived on the shores of Lake Champlain were very fond of catching the big sturgeons that abounded in its clear waters. Not more so, perhaps, than boys would be now if fine fish were as plenty and as easily captured; but then other sports were not so common in that day, and fishing had much less competition. Often six or seven would go out together with long seines, and some famous catches they used to make.
One spring day several lads about eighteen years old hauled in a splendid sturgeon, whose good nature and intelligence won him quite a local fame, and whose story ought to have been written long ago.
He was such a fine handsome fellow that Harry Miller, a kind-hearted boy who was fond of pets, determined to take him home and try to tame him.
The rest of the party were all willing to give up their share in the prize, so the big captive's fate was settled then and there. Harry took him to his home at Cedar Point, near Port Henry, and put him in a box which he had sunk in the water, and fastened to a landing at the edge of the lake.
The box was about eight feet wide and thirteen feet long, so that a sturgeon could have plenty of room, even if he was over three and a half feet long, and weighed about one hundred and fifteen pounds, as this one did. Harry was careful that there should be plenty of chance for the fresh lake water to flow all through this novel aquarium, so that it was always fresh and pure. He also made a door which could be securely locked, so that he could take his pet out when he wished, and yet be sure that no one would steal him.
The next thing was a name, and commonplace Tom was chosen, just as it might be for a horse or a dog. It did not take Tom long to learn his name, and as he had all the worms, meat, and kitchen scraps he could eat, and was always treated kindly, he soon grew very tame and fat. He was ready whenever any one came to feed him, and when his master playfully patted his sides, he would roll over just as roguishly as a pet puss might.
A Frenchman who lived near Harry Miller's home was wonderfully skillful in training animals, and he persuaded Harry to let him see what he could do with Tom. He found a most docile pupil, and succeeded amazingly, to Harry's intense delight. After several weeks, he considered his task accomplished, and returned his charge to his young owner.
Tom was now ready to do something practical in return for his master's kindness; in fact, he had become a real "sea-horse," well broken to harness, or rather to rope, for that is all he needed to pull a boat.
A heavy ring was fastened through the thick cartilage just behind the dorsal or back fin, and a stout rope was snapped into this ring when Tom was "hitched up," just as a rein often is into a bit.
The other end of the rope was held or made fast in the boat, so that all one had to do to have a fine ride was to attend to the steering. A long pole did duty for reins, and a slap on the water either side of Tom would turn him in the opposite direction.
If he grew lazy, as he sometimes did, a sharp splash just behind would quicken him up. There was never any trouble about getting home after a ride. Just as soon as Tom had a chance to turn around, he would start straight for his box, and swim with all his might until he was once more snugly housed.
While Tom was being trained, he was allowed only about six feet of rope, but after Harry felt sure that he could trust his pet, he let him go twenty or thirty feet from the boat, and instead of short rides he used to stay out as long as three or four hours.
Just think, boys, of going fishing with a fish to do the sculling! Naturally Tom was kept quite busy towing fishing parties, and he worked all the better when he had plenty to do. A vacation of two or three days would make him behave like a colt the next time he went out.
At first he would rush off at a great rate, drawing two men in a good-sized boat nearly as fast as one could row, but he would soon cool down until he hardly wanted to stir at all.
Work every day was what Tom needed to make him willing and steady, and if he had it he was a model of good behavior.
Of course a great many other boys thought it would be fine to have a trained fish, and many sturgeons were caught and petted, but all in vain. None of them could be induced to work, and Harry Miller's Tom remained without a rival, the pride of his master, and the envy of other boys.
Most of the sturgeons which boys tried to train killed themselves by staying too long under water when they were taken out into the lake, and others pined away and died before any progress could be made.
For three years Tom did his young master good and faithful service, but at last he changed owners, and nothing is known of his history from the time he was sold. Harry was forced to part with his pet because the Millers moved away from the lake, but the twenty-five dollars he received was a poor recompense to him for the loss of such an accomplished fish.
But though he never heard of him again, he has always cherished his memory.
Mr. Harry Miller is now a middle-aged gentleman, living in the town of Warren, Pennsylvania, where he often entertains his young friends with the story of his wonderful sturgeon Tom, every word of which is strictly true.