THE LITTLE PATIENT.
Five of us farmer's children, and one from a city street
Who never in all his lifetime knew that the roses were sweet;
And he's come to us pale and frightened, but he'll soon grow plump and strong,
So, Rover, old fellow, you hear me: just gallop and gallop along,
And carry this poor little patient—for that's what he is, they say—
Down where the willows are gazing into the brook all day.
And go like the wind, dear Rover, you shall rest when the work is done
And we'll give you part of our dinner, and more than half of the fun.
Mother was ever so happy when father came up the road
Bringing this boy for a visit; he wasn't much of a load.
And we'll feed him on cream and biscuits, and give him the best of care,
A bed that is soft as clover, and the very freshest of air.
But, Rover, all that would be nothing—I see that you're looking wise,
And shaking your shaggy coat, dear, and laughing out of your eyes—
Nothing, unless we loved him, and gave him plenty of play
So hurrah for our little patient, and, Rover, scamper away.
[A FOURTH-OF-JULY WARNING.]
BY AN OLD BOY.
I remember the accident well enough, though it happened nearly forty years ago.
There is no doubt about it, every genuine school-boy takes a keen delight in the Fourth of July. There is an inherent love of squibs and crackers, wheels and blue-lights, among lads, while a good flare-up of a bonfire is looked upon as almost indispensable.
When I was a boy I had a strong liking for cannon. I might have become an Armstrong, a Rodman, or a Dahlgren, if nothing had interfered to prevent the development of my tastes in that direction. But— Ah, that "but"! It is as troublesome as the "if" which spoils so many good things.
Would the boys like to hear the story? I began with a formidable piece of ordnance—an eighty-one-grain gun. It was an old key that I had picked up somewhere, and I tell you it made a very good miniature cannon. I was even more proud of it than of my first pair of boots, for I had manufactured it all myself. I felt that I had converted a useless old piece of iron into a weapon of modern warfare. At the end of the tube I filed a priming hole, fastened it to a wooden gun-carriage, and a jolly good bang I got out of it. Larger keys followed, and then brass cannon mounted on wheels, until somehow or other I got possessed—I can't remember how—of a monster cannon.
No common cast-brass toy this, but a homespun, wrought-iron gun: an iron bar, drilled, as near as I remember, with a three-quarter-inch drill; an unscientific-looking instrument, quite ignorant of lathe and emery-paper, but one that would and did go off.
Various small trial charges had been set off, until, on Fourth of July it was determined by a select committee on heavy ordnance, assembled in my father's garden, that in the evening an experiment should be made that would determine once for all its full powers.
We had had a good deal of fun of one kind and another all day, but for me nothing was one-half as interesting as that cannon. It seemed as if all the other boys in the neighborhood thought so too, for when the critical hour arrived there was something over two dozen of us in the garden. We formed a circle around my cannon, and the business of loading began. A fire-poker was secured for a ramrod, and a real good charge was rammed home. In the excitement of the moment the poker was left in the cannon!
A heap of soil at the end of the garden was chosen as the "earthwork," on which our big gun was fixed, pointing upward, though unnoticed by us, point-blank at the parlor windows. A small heap of shavings was put around the weapon, and one was appointed to light it. "To cover!" at once was the order, and each one rushed to a safe place. I tremble at this moment when I remember that, a second before the explosion, the inevitable small boy rushed from one cover to another right in front of the cannon's mouth.
What a bang! and what a crash! Oh, horror! Four panes of glass gone at once, the window-frame broken, and— We did not act the coward and fly. No, boys, never turn coward if you get into a scrape—and few boys of spirit but do sometimes get into one. Stand your ground, boys, and bear or pay whatever is fairly earned. Some of us stood our ground until father appeared. He had been a boy himself once, and though he looked very serious he did not scold us. At the first brush it was set down to atmospheric concussion, but on further investigation it was found that the brick-work was chipped and the wood-work broken; and, worse still, inside the parlor was found the fatal poker doubled up, having just escaped a splendid crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room. How crest-fallen I felt and looked! Father said that to remind me of the necessity of care in handling such a dangerous toy, I should pay for two of the panes. You can imagine I was glad not to be more severely punished.
That cannon was never again fired by me. The hair-breadth escape of that small boy haunts me even now. I have never fired a gun in my life; but for experimental purposes I have handled the strongest explosives, including the notorious dynamite; yet never in my life has such a thrill passed through me as did when I realized the almost miraculous escape of my playmate, when the doubled-up projectile was picked up on our parlor floor.
Boys, let an old one beg of you to be careful in handling explosives. Don't touch guns or pistols until you have a little more age upon you, lest some playmate or school-fellow meet with an untimely end. Don't reckon upon the lucky escape I had of being unintentionally a murderer.
[ONE NIGHT.]
BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.
"I'd like to have been Joan of Arc."
"And I, Queen Elizabeth."
"Who would you have chosen, Winnie?"
"The idea of asking a girl who is afraid in the dark!" said a sneering voice.
"It is rather absurd," replied brown-eyed Winnie, though she flushed a little uncomfortably, "but," she continued, "I have told you, Lulu, that I am trying to conquer that."
"What makes you afraid, anyhow?" queried Joan of Arc.
"I really don't know. I suppose somebody must have scared me when I was too little to remember."
"Pshaw! you're afraid of burglars," said Queen Elizabeth.
"Yes, she goes poking under her bed every night with a cane," said the sneering voice.
"I don't," said Winnie, indignantly.
"Well, who would you like to have been, Winnie?"
"Nobody."
"Oh, what a fib! Now don't get mad, Winnie, sweetie;" and Joan of Arc put her arm around her.
"I am not mad, but I just will not tell you who I admire most: tortures sha'n't get it out of me."
"Try her!" "Try her!" was shouted in chorus; and one seized her inkstand, another her pile of books, and a third was about to eat up her luncheon, when a tap of the bell announced that recess was over.
A week after this incident, one warm day in May, the teacher stopped the class as it was filing out, and said, "Who can go see why Jennie Jessup does not come to school?"
No one answered. It had been so tiresome a day, and all were eager to get home, Winnie especially, as she had been promised a little outing—a pleasant sail to Staten Island, an evening with friends, and a glimpse of blue waters and green fields. At the same time she thought to herself, "I pass the house she lives in. Perhaps I might just take time to stop."
The teacher seemed to divine her thoughts. "I wish you would go, Winnie. You're not afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Well, she may be sick, and sometimes girls don't like to go to strange houses."
"I am not afraid. I'll go," said Winnie, just a little proudly, as the girl passed her who had twitted her with being afraid in the dark.
Winnie picked up her books and trudged off. "How nice it will be to get out of the hot city!" she thought; "and what lovely lilacs I shall bring home! I wonder if their roses are out yet, and the syringas! And what nice teas Mrs. Graham always has!—so much better than a dinner such a day as this! And perhaps Rob will take us out sailing. Anyway, the trip up and down the bay will be delightful."
So she went on anticipating, until she came to Jennie Jessup's house. It was one of a block which had seen better days, but which now was degenerating from contact with the crowding business of the city.
She knocked at a door. No one replied. The occupants had gone to their daily duties, and had not returned. She mounted another pair of stairs. A partly open door had a small card tacked on it, upon which was the name "Jessup." She knocked. No answer. Again she tried. This time a far-away "Who is it?" was whispered.
"Can I come in?" asked Winnie, pushing the door gently before her.
"If you're not afraid," was the reply. It fairly stung Winnie.
"What should I be afraid of?"
"Why, of me," said Joan of Arc, in muffled accents. "Hush! don't wake mother; she's just tired out, and here am I sick in bed. Perhaps you had better not come in."
"I will, though," said Winnie; "that is, if it is right. I don't want to catch anything, and take it home to the children."
"I don't think it is catching. My head ached awfully, and the doctor was thinking it might turn out to be something contagious; but that fear is over. Oh, Winnie, is it not dreadful to be sick?"
Poor Joan of Arc was lying in a small, dark room, and in a large chair beside her was a pale-faced woman asleep. On an easel was an unfinished crayon head; here and there were sketches, scraps of pictures, as if done to test a color or a method. The afternoon sun was pouring a dusty flood of light on the faded carpet.
Winnie turned as if to go—were not Bob and Mary Graham waiting for her? she could fairly hear the splash of the water against the side of the boat. Joan of Arc turned a pale, longing face toward her.
"Oh, don't go, Winnie!"
"Do you want me?"
"Oh, so much! Mother is really ill herself. She has nursed me night and day, and tried to finish that crayon too—it is an order; but she is worn out—poor mother!"
Winnie moved about uneasily, thinking of lilacs and roses and syringas and the boat, but after a while she tore a slip from a copy-book and wrote a little note to her grandmother, telling the good old lady where she was. Then she turned to poor pale little Joan, bathed her, smoothed her pillows, and gave her the medicine which was to be taken.
Slowly the hours went by; no going to Staten Island this time. The clock ticked away, the jangling bells and whistles quieted down, doors opened and shut, people had their dinners and teas. The street grew quiet, and little pale-faced Joan slept softly and restfully, with one hand in Winnie's. Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock struck. Winnie must have dozed, but now she was wakened by little Joan's arousing.
"Oh, Winnie, I am so thirsty!"
"Yes, dear; here is some water."
"But I would so like to have some milk."
"Where is it, Jennie?"
"Down-stairs we have a closet under the stoop, and there's an ice-box there. A lump of ice in the milk would be so delicious!"
"So it would. Shall I get it?"
"Yes, only— Oh dear! Winnie, you don't like going down in the dark."
No, indeed, she didn't; but what was to be done?—waken poor Mrs. Jessup, and undo all the good that had been done? On the other hand rose visions of horror—bats, rats, meeting midnight prowlers, all sorts of indescribable fears without really any cause, the echoes of a frightened childhood, when some foolish nurse had used the rod of fear to control a sensitive nervous little one who could easily have been led by love.
"Where is the key, Jennie, and the pitcher?"
"The key is just here in this little drawer, and you will find a pitcher down there. But don't go if you are afraid, Winnie. I will try to wait till morning."
"Now or never," thought Winnie, and she plunged out into the darkness. The effort gave her courage. Down, down, down she went. The candle flared and flickered; she was sure it would go out, but she had put a match or two in her pocket. She reached the door, unlocked it, poured the milk, and cracked the ice, when with a chill of horror a hoarse laugh broke the midnight stillness.
It seemed close beside her, above her, around her. For an instant she stood as if paralyzed; then she would have sped like the wind, but a voice said, "Can't you let me in?"
Winnie looked up; there was a little grating over the heavy outer door. A face, young, handsome, but shadowed with the marks of ill-doing, was watching her curiously. Winnie shook her head.
"Who are you, anyhow, and what are you doing in my mother's closet?"
Winnie's voice shook. "I am a friend of Jennie's. She is sick. I am taking care of her. Do you live here?"
"Sometimes. It's a pretty time of night for a fellow to be out, isn't it? Well, if Jen's sick, I'll stay away. Here, give her this;" and between the narrow grating was slipped a bill.
Winnie picked it up. The face disappeared: ah! what a sorry tale it had told! She forgot her fears, but her heart ached for the toiling mother and sick little sister when son and brother was of this sort. Upstairs she went, seeing nothing alarming now in the darkness; all her visionary fears had fled. But little Joan saw her white face and wide-open eyes. Drinking the milk eagerly, she sank back on the pillow with a sigh of satisfaction. Winnie said nothing, and Joan slept like a baby.
When morning came, Mrs. Jessup arose rested, refreshed, and so grateful to Winnie that she felt repaid for the little sacrifice she had made; and then she told Mrs. Jessup of the night's occurrence, and gave her the money.
"My poor boy!" was all the mother said, as tears rolled down her face—"my poor boy!" but it told of sorrow, disappointment, and grief which even Winnie could hardly understand.
When Joan kissed Winnie good-by that morning, she whispered, "I know who you are like, and whom you would rather be than all the queens in the world."
"Who, Jennie?"
"Florence Nightingale."
"Yes, you have guessed rightly," answered Winnie, who not for one moment regretted her postponed jaunt, her sleepless night, nor anything she had done.
Once having conquered, she had now no more trouble with fears in the dark.
And the jaunt came in due time, and little Joan's room was made sweet and bright with roses and syringas that Florence Nightingale brought from her excursion.
But she never forgot that night.
[THE OLD, OLD STORY.]
BY JIMMY BROWN.
We've had a most awful time in our house. There have been ever so many robberies in town, and everybody has been almost afraid to go to bed.
The robbers broke into old Dr. Smith's house one night. Dr. Smith is one of those doctors that don't give any medicine except cold water, and he heard the robbers, and came down-stairs in his nigown, with a big umbrella in his hand, and said, "If you don't leave this minute, I'll shoot you." And the robbers they said, "Oho! that umbrella isn't loaded;" and they took him and tied his hands and feet, and put a mustard plaster over his mouth, so that he couldn't yell, and then they filled the wash-tub with water, and made him sit down in it, and told him that now he'd know how it was himself, and went away and left him, and he nearly froze to death before morning.
Father wasn't a bit afraid of the robbers, but he said he'd fix something so that he would wake up if they got in the house. So he put a coal-scuttle full of coal about half-way up the stairs, and tied a string across the upper hall just at the head of the stairs. He said that if a robber tried to come upstairs, he would upset the coal-scuttle, and make a tremendous noise, and that if he did happen not to upset it, he would certainly fall over the string at the top of the stairs. He told us that if we heard the coal-scuttle go off in the night, Sue and mother and I were to open the windows and scream, while he got up and shot the robber.
The first might, after father had fixed everything nicely for the robbers, he went to bed, and then mother told him that she had forgotten to lock the back door. So father he said, "Why can't women sometimes remember something," and he got up and started to go down-stairs in the dark. He forgot all about the string, and fell over it with an awful crash, and then began to fall down-stairs. When he got half-way down, he met the coal-scuttle, and that went down the rest of the way with him, and you never in your life heard anything like the noise the two of them made. We opened our windows, and cried murder and fire and thieves, and some men that were going by rushed in and picked father up, and would have taken him off to jail, he was that dreadfully black, if I hadn't told them who he was.
But this was not the awful time that I mentioned when I began to write, and if I don't begin to tell you about it, I sha'n't have any room left on my paper. Mother gave a dinner party last Thursday. There were ten ladies and twelve gentlemen, and one of them was that dreadful Mr. Martin with the cork leg, and other improvements, as Mr. Travers calls them. Mother told me not to let her see me in the dining-room, or she'd let me know; and I meant to mind, only I forgot, and went into the dining-room, just to look at the table, a few minutes before dinner.
I was looking at the raw oysters, when Jane—that's the girl that waits on the table—said, "Run, Master Jimmy; here's your mother coming." Now I hadn't time enough to run, so I just dived under the table, and thought I'd stay there for a minute or two, until mother went out of the room again.
It wasn't only mother that came in, but the whole company, and they sat down to dinner without giving me any chance to get out. I tell you, it was a dreadful situation. I had only room enough to sit still, and nearly every time I moved I hit somebody's foot. Once I tried to turn around, and while I was doing it I hit my head against the table so hard that I thought I had upset something, and was sure that people would know I was there. But fortunately everybody thought that somebody else had joggled, so I escaped for that time.
It was awfully tiresome waiting for those people to get through dinner. It seemed as if they could never eat enough, and when they were not eating, they were all talking at once. It taught me a lesson against gluttony, and nobody will ever find me sitting for hours and hours at the dinner table. Finally I made up my mind that I must have some amusement, and as Mr. Martin's cork leg was close by me, I thought I would have some fun with that.
There was a big darning-needle in my pocket, that I kept there in case I should want to use it for anything. I happened to think that Mr. Martin couldn't feel anything that was done to his cork leg, and that it would be great fun to drive the darning-needle into it, and leave the end sticking out, so that people who didn't know that his leg was cork would see it, and think that he was suffering dreadfully, only he didn't know it. So I got out the needle, and jammed it into his leg with both hands, so that it would go in good and deep.
"WASN'T THERE A CIRCUS IN THAT DINING-ROOM!"
Mr. Martin gave a yell that made my hair run cold, and sprang up, and nearly upset the table, and fell over his chair backward, and wasn't there a circus in that dining-room! I had made a mistake about the leg, and run the needle into his real one.
I was dragged out from under the table, and— But I needn't say what happened to me after that. It was "the old, old story," as Sue says when she sings a foolish song about getting up at five o'clock in the morning—as if she'd ever been awake at that time in her whole life!
"CHERRIES ARE RIPE."
Three cheers for the Fourth of July! What American boy does not love it? Where is the little girl who is not glad when it arrives? We hope you will all have a splendid time on the happy holiday, meet with no accidents, and when night comes, go to bed, to enjoy pleasant dreams.
Vacation has come to many of you by this time. You have said good-by to school and teachers, and have laid aside lessons and slates for a while. Be out-doors all you can in these bright summer days, and lay in a good stock of health for future use when the play spell is over.
We think you will all be pleased with the feast Our Post-office Box gives you in this Fourth-of-July number.
Orworth, Kansas.
Have you ever seen a Kansas dug-out? If you have not, I will write you a description of one. In the first place, a hole is dug in the ground four or five feet deep, and walled up with limestone or sandstone about six feet high, and covered with a dirt roof. They make these dirt roofs by putting a log lengthwise of the building, and laying poles crosswise; then they cover the poles with sunflowers, and place hay next, and on top of that usually a foot or more of dirt. They usually have earth floors, and sometimes there isn't a solitary window. I have seen dug-outs built of sod. Wouldn't you like to live in such a house, where it is a common thing for mice to tumble into the water bucket? The Wiggle I send is a picture of the dug-out we used to live in when we first came here. Will you please give it to the Wiggle master?
We had a beautiful sunset not very long ago. It was grand. It had been raining, and it slacked up as the sun was going down. Off in the north-west there were some very black clouds; one of them looked like a whale's back, another like a volcano in action. In a few minutes they changed shape, and the best idea I can give of them is a lot of giants contending together. The clouds seemed to come clear to the ground. Papa said he never saw anything like it before. The most beautiful of all was the rainbow. There was at first a perfect arch, with rays of glory coming from the centre. In a few minutes there was a reflected rainbow. All the time that the rainbows lasted there was a very peculiar light, which I can't describe.
Papa and I are alone here, and I have to do the cooking. We will begin to harvest next week. I am to have fifty cents per day for cooking. I hope my letter is not too long to be published.
Theodore G. B.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy nine years old. Papa takes Harper's Young People for my sister and me, and we like it very much. I have had the pneumonia, and have been kept in the house two weeks, but that is not so bad as it is for the little boy I read about in Our Post-office Box who had to stay in the house two months, and can not walk yet. I feel so sorry for him! I have a pet cat, and I love it very dearly.
Ruliff Y. L. H.
By this time, Ruliff, I hope you are well, and able to fire off torpedoes as gayly as did the boys in Miss Porter's story.
London, Ontario, Canada.
I wrote a letter some time ago, and have been watching for it ever since, and I was much disappointed, and think perhaps you did not get it, and I thought I would try again. I have three little sisters, and they all enjoy Harper's Young People, and I think "Toby Tyler" was the best story in it, and we have great laughs over Jimmy Brown. We have five hens, and they all lay eggs; we get four or five every day. Papa and I are gardening to-day, and we have a lovely garden, and it is pretty hard work attending to it, and we have hard times looking after our chickens; they dig holes in the ground with their feet, and we are trying to shut them up for the summer.
Freddie W. F.
New York City.
I am a little girl nine years old. I have no pets except four dolls. One has not any head. Their names are Maud, Mabel, Emily, and Sadie. I wish somebody would write more fairy stories. I am very fond of them. I used to live in Brooklyn, and like it much better than here. I am glad Mr. Otis has written more about Toby Tyler, because I like him very much. My brother and I had scarlet fever this winter, but we are all well now. I like Harper's Young People very much. I have had it since it began. We have a parrot here who cries like a baby and then imitates a nurse singing to it. We go to the country every summer.
Bessie H.
What a charming parrot! Who taught him to cry and sing so cleverly? Dear Bessie, can not you put a new head on the poor dolly who has not any? I feel quite sad on her account.