[to be continued.]
[INCIDENTS OF THE GREAT FLOOD.]
If we could gather together the records of the mighty flood that lately laid waste the great valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, we should have a wonderfully terrible yet glorious picture of peril, suffering, and heroism. Scarcely a town but has its own sad tale of bridges carried away, railroad tracks washed out, houses flooded, and whole families forced to flee before the advancing waters, and in many cases to flee in vain. In Arkansas and Mississippi the mighty "Father of Waters" burst through the great levees which the labor of generations has built up to confine him within bounds, and rushed over the low-lying country beyond, carrying death and desolation with him. In Arkansas City every house was flooded, and families retreated to the upper stories of their homes. Many families whose houses were but of one story were forced to abandon their homes, and trust themselves to small boats or rafts hastily put together.
A sad fate befell one such family. They were a gentleman and his wife and six children, four of whom were between the ages of six and fourteen. The floods had risen around them until not even the roof afforded a safe refuge. Their only hope was a small boat—a "dug-out"—and in it they all embarked. But what chance had they in such a tiny craft and in such a storm? The story is short. The boat capsized, and the father saved his wife, only to realize that they two were left childless.
In another place two brothers were alone in their father's house on the bank of a creek. The water rose so rapidly that before they could realize it the house was surrounded, and they saw no hope but to trust themselves to the water, and endeavor to reach higher ground, where they would be safe. They were brave, strong lads, but all too weak to battle against the raging torrent into which they plunged. One of them was not seen more. The other reached a haven of refuge in a tree, and had help been at hand he might have lived to tell the fearful tale. But no aid was near. It was twenty-four hours before he was found, and then cold and exposure had done their work. The two brothers had perished within a few hours of one another.
Many of you will remember the story of Rupert of Ware, which was told in these pages last Halloween. It is such noble acts as that of his that light up the gloomy narratives of great calamities. This story also has its bright side. Doubtless it has many heroes. We can tell of only one.
It was at Paducah, a river-side town in Kentucky, that a young hero, a boy named "Dad" Little, pushed off in his skiff to rescue some men in a flat-bottomed boat, whom the fierce river was hurrying to destruction on its angry tide. As soon as the boy reached them, they seized his boat and scrambled into it, so that it capsized. Two of them were drowned, and the others, with "Dad" Little, saved themselves by holding on to the overturned boat. As the boat floated near the shore, the brave boy swam to a tree, and climbed up into it, and was not rescued from his cruel position until six hours later.
[PERIL AND PRIVATION.]
BY JAMES PAYN.
II.—ON THE KEYS OF HONDURAS.
Ashton's first task was to range the island. It proved to be thirty miles or so in length, but its only inhabitants were birds and beasts; it was well watered, and full of hills and deep valleys.
In the latter were many fruit trees, and also vines and currant bushes. There was one tree which bore a fruit larger than an orange, oval shaped, and brown without and red within. This he dared not touch until he saw the wild hogs eating it, lest it should be poisonous. Fruit was his only food. He had no weapon to kill any animal, or the means of cooking it when killed. One often reads of producing fire by friction, but unless one has flint and steel this is very difficult. Some savages only know the secret of it, and it is doubtful whether any white man has ever succeeded in it. In Philip Ashton's island there were no matches.
He found tortoise eggs in the sand, which he dug up with a stick, "sometimes a hundred and fifty of them at a time." These he ate, or strung on a strip of palmetto and hung them in the sun. They were very hard and tough, but he was glad to get them. Enormous serpents, twelve and fourteen feet long, were numerous. When they were lying at full length he often took them for "old trunks of trees covered with short moss," and was much astonished when they opened their mouths and hissed at him.
What annoyed him much more, however, were the "small black flies," which harassed him in myriads. To escape them he longed to swim over to a small "key," which, being without trees, and exposed to the wind, was probably free from those pests. He was, however, a very indifferent swimmer, and had no canoe nor the means of making one.
At last he hit on the idea of putting a piece of bamboo, which is as hollow as a reed and light as a cork, under his chest and arms, and so trusted himself to the sea.
Once the bamboo slipped from under him, and he was nearly drowned. At another time a shovel-nosed shark struck him on the thigh, and but for the shallowness of the water, "which prevented its mouth getting round" at him, he would have perished miserably. Practice, however, soon made him a good swimmer, and in spite of the sharks he swam over to the little island daily to escape the flies.
He had built a hut, if it could be called such, by taking fallen branches and fastening them by means of split palmetto leaves to the hanging boughs. This sheltered him from the noonday sun and the heavy night dews. The entrance of this hut "was made to look toward the sea," in hopes of rescue.
"I had had the approbation of my father and mother," he piously reflects, "in going to sea, and I trusted it would please God in His own time and manner to provide for my return to my father's house."
But in the mean time he endured frightful sufferings. His feet became very sore from walking on "the hot beach, with its sharp, broken shells," and sometimes, "though treading with all possible caution," a shell on the beach or a stick in the woods would open an old wound, inflicting such agony that he would fall down suddenly as if he had been shot. Rather than risk any more such misery, he would sometimes sit for a whole day, with his back against a tree, looking with tearful eyes for the vessel that never came.
ASHTON PROTECTING HIMSELF FROM THE WILD-BOAR.
Once, when faint from such injuries, a wild-boar ran at him. He could not stand, but caught at the bough of the tree above him, and hung suspended while the beast made his charge. "He tore away a portion of my ragged trousers, and then went on his way, which I considered to have been a very great deliverance."
These hardships, and the living almost entirely on fruit, brought him to great extremities. He "often fell to the ground insensible," and thought every night would be his last. He lost count of the days of the week, and then of the month. The rainy season came on, and he grew worse.
At one time—as he judged in November—he saw a sight which, had he been himself, would have filled him with joy. He beheld a small canoe approaching the shore, with a single man in it. The spectacle excited little emotion. "I kept my seat on the beach, thinking that I could not expect a friend, and being in no condition to resist an enemy."
The stranger called out to him in English, and Ashton replied that he might safely land, for that he was the only inhabitant of the island, and as good as dead.
The whole incident is most curious, but the strangest fact of all is the unenthusiastic terms in which our hero describes the matter. It is clear he must have been almost at death's door. This stranger proved to be a native of North Britain; Scotchmen were then so called. "He was well advanced in years, and of a spare and venerable aspect, and of a reserved temper.... He informed me he had lived two-and-twenty years with the Spaniards, who now threatened to burn him, for what crime I did not know. He had fled to the 'key' as an asylum, bringing with him his dog, gun, ammunition, and also a small quantity of pork." Ashton goes on to say that the stranger showed him much kindness, and gave him "some of his pork."
On the third day after his arrival, the new-comer prepared to make an excursion in his canoe to some of the neighboring islands for the purpose of killing deer. Our hero, though much cheered by his society, and especially by the fire, the means of kindling which the other had brought with him, and by eating cooked food, was too weak and sore-footed to accompany him. The sky was cloudless, and the man had already come six-and-thirty miles in safety, so that their parting seemed only a "good-day."
But it was final. A storm arose within the hour, in which his visitor doubtless perished.
What is very singular, Ashton never had the curiosity to ask him his name; and though our hero found himself so suddenly deprived of his companion, and reduced to his former lonely state, he consoled himself with the reflection that he was in far better circumstances than before. He had "pork, a knife, a bottle of gunpowder, tobacco, tongs, and a flint." He could now cut up a turtle and boil it.
Three months afterward another canoe came on shore, but without a tenant. The possession of this vessel was a somewhat doubtful boon to him. He rowed in it to another "key" miles away, where, having landed, he lay down to sleep, with his face to the sea, as usual, and his back to a tree.
"I was awakened by a noise of firing, and starting up beheld nine piraguas [large canoes] full of men, all firing at me. I ran among the bushes as fast as my sore feet would allow, while they called after me, 'Surrender yourself, O Englishman, and we will give you good quarter.'" By their firing at an inoffensive man Ashton knew that they were Spaniards, and guessed what was their idea of "good quarter." After hiding in the woods for that night he returned to his little island the next day, and to the hut of boughs, "which now seemed a royal palace to me."
After nineteen months' residence alone on this spot, save for that three days' visit from the stranger, Ashton was joined by seventeen Englishmen, fugitives from Spanish cruelty. They were accustomed to hardships and miseries, but "they started back in horror at the sight of so wild, ragged, and wretched an object."
A spoonful of rum which they administered to him almost took away his life, owing to his long disuse of strong liquors. They clothed and fed him, and were very good to him, though "in their common conversation," as he naïvely remarks, "there was very little difference between them and pirates."
Considering what he had gone through, one is inclined to wonder how Mr. Philip Ashton could have been so very particular. He seems to have been an honest, good man, and did not forget to express his earnest gratitude to Providence when rescued at last by a British sloop driven near his "key" by stress of weather. He arrived home at Salem in March, 1725, having spent eight months on board a pirate ship, and nineteen on the "key." "That same evening," he says, "I went to my father's house, where I was received as one risen from the dead."
IN GRANDMAMMA'S CHAIR.
"DIT UP, G'AN'PA!"
[SOMETHING ABOUT SONATAS.]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
It was once my good fortune to stay in an Italian country house, where among many treasures there were some old music-books.
These books were in manuscript, and they had been written in the fourteenth or the fifteenth century. They seemed to have existed as long as the old house. They were kept in a little black ebony cabinet in a long room full of soft old colors.
There was a grand piano in the room, for the young ladies of the house played beautifully, and there was an organ for the use of the master of the house. The old music-books seemed suited to the room and to the organ.
I did not play any of the music. It would have been very difficult indeed to have done so, as the notation was not like ours, but it suggested many grave sweeping chords. Taking the chord of G major, for instance, I tried to see just how much the writer of this old music knew about it. Not a great deal; yet the Gregorian chant had been established, and in this music were various ideas which we have since developed.
Now the most interesting part of it all to me was certain queer little marks in the music. Here and there was a tiny f, which, as you know, meant what we now write as forte. There was a little t, or bt, meaning teneatur, or ben tenuto; a little c, meaning celeriter, or con moto, and so on.
I think the beginning of any art is interesting. All sorts of little shadowy suggestions of things that we have now in perfection seemed to me to lurk in those faded pages. As I put the books back in the ebony cabinet, and sat down by the wood fire, while B—— was drumming on the piano, I thought a great deal of the earnest, hopeful, patient old monk who had written it. And now, taking these little marks for my text, I want to tell you something about musical terms and signs.
Before you try to understand any great work like a symphony or sonata, you ought to thoroughly acquaint yourself with its very first principles. A great deal of hidden meaning lies in these simple little signs and terms.
That little f in the old music meant, as I say, forte, that is, loud, strong, as you know by its connection with the piano. The Italians called it fragor, and when you see it Fp, or fp, it means a quick, loud sound, suddenly subsiding into a piano or soft sound. Try the chord of A flat; it is a beautiful one, and you can best practice on it the fp.
The old teneatur, or tenuto, means that the note or chord should be sustained or held on to. I think this is best practiced at first in duets, for as you play you will see the effect of the tenuto on the notes your companion is playing, without having to worry yourself over holding the note properly, and playing with the other hand at the same time.
Con moto means with celerity or rapidity. Any gavotte music practices this.
These are only a few signs, but I have explained them just to show you how very necessary they can be both to practice and performance, and I think it well for all beginners in music to study certain bits just for the purpose of learning how to interpret such signs quickly at sight. An interesting half-hour's practice might be expended any day, I think, in this direction. I once knew a very ardent little student who always gave twenty minutes a day to what she called "rules." They were the study of sight reading, the learning of signs and reading music accordingly, the formation of chords, and the practice of making harmonic changes. I think it was a very useful part of her practicing. She often looks back to it now, thankful that she then accustomed herself to thinking in her music.
Now, as I suppose you know, besides these dynamic signs, there are many terms used to indicate both the time and the character of the music to be played. You see them on every piece of music. Many of these are necessarily parts of long works like symphonies and sonatas; but of them, when so used, I hope I may tell you at some other time. I speak of them now in their general significance. Take the constantly used allegro. It always looks to me just what it means—brightness and gayety. Literally, it means cheerful. Now, as a matter of time, when you see allegro, you may know that you ought to play it between andante time and presto time.
Sometimes composers have simply called a piece an "allegro," just as Milton called his famous poem "L'Allegro." You will find it often modified by some other word, like allegro assai or con brio, meaning a quick allegro; and if you go to a large concert, and have some knowledge of the music to be played, you may be surprised to find that the orchestra will take the allegro rather more slowly than you would if you were playing at home. But this is a sort of unwritten rule which governs performers in a large hall. To me the word written beside my music as I turn the page seems to mean some fair and smiling country, peace and plenty, joyful content, the gay look of youth, and the sweetness of a gentle life. Try to play some allegro movement, thinking of these happy things, and see if your fingers do not move more readily.
The term andante used only to be employed in its most literal sense, which means going, and they then put other words with it, but now it is only used to mean going slowly. Beethoven has written many pieces just known as andantes. The word is constantly used to express a slow and solemn movement, but adagio means something even more stately and pathetic. Presto means a quick, sudden movement; it comes in often as a change from a richer, fuller sound. Scherzo, a term you will constantly see, literally means a jest, but it is employed to designate a humorous or lively movement.
These are, as you must know, only a few of the many terms employed in music, but I have given you their significations chiefly because they have to do with the arrangement of the sonata and the symphony.
Some day I shall hope to tell you a great deal about famous sonatas and symphonies, and concertos also, but here I can only give you some of the rules which have to be employed in their composition. All this, I am sure, ought to be very thoroughly understood by any one who plays a sonata or wishes to fully enjoy listening to one.
Originally the sonata consisted of slow, solemn movements when it was for church music, and of one or two only when it was for secular music, but the form in which we have it now is called the modern sonata, and must consist of four movements.
First comes an allegro. This has two of what are called themes, or subjects, one in the tonic or key-note, the other in what is called the dominant. This is the fifth note above the key-note. For example, should the first theme of an allegro be written in C, the second would have to be in G. It is called dominant, because the key of any passage can not be accurately known unless it has this note for root. Should the first theme of the sonata be written in the minor key, then the second would have to be in the relative major.
The second movement of the sonata is the andante. This has usually one theme or subject, and it is in a key which relates in some way to the tonic or leading key. I give you these rules simply, but they are worth remembering as first steps to much deeper study.
The third movement is a minuet or scherzo (this was introduced by Beethoven). The fourth movement is again an allegro, or presto, or rondo. Here we go back to the original key, but there is only one theme, and this is often gone over and over in various ways. Now, then, with these rules to govern them, musicians are allowed certain licenses, so that occasionally you will find a sonata written not quite in this form. Schubert, a wonderful composer, often disregarded rules in his sonatas, and occasionally Beethoven did the same. To Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven we owe the sonata as we have it now, and for beginners I should recommend Haydn and Mozart as the simplest reading and best music to begin upon.
A symphony, properly speaking, is an elaborate work like the sonata, divided into movements, but arranged chiefly with a view to orchestration. Any number of instruments may be used, and solos for different instruments are introduced. Sometimes voices are added, as in the famous Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. This is often called the Choral Symphony. The first writer of genuine symphonies was Boccherini, and Haydn brought them nearer to the form in which we have them. Mozart did a little more, and Beethoven perfected them.
Boccherini's music is often very dull, yet someway I like to think of him, and to hear his symphonies. He must have been a very interesting man to know. He was kindly, good-humored, and generous, and in the last century he played divinely on the 'cello. Often he was very poor; he led a wandering life, and wrote some delicious bits of music to pay for his dinner. In those days musical opportunities were rare, and yet good musicians often lived and died unappreciated. We of to-day owe poor, gentle Boccherini a great deal. I well remember a dull day in London, when at the house of a famous artist I heard some of his music rehearsed by the greatest musicians in the world. They were preparing for a concert, and asked a few friends to hear this impromptu practice. I thought how glad poor Boccherini (who died in 1805, fairly tired of his cruel life) would have been to hear such musicians render his work. Somehow it seemed to shut out all the fog and cheerlessness of the square below the window in which I sat.
[THE LAST OF THE ICE.]
"That's the end of the skating for this winter," said Jerry McDonald, mournfully.
"It'd have lasted three weeks longer," growled Put Giddings, "if it hadn't been for Captain Myers and his old steamer." And Pat Farrel added:
"What for did he come alongshore and smash the best ice there was left? It's foine big pieces he made of it, but they're no good for skatin'."
Either old Captain Myers was a man with no heart for fun of that kind, or he thought there had been enough of it that winter, for he had driven the hard nose of his steamer right through the smooth surface of the cove below toward the spot where he made his landings in the summer, and there was no such thing as saying too much for the style in which he had smashed the ice. There was just a narrow strip left right close to the beach, and there was no good skating to be had on that.
"There's lots of it," said Jerry, "but it won't freeze to bear again. It'd be rougher'n ploughed ground if it did."
"Some of the chunks are big ones," remarked Put. "That's the way the icebergs get away from the north pole. They break away in the spring, and they float down south and melt."
"'Dade," exclaimed Pat Farrel, "an' don't I wish owld Myers was on wan of thim icebergs!" But Put went right along in spite of the interruption:
"And if a white bear gets caught on an iceberg, he gets floated away with and drowned, unless the menagerie men send out an expedition and save him."
"Those icebergs out there wouldn't float a dog," said Bill Thatcher. But Pat Farrel came to Put's help:
"Wouldn't they, now? That big wan, close inshore, would carry any wan of us."
"No, it wouldn't."
"Yes, it would."
They were right in the middle of the argument about that cake of ice, when Put Giddings, who had gone to the edge of the solid strip to study the matter, gave a little run and a sliding jump. He hardly knew why he did it, but it landed him right in the middle of that cake of ice, and the shove he gave it sent it several feet away from its moorings.
"Here I am, boys! What do you think of this for an iceberg?"
"Wid a young bear on it," said Pat.
"Keep your balance," shouted Bill Thatcher. "How'll you ever get ashore?" And Mum Robbins remarked:
"It's just like Put. He's always doing something."
"Don't she rock, though!" said Put, bravely. "Wish I had something to steer with."
"What for?" asked Pat. "Did you ever see an iceberg wid a rudder?"
"Put," said Mum Robbins, "you're a-floating. There'll have to be an expedition sent after you."
"And save him, and put him in a menaygerie," said Pat. "It's a foine bear he'd make."
"If he doesn't stand still in the middle of it, he'll tip it over," began Bill Thatcher. But Put had been studying his own chances, and he shouted:
"Boys, just one of you go and get a fence rail. I'll come ashore and let some of you try it. It's the biggest cake around here."
"Are you getting scared?"
"Does it teter much?"
There were a good many remarks made, but quite a squad of boys set off after a fence rail, while Bill Thatcher called out:
"Stand still right there in the middle. It wouldn't take much to tip her over."
"Rock her," said Pat Farrel. "Mebbe you kud rock her right back to the shore."
"When an iceberg gets loose," said Bill Thatcher, "it just floats away. It doesn't go back to the pole and freeze on again."
"Boys," exclaimed Put, "they'll have to bring a good long rail. The water's getting wider and wider."
So it was, and somehow it had a look of being colder and colder, and it looked both wider and colder to the boy on the iceberg than it did to any of the other young bears alongshore.
The cake was a wide one, and it was floating pretty well, but Put Griddings should not have taken Pat Farrel's advice about rocking it.
There was a sudden dull cracking sound right under the unsteady feet of Put Giddings. In a second or so more there were four or five small cakes of ice on that spot of water instead of one big piece, and right in among them was the cap of an unlucky boy, and from under the cap there came a loud and astonished yell.
"The iceberg's busted!"
"Put's broke in!"
"Hurry up that rail!"
There were shouts enough, and there would have been a panic if it had not been for Jerry McDonald.
"Swim, Put," he shouted. "Catch the end of my tippet. It's the longest kind of a tippet. Catch."
Put himself was quite cool about the matter, now he had yelled. In fact, almost anybody can keep cool in such ice-water as that was. The distance was not great, but the tippet was thrown out three times before the swimmer caught the end of it.
"Now, Bill," said Jerry, "we've got him. Grab me round the waist, and look out you don't slip. He's a-coming!"
So he was, for all the world as if he was a big fish and they had hooked him; but just as he came near the solid ice, and Bill and Jerry began to strain harder than ever, the rescued "bear" suddenly arose in the water until he stood half out of it.
"Pull!" shouted Jerry, with his nose in the air, and an anxious look on his face. "We've 'most got him."
"They've got him, boys!" yelled a youngster who was hurrying up with a fence rail twice as long as himself, but Put Giddings was as cool as ever.
It was easy enough to get out and start for home; but it was very mean of Pat Farrel to remark, "Put, me b'y, ye'd betther dance all the way."
"B-b-boys," replied Put, "if you w-w-want to know how a b-b-bear feels on an iceberg, just try one of those other c-c-cakes."
He started on what was as near a run as it was to a dance, but it was plain he had received no worse harm than a wetting, and that crowd of boys was by no means satisfied.
"Look how the ice is packed in the cove," said Bill Thatcher, "and the pieces are big ones too."
"They wouldn't hold a fellow up."
"Yes, they would."
"See how Put's chunk carried him until he danced through it."
"Boys," said Jerry, "don't you know? There's seven times as much of a chunk of ice under the water as there is above it? Maybe it's eight times."
"Well," replied Mum Robbins, "if you should try to cross the cove on that pack of cakes, there'd be seven times as much of you in the water as there would be anywhere else."
"Now I guess not. If a fellow ran fast enough, and if he didn't stop two seconds on any one cake, he could get across."
"S'posing he should slip up?"
"He'd have to look out for that, and he'd have to jump pretty lively; but he could do it."
The excitement over Put Giddings and his iceberg had left that lot of lake-shore boys in a bad state of mind, and they were drifting toward the cove all the while they were talking. The ice there was indeed packed pretty well. Not as closely as in an ice-house, perhaps, but still it had a very substantial appearance, considering what it really was. It seemed a great pity, too, not to get a little more fun out of what had been the best skating ground on all that end of the lake. Still, the remaining mischief was really done by Pat Farrel, small as he was, for he broke in on the talk of the larger boys with:
"Crass that ice, is it? I kud do it in a minute if me fut was well. Yer afraid to thry it. That's all."
There was always some place or other lame or bruised about Pat Farrel, for the good reason that he could not see or think of any rash undertaking he was not at once ready to try.
Pat kept on talking, and the more he said about it, the more the taller boys began to feel that it was their duty to try it.
Mum Robbins was a little the best runner, but it was well known that Bill Thatcher could outjump him, and the other boys were quite contented to let those two make the experiment.
They went back three or four rods from the edge of the "pack" to get a good start, and then Pat Farrel shouted, "Now, b'ys, jump!"
"EVERY CAKE THEY TROD UPON DANCED AND WOBBLED."
They started, and they were almost surprised, as were all the lookers-on, to find how easy a piece of work it was at first. Their footfalls hardly stirred the cakes of ice from their places, and the small boys began to hurrah. All that, however, was near shore, where the cakes were wedged and jammed together in a sort of close raft that helped support itself, but there was something not quite so nice a little further out toward the middle of the cove. Everything grew looser and looser the further the two young adventurers went, and in a few seconds more they were actually forced to jump a wide crack. Then all the "race track" under them became full of cracks, and every cake they trod upon danced and wobbled, and they were not half so sure of their footing.
Mum Robbins was winning the race, for he was three-quarters of the way over, when he heard a loud cry behind him, and a great chorus of louder cries on the shore. He did not dare to pause an instant, for he was getting out of breath, and it would not do to use any cake for more than one footstep. It was an awful half-minute, but the moment he reached solid ice he turned and looked. "Where's Bill Thatcher?"
Not running or jumping, and yet there he was, every inch of him. Bill had alighted on the edge of a cake which was still tetering from the effects of being trodden upon by Mum Robbins, and it had at once slipped from under him. His foot went through into the water, and before he knew it he was lying flat on his back. The next thing he was really sure of was that he was also lying on three separate cakes of ice, and that they wobbled dreadfully with every movement he made.
Bill yelled in spite of himself when the water rose above the cracks, and crept through to his skin. Here was a second panic among the many-sized mob alongshore. One shouted one thing and one another, and two small boys began to cry, but Pat Farrel was equal to the occasion.
"What for did he do that? Now, b'ys, we've got to go for some boords. There's a hape of 'em in front of owld Van Meter's fence. 'Tisn't far to bring 'em. We'll have him out o' that."
The work of transporting the best half of Deacon Van Meter's fencing boards was done in a sort of frenzy, and Aunt Hannah Van Meter came rushing out of the house to see about it.
"Drowning? Mum Robbins, did you say Bill Thatcher was drowning? I'll run down to the village and tell his mother."
"Ye'd betther take howld and kerry a big boord wid us," replied Pat Farrel, sturdily, and Aunt Hannah exclaimed:
"Me? Carry a board? That's what I'll do, then."
"Don't let his mother know he's dhrowned till afther we've saved him," said Pat. "Then she won't care."
All that time, short as it was, poor Bill lay there on his unsteady raft, and felt more and more sorry he had been such a fool, while every ten seconds somebody on the shore shouted to him: "Lie still, Bill. They're a-coming."
The boards did come, and three of them, side by side, on the ice, made a bridge over which it would have been almost entirely safe to walk.
"Roll over, Bill," called the crowd on shore, and Bill did roll. Any part of it that was not rolled over was passed in a very cautious kind of creeping.
The shore was reached at last, but the first thing Bill heard, when he stood upon his feet, was from Pat Farrel.
"You've baten Mum Robbins entirely. He just run right acrass. You're the ownly wan that dared to shtop and lie down."
"He'll catch his death of cold," said Aunt Hannah. "Hurry home, William. Your mother'll give you something warm."
Bill took Aunt Hannah's advice. There were two boys who were glad to spend that afternoon by the fire getting the chill out of their bones. But who says there wasn't any fun the day Captain Myers's steamboat broke up the ice on Long Lake?
[THE CANDY PULL.]
Such lots of fun
The other day,
When Tom, and Jack,
And Maud, and May,
And children, till
The house was full,
Came trooping to
Our candy pull.
The tiny tots,
Who looked so sweet,
Did nothing much
Except to eat.
But we worked hard
The other day,
We older ones,
And thought it play.
or a frolic what can be pleasanter than a candy pull? Have you had one yet this winter? No? Well, children, do fly to mamma, and tell her that your Aunt Marjorie Precept has just given you the nicest bit of advice you've ever heard from her, and that is that you shall have the fun and uproar of a good old-fashioned time making molasses candy.
If any of you have such a splendid kitchen as the one in the picture, and can swing your kettle of New Orleans molasses over a beautiful open fire, you will enjoy it. But you may make very nice candy indeed upon the stove or range. Aunt Marjorie made some the other day, and how she would have liked to send you all a bit! She took two cups of molasses and one of brown sugar, a tea-spoonful of butter, and a table-spoonful of vinegar. After this mixture had boiled twenty minutes, she took it off, and poured it on a wide platter to cool. As soon as it was cool enough to be handled, she began to pull it, first buttering her hands that the candy might not stick to them. The more she pulled it, the whiter it grew.
How can you tell when the candy is done, do you ask? Why, just get a saucerful of cold water and drop some into it. If the candy sets itself into shape when dropped, it is done. The old nurse who is helping these boys and girls has made so much candy in her time that she is quite a veteran. She feels like smiling at Rose and Patty, who are afraid of their hands, and she praises Master Arthur, who is pulling his piece with such energy. People who play with their might usually work with their might too.
Sly little Hughie, who is trying with his toy cane to pull off poor nurse's cap, does not deserve a taste of candy. As for the little boy who is drinking out of the pitcher, and the kitties that wait so patiently to find out whether they are to have any milk after all the fuss, we hardly know what to think. Some cats love candy, and some boys think a drink is much more delicious if taken in a troublesome way.
If you should have a candy pull, be sure that you let everybody have a share of the work, and when the frolic is over, think whether there is not some little sick boy or girl, or some poor family, who have not many pleasures, and send away a boxful of candy to these friends the next day. I wouldn't be surprised if you should write to me in this fashion: "Dear Aunt Marjorie,—The best part of our candy pull was the postscript." See if you don't.
THE GOSSIPS.
[OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
A little Breeze crept slyly out the other day from under the wing of his mother, the great North Wind. To his surprise he found a crowd of Breezes and Zephyrs who had wakened an hour or two earlier than he. They were rushing here and there, and frolicking with everything they saw. A very pompous old gentleman with a gold-headed cane was walking down the street, and a naughty Breeze whisked off his hat and wig. "Take care of yourself!" said the Wind to the Breeze; "such behavior is very wrong." A boy was carrying a kitten in a basket. He was taking it away to give it to his aunt Mary. Presto! a Breeze whirled away his cap, and another one peered into the basket, and out flew Miss Kittykins, and ran home as fast as four velvet paws could carry her. The Breezes blew against the shutters and broke the windows, and dashed around the corners, and had the merriest time; and they are having it still. The Postmistress says she is glad of it, for March is a jolly month, and all the while that he is tearing about with his troop of whistling Winds and his crew of rioting Gales he is preparing the way for the gentle maiden Spring to come in earnest.
And kite-time's here too, isn't it, boys?
Chelsea, Massachusetts.
We live on the bank of the Mystic River, and have a view of Bunker Hill Monument, which is just opposite to us, on the Charlestown side of the river. There is also on Bunker Hill a beautiful bronze statue of Colonel Prescott. Our home is very pretty, and in the summer we row in our boat on the river. The tide rises and falls twice a day five or six feet. When it is low, and the rocks and beach are bare, we find a great many star-fish. They have five points, just like a star. The eye is in the middle. We dry them on a board, and keep them as curiosities.
We have a pair of goats. When the weather is good, they draw us in a wagon, but now they draw a sled, which they do not like as well. Our cow has a great deal of sense; the goats stay in the stable with her, and when we take them out, she misses them, and moos until they go back. Papa takes an apple to the goats, cow, and horse nearly every morning. Sometimes when he has only one, he gives it to the horse, for we all love that best; then you ought to hear the old cow scold. When the weather was warm, she learned to know that she always got an apple when she came to the library window, so she came for one every day. When it got too cold for the window to be raised, she stood rubbing her nose on the window glass, and would not leave until she received her apple. One day she came with five other cows; I think she wanted all of them to get an apple. She would not go away until mamma threw some to a distance, and then the procession went after them. Nelly, our horse, eats out of our hands, and we are sure no other horse was ever so gentle.
We have twelve canaries. Mamma raised them all, besides a great many others she has given away. Some are light, some dark; some have crests, or top-knots. One of them looks as if her feathers were "banged" like a little girl's hair, they fall so prettily over her eyes. She flies to us to eat sugar from our fingers. There are five females, who live together in one cage. We also have on the place four dogs; two of them belong to us, the others to the farmer. One of ours is a setter named Ring. He is very fond of the farmer's dogs, especially of the puppy. A few days ago we called him to the house. He brought all the other dogs with him. The older ones followed him up the stairs, but the little pup did not know what to make of the steps; he stood in the lower hall whining. Ring went back to him, licked him on the face, ran up the steps again, the little pup still whining. Ring went back to him several times. At last he got out of patience; he made mamma open the door and let the puppy out. The way he tells mamma he wants the door opened is by biting the toes of her slippers, and he will not stop until she lets him out.
There is a very high hill back of our house, where we have a fine coasting place. We have also built a snow fort, with port-holes through which we can see our enemies coming, and pelt them with snow-balls.
Willie H.
We are much obliged to the lady who sent us this pleasant letter from an absent niece, and we regret that the Wiggles arrived too late for publication in Young People:
Milan, Italy.
The Harper's Young People containing the new Wiggle arrived safely, dear Aunt L., and created quite a sensation. I think it is meant for a monkey's head, and would have tried to make it so, but my animals do not, as a general thing, succeed very well. I showed the paper to Ida Borzino, and she drew a Wiggle, which I inclose; and which she signed "Roland." I don't suppose it makes much difference what it is signed, but I signed mine with my own initials. I hope we will not be too late.
The other day I came across an Italian coin, a mezzo-soldo, worth two centimes and a half, and bearing the date of 1777. As soon as I have an opportunity I mean to send it to Lulu for her collection, which, I am very glad to hear, is progressing.
Ellie says that in the Harper's Young People she noticed that one of the correspondents writes that his cat will eat pea-nuts, and she would like you to be told that our cat will not only eat them, but is fonder of them than of anything else; but as they are rather a delicacy in this part of the globe, he does not often get an opportunity of indulging his fancy.
The Borzinos' first party comes off to-morrow, and we are looking forward to it very much. This year they have very few, only about six. However, I suppose that is enough dissipation for one year. Their parties are so nice, because they are so informal, and we all know each other so well that we always enjoy ourselves.
Our drawing-class has commenced its winter season. We have called our studio the "Temple of Art," and all the members have taken the names of celebrated Italian painters, and we have painted our cards with our names on to put on the studio door, and we receive on Thursday, other days being devoted to work, and not to amusement.
Juliet L. T.
Forge, New York.
I have a kind friend who sends me Young People, and I take much pleasure in reading it, and love to read the letters as well as any part of the paper. I live among the Catskills, and have few pastimes during the winter except coasting, and thus far this winter we have not had much snow.
This is a very pleasant village, and during the summer months is crowded with boarders. If Mr. Editor or any of the young people should come here, I would be glad to show them a very nice cat. We call him Chub, and he will roll over when I tell him to, and knock at the door to come in.
I have a pet canary that is very tame. Mamma thinks my letter is not worth your notice, but I hope you will have some room for it. I think "Work for Little Fingers" will be a help for something new for me to make for our country fair, which is held near us every year. I have had the first premium on everything I have taken there since I was five years old, and I am now ten.
El. Louise. D.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy eight years old. I have one little sister named Grace. We live in Philadelphia, and we often wish it was the country which some of the little girls and boys write about, so that we could have pets as they do.
We take Harper's Young People, and love the stories and letters. My mamma don't know I am writing this letter. I want to surprise her by showing it to her in the Post-office Box of the book. Don't you think it would be splendid for me to have a little horse? Then I could ride to our beautiful Park every day. My fingers are so tired I must say good-by.
Horace P. F.
New York City.
I am going to tell you about a little bird which my sister found one day she was coming from a visit. It was a very snowy day, and the snow was very deep. My sister Elvira found it in front of a large gray house. The bird was nearly covered with snow, and Elvira could just see its little wing, which was a little above the snow. Elvira took it up in her arms very fondly, and put it under her warm cloak. When she brought it home to me, I was very happy to see the little bird safe in a home. We gave it crumbs of bread to eat. But oh! it would not eat nor drink, and it did not look happy. Mamma told Elvira to let the bird fly out, and it would be much happier. As soon as it was out in the free, fresh air, it clapped its wings together with joy, and flew to a large maple-tree.
I took two days to make this letter. I do not know English very beautifully, but I can speak Spanish, and read nicely. I will soon learn English.
Alfredo U.
East Bethlehem, Washington County, Pennsylvania.
I live in the country, and have taken Harper's Young People for two or three months, and I like it ever so much, and always read the letters in it every week. I walk a mile and a quarter to school every morning, and back home again in the evening. We have a large shepherd dog named Romeo. He is real playful, and he always goes out in the fields with me to take walks; and one time when I was out playing I found three dandelions out in bloom, on the 8th of January, 1882, and just as bright and fresh-looking as if it were spring. I have two dolls, named Bertha and Gertrude. I think Jimmy Brown's stories are real funny, and I hope he will write some more soon.
This is the first time I have written to Harper's Young People, so please publish it, and oblige
Cora C. W.
Gold Hill, Colorado.
I am a little girl twelve years old. I live in the Rocky Mountains, and weigh 115 pounds. I have taken Harper's Young People from the first number, and like it very much. I began eight years ago to save the pennies and dimes that were given me by the miners, and bought a heifer with them, and now I have a cow, a two-year-old, and a yearling. I call my cow Lillie, my two-year-old Minnie, and my yearling Duke. I also have a pet cat and hen. I call the cat Tiger, and the hen Daisy. If this letter is printed, I will write again, and tell you about a four-footed thief who stole the fried cakes in our cellar.
Mira S.