| vol. iii.—no. 133. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, May 16, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
PUSSY'S MUSIC LESSON.
[THE SCARLET GLOW.]
BY PERCY EARL.
"I wish I could take you both with me," said Mr. Hanway, as he kissed his children good-by, and stepped into the carriage that was to bear him up among the mountains on a visit to an old friend; "but Fletcher here will take good care of you, Amy, and I am sure neither of you will forget what I've told you about keeping away from the boats."
Fletcher was ten and Amy eight, and the two, with their father, who was a widower, were stopping at a cozy little hotel on the shores of a lovely lake in Switzerland.
It was only on very rare occasions that Mr. Hanway permitted himself to be separated from his children during their travels abroad, but as the hotel where they had now been staying for nearly a week was a very home-like one, and as he expected to be back in time for supper, he felt that he could safely leave them to amuse themselves for a few hours.
Thus cast upon their own resources, the brother and sister read story-books and played in-door games until dinner-time. At the table were some American tourists just from the summit of the highest mountain in the place, and to their lively descriptions of the views to be had therefrom, and of the pretty nooks scattered all over it, both children listened with eager ears, and when one of the young ladies held up a bunch of "just the loveliest wild flowers" which she had gathered by the road-side, Amy whispered to her brother that she really must go a little way up that very afternoon.
"But papa isn't here to take us," objected Fletcher, who longed to go as much as his sister, although he was old enough to understand that his father would not like to have them leave the hotel in his absence.
"Papa didn't tell us we mustn't climb mountains—only boats," returned Amy, cunningly. "And, besides, didn't he say you could take care of me? and don't you think you can?" and the artful little tease looked up at her stout young brother with a most confiding air.
Under these circumstances, what could Fletcher reply but that he was most certainly able to protect her, and that he would do so for a little way, a very little way, up the mountain, as they must be sure to be at the hotel when father came back.
Greatly delighted at having gained her point, Amy ran off for her hat as soon as dessert was over, and having stuffed a paper of candy into her pretty little arm-basket, announced herself ready. And then the two set out, Fletcher, with his alpenstock, leading the way up through the town, on by the winding path through the woods, up, up, until the beautiful lake came into view below them.
"Let's rest here a minute," proposed Fletcher. "This flat rock'll make a nice seat; and while we eat some candy, I'll teach you the names of the snow mountains over yonder."
So the expedition halted while the captain pointed out what he thought was Mont Blanc, the king of all the peaks; the beautiful Jungfrau, with its silver horn, and—But turning to see if Amy was looking in the right direction, Fletcher found her eyes closed, and her head just sinking to his shoulder.
"Poor little thing, she's tired out. I'll let her have a short nap before we start down again." So, while Amy slept, her brother ate chocolate drops and studied the Alps.
Now it would have been quite romantic and Babes-in-the-Woodsy if he too had been overcome with drowsiness, thus leaving them both lying there asleep on the mountain-side until an elf, giant, or some other rarely seen creature, came to wake them up and conduct them to a wonderful grotto, studded with diamonds and paved with pearls. But as this is not a fairy tale, nothing of the sort occurred, for Amy presently woke up of her own accord, and finding the basket empty, recollected what she had come for, upon which the two began searching for wild flowers.
At first Fletcher rather affected to despise the occupation, but after they had gathered a few, he found them so pretty, and it grew to be so exciting to wonder where they would chance upon some more, that he speedily became as absorbed in the hunt as Amy herself, and both wandered over the mountain in every direction.
At last the pretty little basket was filled to the top with still prettier contents, and at the same time Fletcher noticed that the sun was very near the tip of one of the snow mountains.
"Come, Amy," he exclaimed, "we must hurry back, or papa'll be there before us;" and taking her by the hand, he set out for the path by which they had ascended.
"But why can't we go down right here?" asked Amy. "It'll be such fun to go sort o' sliding down hill."
"I guess we needn't slide," returned Fletcher, "for here's a kind of path we can take; so now hold on to me tight, and be careful not to slip;" and down the two started over the rough way, for the mountain-side was covered with stones, little and big, which the feet of the children sent rolling and crashing on ahead of them in quite a noisy fashion.
With each advancing step the path grew fainter and fainter, until it finally disappeared entirely, and nothing was to be seen but trees and rocks and stones.
"Shall we go back, Amy?" asked Fletcher, as they both came to a halt; and then he added: "But no, we haven't time; so we must keep on."
"All right; but you don't think there are any snakes under these stones, do you, Flet?"
Then they went on down again, but the way grew ever rougher and rougher, and the stones slipped from under their tired feet more and more frequently.
"Oh dear! ain't we 'most there?" half sobbed Amy, as she stubbed her toe against a rock in front of her, while a stone rolled down on her heel from behind.
"I guess so. Shall I try to lift you over this place? See, there must have been a brook here in the spring;" and Fletcher pointed out a shallow ravine that crossed their path obliquely, and which was choked with stones and brush-wood.
Without waiting for an answer, the kind-hearted boy threw his alpenstock across, and then picking Amy up in his arms, started over himself. He reached the opposite side in safety, and was about to step up to level ground again when his foot caught under a stone, and in trying to keep his sister from being harmed by his fall, he left no hand free with which to save himself.
"Oh, Flet, are you hurt?" cried Amy, as she quickly scrambled to her feet.
"Not much; only my ankle." But the "not much" proved to be a sprain serious enough to prevent his walking a step, and after attempting to do so once or twice, the brave little fellow was forced to fall back upon the rocks, with an expression of pain which he could not repress.
And now the children's situation became quite a grave one. They were as yet, as well as they could judge, a mile or more above the town, the sun had already vanished behind the snowy peaks opposite, the autumn twilight was rapidly closing in, and, worse than all, Fletcher could not and Amy would not move.
"How can I go away and leave you here?" she would say when urged to hurry back, so that father should not worry.
"But I'm all right as long as I sit still," her brother would reply. "Besides, the sooner you go and tell them at the hotel, the quicker they can send somebody up for me."
At length, convinced that under the circumstances this was the wisest thing to do, Amy set bravely out, but had not proceeded more than twenty feet before she came screaming back, declaring she had seen a snake, and that she could never, never go on through the dreadful woods alone.
"Let me stay with you, Flet," she begged. "I'm sure when papa misses us he'll come right up here;" and her brother, seeing she had no doubts on this point, thought it best not to remind her that it was just as natural to suppose that he would look in a dozen other directions for them first.
So the two sat together there on the mountain-side, watching the stars come out, and wondering if this was their punishment for being naughty.
But presently Amy's eyelids grew heavy again, and leaning her head against Fletcher, she asked him to wake her "as soon as papa comes," when suddenly a reddish glare flashed forth out of the darkness beneath them; portions of mountain and lake appeared distinctly as by day, while trees and rocks and bushes stood revealed in startling vividness.
"Oh, what is it, Flet?" cried Amy, hiding her face in terror.
"Don't be afraid," he answered. "I guess it can't hurt us, whatever it is."
Still the boy had dreadful visions of earthquakes and volcanoes, which he somehow imagined were much more common in Europe than in America.
And now the red light had changed to green, this in turn to blue, then back to red again, and so on, until the brother and sister became completely mystified.
On a sudden, while the red glare lit up everything around, there was a sound of rolling stones, a man's voice exclaimed, "Thank God for St. Jacques!" The next instant Mr. Hanway's strong arms were about both his children.
"Oh, papa, I knew you'd come!" cried Amy, joyously. "But now you must put me down, and carry Flet, 'cause I was naughty, and he's hurt, and all from 'sisting me."
Then the situation was explained. Two young gentlemen from the hotel tenderly raised the helpless boy and carried him between them, and thus, the happy father still retaining his little girl, they started down the hill again, guided by the strange lights safely to the town.
Fletcher soon recognized in his bearers two members of the party from the mountain-top that had been so enthusiastic at dinner, and they furthermore told him that it was at their suggestion that Mr. Hanway had first directed his steps to the hill-side, "for," said one, "we noticed how eagerly your little sister listened to my cousin's description of the wild flowers."
"And did you have those funny lights lit so's you could see us?" asked the boy.
"Not exactly," was the laughing response. "That is the illumination in honor of St. Jacques, whose several-hundred-and-something-or-other birthday it is to-day, I believe."
"But how do they make the lights, and who is St. Jacques?" pursued Fletcher.
"They have different colored 'fires,' as the preparations are called, which are touched off at the same instant at various points about the lake; and as for St. Jacques, that is the same as St. James in English."
"That's what papa's queer speech meant, then, when he found us."
"And I say 'Amen' to it," returned the young man, huskily, "for I believe we'd have gone right on past you both if it had not been for that scarlet glow from the fête of St. Jacques."
[RHINOCEROS STORIES.]
With the exception of the elephant, the rhinoceros is the largest of all land animals, and in point of ugliness he is quite unequalled. In appearance he is something like an enormous pig, with a horn on the end of his nose, and a skin so thick that a leaden rifle-ball will not ordinarily pierce it.
But in spite of his ill-temper, of which hunters are never tired of speaking, the rhinoceros certainly has a love of fun. An English hunter in South Africa had gone to bed in his travelling wagon one night, leaving his native servants feasting around the camp fire. Suddenly he heard a terrible uproar, and looking out, discovered that a rhinoceros was having a little fun in the camp. The air seemed to be full of tin pans, and natives, and blankets, and fire-wood, which the rhinoceros was tossing, and the natives, whenever they could get breath enough to express their views of the situation, were calling for help. The hunter did not interfere with the animal's amusement, and presently the rhinoceros buried his horn in a red blanket, which covered his eyes and blinded him. In this condition the beast started to run away, and as he vanished, the hunter could hear him stumbling and knocking his head against all the trees and nearly all the rocks in that particular part of Africa.
On another occasion the same hunter saw a rhinoceros lying down with its fore-legs stretched out, sleeping in the sun. Almost at the same moment the animal awoke and looked around, as if he suspected that there might perhaps be a man with a gun somewhere about. The hunter instantly fired, aiming just forward of the beast's shoulder. The rifle was a very large one, and it nearly kicked the hunter over on his back; but the rhinoceros, without paying the least attention to the shot, sank down again in his former position, apparently determined to renew his nap. The hunter loaded and fired again, but the rhinoceros did not even wink. Then two native servants crept cautiously up to see what was the matter with the drowsy beast. He did not stir, and when they had approached quite close to him they found that the first shot had killed him instantly.
Less fortunate was another hunter in South Africa, who shot a rhinoceros, and fancying that he had wounded the animal mortally, left him to die. In the course of the afternoon he unexpectedly came upon the place where the wounded beast had concealed himself. The rhinoceros rushed upon him, and knocked him down just as his rifle was discharged. The hunter was not much hurt, and hastened to creep out between the beast's hind-legs, hoping to conceal himself in the high grass; but the rhinoceros was too quick for him. He was knocked down again; his leg from the knee to the hip was cut open by the animal's horn, and he was trampled upon so heavily that he felt his ribs bend under the weight. He of course expected to be killed, but the rhinoceros, satisfied with what he had done, did not again attack the man, who managed to drag himself to his camp. His servant seized a gun and went in search of the rhinoceros, and in a few moments the hunter heard a dreadful yell. Weak as he was, he took his rifle and went to help the servant. He fired half a dozen times at the rhinoceros, and finally saw him fall. Wishing to make sure that the animal would do no more mischief, he walked up to the beast, and was about to fire in his ear, when he scrambled to his feet, and rushed after the hunter, who ran as fast as he could in his terribly crippled condition. The rhinoceros overtook him, and just as he thought that his last moment had come, the beast stopped and fell dead in his tracks.
As the rhinoceros does not seem to be of any use while alive, and as he is good for food when dead, and his horn furnishes excellent ivory, the hunters who kill him are engaged in a useful work, which is more than can be said for all sportsmen.
"MY LITTLE SWEETHEART."
[THE STEAM-ENGINE.]
One day a lonely prisoner sat meditating in his cell in the Tower of London. He was a Marquis of Worcester, a nobleman of high rank and large fortune, who had been imprisoned for a political offense. But he had always been a mechanic, and had passed the happiest hours of his life in his workshop. As he watched, sad and almost hopeless in his prison, he noticed that the cover of a kettle that was boiling on the fire was raised up, and that a cloud of vapor escaped.
He examined the curious fact, and at last asked himself, What is it that lifts the cover?—what power is there hidden in the boiling kettle? It was evidently the white vapor; it was steam. The Marquis of Worcester had made a wonderful discovery, and when he was liberated he gave much of his time to the study of the new power. He felt the great value of steam to mankind; and in his work, A Century of Inventions, thanked God that he had been permitted to discover one of the "secrets of nature."
No one before him seems ever to have thought of making steam useful. The white vapor had risen from every boiling vessel since the first use of fire. It was familiar to the Jew, Assyrian, Greek, and Roman. A Greek man of science was even acquainted with some of its powers, and employed it to frighten one of his neighbors for whom he had no good-will. He placed a boiler in his cellar, and drove the steam through pipes around his neighbor's house, shaking it with a loud noise.
But no one had thought of confining the vapor in a pipe, and making it labor. No one in Shakspeare's time had fancied that there was a giant strength in boiling water; no one foresaw in 1660 that all the chief labors of the future would be carried on by the aid of a boiling kettle. But soon the idea suggested by the Marquis of Worcester seems to have excited the curiosity of other intelligent men. He left no machine behind him, if he had ever made one. His only object was to force up water. He wrote an account of his machine in 1663, and soon after died. In 1681, Morland used steam to raise water. Its power began to be discovered; it would burst, it was said, a gun, and inflict serious injuries.
Next, about 1687, Papin, a French Huguenot exiled to London, almost invented a real steam-engine. He filled a pipe or cylinder half full of water; a piston or rod of iron rested on the water. A fire was kindled underneath, the water boiled, the steam drove the piston to the top of the cylinder, where it was secured by a peg or latch. The fire was then taken away, the cold once more condensed the steam into water, the latch was let loose, and the piston descended to its former position. Papin in this way raised a weight of sixty pounds. He was full of ardor, believed that he could raise ten thousand pounds, and even suggested a steamboat.
But as yet the rude machine consisted only of a pipe, a piston, and a latch that was moved by an attendant. Soon after, in 1696, Savery invented the first real steam-engine. It consisted of two boilers, a cylinder, a stream of cold water to condense the steam, and was intended to pump water into cities, houses, and ships. Savery addressed his pamphlet describing his engine to King William, who had examined his machine with interest at Hampton Court. In the year 1700 the steam-engine was in its infancy.
It grew slowly. Savery's engine was improved, but was still for nearly a century imperfect and almost useless. It could only move a piston or rod up and down. No one had yet discovered a way to make it turn a wheel. Until the American Revolution, and the age of Washington and Franklin, the imperfect machine seemed of little real value.
James Watt, a young Scotch mechanic, almost made it what it is. He is the author of the modern steam-engine. He was the son of a maker of mathematical instruments. He was sickly, studious, and always fond of mechanical contrivances; at six years old he is said to have worked out problems in geometry in the sand; at fourteen he made an electrical machine; and at fifteen, Arago tells us, studied the steam that came from a tea-kettle, and planned some of his future labors. He was born in 1736.
His chief discovery was how to make the piston turn a wheel, and this he did by using the crank. His machines became capable of turning mills, moving spindles, and pumping out mines. He founded a great factory of steam-engines that were sold all over the world; he grew wealthy, famous, and was always benevolent. He never ceased to invent, write, and labor, even in extreme old age, and at eighty-three produced a new copying machine that imitated any piece of sculpture. Soon after he died. No one has done more to add to the comfort and ease of his fellow-men than Watt by his rare inventions.
The steam-engine is the finest example of the mechanical art. A thousand parts make up the whole, all of which move together in harmony. The most violent storm never disorders them. The piston moves, the crank turns, the steam rises, and is condensed. It is nothing but the Marquis of Worcester's kettle boiling over, Papin's rod or piston, Watt's crank, improved by later inventors. Yet what a wonderful creature it is! how beautiful and complete!