[to be continued.]
My uncle has brought me a little alligator from Florida, and mamma says I may keep it if I can take care of it. It is in a big tin pan of water now, and every day it jumps out and hides in some corner. I have given it crumbs of bread and cake, but it does not eat them. Please tell me how I can keep it, and what it will eat.
Willie J. H.
A small aquarium would serve as a comfortable home for your alligator, only you must provide a board on to which he can crawl to dry himself, for he does not like to spend all his time in the water. To feed him, take very tiny pieces of raw beef, and hold them toward him. If he is lively, he will dart after them with wide-open mouth. If you are afraid he will nip your finger—if he is very young he can not bite you—put the bits of meat on the end of a wire. If you do not wish to have a hunt for him every morning, you must cover your aquarium with coarse wire netting, for young alligators are always eager to escape from confinement.
Are you going to give a work-box department for little girls? I and five others are going to have a fair to raise money to make a Christmas-tree for a little sick school-mate whose mother is very poor, and we want to make everything for the fair ourselves. One of us has a lot of pretty cards with pressed sea-weed she arranged last summer, and we thought they would be prettier if we could make them into little books or baskets. Could you tell us how to do it?
Lulu W.
We shall not give a special department to fancy-work, but we shall now and then have short papers, like the one on page 14, telling how to make pretty things. Meanwhile perhaps some of our young correspondents will give you some new suggestions for fancy articles for your fair, for the success of which you have our best wishes.
LIFE ON THE "ST. MARY'S."
By a Young Tar.
[The following sprightly account of life on the school-ship St. Mary's was written for Harper's Young People by one of the recent graduates. We give the portraits of three of the four boys who recently graduated with the highest honors. That of the fourth, Master J. B. Stone, we were unable to obtain.]
J. J. Wait.—B. C. Fuller.—J. J. Crawley.
GRADUATES OF THE "ST. MARY'S" SCHOOL-SHIP.—Photographed by Pach.
The New York Nautical School on board the ship St. Mary's must not be confounded with the school-ship Mercury, which formerly existed at this port; the latter was a floating reformatory, while the former was established for the purpose of training American boys to officer and man our merchant ships. The course of instruction embraces a short review of arithmetic, grammar, and geography, a thorough drill in marline-spikework, handling sails, boats, oars, etc.
When the St. Mary's leaves her dock for the annual cruise, the school routine is changed, the first-class boys having lessons in navigation, steering, heaving the log and lead, passing earings, etc., while the second class are aloft "learning gear," i. e., following up the different ropes which form a ship's machinery, and fixing in the mind their lead and use, and a sure method of finding them in the darkest night. This last is absolutely necessary, for if a squall should strike the ship, and the order, "Royal clew-lines, flying-jib down-haul—Smith, let go that royal-sheet" were given, it would be very mortifying, as well as dangerous, if he had to answer, "I don't know where it is, Sir."
The boys, assisted by a few able sea-men, form the crew of the ship. They stand watch, make, reef, and take in sail; do all the dirty work, tarring down, painting, scraping, and slushing. They stand watch and watch, keep at night a look-out on the cat-heads, gangways, quarters, and halliards, where they are required to "sing out" their stations every half hour, to be sure that they are awake. Many are the instances of boys falling asleep, and being awakened by a lurch of the ship, singing out at the wrong time, and once a sleepy look-out reported "Light, ho!" and to the officer's "Where away?" was obliged to answer, "It's the moon, Sir!"
Then there is the excitement of reefing topsails. Your hammock seems especially comfortable as you drowsily feel the accelerated pitching of the ship and the rattle of rain on deck, when the boatswain's shrill call rings through the ship, "All hands, reef topsails; tumble out, and up with you, everybody!" On deck Egyptian darkness, driving rain, and salt spray, the ship staggering under a press of sail, or, as happened in her last cruise, the topsail sheets were parted, and the great sails flapping and slatting out to leeward like a thunder-cloud, orders given in quick succession, then rally of men at the clew-lines, then a rush aloft and out on the straining yard, every movement of the vessel intensified, your feet sliding on the slippery foot-rope, with nothing to hold on to but the flapping sail, which threatens to knock you overboard every moment. The weather earing is passed, and then, "Light out to leeward;" you have your point barely tied when the yard gives a terrible swing, and you faintly hear the order, "Lay down from aloft, for your lives; the braces are gone!"
When Lisbon is reached, you almost know the city—the queer little donkeys with very large loads of oranges, the queerer river craft, the windmills, and even the dress of the natives seem familiar as you recall the pictures in your primary geography. The return voyage home in the "trades" is delightful—a warm sun and a good steady breeze, not a brace touched for a week or more, a water-spout and a rain-squall to vary the monotony of the every-day routine. Then the colder weather as you near Hatteras, a glimpse of old Montauk through the fog, a sharp look-out for beacons and buoys, the song of the leads-man, the quick tramp of men clewing up sail, a heavy splash and the rattle of chain, and we are anchored fast in New London mud. "All hands furl sail," now; no noise, for the Saratoga lies right ahead, and on board of a man-of-war it is considered disgraceful to make a clatter in doing any kind of work. There is an eager race up the rigging, and every nerve and muscle is strained to get your sail up first.
At the end of the year the Chamber of Commerce examines the boys, and an exhibition drill is given. The graduates are usually fitted to ship in a merchantman as "ordinary," and are aided in their efforts to find a good ship and a good captain by many of New York's most prominent merchants and ship-owners, who take a deep interest in the school. The instruction on board the St. Mary's is so thorough that graduates have very little trouble, if they are diligent and smart, in finding situations, and after a voyage or two they generally rise to the position of second mate.
FRIENDSHIPS OF ANIMALS.
A very sharp fox-terrier belonging to the writer never could be induced to regard a cat in any other light than that of an enemy. Having to go and live in a house where a cat was kept, the first thing the dog did was to turn the cat out. As mice, however, were troublesome, and as the terrier, even with the best intentions, could not banish them, another cat was considered necessary; so a kitten was secured, and in due time introduced to its future companion the fox-terrier.
The little cat put up its back and spat at the dog, which was at last made to understand that it was to leave the kitten alone. For some days the two animals regarded one another with suspicion; at length the cat came up and licked the dog's nose. From that hour their friendship was established. They became inseparable; then the kitten soon discovered that the dog's tail and ears made excellent play-things, and in the meekest and most submissive manner the dog allowed the kitten to pull it about as much as it pleased. Very often, however, the dog felt inclined to play; then for about five or ten minutes the two would rush round the room; but it generally ended in the cat retiring under part of the furniture, to escape being somewhat roughly upset by the impetuous rushes of its canine playmate. Sometimes, when the kitten wanted to play, nothing could induce the dog to get up, and at other times the kitten would take no notice of the dog's pressing offers of a romp.
When lying still and dozing, the two were generally to be found close together, and at night the cat invariably curled itself up on the dog's back, and so went to sleep; but curiously enough, although the dog made no objection to this arrangement, it would not on any account get up into its bed if the cat was there first. On one occasion, and one only, the two were seen in a very comical position. The dog was sitting up on the hearth-rug, solemnly gazing into the fire. The cat, which was still in its kittenhood, went up and jumped on to the dog's head. There it sat, with its tail curled round its front paws, likewise looking into the fire. For a few minutes the pair were quite still; then the dog moved, and the kitten sprang down. A more curious sight has probably seldom been witnessed.
It was noticed that the fox-terrier always knew its feline friend in the dark, and was always able to distinguish it from other cats. These, when they appeared, were always ferociously charged and driven away; and one day, in its eagerness to get at a strange cat, the dog nearly hurt its little companion. It happened in this way. The two friends were out together in the yard behind the house. The cat got up on a wall, and soon afterward another cat appeared at the other end. The two stood looking at one another about ten yards apart, when the dog became aware of the presence of the stranger. Knowing a way up on to the wall, it immediately ascended, but when it got up, its companion was between it and the other cat. However, the dog rushed along the wall to get at the interloper, and as there was no room to pass, simply knocked its little friend over, and then made a great effort to catch the enemy.
It was curious to see a dog perpetually rushing at cats, and then returning from the chase to gambol about in the most friendly manner with another cat. The friendly intercourse with the one never had the slightest effect in changing its animosity to others. The dog's affection even went so far as to cause it to show resentment whenever the cat was punished. When the cat was touched with the whip, it would turn up its eyes, and look as much annoyed as it was possible for a dog to be. Animals have keener susceptibilities, and show more feeling, than many people imagine.
Sea-gulls are not often met with as domestic pets; but the great bird-fancier Morris, in his work on natural history, mentions a tame sea-gull which struck up a great friendship with a terrier which spent a great part of its time in the garden where the gull was kept. Here is an anecdote contributed some years ago to the Naturalist, on the authority of Mr. Donaldson. His gull was quite an epicure in its way, and fancied sparrows' flesh for dinner. But as it had to cater for its own luxuries, the question of catching the sparrows became an important one. However, the gull thought the matter over, and soon devised an excellent scheme for capturing the four or five sparrows which it required as a daily bonne bouche. It fraternized with a number of pigeons which were fed in the yard where the gull was kept. The crafty bird had made a note of the fact that several sparrows always came down at feeding-time to get some of the food spread for the pigeons. "By getting among the pigeons, and keeping my head down," reasoned the gull, "I shall get close enough to catch some of these nice little fellows easily."
And this is how the gull made use of its friends the pigeons. It went among them, and, by stooping, avoided detection. Then, to use the words of the eye-witness, the gull "set at a sparrow as a pointer dog would do at its game." In an instant it had the luckless victim by the back, and swallowed it without giving it time to shut its eyes. But this was an unlovely friendship. The motives were altogether mercenary and low. The story affords, however, a curious instance of the power of reasoning possessed by some animals.
ON GUARD.—Drawn by Sol Eytinge, Jun.
ON GUARD.
Halt! Not a step farther! Don't move for your life!
You're a very nice squirrel, I haven't a doubt
(Although you've forgotten, I see, to put on
Your kilt and your jacket before you came out),
But where you now are you must stop for an hour
Or two, and quite silent meanwhile you must keep,
For a weary long way we have travelled to-day,
And my dear little master lies there fast asleep.
Of course you don't know—you've grown up in the woods,
With no one to teach you—how fine 'tis to be
Great artists as we are! You've heard but the birds,
And seen only squirrels jump round in a tree.
My master the sweetest of music can make
(Sh! you rustled a leaf—he half-opened his eyes),
And a gun I can handle, a drum I can beat,
And I dance like a fairy—I tell you no lies.
My dear little master! full oft he has shared,
Bite for bite, with me, squirrel, his very last crust,
And he's patiently carried me many a mile,
And that now I guard him I am sure is but just.
Curl your tail up still tighter, and don't let it fall
Lest a noise it should make—it's remarkably big—
And, if you are good, by-and-by we may all
Have a right merry tune and a right merry jig.
THE LITTLE GENIUS.
THE LITTLE GENIUS.
Little five-year-old Bertie was very fond of sitting at the study table with his brothers and sisters, especially when they were doing their drawing lessons. But he was not satisfied with watching them. He too wanted to draw and paint, and the older children, who were very fond of him, were always glad to indulge him by lending him their brushes, paints, and pencils. But they soon found that he was very wasteful of their materials, and would use up colors and paper faster than they could be supplied. At last they thought of a better plan. As Bertie was too young to draw nicely, they bought him some wonderful picture-books, all in outline, a box of cheap water-colors, and some brushes. Then Bertie was happy. He would sit for hours painting the pictures in Jack the Giant-killer, Mother Goose, and other story-books for little folks. When he had finished all his little books his mamma brought out some old papers which she had saved, and cutting out the nice pictures, gave them to him to paint. This he did very beautifully. Sometimes he would make funny mistakes, putting green on the horses, and blue on the little dogs and pussy-cats, but this did not happen often. In a little while he had so many nice things painted that his sisters made him a big scrap-book to keep them in, to look at when he grows up.
Bertie may not become a great artist, but his sisters evidently regard him as a little genius.
THE FLOWER THAT GREW IN A CELLAR.
It was the evening of flower-day in the Child's Hospital, and the kind ladies of the Flower Mission had brought many lovely posies to gladden the eyes and the hearts of the sick children, and the whole place was bright with their beauty and sweet with their fragrance. Queenly roses, gay gladioluses, pure white lilies, bunches of star-like daisies and their soft round white little buds, gaudy marigolds, brown, yellow, and orange, crimson cock's-combs, branches of honeysuckle vines filled with honey, rich fairy trumpets, saucy elf-faced pansies, spicy pinks, hollyhocks in satiny dresses of many colors, bright-eyed verbenas and sweet-williams, brilliant geranium blossoms, and even great honest faithful sunflowers—those flowers that love the sun so dearly that they turn to gaze upon him when he is bidding the earth "good-night"—were all there, bringing with them Love and Hope and a troop of gentle spirits.
All day had the sick and maimed little ones rejoiced in their presence; and now when they were placed in the wee pitchers and vases that stood on the shelves above each snow-white little bed, and the sunshine faded, and the stars came out, their loveliness and fragrance floated into the dreams of the sleeping children. The dreams of all but one, I should say; for one dear little girl, with great gray eyes and tangled brown curls, who had fallen and hurt her back so badly a few days before that it was feared she would never walk again, was wide-awake, trying hard to keep back the tears that filled her eyes and the sobs that rose in her throat when she thought of the dear father and mother and the darling baby brother she had left in the poor home from which she had been brought. A small lamp hung from the ceiling near by, and cast a faint light upon the flowers that were crowded into a quaint jug on the shelf above her bed. There were some roses, some lilies, some daisies, and one very pale pink geranium blossom in the midst of a group of pretty shy buds; and as the little girl stifled a great sob that seemed determined to break out, she became conscious of several very small voices whispering softly together; and listening intently for a few moments, she discovered these voices came from the flowers in the quaint jug.
"I came," said a lovely crimson rose, when the whispering had ceased, and the flowers were apparently satisfied that the children were all asleep, "from a most beautiful garden, where birds sing and fountains play all day long, and the rarest of our race are tended with the greatest love and care."
"I came," said a daisy, "from a happy meadow, where the bees and butterflies roam from morning till night, where thousands and thousands of my sisters look up and smile at the bright blue sky, and the cheery green grass nods—on every side."
"I came," said a stately water-lily, "from a great lake, where the waves flash like precious gems in the day, and like purest silver at night, where glancing fish swim merrily to and fro, where tall, graceful, drooping trees standing upon the mossy banks cast their shadows upon the water, where, when the air begins to tremble with the earliest songs of the birds, the broad, faint light of morn steals from sleeping lily to sleeping lily, and wakes them with a touch."
"I came," said the pale pink geranium blossom, "from a cellar."
"A cellar!" repeated the others, moving a little away from her.
"Yes, a cellar."
"I never met a flower from a cellar before," said the rose.
"Nor I," said the daisy.
"Nor I," said the lily. "There are no cellars in lakes."
"I thought they were all cellar," said the daisy, slyly; but the lily made no reply.
"Would you mind telling us how you came there?" asked the rose. "Being full-blown, I couldn't sleep much, if I tried."
"I am perfectly willing to tell you, if the others care to listen," said the pink flower, modestly.
"Pray go on," begged the daisy.
And "I have no objection," added the water-lily, in a gracious manner.
"One day," began the geranium blossom, growing a little pinker as its companions all turned toward it, "a servant-maid tossed from a window a withered bouquet into the street, and in the centre of this bouquet was a slip of geranium which had been placed there because its crumpled young leaves were so fresh and green. A poor little girl passing by picked up this slip, and carried it to a wretched cellar, where she lived in the greatest untidiness with her mother—a poor, weak, complaining woman—and her two small sisters and eight-year-old brother. Here she found a battered tin pail, which she filled with dirt from the street, and in this dirt she planted the slip of geranium. 'See, mommy,' she said, holding it up, as her mother raised her eyes from the coarse garment she was making, 'I mean to take awful good care of this, and some day it may grow a flower, a beautiful flower, like those I see in the windows of the big houses. Wouldn't that be lovely, mommy?' And she climbed up on the shaky old wooden table, and placed the pail on the ledge of the four-paned cellar window.
"But the window-panes were so covered with cobwebs and dirt that the little of the blessed sunlight that found its way down there could not get in at all. So Polly got the broom, and carefully swept away the dust and the spider-webs, and then she washed and polished the four panes until they shone again, and the very next afternoon a sunbeam came to visit the geranium, and a tiny new leaf peeped out to greet it. When the window was cleaned, the shelf (holding a few old tin pans) that hung below it looked so dingy that Polly could not rest until she had scrubbed it well. Nor did she stop there, but also scoured the old tin things before she put them back in their places, until they almost looked like new. And thus, from the very moment of my mother-plant's arrival there, a change for the better began in that dreary cellar. It seemed so natural, when Polly had the basin of water ready to sprinkle the geranium, to wash the faces and hands of her little sisters and brother first; and then, of course, the room must be swept and put in order, so that the bright clean faces might not seem out of place in it. And when at last a cluster of wee pink buds crowned the green stem, Polly's joy knew no bounds. Her poor mother laughed aloud, which was a rare thing for her to do, to see her little daughter dancing about and clapping her hands in glee. 'Oh, mommy,' she cried, 'we must make it as nice as we can for them here, the pretty darlings, for flowers are not used to living in a cellar; and we must never say or do any wicked things before them, or they'll be scared, and die right away. And if we are all very, very good, they'll grow, and grow, and grow, till they look like a whole garden.'
"And the mother, catching the spirit of the child, grew more cheerful and hopeful and industrious, and the under-ground home became neater and neater, until it was neatness itself. And when any of the smaller children were tempted, as the best of children often are, to quarrel and call each other naughty names, Polly would say, with warning voice and finger, 'Hush! the flowers will hear you;' and the little ones kissed and made up again.
"And this morning, when the lady of the Flower Mission was passing by with a basket of roses and lilies in her hand, Polly ran up the cellar steps and begged her to wait a moment, 'For,' said she, bashfully, 'I have a flower to send to some sick child.'
"'You have!' said the lady, in surprise, for she thought when she first saw the little girl that she came to beg a flower, not to offer one. 'Pray where did you get it, my dear?'
"And Polly told her the whole story, just as I have told it to you, and the lady went down into the dark room, and talked for almost an hour in the kindest manner with Polly's mother, and smiled brightly upon the beautiful geranium, now filled with round pink bunches of buds and blossoms. And I shouldn't wonder if some of those buds opened in a much pleasanter home than that cellar. But I'm glad I grew there; for my heart is filled with happiness when I think that through me and mine dear little Polly has become a better girl, made a happier home, and gained in the pretty flower lady a lovely friend."
"All the same, I'd rather come from a garden," said the rose.
"And I from a meadow," said the daisy.
"And I from a lake," murmured the water-lily.
"But I wouldn't," said the lame girl, forgetting her pain, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes—"I wouldn't, if I were a flower. I think the flower that grew in a cellar the best and sweetest of you all."
All was silence when she ceased speaking, and from that day to this never has she heard lily or daisy, rose or geranium blossom, speak again.
GLOVE CASE.
GLOVE CASE.
The holiday season is approaching, and little girls, who have generally more time than money, are employing their leisure moments in making pretty gifts for their papas and mammas, and brothers and sisters, which will give double pleasure as being the work of their own hands. Here is a pretty holiday gift, which our young friends can readily make with the help of the following description: Cut of Bordeaux velvet one piece eleven inches and three-quarters long and six inches wide for the outside, and cut three pieces of white satin of the same size for the lining. Apply embroidery worked on white cloth to the velvet. Having transferred the design to the material, which is pinked on the edges and inside of the figures, work the flowers in chain stitch with coral red silk in several shades, the stamens in knotted stitch and point Russe with yellow silk, and the spray in herring-bone stitch with olive silk in several shades. For the buds in knotted stitch use pink silk. Having bordered the application with olive-colored satin ribbon half an inch wide laid in box pleats, chain-stitch it on the foundation along the inner edges with gold thread. Underlay the velvet with wadding, and line it with satin; join the two pieces of satin designed for the bottom over wadding, and edge the bottom with a ruffle of Bordeaux satin ribbon seven-eighths of an inch wide. The case is joined with narrow white satin ribbon. Bows of olive and Bordeaux satin ribbon trim the case as shown by the illustration. A full-sized design of the embroidery was given on page 120 of Harper's Bazar, No. 8, Vol. XII. It is a good plan to perfume the wadding with sandal-wood, violet, or some of the many fragrant powders sold by druggists for this purpose. This pretty glove case can be varied by making it of plain silk or velvet, and trimming it in any style our young readers may fancy.