C. Y. P. R. U.
The first story which I shall relate in outline to the readers of this column was written a quarter of a century ago by Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh. A physician with a large practice, he has found time for literary pursuits, and his occasional essays, collected into two volumes of Spare Hours, have been the delight of a host of thoughtful and cultivated people. As in the sketches I shall give you now and then I must study brevity, I hope those who may have time and opportunity will go from me to the original story-writers, and read for themselves.
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS.
Rab was a huge mastiff, "old, gray, brindled, as big as a little Highland bull," fierce, kind-hearted, and faithful. He belonged to a carrier, or what we would call an expressman—a thin, impatient, dark-haired little man, to whom Rab was entirely submissive. Dr. Brown being fond of dogs, had formed quite a friendship with this one, which dated back to the doctor's boyhood, when, seeing Rab attacked by a savage little bull-terrier, which was madly trying to fight whatever came in its way, he stepped up to Rab and cut the muzzle which prevented the great creature from defending himself. Six years after this, when the doctor was a young medical student, there came a procession to the hospital one afternoon in October. In at the large gate walked Rab, with "that great and easy saunter of his. He looked as if taking general possession of the place, like the Duke of Wellington entering a subdued city, satiated with victory and peace." After him came the old white mare Jess, drawing the carrier's cart, in which Ailee, the carrier's wife, was seated, her husband not driving, but walking at the mare's head, and leading her carefully along.
There is no genre sketch in the English language which is finer than the description of Ailee Noble and her husband James. His plaid was about her. His big coat was carefully tucked around her feet. She had a sweet pale face, with silvery hair, and dark gray eyes, "eyes full of suffering, and full of the overcoming of it." He had a swarthy, weather-beaten countenance, shrewd and keen. She was like a delicate snow-drop in her unworldliness and purity. She was the victim of a dreadful malady, a cancer in her breast, and only the surgeon's knife could cure it. In those days—nearly sixty years ago—chloroform was unknown as a blessed relief from pain. Ailee was put to bed for that night, and the faithful husband and dog watched by her side. The dog reminded Dr. Brown, oddly enough, in his size and dignity, of a famous Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller, with his look of sombre command, as "of thunder asleep, but ready." Next day the operation was performed. The beautiful old woman bore it with perfect patience and silence; and when it was over, the surrounding students, though accustomed to see people suffer, wept like children. The husband "happed" her up, and carried her to her room again, Rab following.
"I'll hae nane o' yer strynge nurse bodies for Ailee, Maister John," said James. "I'll be her nurse, an' I'll gang aboot on my stockin' soles as canny as pussy."
For several days she seemed to do well under his kind care. Then she grew worse, wandered in her mind, thought she had in her arms her "wee Mysie, forty years and mair" in heaven; at last came to herself, said "James," and with a long loving look for him, a glance for the kind young doctor, and one for Rab, then another satisfied gaze into her husband's face, she shut her eyes, and fell asleep in death.
There is little more to tell. Poor James did not long survive his wife. By the fall of the first snow, the two were in the same grave. Rab was taken by the carrier who succeeded to the business, but he would not eat, he would not leave the stable where old Jess was kept, nor would he let his new master come near him. At last that master had to kill him.
"I was laith to mak awa wi' th' auld dowg," said this man, "but I could doe naething else."
And says our author: "I believed him. Fit end for Rab. His teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep the peace and be civil?"
Marie G. Hamblin proposes that the boys and girls who read Young People shall emulate Secretary Blaine, and learn to repeat in their order the names of the sovereigns of England, and the dates of their respective coronations. She suggests that all who do so shall send their names, accompanied by the signatures of their parents or teachers, to the Postmistress, that the Editor of Harper's Young People and Dr. Vincent may know that they are trying to acquire useful knowledge. The Postmistress approves of the plan, and gives the remainder of 1881 as the time in which all who wish may endeavor to thus exercise their memories. The names of the diligent students will be duly printed in this column.
Many persons erroneously think that a letter if left unsealed will be sent by the Post-office Department for one cent. They write their letter, leave it open, and affix a one-cent stamp to the envelope. In all such cases the recipient is compelled to pay the additional postage. And while this may not be an affair of great importance to an individual who receives an occasional letter, it involves a large expenditure when, as in the case of Harper & Brothers, letters are received by the thousands weekly.
Full letter postage is at the rate of three cents per every half ounce in America. Letters to Europe cost five cents per half ounce. Little readers will please remember this, and remind their elders, if they forget it.
AUTUMN PICTURES FOR THE COMMON-PLACE-BOOK.
Along the river's summer walk
The withered tufts of asters nod,
And trembles on its arid stalk
The hoar plume of the golden-rod.
And on a ground of sombre fir
And azure-studded juniper
The silver-birch its buds of purple shows,
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild rose.
—John G. Whittier.
The ash her purple drops forgivingly
And sadly, breaking not the general hush;
The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea,
Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush;
All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze
Of bushes low, as when on cloudy days
Ere the rain falls the cautious farmer burns his brush.
—James Russell Lowell.
What School of Design can vie with the autumn colors? The leaves are not dipped in one dye, as at the dye-house, but they are dyed in light of various degrees of strength, and left to set and dry there.—Henry D. Thoreau.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
—William Cullen Bryant.
West Springfield, Massachusetts.
Dear Postmistress,—Will you admit an old lady into your pleasant circle? I wish to say a word or two about the poor cat Augusta C. dislikes so much. Probably one reason why most people like dogs better than cats is that dogs like people best, and cats like places best. A dog will follow his owner to new places, but usually a cat will stay at the old place, even if she is the only thing left, unless she is blinded and carried away by force, and then she will be frightened and confused for several days, though all her old friends may be with her. But a dog only wants his old friends with him, and he will stay almost anywhere. Cats are very interesting, though they are not quite so loving. I have a cat which a few years ago swallowed something which "stuck in her throat," and the poor creature was badly troubled by it for a long time. She could not lap either milk or water, and I was afraid she would die. I tried to feed her with a spoon, as I have often fed lambs, but did not succeed very well; her teeth were too sharp. As I sat watching poor Katherine's efforts one day to drink a saucer of warm milk which I had given her, I thought of trying to feed her with a bottle. I put the milk into one which would hold a small tea-cupful, and took her in my lap to feed her. Well, she and I "made a mess" of it the first time. But after one or two trials more, I succeeded in teaching her to drink from the bottle without spilling the milk. Every time I thought she ought to be fed—which was morning and night—I would get the bottle ready, and say, "Katherine, do you want your milk?" If she was in a sound sleep, she would spring up and mew in reply, and stand up on her hind-legs like a rabbit. Then I would stoop down to her and hold out my left hand, and she would lean her "elbows" on it, and put her paws on the "shoulders" of the bottle, I holding it in my right hand, and tipping it as she drank the milk, until she had taken the whole. She would frequently mew for more, and follow me around until I would give her another drink, when she would lick her chops, wash her face, and lie down for a nap.
When drinking she would sit on her haunches, straight up, and put her little paws around the bottle in the most comical way imaginable. One could not keep from laughing to see her. If I attempted to take it away before she was done, she would run her nails out and hold on with quite a grip. I fed her in this way for more than six weeks; and it was such a funny sight that the neighbors would come in and ask me to feed her, and friends from quite a distance would ask after my cat, and beg to see her eat. I fed her longer than was necessary on this account, for she recovered from the trouble after a while, and is as well now as ever she was, only she is getting old. I sometimes tempt her with the bottle now, just to see if she remembers her old accomplishment. But Katherine is a very wise cat. She would use the bottle when it was "prescribed" for her. When it was no longer necessary, she seemed to prefer the natural way of drinking.
Aunt Mary.
We place before the C. Y. P. R. U. this week a variety of instructive and entertaining articles. The sketch of Charlotte Corday, from the pen of one of our most able American historians, will recall the lesson taught by the terrible French Revolution; a "Dangerous Plaything" will show the boys and girls what strong measures are taken in our large cities to check the ravages made by fire; and "Lawn Tennis" will give them an idea of another new device in the way of an out-door game for developing weak muscles and cultivating health and strength. As for the article on our second page, entitled "Luck," we trust that it is going to do a great deal toward inducing our young readers to cast that stupid word out of their vocabulary.