the end.
[LITTLE FOES OF LITTLE BOYS.]
"By-and-by" is a very bad boy:
Shun him at once and forever;
For they who travel with "By-and-by"
Soon come to the house of "Never."
"I Can't" is a mean little coward:
A boy that is half of a man
Set on him a plucky wee terrier
That the world knows and honors—"I Can."
"No Use in Trying"—nonsense, I say:
Keep trying until you succeed;
But if you should meet "I Forgot" by the way,
He's a cheat, and you'd better take heed.
"Don't Care" and "No Matter," boys, they're a pair,
And whenever you see the poor dolts,
Say, "Yes, we do care," and would be "Great matter,"
If our lives should be spoiled by small faults.
[BARNEY'S FOOT.]
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"Come on, Barney."
"You're on our side. We knew you'd get here, and we counted you."
"And Sid Thayer, he said you belonged with them this time, but we said you wasn't an up-town boy, and we wouldn't stand it."
There was something rueful in the face of Barney Powell as he stood there with his hands in his pockets looking across the village green.
There was a game of foot-ball just about to begin, and Barney was conceded to be the best kicker for his size in all Hackerton.
Then he had always played as a down-town boy, although his father kept the drug store in the middle of the village, and lived next door to it, and the up-town boys said the drug store was on their land. It was two rods north of the middle stone-walk across the green.
"Well, no, boys, I guess I won't play foot-ball to-day."
"Not play!" exclaimed Wash Handy, opening his mouth unusually wide. "Anything the matter? Got new boots on?"
"Guess he's got a sore toe," remarked Sid Thayer. "He did kick like everything Saturday."
"I don't know as I want to kick any more all this vacation. Not unless my foot gets over it."
"Gets over what, Barney?"
"What? why, kicking."
"Which foot is it?"
"I don't seem to know exactly. Mebbe it's one, and then I ain't half sure it isn't the other."
"Queer you can't tell."
"Well, you know how we played last Saturday, nigh all day?"
"Best day for foot-ball there ever was in this town."
"Well, I kicked and I kicked, and I was awful tired when I got home; but I didn't know anything was the matter with my feet till after I got to bed."
"Did they hurt you then?"
"Hurt? no, not a mite. But little Phin, he sleeps with me, and I don't know just how long it was before I was waked up by a great squall. It was dark as pitch, but I knew it was Phin's voice, and I felt around the bed for him."
"Did you find him?"
"No, sir! He wasn't there; he was drawing his breath for another squall away out on the floor. And mother, she came running in, and so did grandmother, and Aunt Jane, and old Mrs. Wiggles. She's a-visiting at our house, and she does eat! You never saw anything like it, and she's as long as a bean-pole, and just about as fat. And father, he waked up, and he wanted to know what the matter was, but he didn't come in."
"Well," said Wash Handy, "what was the matter?"
"Matter? I guess you'd ha' said so. I'd just took Phin for a foot-ball, and I'd kicked him half way across the room. He's round and fat, and he lit on a soft place, I guess, for he didn't squall any more, except when old Mrs. Wiggles hugged him. He was more scared than hurt, for I'd taken my boots off before I went to bed."
"Oh, pshaw! Barney, what of all that? Let's go in. We'll have the tallest kind of a game."
"Well, no, Wash, I guess not. I haven't got through yet. Mother let Aunt Jane take little Phin into her bed, and father he said something about hobbling me if I couldn't mind my hoofs any better'n that; but I guess I didn't do anything worse'n kick the clothes off till morning. But you see, boys, I was pretty sure they'd all be laughing at me at breakfast, and I guess I wasn't in any too good a humor, and there was the big rug at the dining-room door all rolled up in a wad. You couldn't ha' guessed that Aunt Jane's brindle-yellow tomcat was inside of it. That is, you wouldn't have guessed it before you heard the yowl he gave when he dropped into the big rose-bush in front of the dining-room door."
"Did you kick him as far as that?" asked Sid Thayer, doubtfully. "Come, now, Barney, play on our side to-day."
"No, sir! But you ought to have seen Aunt Jane run out to pick up her cat, and he making a brindle-yellow streak for the back fence."
"Didn't kill him, then?"
"Kill him? No, sir! You don't kick anything more'n a howl out of a cat with a big rug wrapped 'round him. But you see, boys, after that I hadn't a word to say, and the rest of them could say just what they wanted to. I kept an eye on my feet, and I couldn't say which was which, only there's more leather worn off the right toe than the left.
"By-and-by it was time to go to meeting, and I went, and our pew was jam-full, and I had to sit as straight as a ramrod, and I had both my feet right before me on the foot-bar. Nothing happened all the morning, but when we went again in the afternoon Mrs. Wiggles, she came along, and there wasn't room for me in our pew. So I slipped into Deacon Clark's, just ahead of ours, and none of his folks came, and I had it all to myself."
"But you didn't dare to lie down?" said Wash.
"I guess not; but it was dreadfully warm, and I'd heard Mr. Simmons preach that sermon three times, only with different texts, and it kind o' made me feel sleepy to hear it again; but I can't guess what sort of wood they made that pew out of."
"Why, of course not; it's all painted black walnut," said Sid Thayer.
"'Tisn't the paint, Sid; and there isn't any wood I know of that has that amount of racket in it."
"Now, Barney Powell, what on earth do you mean?"
"Mean? You'd have said it was mean if you'd been waked up in the middle of a sermon the way I was. I must have been dreaming of foot-ball seems to me, for I'd tried to put one of my toes right through the back of the next pew, and the noise it made was—well, boys, I can't say how much there was of it, but they must have started that pew for a drum. I sat straight up and looked at Mr. Simmons, but he'd stopped preaching, and he was looking at me, and I heard father coughing fit to kill himself; and ma, she had her head down, and Mrs. Wiggles whispered, 'Sakes alive!' to Aunt Jane, and she said, 'Any boy that'll abuse a cat like mine'; and if I didn't wish that pew was curtained in you may eat me."
"Did they turn you out?"
"Well, no; but on the way home I heard Mrs. Wiggles tell ma she was afraid how I would turn out if I grew up the way I'd begun. I walked slow all the rest of the day, for fear one of my feet would get away from me again."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Sid Thayer. "Foot-ball didn't do it. I tell you what's the matter. There's too much kick in you naturally. You can't help it. And if you don't play foot-ball or something of that sort you'll never work it out, and it'll be always making some sort of trouble for you."
"Do you s'pose that's it?"
"Of course it is. I've heard people say such things ever so many times. Just you come right along now, on our side, and there won't be half so much kicking in you when you get through."
"No, sir!" shouted Wash Handy. "Barney's on our side. We've got the ball mended, Barney. It kicks beautiful!"
"If I thought Phin'd be any safer to-night," hesitated Barney. "But then there's that pew! You never heard such a bang. I don't think the cat'll let me come near enough again unless he's rolled up in something. Did you sew up the rip in the ball, Sid?"
"I? Sew that seam? Look at it! Old Quin did it, the harness-maker. Isn't it lovely? Every stitch as hard as wire! Come on, Barney."
"Well, Sid, the way my feet feel just now I must kick at something, and the down-town boys chose me on their side. We can choose sides over again after the first game. I don't know but it might be good for me."
"Of course it would," shouted Wash Handy. "Hurrah, boys, Barney'll play, and he's on our side. Let's go in and give 'em a whitewashing!"
[A HAPPY PAIR.]
BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
There was a bull-dog and a cat
Who, strange as it may seem.
Together by the shining stove
Would fall asleep and dream.
Whene'er in fun he'd rush at her,
Her eyes would never glare;
Nor would she scratch his honest face,
Or elevate her hair.
And when the sky was bright with stars,
His comforts to begin,
Upon her back, so warm and soft,
He'd lay his shaggy chin.
And in this way he'd fall asleep,
And all his cares would cease;
While Tabby, most good-naturedly,
Would purr and dream in peace.
They were the very best of friends,
They never had a fray;
And probably they are the same
Unto this very day.
[HOW THE BEAVER BUILDS.]
If our little readers would learn something of the ways of this four-footed builder, let them in imagination accompany a beaver family, on some fine evening in May, when they start in search of a new home. The papa beaver, with his sons and sons-in-law, wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law, and, it may be, grandchildren, sallies forth "prospecting" the country for a good location; that is, a stream of easy navigation, and having an abundant supply of their favorite food, the silver-birch and poplar, growing as near the river as possible. Having selected these limits, the next step is to place their dwelling so as to command the greatest amount of food. For this purpose they go as far below the supplies as the character of the stream will permit. A pond of deep, still water being an indispensable adjunct to their dwelling, this is obtained by the construction of a dam, and few engineers could select a site to produce the required result so efficiently and economically. The dam and dwelling are forthwith commenced, the materials employed in both being roots, mud, and stones, the former two being dragged by the teeth, the latter carried between the fore-paws and the chin. If the dam is extensive, whole trees are gnawed down, the largest of which are of the diameter of an ordinary stove-pipe, the stump being cut standing about eighteen inches above the ground, and pointed like a crayon. Those trees which stand upon the bank of the stream they contrive to drop into the water as cleverly as the most experienced woodman; those which are more distant are cut up by their teeth into pieces which can be dragged to the water. These trees and branches are floated down to the site of the dam, where they are dragged ashore, and placed so that the tops shall be borne down by the current, and thus arrest the descending drift, and form a strong and tight dam. Critical parts are built "by hand," the sticks and mud when placed receiving a smart blow from the beaver's tail, just as a bricklayer settles his work with the handle of his trowel. The habitation or hut of the beaver is almost bomb-proof, rising like a dome from the ground on the margin of the pond, and sometimes six or eight feet in thickness in the crown. The only entrance is from a level of three or four feet under the water of the pond. These precautions are necessary, because, like all enterprising animals, the beaver is not without enemies. The wolverine, which is as fond of beaver tail as an old Nor'wester, would walk into his hut if he could only get there; but having the same distaste for water as the cat, he must forego the luxury.
It is not, however, for safety that the beaver adopts the submarine communication with his dwelling, though it is for this that he restricts himself to it. The same necessity which compels him to build a dam, and thus create a pond of water, obliges him to obtain communication with that pond when the ice is three feet thick upon its surface. Living upon the bark of trees, he is obliged to provide a comparatively great bulk for his winter's consumption; and he must secure it at the season when the bark is formed, and before it commences to dry; he must also store it up where it will not become frozen or dried up. He could not reasonably be expected to build a frost-proof house large enough to contain his family supply; but if he did, it would wither, and lose its nutriment: therefore he preserves it in water. But the most remarkable evidence of his instinct, sagacity, or reason is one which is not commonly mentioned by naturalists. His pond, we have seen, must be deep, so that it will not freeze to the bottom, and so that he can communicate with his food and his dam, in case of any accident to the latter requiring repairs; but how does he keep his food—which has been floated down to his pond—from floating, and thus becoming frozen in with the ice?
Now in gnawing down a tree, the top of the stump was left pointed like a crayon; the fallen tree has the same form, for the beaver cuts like a woodman—wide at the surface, and meeting in an angle in the centre—with this distinction: the four-legged animal does his work more uniformly, cutting equally all around the log, while the two-legged one cuts only from two opposite sides. Thus every stick of provender cut by the animal is pointed at both ends; and when brought opposite his dwelling, he thrusts the pointed ends into the mud bottom of his pond sufficiently firm to prevent their being floated out, at the same time placing them in a position in which the water has the least lift upon them; while he carefully apportions his different lengths of timber to the different depths of water in his pond, so that the upper point of none of them shall approach near enough to the surface to be caught by the winter ice.
From what has been said, it will be readily seen that the maintenance of the dam is a matter of vital importance to the beaver. Some say that the pilot beaver sleeps with his tail in the water, in order to be warned of the first mishap to the dam; but as there is no foundation for such an assertion, it may be set down as a very improbable tale. The Indians avail themselves of this well-known solicitude to catch them; having broken the dam, the risk is immediately perceived by the lowering of the water in the hut, and the beaver, sallying forth to repair the break, is slaughtered in the breaches.
As the supply of food in the vicinity of the dam becomes diminished, the beaver is obliged to go higher up the stream and more distant from its banks to procure his winter stores, and this necessity gives rise to fresh displays of his lumbering and engineering resources. In consequence of the distance and the limited duration of the high-water period favorable to transport, the wood is collected into a sort of raft, which, as lumber-men assert, is manned by the beaver, and steered by its tail, in the same manner as Norway rats are known to cross streams of water. When the raft grounds, a temporary dam is immediately thrown across the stream below the jam, by which the waters are raised and the raft floated off and brought down to the dam, which is then suddenly torn away, and on the crest of the accumulated body of water the raft is carried safely down to where it is to be used.
SO NEAR, AND YET SO FAR.