[to be continued.]
[COUNTRY ANECDOTES.]
I once saw a life-and-death struggle between two apparently very unequal opponents—a frog and a beetle. As I was standing near the cellar window, which was below-ground, and protected by an iron grating, I noticed in the area below it a large frog, which, at regular intervals of one or two minutes, leaped from one side of the little inclosure to the other. I looked more closely, and saw that it was each time followed by a black beetle, that walked backward and forward, not seeming at all discouraged when the frog, every time it reached it, jumped back over its head, and so escaped. It was evidently a trial of strength and perseverance between the two, and I was anxious to see which would first give in. They went on, however, for such a long time that I grew tired of watching them, and went away. The next morning, as I was again passing, I looked down the area to see what had been the result of the struggle, and, strange to say, it was still going on; the beetle deliberately hunting its victim, which, whenever they were about to meet, escaped by a great leap to the other side of its prison. Not until that evening did it end: then the poor frog, tired out, and too much exhausted to make any resistance, became the prey of its enemy, and no doubt furnished its meals for many a day.
As there were a good many rats about the out-houses and wood stacks, professional rat-catchers used to come once or twice a year, with their dogs and ferrets, and were paid according to the number they killed. Once when our gardener was assisting at the work of destruction he pulled one of the ferrets out of a hole, where it had been killing a brood of young rats. The poor mother, who had probably just returned from an expedition in search of food for her young ones, rushed out after the ferret, ran up the man's leg, on to his shoulder, and down his arm, quite blind to her own danger, and only desirous to reach the object of her vengeance in his hand.
[OUR BABY.]
BY JIMMY BROWN.
Mr. Martin has gone away. He's gone to Europe or Hartford or some such place. Anyway I hope we'll never see him again. The expressman says that part of him went in the stage and part of him was sent in a box by express, but I don't know whether it is true or not.
I never could see the use of babies. We have one at our house that belongs to mother and she thinks everything of it. I can't see anything wonderful about it. All it can do is to cry and pull hair and kick. It hasn't half the sense of my dog, and it can't even chase a cat. Mother and Sue wouldn't have a dog in the house, but they are always going on about the baby and saying "ain't it perfectly sweet!" Why I wouldn't change Sitting Bull for a dozen babies, or at least I wouldn't change him if I had him. After the time he bit Mr. Martin's leg father said "that brute sha'n't stay here another day." I don't know what became of him, but the next morning he was gone and I have never seen him since. I have had great sorrows though people think I'm only a boy.
The worst thing about a baby is that you're expected to take care of him and then you get scolded afterward. Folks say "Here, Jimmy! just hold the baby a minute, that's a good boy," and then as soon as you have got it they say "Don't do that my goodness gracious the boy will kill the child hold it up straight you good-for-nothing little wretch." It is pretty hard to do your best and then be scolded for it, but that's the way boys are treated. Perhaps after I'm dead folks will wish they had done differently.
Last Saturday mother and Sue went out to make calls and told me to stay home and take care of the baby. There was a base-ball match but what did they care? They didn't want to go to it and so it made no difference whether I went to it or not. They said they would be gone only a little while and that if the baby waked up I was to play with it and keep it from crying and be sure you don't let it swallow any pins. Of course I had to do it. The baby was sound asleep when they went out, so I left it just for a few minutes while I went to see if there was any pie in the pantry. If I was a woman I wouldn't be so dreadfully suspicious as to keep everything locked up. When I got back up stairs again the baby was awake and was howling like he was full of pins. So I gave him the first thing that came handy to keep him quiet. It happened to be a bottle of French polish with a sponge in it on the end of a wire that Sue uses to black her shoes, because girls are too lazy to use a regular blacking-brush.
The baby stopped crying as soon as I gave him the bottle and I sat down to read the Young People. The next time I looked at him he'd got out the sponge and about half his face was jet black. This was a nice fix, for I knew nothing could get the black off his face, and when mother came home she would say the baby was spoiled and I had done it.
Now I think an all black baby is ever so much more stylish than an all white baby, and when I saw the baby was part black I made up my mind that if I blacked it all over it would be worth more than it ever had been and perhaps mother would be ever so much pleased. So I hurried up and gave it a good coat of black. You should have seen how that baby shined! The polish dried just as soon as it was put on, and I had just time to get the baby dressed again when mother and Sue came in.
I wouldn't lower myself to repeat their unkind language. When you've been called a murdering little villain and an unnatural son it will wrinkle in your heart for ages. After what they said to me I didn't even seem to mind about father but went up stairs with him almost as if I was going to church or something that wouldn't hurt much.
The baby is beautiful and shiny, though the doctor says it will wear off in a few years. Nobody shows any gratitude for all the trouble I took, and I can tell you it isn't easy to black a baby without getting it into his eyes and hair. I sometimes think that it is hardly worth while to live in this cold and unfeeling world.
[THE UNLUCKY SETTLERS.]
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
Deacon Whitney's drug store fronted on the green, and Steve had just come out, and his father was standing in the door.
Just then Andy Yokum called out across the street, "Steve! Steve Whitney! what are we boys going to do with this here Saturday, now we've lost our ball?"
"I know what I'd like to do. Come over here."
"What is it, Steve?"
"Well, you see, Andy, I was down to old Captain Hollowboy's after school yesterday with a lot of all sorts of chemicals and things he'd been buying, and I knocked and I knocked, and I couldn't get in; so I went around to the back door, and there was Captain Hollowboy looking up at the biggest hornets' nest you ever saw."
"Hornets' nest? Wasn't he trying to break 'em up?"
"No, sir! He was just looking at 'em. And he told me he'd been watching that nest ever since the hornets began on it."
"Haven't they stung him yet?"
"Well, no; he said they hadn't. He's an old bachelor, you know, and he said hornets were good enough neighbors as long as there weren't any small boys around."
"Couldn't we get him to let us go in on that nest?"
"That's just what I asked him, and he said—"
"Hold up, Steve—here he comes!"
"Good-morning, Captain Hollowboy. Toothache, eh? I'll get you something."
"Toothache, Deacon! No, it isn't toothache. Is this the drug store? Have I got here? Can't but just see."
"Steve," shouted Andy, "just look at his face! It's all mud."
Captain Hollowboy had taken away his great red bandana handkerchief to look around him, and Deacon Whitney was holding up both his hands.
"What is the matter, Captain?"
"Hornets, Deacon, hornets. The most pernicious and ungrateful of all insects. I have applied aqueously saturated alluvium, but I want some ammonia."
"Slapped on some mud first, and now you want to try some hartshorn? That's right. I'll get you some quick."
He was getting behind the counter very fast for so fat a man, but Steve shouted, "Hurrah, Andy! let's go for the Captain's nest."
"Do, my dear boys, do. I consent to their utter obliteration and extermination; but I wish you would preserve their interesting domicile intact."
"He means, Andy, that we may kill the hornets, but we mustn't spoil the nest. He's awful on big words."
"How did it happen?" asked the Deacon, as he held out a big bottle and a sponge.
"Happen? It was no fault of mine. I did but attempt an unobtrusive inspection of the marvellous ramifications of their intricate habitation."
"That's it," said Steve. "He stuck his nose into the nest, and they all went for him. Come on, Andy."
They were out of sight by the time half the mud had been sponged from the Captain's long lean face, but before they reached his queer little house, at the further corner of the village green, the hornets were in trouble.
Harman Strauss and Bill Ogden and Van Seaver had seen the Captain run, and they all knew about that hornets' nest.
"Fire's the thing," said Van.
"Biggest smoke we can make," said Harm Strauss.
"We must wrap our heads up," said Bill Ogden, "but it'll be the biggest kind of a Saturday."
Van had some matches in his pocket, and the heap of sticks and straw and chips the boys gathered for him was a foot high by the time he got the third match well a-going.
The hornet's nest was a big one, and there was a wonderfully numerous tribe of winged settlers in it. They had picked out a fine airy place to hang their house—just under the eaves of the open shed, back of Captain Hollowboy's one-story kitchen, at the corner.
The right place for the fire was at the foot of the upright corner post, but Harman Strauss told Van, "If we stick it there, Van, we'll set the house afire."
"That'd never do," said Bill Seaver. "It's jam-full of all sorts of chemicals and things. There'd be an awful blow-up if that house got afire."
"Might spoil the village."
"Oh, but wouldn't it blow those hornets good and high!"
Just at that moment Steve Whitney and Andy Yokum came over the fence. They did not even wait to put their handkerchiefs around their necks and faces before they began to gather great bunches of weeds.
It was time every boy of them had some kind of a brush in his hand, for the angry insects had smelled the smoke, and were coming out to see about it.
Such a fire department as they turned themselves into! Or, rather, they set out as a kind of police brigade to fight a crowd of young incendiaries, and save Captain Hollowboy's house from being set on fire and burned up. They were at least determined that not one of those boys should get any nearer the house they had so carefully built for themselves against the eaves.
"Mud! mud!" shouted Steve, in half a minute. "Boys, where does the Captain keep his mud?"
"Have they stung you?"
"Oh, my nose!"
Steve had just started to run for some mud, when he gave another shrill whoop, "Yow! he's in my neck!" and there was no such thing as any other boy helping him, for each one of them was thrashing away at the nearest hornet. That is, except Van, for he had been after some more sticks, and was just putting them on the fire when he felt as if some one had dropped a live coal right on his left ankle.
"Wah!" yelled Van; "I've burned a hole in one of my stockings. Ou! it's burned another! Oh, boys, it's two hornets lit right side by side. Oh dear!" and there he was, rolling over in the grass, and striking with a bunch of weeds at something he saw in the air above him.
SMOKING THE HORNETS' NEST.—Drawn by S. G. McCutcheon.
Harman Strauss had been the wisest of them all, for he had pulled a couple of damp towels off the clothes-line, and had wrapped his head in one, and given the other to Bill Ogden.
Now he had found Captain Hollowboy's garden rake, and was shouting, "Give it to 'em, boys! You kill the hornets, and I'll pull down the nest. We must keep it for the Captain."
"He wants it for a specimen," explained Steve Whitney.
"Will he pickle it somehow?" asked Andy; but at that moment it seemed to him as if he had leaned against a red-hot pin, and he clapped his hand to his side. He had better not have dropped his bunch of weeds just then, for in a second more he was calling out, "Van! Van! did you say you knew where the mud was?"
"Here it is, Andy, right by the cistern. The Captain must have stirred it up for himself."
"And they kept right on stinging him while he was putting it on."
"Yah! That's just what they're doing now. They can sting right through a shirt sleeve."
"Sting? I guess they can; right through anything. Oh dear! I've got another! Boys, we won't leave one of 'em!"
"Boys! boys! I say, boys, what are you doing? I never indicated my assent to the application of fire!"
"I declare!" exclaimed Deacon Whitney, as he came through the gate behind Captain Hollowboy, "the young rascals have set them all a-going."
"Can you see, Deacon? I can not with any accuracy. Where have they located the combustion?"
"Stuck their bonfire right under the nest, Captain. Let 'em alone. The upright's burnin' a leetle, but you can put it out easy."
As he said that, Harm Strauss made a valiant pull with his rake, and down came the nest right into the bonfire.
"There!" exclaimed Steve, "you've spoiled it!"
"Such an exceptionally well-developed specimen!" groaned the Captain. "Pull it out, one of you."
"Oh! oh!" roared the Deacon, clapping both hands on his ample stomach, and doing his best to lean over; "I hope he has pulled it out. It must have gone in half an inch."
The fire had rapidly blazed high and hot, for straw and splinters and chips kindle fast; and there were no hornets in that nest now, nor any nest left to hold hornets. In fact, for that matter, Captain Hollowboy's yard and garden, and the road in front, were too small to hold what was left of them, and any men and boys at the same time.
Old Mrs. Jones, who lived next door, put her head out of her window to see what was going on, and then that window came down with a great slam; and the next thing seen of Mrs. Jones, her silver spectacles were dropping off into the water-pail as she stooped over it.
There was no doubt but what that settlement of hornets was thoroughly broken up; but Captain Hollowboy led the way back to the drug store, and they were all ready to go with him.
"I am sorry," he said to the Deacon, "that you or any of my young friends are suffering physical inconvenience from the atrocious assaults of those pernicious insects, but I regret the obliteration of so remarkable a specimen of their ingenuity."
BUCKWHEAT CAKES.
[ANCIENT EGYPT.]
Of all the curious works of the ancient Egyptians, the most strange and dream-like are the sphinxes. They are innumerable along the Nile, half man, half beast, carved in solid stone. But one—known as the Sphinx—the largest and most wonderful, sits near the Pyramids, with staring stone eyes that seem to have almost learned to see. It is half buried in the sands. Its head rises more than sixty feet above its base. Whole avenues of sphinxes lined the courts of the Egyptian temples. Then there are the tombs, or catacombs, where the mummies are preserved—long galleries cut in the rock, decorated with paintings, covered with the dust of generations. Along the river these cemeteries are almost numberless. On the walls are drawn all the various occupations of the people. The fisherman is seen drawing his nets, the ploughman driving his team, the soldier returning from the war. But the most curious of the catacombs are those devoted to the preservation of the mummies of cats, bulls, birds of all kinds, and crocodiles. The Egyptians worshipped animals and birds, and when they died, preserved their bodies by a singular process. The bull (Apis) was adored at Memphis, and his death was a season of general woe. When a cat in a house at Thebes died, all the family went in mourning, and shaved their eyebrows.
[THE GRAND PROCESSION.]
BY MARY DENSEL.
Elsie Baker was sitting on a log in the wood-shed, gloomily listening to her brother Joe, who was talking with much enthusiasm.
"For I tell you, sir," said he to Elsie, "it isn't every boy who'll get a chance to be in that percession to-night, sir. There'll be a thousand torches, and speeches, and fire-works; and the train leaves Porter's Corner at six o'clock; and Mr. Hill says to me, 'You be on hand, Joe, you and Jack Stone, and you may go to Portland along of the "Continentals," and march each side of the flag, and wear white rubber capes, and carry a torch apiece if you like.' It's to be the biggest show of the season, and—"
"I can't go," burst in Elsie. "Just because I'm a girl I can never go anywhere or see anything."
"Of course not," assented Joe, cheerfully. "Girls never can. I go because father's in Ohio, and I'm the man of the family. I declare I shouldn't wonder if half the people in Portland should think Jack and I could vote when they see us percessing. Three cheers for Hanfield!"
Hanfield? Hanfield? That did not sound quite right. Joe meditated. Hanfield? Well, never mind. There was no time to waste over names. If Joe would help toward the election of a President of the United States, he must be off and away for Jack Stone, or the two would miss the train.
And Elsie? Poor little Elsie was left forlorn. She was quite alone, for her mother had gone to visit a sick neighbor, and would not even be at home for tea.
"Oh, why shouldn't a girl do just what her brother does, and have some fun?" thought Elsie, bitterly. "Or else why wasn't I born a boy?"
She sat close to the andirons in front of the wood fire, and more and more dismal did she grow. She had nearly come to wondering whether it was really worth while to live if one had to be only a girl, when the front door burst open, and in bounced Master Joe.
"Elsie," cried he, grasping her by the arm, "here's your chance. You can go."
"Go? go?" repeated Elsie, flushing crimson with excitement.
Joe hurried on. "Jack Stone's sick. Earache—both ears—onions on' em—here's his cap—who'll know you're not a boy?—tuck up your skirts—on with this big cape—come!"
Elsie was beside herself. "Mother wouldn't let me," she half gasped.
"Did she ever say you mustn't?" argued Joe. "Like as not we'll be back before she is. Don't be a goose. There's no time to talk. Hurry! hurry! You won't get such another chance."
Her eyes flashing, her brain in a whirl, Elsie pulled the blue cap over her short curls. Her little petticoats were quickly pinned up and covered by the rubber cape. With her unlighted torch over her shoulder, who would not have thought her a sturdy younger brother of the boy who held her tightly by the hand, and exhorted her not to let the grass grow under her feet.
Down the road they flew, and reached the station just as the "Continentals" came marching up with fife and drum.
"Here we are, Mr. Hill," said Joe, presenting himself and his companion.
"All right," said Mr. Hill, too busy to pay much attention. "Keep with the rest of the men. How are you, Jack, my boy?"
There was no time for the make-believe "Jack, my boy" to answer. The engine was puffing and panting. Elsie was swung on the train, where Joe and she tucked themselves away on a back seat.
The "Continentals" were in the best of humor, so were the "Philbrick Pioneers," who, gorgeous in their Zouave regimentals, came crowding into the car at the next station, to crack jokes and talk politics.
"Well done, little chaps," said their captain, spying out Joe and his comrade. "You're beginning early, eh? Nothing like getting the boys on the right side. Ha! ha!"
Joe grinned, and was about to volunteer a "Hurrah for Hanfield!" but thought better of it.
One of the men frightened Elsie nearly out of her wits by chucking her under the chin, and shouting, rudely,
"You're a bright-eyed cove, you are. Does your mother know you're out?"
A sharp nudge from Joe kept her from saying, "No, she doesn't," but she shrunk close up to him, whispering, fearfully,
"Me the only girl, Joe!"
"Hush! Nobody'll think it, if you keep quiet," said Joe, hastily, himself a little disturbed; the men were so rough, and made so much noise.
But while he was thinking what he should do if any one else insulted his sister the train stopped with a jerk, and everybody was out in a twinkling.
There were shouts of command. The "Continentals" and "Pioneers" fell into line. Torches were lit. A host of boys set up shrill yells. Joe and Elsie were twitched into place by energetic Mr. Hill, and ordered to hold up their heads and keep time to the music.
"Isn't it fun?" thought Elsie, stepping briskly along, and grasping her torch with both hands.
If one hundred torches were "fun," what could be said when they reached Market Square, where the grand procession was to form, and where there was a blaze of light such as Elsie had never imagined! Bands were playing, horses were prancing; some one set fire to a sort of powder, and, lo! the whole street was rosy red.
Now everything was ready, and the march began. Whole blocks on each side were festooned with bunting and Chinese lanterns; candles twinkled in every pane; all the gas-burners did their best; Roman candles shot out colored stars; rockets went up with a fizz.
"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" The procession was pausing in front of a big house. Somebody was making a speech. Nobody could understand half he said. No matter. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Elsie shouted with the rest, and trotted gayly on.
"No reason in the world I shouldn't have come, like any other boy! Hurrah!"
Up one street and down another, each more brilliant than the last, Elsie marched on, till suddenly a small, then a larger, pain began to make itself felt in one of her feet.
"It's my new boots," said she to herself. "Why didn't I change them? I'll stamp hard and then I shall be easy."
But somehow she was not easy. Up one street, down another. It was not so much a pain in one particular spot now as a general ache, not only in her foot, but in her whole body.
"I'm afraid I'm growing tired."
She glanced at Joe. That worthy was in high spirits, and apparently as fresh as ever. Elsie limped bravely on. Across an open space the procession wheeled, and halted again to drink lemonade out of big tubs on the sidewalk. Elsie ventured to complain to Joe.
"Oh, cheer up!" was all the comfort he had for her. "We've marched 'most half the distance now."
"'Most half the distance!" Why, Elsie could never hold out if that were the case. Once more she struggled on. It seemed as if she had been marching for years and years—ever since she was a baby. She could not drag herself another inch. In the midst of a cheer she crept up a flight of steps, and sank down.
"I'll wait a few minutes, and then run fast, and catch Joe again," thought she.
The next moment, as it seemed, she heard two voices near her.
"The party must be hard up that has to take babies like this to help on their cause," said one.
"Poor little fellow!" answered the other—a lady. "He's dropped down, torch and all, and gone to sleep."
Elsie started and looked around her. Where was the procession? Where was Joe? Too terrified to say a word, up the street she rushed, gazing wildly on this side and on that. No Joe did she see; no procession either. It would have been quite dark but for the street lamps.
"I must stop somewhere. I must ask some one for Joe."
At a house smaller than the others she paused, and rang the bell. There was a confused sound of talking within.
"Don't you open that door as you value your life, Phœbe Maria," said some one in shrill tones. "Us all alone! This time of night! It's tramps, sure!"
Then Phœbe Maria called through the key-hole, "Go right away. I sha'n't let you in if you stop there till midnight. De-part!"
I think if the word "de-part" had not sounded so very ponderous, Elsie would have called back that she was no tramp. As it was, she ran blindly on.
"Mother! mother!" she sobbed, wringing her little cold hands. But no one answered. A clock near by tolled nine, ten, eleven. Two drops of rain fell. The wind rustled drearily among the tree-tops.
Steps sounded near. A tall man approached, and Elsie caught the gleam of brass buttons.
"What are you doing here, boy?" demanded the newcomer, in a great bass voice.
"I'm not a boy," cried Elsie. "I never was a boy in all my life. I'm Elsie Baker. I want to go home."
She quite broke down, and wept piteously.
"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed the man, who was one of the police. "Where is your home?"
"Out at Porter's Corner. Joe brought me to the percession. I wish he hadn't. I wish— Oh dear, dear me!"
"Now here's a pretty mess!" said the policeman. "There's nothing for it but to take charge o' you to-night, and see how we can manage to-morrow. You come along with me."
Finding the child too exhausted to walk, he picked her up, and tramped off down in town with his burden. Where did he carry her?
To tell the truth, there seemed to be no other place, and he took her to the public "lock-up."
Elsie was too worn and spent to mind; too hungry was she not to devour eagerly the bit of salt fish and hard cracker which her new friend gave her; then forgetting her woes, she fell asleep once more, safely wrapped in his warm overcoat.
But, in the morning, waking in a strange place, all the terror of last night came upon her once more. Through an open door she darted like a startled hare, and when No. 11 came, an hour later, to find her, no child was visible. All that was left was the small rubber cape with its red collar.
"I must find some cars," thought Elsie. "I can't get home unless I find some cars."
It must have been her guardian angel who led the little girl, for, as she walked hastily along, right in front of her loomed up a big building, in and out of which locomotives were running.
"Would you please point out the train for Porter's Corner?" said Elsie, tremblingly approaching a man who was pushing round some trunks.
"Bless you! you're at the wrong station for that, sissy or bubby, whichever you be," said the man, glancing from the girl's dress to the boy's cap. "But there," added he, as the brown eyes filled with tears, "a gravel train's just going across the city to the Eastern Dépôt. Come with me, and I'll take you there."
Down the track Elsie rode, perched on a heap of gravel.
"I cal'late you've got a ticket for Porter's Corner?" said her companion.
Here was fresh trouble. No ticket had she, and, what was worse, not a penny to buy one.
"You don't mean to say you're going to steal a ride!" exclaimed the man.
Very likely this was meant for a joke, but Elsie took it for sober earnest. She had been called a "tramp" last night; now she was taken for a thief. It was too dreadful. She looked here and there, if perchance there might be some way of escape from all this misery, and suddenly—why!—what?—that boy on the platform of the Eastern Dépôt—could it be?
"Joe! Joe!" shrieked Elsie.
It was Joe: a very wretched Joe, a Joe who had not slept a wink all night, though he had gone home in a vain hope he might find the missing sister there.
He saw Elsie. He sprang toward her. He clambered on the car almost before it stopped. He hugged her, he kissed her. Boy though he was, he wept great tears over her. Then he took her by both shoulders and shook her.
"Oh, you bad girl! Where have you been? You've frightened mother 'most to death. Elsie, Elsie, what made you come to Portland?"
"You brought me, Joe," said Elsie, humbly.
Home they went, those two. At the Porter's Corner station they found every man and woman of the village, and to each severally must Elsie tell her story. Her mother never said a word. She only clasped Elsie tighter and tighter, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
But Joe!—oh, Joe did talking enough for all. The lofty sentiments that flowed from the lips of that virtuous youth were truly refreshing. His own share in last night's adventures had quite slipped his mind. He felt called upon, as "the man of the family," to exhort his sister at length in regard to her manners and morals.
"And now, Elsie Baker," he ended, "I hope you see why girls can't do as boys do. I could have marched for a week and not been tired. I hope you'll remember this the next time you want to tag on when I'm going anywhere."
And Elsie was actually so tired that she hadn't the spirit to answer a word.
SCANDAL.