A VERY NEW COW.
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"Father," exclaimed Katy Chittenden, the moment the buggy stopped in front of the gate, "Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser were here this morning just after you went away, and they said all our cows were in Mr. Gates's pasture lot."
Deacon Chittenden and his wife and his son William were all in the buggy, and the seat did not look uncomfortably full either. All three of them answered Katy in the same breath, with,
"How did they get in?"
"Oh, I don't know. They didn't say. Rube didn't say anything. It was Bun. He wanted me to tell you."
"It's all that new cow's doings," groaned her father, and the news seemed to make him slow in getting out of the buggy.
"Bun Gates and Rube Hollenhouser are the roughest pair of fellows," began William, but his father checked him.
"They drive my cows for me half the time, William. They drove 'em up to the lot this morning. I'd never have trusted you with that new cow."
It was a serious matter, and it had been on Katy Chittenden's mind all the morning. She had formed an extraordinary idea concerning the "new cow" for which her father had paid so much. So costly a creature, with such horns, and so dreadfully brindled, and that kicked the milk-pail at least three feet, was to be regarded with awe.
Dinner was hardly over before the Deacon solemnly remarked: "William, put on your apron. I will put on mine. You take the axe and I will carry the maul and some nails. We must fix that fence."
The day was warm, and it was a good walk, over the bridge, along past the wagon shop, and away up the hill road to the bars that let down into the pasture lot. It was only twenty yards from these to the bars that led into Mr. Gates's lot, and Mr. Hollenhouser pastured his cows there also.
The bars were all up, and the fence looked all right as far as they could see.
"We must follow it up," said the Deacon. "The break is further on."
It was a large, roomy pasture, and so was that of Mr. Gates at the side of it, but it was because they were both very long, for they were not very wide. They reached up and over the hill, away to the cross-roads on the upper level, so that there was a great deal of fence between them.
It was good fence, too, and in perfect order, but for all that, before they reached the top of the slope, William suddenly exclaimed:
"Father, there are Mr. Gates's cows in our lot. Both of them."
"I declare! So they are. And there are both of Mr. Hollenhouser's beyond them. There must be a bad gap somewhere."
"Wonder where our cows are?"
"It's a wonder. I haven't seen one of them, and that new cow—"
He stopped there, as if he did not wish to say anything against her just then; but the mystery was getting deeper. There was no hole in the fence, nor any sign of his own cattle until they had nearly reached the cross-roads at the upper end of the pasture.
"There they are, father. All three of 'em. In the corner."
"Yes, my son. I see them. But how did they get there? They're in Mr. Gates's lot."
"Guess he or Mr. Hollenhouser's been up here and fixed the fence before we got home. Rube and Bun would have told them, sure."
"Of course they would. I never thought of that. I should have asked them about it before we came. I can't understand it exactly now."
There certainly was a mystery about it, and one that only Rube and Bun could have explained.
Early that morning the Deacon had roused himself out of bed, so as not to miss Rube and Bun when they let out their cows. He would not have trusted his new cow with any other boys in that neighborhood. They were up good and early too, and were just fairly out in the road, with two cows apiece, when Deacon Chittenden came along, and Bun's first remark was,
"That's his new cow. Hasn't she got a pair of horns, though!"
"She's a brindle. Wonder if she's a good milker?"
However that might be, they were quickly informed that she was an animal of uncommon value, and that they could have the privilege of driving her that morning.
"All right," said Bun. "She'll go right along with ours. We'll turn her into the lot for you."
The Deacon explained that he had a trip to make which would keep him away until dinner-time, and hurried away.
The new cow must have kept an eye on him, for she behaved very well until he was out of sight. Even a cow might feel more orderly for looking at Deacon Chittenden. This one, moreover, might have done very well after he disappeared, and gone along under good influences, if it had not been for Watch Hollenhouser.
That dog was always doing more than anybody asked of him. The other cows were so well used to having him bark at them, from their own yard gates down to the bridge over the creek, that if he had not been there they would have missed him.
It was all a matter of course, therefore, with Rube's cows and Bun's and the old two of Deacon Chittenden's; but Watch was as new to the new cow as she was to him.
The distance to the creek was made in safety, a rod or so at a time, and then the little drove had all its seven noses in the water at once. It was only for a moment, indeed, and it was a good deal a matter of custom. All the cows of Prome Centre preferred to take a drink and wade across in warm weather. The creek was very wide there, and so it was very shallow, and half the teams from both ways drove right through.
The six cows that were used to it were quickly on their way over, and Watch had already crossed the bridge, and stood now on the opposite shore waiting for them, with his bark in full operation.
"Rube," suddenly exclaimed Bun, "there goes the Deacon's new cow!"
"Yes, sir, and she's heading right up stream."
"You stand here, Rube, and pelt her if she tries to come ashore on this side. I'll run for old Harms's boat and head her off. The water's too cold yet for wading."
Bun Gates could do a thing about as quickly as some people could say they were going to do it, and in half a minute more he was shoving an old narrow-built punt of a boat after the slow but very wrong-headed wading of the new cow. She had the whole length of the creek before her when she started, but now Bun Gates and his boat were ahead of her in no time, and Bun's troubles were just ahead of him.
The cow seemed determined to dodge past that boat. The water ran very fast, and it was so shallow that even the punt ran aground every two minutes. It was by no means easy to push a boat in a swift current and drive a new cow at the same time.
"Run right against her," shouted Rube. "She'll have to turn then."
Bun did so, and the cow did turn down stream. It looked as if the battle were half won, but the water was nearly three feet deep a little below. Right there the cow slipped and floundered, and the punt received so sudden a shove at one end from her, just as Bun gave it a sharp push at the other end, that it also "turned." It turned so nearly over that the best thing Bun could do was to jump. After that he did not care so much whether he was in the boat or out of it, but he could drive the cow better. He had a good deal of driving to do, but he got her out at last on the right side of the creek.
"Is the water cold?" asked Rube.
"Awful cold. But I guess I'll keep that cow warm the rest of the way to the pasture."
He pulled the boat ashore, and then Rube helped him, and so did Watch, but it looked as if an unruly temper was spreading from Deacon Chittenden's costly brindle all around among the other cows.
They did very well, but it was harder work than common, especially for Watch, until they got within a few rods of the two sets of bars of the pasture lots.
"Rube," said Bun, "I'll run ahead and let down the Deacon's bars and ours. Don't you let that new cow get away from you."
The bars were down in a twinkling, and beyond them were acres and acres of tempting green grass. Surely no cow in her senses would prefer the dusty road to all that hill-side of breakfast.
Still, it might have occurred to Rube and Bun that cows could have preferences. Their own, indeed, had always marched on into the right lot without a blunder, and so had the Deacon's old ones. Even the new cow might now have been rightly guided if it had not been for her disturbed state of mind. So might all the rest but for the "worry" they were in. As it was, however, Watch had no sooner made his last dash at the head of the brindle than she made her last rush at him, and when she was met by Bun Gates and a long stick, she wheeled sharply to the right. There was the open gap before her. All the bars were down, and on she went into Mr. Gates's pasture at a gallop that was full of angry head-shaking. Both of Deacon Chittenden's orderly and sedate old cows followed as if she had called them.
"There they go!" shouted Rube. "Run in, Bun, and drive 'em out."
It would have been better if he had attended only to his other cattle, for Watch saw at once how badly things were going, and charged upon his old acquaintances in the road as if the confusion were driving him crazy.
The storm of bark he raised was enough to have made any cow nervous at any time, and those four were already "so worried." Well, in ever so few seconds Mr. Hollenhouser's cows and Mr. Gates's, all four of them, were scampering up the hill-side in Deacon Chittenden's lot. All Bun Gates could do over there beyond the partition fence only served to make the Deacon's new prize and the two others scatter in three different directions.
"What'll we do now?" shouted Rube.
"Put up the bars and go home," responded Bun, at the top of his voice. "I want to get some breakfast, and dry myself. We'll swap grass with Deacon Chittenden to-day."
That seemed fair; but after they had been to breakfast it looked like a duty to leave word at Deacon Chittenden's where his cows were, and Bun Gates did it. Rube did not see but what the news was told correctly, and so Katy Chittenden's forenoon was just spoiled for her, and her father and brother spent their afternoon looking for a gap that was not in the pasture fence.
Even when the Deacon on his way home stopped to ask Mr. Gates about it, all he learned was that Bun had complained that the new cow drove him all around the creek in a boat, and upset him.
"But that does not account for her being in your lot."
"Yes," said Mr. Gates; "a cow that would do that would take down a fence and let the other cows through, and then put it up after them."
It was a great mystery, and when Rube and Bun came along from school that afternoon there was Katy Chittenden at the gate, and Bill Chittenden was in the yard, and the Deacon was on the stoop, and Mrs. Chittenden was at the window.
"Katy," asked Bun, "did you tell your father what I told you?"
"Yes; and he and William have been up there all the afternoon mending the pasture."
"Audubon," exclaimed the Deacon, "how did those cows get mixed?"
"No, sir," said Bun; "the cows ain't mixed, it's the lots."
"How did they get in?"
"Through the bars. It's all that new cow. She tipped me into the creek, and Watch Hollenhouser can't but just bark; but we can get 'em all right when we go for 'em."
The Deacon looked puzzled even after that explanation, and so did Katy and the rest; but it was soon made plain to them, and, after all, as Rube Hollenhouser remarked, "It's only trading grass for one day."
[CLIMBING PLANTS.]
BY MRS. S. B. HERRICK.
Fig. 1.—The Bean. First Leaves in different Stages.
Have you never wondered, when you looked at a tangle of grape-vine or morning-glory stems, how they came to twist themselves together so? Perhaps you had some sort of a notion that they got tangled up as a bunch of silk or a skein of worsted lying loose might do. Examine any vine which you can find growing near you, and see how different the tangle is from a snarl of thread, there is a regular twist, the branches coiling in the same direction. In some plants the turn is from right to left, in others from left to right.
There must, of course, be some reason for this, and we can best find it out by taking a young plant, a seedling, and watching what it does from the start.
It would be very natural to think that plants moved only as stones do, because something pulled or pushed them; but this would not be a true conclusion. Every plant that we know much about is firmly fastened by its root in the ground; the movements of its leaves and flowers seem only caused by the blowing of the wind or the beating of the rain. But though plants are anchored fast to the earth, they are all the while moving as they grow.
Fig. 2.—Movement of Root of Black Bean.
A, Position at nine o'clock.
B, Position half an hour later.
Take some seed—beans will do—and after soaking them, plant them in the ground about two inches deep. In a week or ten days you will see the earth cracked all about. This is not because the growing plant acts like a wedge and splits the earth open, but because in growing the first little leaves move round and round, boring their way out of the ground very much as a corkscrew works its way into a cork. The first leaves of most plants—a bean, for instance—do not come straight up out of the seed; but when the seed coat bursts from the swelling of the inner part a little arch projects, which raises itself up. This arch is the stem, and after a while the leaves are pulled out of the sheath, and the arch widens out, and finally straightens up. You have often seen a man who had a heavy weight to lift bow himself over and receive the weight, and then lift it by straightening himself, as the stem does to lift the leaves (Fig. 1, first leaves). The root burrows into the earth in very much the same way as the stem revolves, by going around and around as it grows (Fig. 2). Take a morning-glory vine, and let it lie without any wire or trellis to catch hold of. After a while you will find the stems and tendrils coiled round each other in a tight twist (Fig. 3); you could not begin to twist them so tightly yourself without breaking the stem.
Fig. 3.—Morning-Glories.
The tips of all growing plants, like the first leaves that pierce the ground, move around; they are forever weaving their magic circles in the air; they take many hours sometimes to make a single turn, but they are as regular as the hands of a clock, and never forget and go backward. I have been watching some wistaria branches lately, and have been very much interested to see the new shoots, as they grew rapidly in the soft warm air, taking a slow turn around the wire placed to support them very much as you might wrap your arm about a swing rope to take a better hold. If there is a post or a wire near, you do not have to give your vines the twist they need to climb; they do their own twisting as they grow, and always in this quiet, deliberate way.
Fig. 4.—Virginia Creeper.
You have no doubt noticed that a Virginia creeper does not need a wire to climb by; it grows beautifully up any wall which has little unevennesses. Now look, if you can get hold of a new shoot, what the creeper has to help it along. It sends out tendrils that branch into many ends, and each one of these ends swells and becomes a sort of sticky pad, which glues itself to the wall (Fig. 4). These little pads, when they find no wall to fasten themselves upon, remain small, and finally wither away. Those on the vine in Fig. 4, which was trailing from a vine, are so, some small and some quite gone; but look at the pads in Fig. 5, which were detached from a painted board, and see how they look through the microscope. Very much like a boy's India rubber sucker, are not they? Some of these have the paint from the board still sticking fast on them. Others are all sparkling with the dried mucilage, which makes them look as if they had been sprinkled with sugar.
These little many-armed suckers give the plant a firm hold, while its head waves around until it touches some surface again, and again the pads lay hold for another upward stretch.
Fig. 5.—Pads through the Microscope.
There must be some curious arrangement by which plants, that can not feel and will as animals do, can move. They have no brains to think with, no nerves to feel with; it is strange to believe that they really do move with a reason. Mr. Darwin has examined the subject so closely that he has taken nearly six hundred good-sized pages to tell all he has found out about it. His ways of finding out are many. One method is this: he takes a small stiff bristle and glues it on the growing part of a shoot. By watching this shoot and comparing it with other shoots which had no bristle attached, he could not detect any difference in the movements. Above the little branch with the bristle attached he placed a piece of glass that had been smoked, so that the bristle, as it moved with the movement of the tip, would travel over the glass. He did not need to stand by and watch the branch; he could go away and attend to anything he chose, and when he came back there on the glass was a history of the travels the shoot had made, written by itself. He managed to hang up a sprouting bean or pea so that the root recorded its own movements in the same way. There were other ways which he used, all of them being ingenious, and requiring the greatest attention to get a correct map of their movements. He found that every plant in growing moved around as well as upward, but that some moved far more than others; the ones that grew tall and slender and needed support would send out shoots that swayed round in bigger and bigger circles until they could reach something to sustain themselves by, or else they would fall in helpless heaps on the ground.
Fig. 6.—Diagram of Straight and Curved Stems.
a, Stretched cells; b, crowded cells.
Mr. Darwin was not a man to be satisfied with finding that a thing is so. He never rested until he found just how it came about. I do not mean to say that he was the only man who studied these things, for there were many others who did; but he wrote about what he had studied in such a clear and simple and interesting way that anybody could understand him, and so people who don't pretend to be very wise in such matters read Mr. Darwin's account and nobody's else, and are apt to forget, though he is always careful to mention their names and what they have done, that any one else deserves any of the credit.
By closely studying the little cells of which the leaf or stem is made up, he found that when, for any reason, a plant needed to turn in a certain direction, the water in the stem rushed from the inner to the outer part of the curve, making the cells on the inner side of the stem a little smaller and those on the outer a little larger than usual. After a while the stretching of the outer cells makes them grow and stay larger (see in the figure how it must be, Fig. 6), and so the curve remains. You can not straighten a stem curved in this way without breaking it.
Every movement of stems and leaves comes from the movement of the water that fills their cells. But besides the water, there is something else just as important, and that is the sun. The water is only a servant, which obeys the light as its master. Many flowers turn their bright faces always to the light. They follow the sun as he moves through the heavens all the day long from his rising to his setting. This comes from the effect the sun has on the water in the stem, and not because the flower is beginning to "take notice," as the baby's bright eyes do of a lamp when it is moved about a room, though it does remind one of it.
The movement of climbing plants is only one of many curious movements that are made by stems and roots and leaves and flowers, though the cause is the same in all cases.
[PLAYING CIRCUS.]
BY JIMMY BROWN.
The circus came through our town three weeks ago, and me and Tom McGinnis went to it. We didn't go together, for I went with father, and Tom helped the circus men water the horses, and they let him in for nothing. Father said that circuses were dreadfully demoralizing, unless they were mixed with wild animals, and that the reason why he took me to this particular circus was that there were elephants in it, and the elephant is a Scripture animal, Jimmy, and it can not help but improve your mind to see him. I agreed with father. If my mind had to be improved, I thought going to the circus would be a good way to do it.
We had just an elegant time. I rode on the elephant, but it wasn't much fun, for they wouldn't let me drive him. The trapeze was better than anything else, though the Central African Chariot Races and the Queen of the Arena, who rode on one foot, were gorgeous. The trapeze performances were done by the Patagonian Brothers, and you'd think every minute they were going to break their necks. Father said it was a most revolting sight and do sit down and keep still Jimmy or I can't see what's going on. I think father had a pretty good time, and improved his mind a good deal, for he was just as nice as he could be, and gave me a whole pint of pea-nuts.
Mr. Travers says that the Patagonian Brothers live on their trapezes, and never come down to the ground except when a performance is going to begin. They hook their legs around it at night, and sleep hanging with their heads down, just like the bats, and they take their meals and study their lessons sitting on the bar, without anything to lean against. I don't believe it; for how could they get their food brought up to them? and it's ridiculous to suppose that they have to study lessons. It grieves me very much to say so, but I am beginning to think that Mr. Travers doesn't always tell the truth. What did he mean by telling Sue the other night that he loved cats, and that her cat was perfectly beautiful, and then when she went into the other room he slung the cat out of the window, clear over into the asparagus bed, and said get out you brute? We can not be too careful about always telling the truth, and never doing anything wrong.
Tom and I talked about the circus all the next day, and we agreed we'd have a circus of our own, and travel all over the country, and make heaps of money. We said we wouldn't let any of the other boys belong to it, but we would do everything ourselves, except the elephants. So we began to practice in Mr. McGinnis's barn every afternoon after school. I was the Queen of the Arena, and dressed up in one of Sue's skirts, and won't she be mad when she finds that I cut the bottom off of it!—only I certainly meant to get her a new one with the very first money I made. I wore an old umbrella under the skirt, which made it stick out beautifully, and I know I should have looked splendid standing on Mr. McGinnis's old horse, only he was so slippery that I couldn't stand on him without falling off and sticking all the umbrella ribs into me.
Tom and I were the Madagascar Brothers, and we were going to do everything that the Patagonian Brothers did. We practiced standing on each other's head hours at a time, and I did it pretty well, only Tom he slipped once when he was standing on my head, and sat down on it so hard that I don't much believe that my hair will ever grow any more.
THE TRAPEZE PERFORMANCE.
The barn floor was most too hard to practice on, so last Saturday Tom said we'd go into the parlor, where there was a soft carpet, and we'd put some pillows on the floor besides. All Tom's folks had gone out, and there wasn't anybody in the house except the girl in the kitchen. So we went into the parlor, and put about a dozen pillows and a feather-bed on the floor. It was elegant fun turning somersaults backward from the top of the table; but I say it ought to be spelled summersets, though Sue says the other way is right.
We tried balancing things on our feet while we laid on our backs on the floor. Tom balanced the musical box for ever so long before it fell; but I don't think it was hurt much, for nothing except two or three little wheels were smashed. And I balanced the water pitcher, and I shouldn't have broken it if Tom hadn't spoken to me at the wrong minute.
We were getting tired, when I thought how nice it would be to do the trapeze performance on the chandeliers. There was one in the front parlor and one in the back parlor, and I meant to swing on one of them, and let go and catch the other. I swung beautifully on the front-parlor chandelier, when, just as I was going to let go of it, down it came with an awful crash, and that parlor was just filled with broken glass, and the gas began to smell dreadfully.
As it was about supper-time, and Tom's folks were expected home, I thought I would say good-by to Tom, and not practice any more that day. So we shut the parlor doors, and I went home, wondering what would become of Tom, and whether I had done altogether right in practicing with him in his parlor. There was an awful smell of gas in the house that night, and when Mr. McGinnis opened the parlor door he found what was the matter. He found the cat too. She was lying on the floor, just as dead as she could be.
I'm going to see Mr. McGinnis to-day and tell him I broke the chandelier. I suppose he will tell father, and then I shall wish that everybody had never been born; but I did break that chandelier, though I didn't mean to, and I've got to tell about it.
[CHILDREN'S CHURCH.]
BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.
The church-bells for service are ringing,
The parents gone forth on their way,
And here on the door-step are sitting
Three golden-haired children at play.
The darlings, untiring and restless,
Are still for the service too small;
But yet they would fain be as pious
As parents and uncles and all.
So each from a hymn-book is singing—
'Tis held upside down, it is true;
Their sweet roguish voices are ringing
As if every number they knew.
But what they are singing they know not;
Each sings in a different tone.
Sing on, little children; your voices
Will reach to the Heavenly Throne;
For yonder your angels are standing,
Who sing to the Father of all;
He loves best the sound of His praises
From children, though ever so small.
Sing on! How the birds in the garden
Are vying with you in your song,
As, hopping among the young branches,
They twitter on all the day long!
Sing on! For in faith ye are singing,
And that is enough in God's sight:
A heart like the dove's, pure and guileless,
Wings early to heaven its flight.
Sing ever! We elders sing also;
We read, and the words understand;
Yet oft, too, alas! we are holding
Our books upside down in the hand.
Sing ever! We sing, as is fitting,
From notes written carefully down;
But ah! from the strife of the brethren
How often has harmony flown!
Sing on! From our lofty cathedrals
What melodies glorious we hear!
What are they?—a sweet childish lisping,
A breath in the Mighty One's ear.
[BITS OF ADVICE.]
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
HOW TO MANAGE THE LITTLE ONES.
"I wouldn't mind being left to take care of the little ones," said Fannie the other day, "if they would only mind me. But when mamma is away they think they may do as they please, and they behave like little witches."
"Mollie manages the nursery splendidly," said Kittie; "the children are quite angelic under her, but I have not her magic. I seem to stir up the naughtiness, and the more I tell them to be good, the worse they act."
Now, Fannie and Kittie and other worried elder sisters, let me tell you the trouble with your management. When you can find the key to a problem in arithmetic, the rest is easy work.
I think I can whisper in your ear the name of a certain key to your home problem, when the small brothers and sisters say, as they sometimes do, "You are not my mamma, you are only Fannie; I want to make a noise, and you must not bother me."
The key is a word of four letters—tact. It is a golden key, and is warranted to fit any lock. You can not get along very well in life without it. I am very sure that Mollie possesses this shining key.
You remember what a time you had with Willie, who was determined to have Rosie's French doll as the passenger in his train of cars. Those cars rush around the parlor at so rapid a rate that everything must get out of their way or be crushed. Rosie was in great distress lest her pet's head should be broken, but Willie shouted, blew his whistle, and started his train just as usual. You snatched the doll away, and put her in the closet, high out of reach of both children, saying, "When you two can play without quarrelling, you shall have the doll again, and not until then." Of course Willie stamped his feet, and Rosie screamed, and there was a tempest.
You might have managed your little folks, had you only known how, so that they would have been as obedient as well-trained soldiers, and as peaceable as two doves in a nest.
I would have said, in your place: "Oh, Willie, what a nice train of cars you have there, and what a good conductor you are! Is Cécile your passenger? Oh no, I see she is not dressed for a journey. She has on an evening dress. Here is Laura"—producing an older and less important doll—"and she really needs a change of air. I'll slip on her Ulster in a second, and she will be all ready. She's pining for the country. Here, Rosie, you may take care of Cécile."
Both children would have been satisfied had you spoken to them in this way, and the hour would not have been spoiled by crying and fretting.
In managing little ones, when you are not possessed of any real authority, you must use a great deal of judgment. Humor the children by entering into their plays. They "make believe" a great deal. You must "make believe" too.
Many wee people can be led along by gentle words and merry looks, when they can not be driven without very great trouble. If Susie has a handsome book which you fear she will spoil, do not hurt her self-respect by taking it suddenly from her, but bring a scrap-book, and divert her attention to that. Then she will resign the other very pleasantly.
Elder sisters and brothers should never be above coaxing the little ones.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]
BY W. L. ALDEN,
Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc.