| vol. iii.—no. 156. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday October 24, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
"WAIT A FEW MINUTES, PUSSY."
[CARBO: HIS STORY.]
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
One raw, disagreeable night last spring I was set down by a local train at a little junction on a Western railroad to wait for the eastward-bound express. The dépôt house was a little place lighted by an oil lamp which gave out a choking smell, and heated by a big stove that devoured every breath of fresh air that found its way into the close room.
Turning away from it, I began pacing the platform in order to keep warm, and had passed an engine that was taking a rest on a side track, but panting heavily all the time, when, as I came back, I thought I saw a queer little face at the window of the cab. I stopped, and the queer little face again showed itself. It was, without doubt, a monkey. As I stopped and made signs to him he began to chatter and to rap on the glass with his fingers, and the next moment the engineer's face appeared above his.
"You have a strange passenger there," said I.
"Well, yes, p'r'aps so," replied the engineer, and he picked up a lighted lantern and threw the light upon my face. "Yes, it may seem queer to strangers," he went on, "but it's natural to me now. We've travelled many a hundred miles together. Eh, Carbo?" addressing his companion.
"I think there must be a story connected with that monkey," I said. "Would you mind telling it to me if there is?"
"Are you waiting for the express?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, come up into the cab. It's warm in here. Carbo, you selfish rascal, give up that seat to the stranger. There, there, I know you're fond of me," he added, "but you needn't keep on kissing me.
"Well, sir, it's wonderful the intelligence of these monkeys. When I first knew Carbo he was in the coal business, and that's why I call him Carbo. Yes, you may laugh, but it's a fact. He had a coal-yard right at the dépôt at K——, a little junction where every train but two expresses a day has to stop. He wasn't the proprietor of that yard. He was a salaried employé, like what merchants call a 'buyer.' He bought the coal, and the chap that owned the yard sold it again at a big profit—at least I guess he must have sold some of it."
"And pray what sort of money did Carbo pay for it?" I asked.
"Antics, sir," replied the engineer, disengaging Carbo's fingers from his beard, which the attentive little fellow was carefully combing; "antics, sir, and pranks. This was the how of it: Carbo lived, as I say, with a man that owned a little house and yard right where the engines mostly stopped at K—— Junction. Coal was dear that winter, and so this man lighted on a dodge to make Carbo keep him in coal free of all expense.
"He set up a pole, in the middle of his yard, twenty feet high, and on top of it he set a little platform with a little roof over it, and on that platform he tied this here monkey. Well, sir, that man knew human nature well, for he reckoned that not an engine would stop there but the engineer and his mate would have a shot with a chunk of coal at that chattering monkey on the pole, and every chunk would fall into his yard. And I guess the old man—he wasn't so old either, but he was a dry kind of a chap as always had a sly grin on his face, as if he was chuckling at the way we boys slinged good coal into his yard—I guess he reckoned aright. Many's the time when I've chucked half a dozen lumps of coal at this little chap, never thinking how I was a-feeding the old man's stove with the company's coal. I reckon Carbo must have made as much as two hundred-weight of coal a week. It seems a heap to give away, but, bless you! I never guessed that any other engineer but me ever threw coal at that monkey. But I thought a good deal of it afterward, and I made up my mind that every one of 'em did, and their mates too—such is human nature. Not that we wanted to hurt the little beast, but he was such a good mark, though I never heard that any one ever hit him, he was so quick."
"Well, sir," I said, as the engineer paused to light his pipe, "that is the best true monkey story I've heard yet, and I guess it is true. But how did you come to get him? I should think he would have been too valuable to be parted with."
"There's a story to that, too, Colonel," he replied. "It was a year ago, just about this time, that the family that Carbo lived with got burned out one windy night. P'r'aps they'd been using coal too free, seeing as they came by it so easy. Anyway, I came up one morning on my engine, and there the little house and the cow-shed and the little corn-crib was all a heap of smoking ashes. It had caught fire in the night, and burned down in twenty minutes, so the neighbors said. The poor old man was so badly burned trying to get his cow out of the shed that he died inside of two days; and his wife and daughters escaped in their night clothes, but that was all they had. The neighbors took them in, but everything they owned, except a few acres of run-down land, was burned up.
"Of course it got talked of along the line, and by-and-by it came out that every engineer and fireman as come along had chucked chunks of coal at that monkey on his pole. Well, the agent at K—— was a kind-hearted chap, and no fool either, and he thought he'd get up a benefit to help the poor old woman. So he had a handbill printed, telling how the family had been burned out, and the old man killed, and how that all they had left was a pet monkey. Then it went on to say that the monkey would be raffled for at two dollars a share, and called upon every engineer and fireman who had thrown the company's coal at the monkey to take a share for the benefit of the widow and orphans.
"Well, sir, that handbill was circulated all along the line, and the boys came to think how they'd been throwing away the company's coal (for the neighbors told the whole story when the old man was dead), and they felt mean. Then the company refused to take any shares when it was brought to their notice, so the boys thought they'd make it right with their consciences by buying a share with what they owed the company for coal they'd thrown at the monkey.
"And so, as every train came up after pay-day, the boys handed in two dollars apiece without a growl, and some of us took two shares apiece. Then the handbill had got into the cars, and some of the passengers who read the story bought shares; and so, when it came to be footed up, the value of this little chap here was found to be five hundred dollars, all paid up.
"Well, sir, we appointed a committee to conduct the raffle, and one night I got a dispatch from Perkins, the dépôt agent at K——, saying: 'Monkey is yours. Will you take twenty dollars for him?' I wired back: 'No, nor two hundred. Keep him until I come up with No. 12.' So next day I got him. You see, I'd been thinking a deal about this monkey, and now I'd won him I thought he'd keep me in luck. Well, I've had him nigh on to a year now, and I wouldn't part with him for as much money as he brought the widow."
"I don't wonder at that," I said; "and he seems very fond of you, too. But what became of the widow and orphans?"
"Oh, she's done finely. She bought out a small grocery, and she got so well known, owing to her misfortune, that all the folks came to trade with her. I drop in on her sometimes when I have to lay over for an hour or two, and she always asks after Jocko, as she calls him; but it's such a common monkey name that I called him Carbo, which means something; and then she mostly cries a little, thinking of the old man. I don't know as she thinks Carbo brought her much luck altogether, but he kept the family in coal for a whole winter—no one would ever have thought of throwing at a dog, even on top of a pole—and he brought five hundred dollars that saved 'em from the poor-house.
"But here's the express signaled, so I guess you'd better get down. I've told that story a hundred times, I reckon, and I'm 'most tired of telling it; but I saw you was a stranger in these parts, so I didn't mind telling it to you. Good-night to you, sir, and a pleasant journey!"
[A ROLL OF HONOR.]
BY G. T. LANIGAN.
Our young readers are already familiar with the stories of Kate Shelley, Edith Baxter, and the young hero of the Wardley coal mine, which have been told within a short time in Young People. Here are some other names that may be added to this noble list.
Every year, on the occasion of the national fêtes, the Belgian government makes a public distribution of rewards to persons who have displayed remarkable courage in a good cause. At the last festival at Brussels the Home Minister pinned a medal on the breast of a little boy of nine, whom he rightly called "a young hero." Genin, while playing in a field near the Sambre, had seen a little girl fall into the river, and jumping in after her, saved her, with much difficulty, and then found that it was his little sister that he had rescued. She had been playing on the river's edge against their parents' strict command, and to save her from punishment he took the blame of her disobedience on himself, and received a severe beating like a little Spartan. His sister, however, could not bear to see him suffer, and told the truth; and the story being confirmed by the evidence of an eye-witness, little Genin was sent for to Brussels, and decorated amid the cheers of a hundred thousand people.
Charles Mahony was a boy of twelve, who was playing on the banks of the Aire, in May last, with his two brothers, aged five and two, when they fell into the stream, swollen with the spring floods. Charles plunged in and brought the younger child to shore, and then swam for the elder one, who was drowning in the middle of the torrent, but the current was too powerful and the water too cold, and though he reached him, it was only to sink with him.
At Ashton-under-Lyne, Edward Wilcox, a peasant boy of fourteen, heard one night not long ago cries of distress from a canal near the house where he lived, and running out found a woman drowning, while two men were looking on, terrified and incapable of aiding her. Jumping into the water, he seized her as she was sinking, and brought her ashore and placed her in the warm bed he had just left, until he could run off for assistance. He thus earned the medal given him by the Humane Society.
During the holiday season two American girls have shown how useful an accomplishment swimming is. One was Fannie Coman, of Harlem, a slim blue-eyed girl of fourteen, who, when a little girl fell from the wharf into the river where both current and tide were strong, called to those on shore to come to her help, and diving into the stream, brought the child up and placed her in a boat moored off the wharf, and then swam off to recover her slipper. The second was Emma Hamilton, a girl of fifteen, living at Northport, Long Island, who made a gallant though fruitless effort to save her cousin when he was seized with a cramp while bathing, and at last recovered his body.
Two other heroes, the youngest of all, remain to be mentioned. One was a five-year-old boy at Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, named Carey, who, when a playmate fell into the water, held him up by the hair till assistance reached them. The other was the elder of two very young brothers who broke through the ice while skating at Cincinnati, and were clinging desperately to the slippery floes while the rescuers were toiling to reach them. "Be sure you take Willie out first!" were the only words the elder brother said; but before assistance came the little fellows sank together in the icy water.
These are the stories of brave boys and girls, the youngest five, the eldest only fifteen, born some in Europe and some in America, some city bred and delicately reared, others the children of farmers and rude laborers. Upon each devolved, without an instant's warning, the most sacred and awful of responsibilities—the saving of the lives of others at the risk of one's own life. In not one case did childhood falter, and in every instance the bravest thing was done in the wisest way.
Some of the children, doubtless, had read and admired the histories of patriots and brave soldiers, and had wondered whether such heroes lived nowadays, or such heroic deeds could ever again be done. And when the need came the hero was found, and the hero was the child that had read and wondered.
[THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.]
BY MARGARET SANGSTER.
"Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird?
And why do you hurry away?
Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred,
In the sweet golden sunshine to-day."
"I know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright,
And the leaves are asleep on the tree,
But three times the dream of a cold winter's night
Has come to my children and me.
"So good-by to you, darling, for off we must go,
To the land where the oranges bloom,
For we birdies would freeze in the storms and the snow,
And forget how to sing in the gloom."
"Will you ever come back to your own little nest?"
"Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here,
We'll return to the orchard we all love the best,
And then we will sing to you, dear."
[PIANO-PLAYING IN THE TIME OF MOZART AND BEETHOVEN.]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
I hope that some of my readers will remember the history of the piano-forte in a former number of Young People. Since then we have looked somewhat into the lives of great composers. Now let us see to what degree piano-forte playing had progressed when Mozart died, in 1792, and when the great master Ludwig von Beethoven was a young man just entering on his career of work.
To begin with, let us look at the pianos of that day. Although the harpsichord had been greatly improved upon, the keys and strings yet needed something to aid elasticity of touch. In Bach's day it had been the custom to strike the key, drawing the fingers inward slightly, and a suppleness of wrist, which masters think so much of at present, was not considered valuable. But with Haydn and Mozart came a need of something finer in the piano-forte itself, and musicians felt strongly the necessity of an improvement in the instrument whereby they could make more gradual effects. Many efforts to alter the strings and hammers for this purpose proved unsuccessful, but at last the main difficulties were overcome, and before Beethoven's death, in 1827, pianos of various degrees of excellence were in use, with all the desired improvements. To this more than to anything else we owe the improvement in piano-forte playing.
LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN.
At concerts during this period the piano was largely used, and also in private houses; but lessons from the best masters were rare, and, unless the pupil designed to pursue a musical career, few except the leading people of society studied piano-forte music. In general, the interest in it was not great. Poor Beethoven used often to writhe under what he considered personal slights. A story is told of his once being at the house of Prince —— with Ries, the famous musician. They were invited to play together, and while in the midst of their performance a young nobleman at the lower end of the salon talked quite loudly with his companion. Beethoven glared at him once or twice in vain, and finally lifting Ries's hands from the piano, he called out, "Stop! I will not play for such dogs!" and away he went in spite of every attempt to an apology.
Such interruptions to music in a drawing-room occur often enough now, but in the beginning of this century, as I said, piano-forte performances were confined to a much smaller number, and naturally appreciation was not general. On the other hand, if a child showed any ability, it was kept very closely to study. Mozart had pupils who thought nothing of five hours' practice a day, and Beethoven, when a boy, was kept to the piano for hours by means of a good beating every time he left it.
The misery of a musical career at that time was certainly lack of general understanding of the art. Musicians had to procure for themselves noble patrons—rich ladies or gentlemen who would help them on in their divine art, patronize their concerts, get pensions for them, or in some cases offer them homes where they might work unmolested by debt and other domestic trouble. In this way Beethoven lived a great part of the time at the house of Princess Lichnowsky in Vienna. Mozart was also indebted to some friends for hospitality and influence, and indeed where the public were so often unappreciative, private patronage had to be sought for, in order that the world might have many of the noble harmonies we possess to-day.
In those days the famous composers or musicians were the only teachers, so that any young student who cared for his work had admirable opportunity to improve. Mozart gave lessons of great length, and seems to have enjoyed them heartily. Haydn had many pupils, one of whom was Beethoven, and we read that he paid Haydn eighteen cents a lesson!
During that period which includes the last years of Mozart's life and the first of Beethoven's, between 1780 and 1792, the way was being laid for Beethoven's grandest work, and yet we can hardly call it a transition state; that is to say, a period of time when any art is undergoing a change which shall effect its whole purpose. But with Beethoven came the perfection of the Sonata and the Symphony, and all performers, whether in public or private, who attempted his works, were compelled to understand technique and the use of their fingers on the keyboard, so that we may say, justly enough, that with Beethoven we seem almost to begin a new era in piano-forte music.
I have told you the step upward old Bach made; then Haydn went still further, preparing the way for Beethoven's perfect work. Mozart's brilliancy and delicacy both as a performer and a composer helped the movement on in every way, and during the first quarter of this century a number of men came into fame as masters in execution and composition as well. Indeed, with the beginning of this century piano-playing had reached a period of excellence which allowed a master to indulge all his feelings and ideas in composing for this instrument.
In 1787, Beethoven, then a lad of about seventeen, visited Mozart in Vienna. It was about the time that Don Giovanni was being produced, and Mozart's mind was full of its importance, so that the visit seemed of much less consequence to him than to Beethoven. The latter seated himself at the piano, Mozart standing by waiting good-humoredly for one of the usual performances of "prodigies" whose parents destine them for the public. But the lad played so brilliantly that Mozart could not but believe that he was executing a well-prepared piece. Beethoven felt this, and eagerly begged Mozart to give him a theme and let him vary upon it.
To this Mozart consented, and presently the room seemed to vibrate with the rush of harmony beneath Beethoven's touch. Mozart listened in silent admiration, and going softly upon tiptoe into the next room, said to some friends assembled there:
"Pay attention to him. He will make a noise in the world some day or other"[1]—a prophecy soon fulfilled.
Beethoven's touch was strong and masterly, but rather heavy, and as his deafness increased, his performances on the piano were almost painful to listen to. His left hand often remained unconsciously on the wrong chord. Mozart never lost the brilliancy of his playing. Haydn, it is said, made the piano "sing," but to the musicians who followed Beethoven we owe the perfection of piano-forte playing and instruction. Moscheles, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and others realized the highest art in execution. Not very long ago a lady was recounting to me scenes in which, according to her description, Mendelssohn and Moscheles performed actual marvels at the piano, the delicacy and lightness of both their styles reminding her "of a forest full of delicious birds."
In the period of which I speak now—that is, the beginning of this century—you will remember how little public appreciation of art existed, and how hard the greatest men toiled for all they obtained. But love of art is powerful. It will carry any one of you over the roughest places, and in looking at your well-arranged exercises, try to remember those patient, eager students of eighty years ago, to whom every bit of help came so slowly that we of to-day ought to think our pathway cleared of every thorn.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[2]
BY W. L. ALDEN,
Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc.