Chapter XI.
It sometimes blows very hard on the St. Lawrence. It blew especially hard the morning the young canoeists returned to the banks of the great river from their excursion up the Jacques Cartier. As far as they could see, the St. Lawrence was covered with white-caps. The wind blew directly up the river, and a heavy sea was breaking on the little island which lay opposite the mouth of the Jacques Cartier. Paddling against such a wind and sea would have been nearly impossible, and the boys resolved to wait until the wind should go down.
The day was a long one, for there was nothing to do but to watch the men at work in the saw-mill, and to look out on the river to see if the wind and sea had gone down. It continued to blow hard all day and all night, and when Harry awoke his comrades at five o'clock the next morning it was blowing as hard as ever.
Nobody wanted to spend another day at the saw-mill. Although the wind was blowing up the river, the tide was ebbing, and would help the canoes to make some little progress, in spite of the wind and sea. So after a hurried breakfast the fleet got under way at six o'clock, and gallantly breasted the waves.
The boys found that paddling against so strong a head-wind was harder than they had imagined that it could be. It was almost impossible to force the upper blade of the paddle through the air when trying to make a stroke, and it was only by turning the two paddle-blades at right angles to one another, so that the upper blade would present its edge to the wind, that this could be done. The seas were so large that the two canoes which were leading would often be entirely invisible to the other canoes, though they were but a few yards apart. The Twilight, as was her habit when driven against head-seas, threw spray all over herself, and the Dawn exhibited her old vice of trying to dive through the seas. The other canoes were dry enough, but they presented more resistance to the wind, and hence were harder to paddle.
Little was said during the first half-hour, for everybody was working too hard at the paddle to have any breath to spare for talking; but finally Harry, who was in the advance with Charley, slackened his stroke, and hailing Joe and Tom, asked them how they were getting along.
"Wet as usual," replied Joe. "The water is pretty near up to my waist in the canoe, and two waves out of three wash right over her. But I don't care; I'll paddle as long as anybody else will."
"My canoe will float, unless the bladders burst," said Tom, "but I'll have to stop and bail out before long, or she'll be so heavy that I can't stir her."
"Never mind," cried Joe. "Look at the splendid time we're making. We've come nearly a quarter of a mile, and that means that we're paddling at the rate of half a mile an hour. At this rate we'll get somewhere in the course of the summer."
"There isn't any use in tiring ourselves out for nothing," exclaimed Harry. "Boys, we'll make that sand-spit right ahead of us, and wait there till the wind goes down."
"All right," said Joe. "Only it's a pity to go ashore when the tide is helping us along so beautifully. That is, the Commodore said it would help us, and of course he is right."
"No reflections on the Commodore will be allowed," cried Harry. "Bail out your canoes, you two fellows, and Charley and I will wait for you."
Joe was very anxious to go ashore and rest, for he was nearly tired out; but he was not willing to let Harry know that he was tired. The two boys had been disputing while on the Jacques Cartier as to their respective strength, and Harry had boasted that he could endure twice as much fatigue as Joe. This was true enough, for Harry was older and much more muscular, but Joe was determined to paddle as long as he could swing his arms rather than admit that he was the weaker.
The sandy spit where Harry proposed to rest was half a mile farther on, but before it was reached poor Joe managed to sprain the muscles of his left wrist. He was compelled to stop paddling except just hard enough to keep the Dawn's head to the sea, and to call out to the Commodore that he must be allowed to go ashore at once.
Now the north shore of the river, near which the canoes were paddling, was a rocky precipice, rising perpendicularly directly from the water, and at least two hundred feet high. To land on such a shore was of course impossible, and the sandy spit toward which the fleet was paddling was the only possible landing-place within sight, unless the canoes were to turn round and run back to the Jacques Cartier.
In this state of things Harry, after consulting with Charley and Tom, resolved to tow the Dawn. Her painter was made fast to the stern-post of the Sunshine, and Harry, bracing his feet and setting his teeth tight together, began the task of forcing two heavy canoes through the rough water. He found that he could make progress slowly, but Joe could not steer the Dawn except by paddling, and as he was able to do very little of that, she kept yawing about in a most unpleasant way, which greatly added to Harry's labor.
Suddenly Joe had a happy thought: he set his "dandy" and hauled the sheet taut, so that the boom was parallel with the keel. The effect of this was that whenever the canoe's head fell off, the sail filled and brought her up again. Joe was relieved of the task of steering, and Harry was able to tow the Dawn much more easily than before.
The other canoeists followed Joe's example, and, setting their "dandies," greatly lessened their labor. The canoes kept their heads to the wind of their own accord, and everybody wondered why so obvious a method of fighting a head-wind had not sooner been thought of.
It was eight o'clock when the sandy spit was reached. The tide had been ebbing for some hours, and the sand was warm and dry, except near the edge of the water. The canoes were hauled some distance over the sand to a spot where there was a clump of bushes, and where it was reasonable to suppose that they would be perfectly safe even at high tide. A second breakfast was then cooked and eaten, after which the boys set out to explore their camping-ground.
It was simply a low sand-bank, about a hundred feet wide at widest part, and running out two or three hundred feet into the river. As has been said, the north bank of the river was a perpendicular precipice, but now that the tide was out, there was a path at the foot of the rocks by means of which any one could walk from the sand-spit to a ravine a quarter of a mile away, and thus reach the meadows lying back of the precipice. This path was covered with water at high tide; but as it was sure to be passable for three or four hours, Harry and Tom set out to procure provisions for the day.
The fleet was wind-bound all that day, for neither the wind nor the sea showed the slightest intention of going down. Harry and Tom returned, after an hour's absence, with bread, butter, eggs, milk, and strawberries, and with the cheerful information that, in the opinion of a gloomy farmer, the wind would continue to blow for at least two days more.
After resting and sleeping on the soft sand, the boys began to find the time hang heavily on their hands. They overhauled their sails and rigging, putting them in complete order. Charley mended a pair of trousers belonging to Joe in a really artistic way, and Joe, with his left arm in a sling, played "mumble-te-peg" with Harry. Tom collected fire-wood, and when he had got together more than enough to cook two or three meals, occupied himself by trying to roll a heavy log into a position near the canoes, where it could be used as a seat or a table.
The sand was strewn with logs, big and little, and Harry proposed that as many logs as possible should be got together, so that an enormous camp fire could be started. It was a happy idea, for it gave the boys employment for the greater part of the day. It became a matter of pride with them to bring the biggest and heaviest of the logs up to the fire-place. Some of them could only be stirred with levers, and moved with the help of rollers cut from smaller logs. Whenever a particularly big log was successfully moved, the boys were encouraged to attack a still bigger one. Thus they finally collected an amount of fire-wood sufficient to make a blaze bright enough to be seen a dozen miles at night.
When they were tired of rolling logs, Tom went fishing, but caught nothing, while Charley cooked the dinner and watched the rising tide, half afraid that the water would reach the fire and put it out before he could get dinner ready. The tide rose so high that it came within two or three yards of the fire, and almost as near to the canoes, but it spared the dinner. When the tide was nearly full, only a small part of the sand-spit was out of water, and the path along the foot of the precipice was completely covered, so that the waves broke directly against the rocks.
AROUND THE CAMP FIRE.
"It's lucky for us that the tide doesn't cover the whole of this place," remarked Charley, as he placed the dinner on a large log which served as a table, and beat a tattoo on the frying-pan as a signal to Tom to give up fishing and come to dinner. "I should hate to have to take to the canoes again in this wind."
"It's lucky that the tide will ebb again," said Harry, "for we're cut off from the shore as the tide is now, unless we could climb up the rocks, and I don't believe we could."
"It's all right," said Tom, putting his fishing-tackle in his canoe, "provided the tide doesn't come up in the night and float the canoes off."
"Oh, that can't happen," exclaimed Harry. "The tide's turned already, and doesn't reach the canoes."
"I'm going to sleep on the sand," remarked Joe. "It's softer than the bottom of my canoe, and there isn't any sign of rain."
"You don't catch me sleeping anywhere except in my canoe," said Harry. "There isn't any bed more comfortable than the Sunshine."
"Can you turn over in her at night?" asked Joe.
"Well, yes; that is, if I do it very slow and easy."
"The bottom board is a nice soft piece of wood, isn't it?" continued Joe.
"It's pine-wood," replied Harry, shortly. "Besides, I sleep on cushions."
"And you like to lie stretched out perfectly straight, don't you?"
"I like it well enough—much better than I like to see a young officer trying to chaff his Commodore," returned Harry, trying to look very stern.
"Oh, I'm not trying to chaff anybody!" exclaimed Joe. "I was only wondering if your canoe was as comfortable as a coffin would be, and I believe it is—every bit as comfortable."
When the time came for "turning in," Joe spread his water-proof blanket on the sand close by the side of his canoe. He had dragged her several yards away from the rest of the fleet, so as to be able to make his bed on the highest and driest part of the sand, and to shelter himself from the wind by lying in the lee of his boat. The other boys preferred to sleep in their canoes, which were placed side by side and close together. The blazing logs made the camp almost as light as if the sun were shining, and the boys lay awake a long while talking together, and hoping that the wind would die out before morning.
Joe, whose sprained wrist pained him a little, was the last to fall asleep. While he had expressed no fears about the tide (for he did not wish to be thought nervous), he was a little uneasy about it. He had noticed that when the tide rose during the day it would have completely covered the sand-spit had it risen only a few inches higher. Long after his comrades had fallen asleep it occurred to Joe that it would have been a wise precaution to make the canoes fast to the bushes, so that they could not be carried away; but he did not venture to wake the boys merely in order to give them advice which they probably would not accept. So he kept silent, and toward ten o'clock fell asleep.
In the course of the night he began to dream. He thought that he was a member of an expedition trying to reach the North Pole in canoes, and that he was sleeping on the ice. He felt that his feet and back were slowly freezing, and that a polar-bear was nudging him in the ribs occasionally, to see if he was alive and ready to be eaten. This was such an uncomfortable situation that Joe woke up, and for a few moments could not understand where he was.
The wind had gone down, the stars had come out, and the tide had come up. Joe was lying in a shallow pool of water, and his canoe, which was almost afloat, was gently rubbing against him. He sprung up and called to his companions. There was no answer. The fire was out, but by the starlight Joe could see that the whole sand-spit was covered with water, and that neither the other boys nor their canoes were in sight. The tide was still rising, and Joe's canoe was beginning to float away, when he seized her, threw his blankets into her, and stepping aboard, sat down, and was gently floated away.
[to be continued.]
[SOME HINTS ON DOG TEACHING.]
BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.
Any reader of the Young People who owns a dog, and who truly appreciates that animal's best qualities, should not suppose that the great end in educating his pet is getting him so familiar with half a dozen "tricks" that he will meekly perform them to the end of his life. Tricks are well enough as far as they go, but the grand object in teaching Towser or Jack should be the development in him of just as much general wide-awakeness and intelligence as is possible. One does not want by his chair in the winter, or on a summer-day's stroll a French performing poodle. He wants an affectionate, obedient, honest comrade—a comrade occasionally a servant, but always a friend.
This platform being adopted by Jack's master, let Jack himself from the first moment that he is taken in hand be made to feel two things. First, that the teaching is thoroughly a business that you and he are together interested in, and that its processes are all good fun and frolic, not work; secondly, that it is an affair of rewards and punishments. Jack's teaching must also be carried on with great regularity from day to day, and during only a few minutes of each day; no more. That Jack's teacher must be patient and good-tempered at his task, and that he must try to bring to it all the tact he possesses, need scarcely be said.
Let us suppose that one of the readers of the Young People has bought or has had given him a puppy of any species whatsoever—one need not here go into the much-vexed question of the relative intelligence of different breeds. Any dog, even if it be a "cur of low degree," is capable of high education, provided his schooling is begun early enough. You may begin to teach your puppy just as soon as you notice that he is running about freely and playing either by himself or with his kennel kin. Do not try to teach him earlier. If he be of the Newfoundland, the mastiff, or the St. Bernard species, his thirteenth week should mark the beginning of his education. Before this date you must content yourself with letting your pet see as much of you as possible each day. Permit him to scramble over you; feed him yourself; talk to him all that you can, so that he may early become entirely accustomed to the sound of your voice and his own name. When he is disposed to play, do you play with him.
The first direct step in his education should be to teach him, as a matter of duty, to come to you whenever called. As a matter of liking he has probably acquired this habit already. Take a dozen bits of cracker, stand fifteen or twenty feet distant, and call him by name, as "Come here, Jack." If he comes without delay, give him at once one of the pieces of cracker, pet him very enthusiastically, and make as much ado as possible over his arrival. Next walk off as before and repeat the process. If, however, he refuses to come after you have called him twice or thrice, say very decidedly, "Jack, if you do not come I shall whip you." Go up to him and administer one single cut with your whip. It is well to use one whip throughout all your dog's pupilage, to let him know by sight that particular whip, and also that the words "whip" and "whipping" refer to it.
After you have struck him once, go directly back to where you were standing, and call him as kindly as you can, holding out his reward. Now he may be afraid to come to you, recollecting the incident of a moment earlier. But he must never be whipped twice in succession. Go to him without anger in your face, pet him, play with him (I don't mean romp with him), until you see that his temporary dread of his master is gone, and that his spirits are recovered. Thereupon leave him, and try the cracker persuasion as before. He will probably come readily enough now. If not, you may this time use your whip; but recollect that while he is so young, his punishments should be alternated, as I have suggested, or you may do any high-spirited animal mischief without remedy.
When your dog is grown older, and has had time to develop actual stubbornness, the case is different. Be exceedingly careful not to cow the spirit of a young and high-bred dog when little past puppyhood by harsh words or chastisement. In fact, all dog teaching perfectly illustrates the old phrase that "love is better than lashes."
After being taught to come at call, Jack should be schooled to lie down on command. Stand beside him; put one hand on each side of his head gently but firmly, then say, very quietly and clearly, "Jack, lie down; lie down, Jack," at the same time, pressing steadily downward upon his head. He will perhaps somewhat reluctantly crouch and settle upon the ground. Place his fore-paws out in position before him, his nose lying between them; allow him to remain thus a few seconds, if necessary keeping your hands upon his head; follow this with a decisive "Get up, Jack," which act he will probably perform of his own accord. If not, put your hand gently under him, and raise him on all fours. Do not use your whip in teaching a dog to lie down or rise.
Let us suppose that Jack's fourth acquirement is to be the familiar one called "fetching and carrying." Speak the name of the article employed as distinctly and frequently as possible during the lesson. Show it to him in your hands, if, for example, it be a stick, a hat, or an umbrella, saying several times over, chattily, "That is a stick, Jack; see the stick." Open his mouth, and closing his jaw upon the stick, let him learn how to hold it. After this, walk along a little distance, he accompanying you with the stick. If he drops it, replace it. Be exceedingly patient as to this particular misdemeanor. Then throw the cane, stick, or hat to a point a few yards beyond. Go with Jack to it, telling him what you are about, pick it up, put it in his mouth gently, and return with him to the starting-place. Throw aside the article, reward and encourage. Repeat this process ten times in the morning and ten in the evening. The whip is not to be used in this lesson. When he is older, and exhibits laziness, you may refer to it or get it, and, with discretion, refresh his memory.
None of the foregoing first lessons must be repeated more than ten times of a morning or evening; you will perplex and confuse him otherwise. One must also be on guard for signs of this in the pet while teaching, and give him ever the idea that you are disposed to meet him halfway in such a difficulty.
Leaping over a cane, going to find and close an open door whence a draught assails you, letter-carrying, and all more elaborate acts are to be taught a dog on this same principle of talking about the feat to him, and going and doing it with him in the first instances, then dividing the matter between you, lastly seeing that he does it alone, rewarding and punishing throughout. See to it that punishment be one or two cuts with a whip, not too stinging, and that you drop the whip immediately they are given. Never teach with whip in hand.
"Speaking" is a matter entirely of rewards. The whip is useless. You can also readily get him to use a particular whimper when he is thirsty, with a little tact and pains. Be absolutely truthful with Jack. Never ask him if he wants to walk, to drink, to have his dinner, or anything of the sort, unless you intend gratifying him at once.
Try and keep him at your side as much as possible during the day, and talk to him—I had nearly said with him—all you can. Before long you will get to feeling that if you should happen to remark to any person near you, "What a beautiful day!" you would not fall over in astonishment to hear Jack or Carlo quietly lift up his great head, and reply, "Yes, splendid; and I should like to take a walk with you."
A FIRST GLIMPSE INTO THE WORLD.
[BESSY'S FAIRY GODMOTHER.]
BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.
Little Bessy believed in fairies, although her mother smiled and shook her head when she asked, "Did you ever see a fairy?"
At the time my story begins Bessy sat on the window-sill with a great book open on her knee, straining her eyes to catch the last words of the most delightful story she had ever read. It was all about fairy godmothers, shoes filled with gold, and other wonderful things to be found in such books.
As the light died out of the sky, and a soft purple mist settled down upon the hill-tops, she sighed, and closed her book, for the story was finished.
Bessy's father and mother were away from home, and she was alone that evening. The sound of voices and the rattling of dishes came from the kitchen. The crickets had begun their evening song; the lanes were growing dim and mysterious. Bessy could imagine a fairy head peeping from every tall flower by the garden gate, and the Queen of them all seemed to bow to her from the tall white lily in the pansy bed.
Bessy thought if ever fairy appeared to mortal child, it would be on such a night as this. And now, to crown all, just at the end of the lane appeared a light, moving backward and forward. First it would bob down, and then up quite high among the bushes.
At last Bessy could bear it no longer, and made up her mind to solve the mystery. So she stepped out of the window on the porch, and then, softly over the grass, for she was afraid Ann would hear her and call her back. She said to herself, "If it should be a fairy glow-worm lighting the fairies to their dancing ground, Ann would frighten them away, she is so big and heavy."
So down the path she went on tiptoe. Hardly daring to breathe, she pushed open the gate, and looked down the lane.
Bessy thought the light had disappeared. But by-and-by it came again, moving in the same strange manner. Although she trembled a great deal, she went bravely on. It was only a short lane leading to the main road, and shut in on one side by a large clump of trees. It was at the foot of one of these trees that the light seemed to be standing now.
At first Bessy crept softly on, keeping it in sight. How dark it had grown! The light shone from the bushes like a fallen star. When Bessy was within a few feet of the light, she was astonished to see a face peering out of the darkness, its eyes fixed on her with anything but a pleasant expression. The light went out, and Bessy, wishing she was safe at home, turned to scamper back, when a heavy hand was laid on her shoulder, and the light flashed in her face.
She now saw it was a lantern carried by a very small and disagreeable old woman dressed in black, and her head covered with a red handkerchief. In one hand she held the lantern, and under her arm was a crooked stick.
Now when Bessy saw the stick, she was sure it was a fairy godmother, for the old woman was exactly like the description of the fairy in her new book. The ugly black stick was her wand. So she whispered, timidly,
"Are you a fairy godmother?"
"A what?" growled the old woman.
"A fairy godmother," repeated Bessy.
"Oh, yes, yes; to be sure I'm a fairy. If you tell any one you saw me, I'll bring bad luck on your house."
"Please, please don't," sobbed Bessy. "I'll never, never tell any one."
"Well, shut up, then," said the fairy, "and don't make such a noise."
Bessy was not frightened now, for she remembered that fairy godmothers were always cross, and said hateful things just before they granted three wishes. So she said, softly,
"Will you please give me three wishes, madam?"
"I'll give you three slaps if you don't get out right off," grumbled the old fairy.
"Please, please," prayed Bessy. "I'll do anything you tell me if you will give me three wishes."
"I don't believe you. You ain't got spunk enough."
"Oh yes, I have," said Bessy. "Try me."
"Where do you live?" asked the fairy.
"Just down the lane, close by."
"You do, do you? I didn't see no house," said the fairy, in a startled voice.
"That's because mother and father are out, and there's no light in the front room," replied Bessy.
"Are you all alone?" asked the fairy.
"No," replied Bessy; "Ann and Lucy are at home."
"Who's them?"
"Mamma's two servants."
"Any men at the house?"
"Not now," answered Bessy. "Mother took Peter to drive. They'll be back soon, I think."
The old fairy turned out the light and sat down on the ground; then she pulled Bessy down by her, and put her hand on the little girl's shoulder. "Now remember," she began, "you promise never to tell nobody."
"I promise true and sure I never will, if you'll give me three wishes to-night."
But Bessy wondered if all fairies smelled so of tobacco.
"Will you do just what I tell you?" asked the fairy.
"Yes," said Bessy, nodding her head very hard, "I will."
"Let's hear your three wishes, then," growled the fairy.
"First, I want my shoes and papa's and mamma's filled with gold. Then I want an invisible cap for myself, and then—"
"Now stop," interrupted the old fairy; "you've had four a'ready."
"No," answered Bessy, "that's only two. Papa's and mamma's and my shoes filled with gold is one wish, you know."
"Well, go on."
"Let me see," pondered Bessy. "I guess you may give me happiness for the rest of my life, and that's all."
"All right," returned the fairy godmother, "you'll find them waiting for you at three in the morning, if you do what I tell you to."
"I'm ready," said Bessy.
"You just run home, and bring me the big key of the front door."
"But papa said I must not touch that. Besides, he would miss it, for he always locks the door himself, and hangs the key up by the hat stand."
"I sha'n't keep it," said the fairy. "I'll give it right back. You see, if I didn't know the size of the key-hole, I mightn't send a fairy small enough to go through."
"Oh!" said Bessy.
"Is the door fastened any other way?" asked the old fairy.
"Yes," said Bessy; "a big bolt at the bottom, but it's broken. Papa said he must send a man to fix it, but he didn't."
"All right. You run as fast as you can, and don't let any one see you, or the spell will be broken. Remember."
"I know," replied Bessy; and she sprang up and flew down the lane, through the gate, and up the steps. She could hear Ann and Lucy still talking and laughing in the kitchen, but no one seemed to be thinking of her; so she drew the key out softly, and ran back, thinking how delighted her father and mother would be in the morning. Bessy found the old fairy waiting in the same place.
"SHE SNATCHED THE KEY, AND SAID, 'I'LL BE BACK IN A MOMENT.'"
She snatched the key, and said, "I'll be back in a moment," and vanished into the darkness. Bessy was almost wild with excitement, but she kept as quiet as she could, and presently the fairy re-appeared.
Her first words astonished Bessy:
"Have you a dog?"
"Yes," answered Bessy, "but he's the best dog that ever lived. He never bites any but bad people, and his name is Watch."
"What do you do with him at night?"
"Why, we let him run around the garden to keep away thieves."
"You do, do you? That's right," said the old fairy. "You just give him this fairy meat; it will keep him from barking at the fairy I send, and scaring her away."
"Yes, Madam Fairy," returned Bessy; "I'll remember, and I'll put my shoes and papa's and mamma's all in a row by the door, and please tell your fairy servant to fill them up to the brim with gold. Remember."
"Good-by," said the old fairy, and when Bessy looked around she was alone. So she scampered back, and meeting Watch by the gate, whispered in his ear,
"Here is a piece of meat the fairy sent you. Now be a good dog, and don't bark when she comes to-night."
Watch took the meat, ate, and growled over it.
Bessy put the key back softly. Then feeling very lonely and excited, she crept softly around to the kitchen door for light and companionship. There stood Lucy kneading bread for breakfast, while Ann sat by the door knitting a long cotton stocking.
Bessy came close up to her and stood still, looking into the kitchen. With everything shining and clean, so cozy and comfortable, it was quite delightful after the mysterious lane, and the old fairy who smelled of tobacco.
"Why, you darling," said Ann, "I was just coming to look for you. Where have you been? You look as scared as a cat, and as wild as a witch. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," answered Bessy. "I wish mother would come. What time is it?"
"Half past eight," said Lucy, looking at the clock. "She'll be along soon now. Don't fret, and I'll give you a big piece of cake."
Bessy was as fond of cake as other little girls; so she sat down on the door-step to eat the cake, and listened for the wheels of the carriage.
At last they came, and Bessy flew down to meet her parents with delight, for she felt lonesome and queer.
Mamma called Ann to light the big lamp on the round table; then she looked at her little girl, sat down, and took her on her lap, saying:
"Well, what have you been doing, little one? You look tired and cold. Have you had your tea?"
How Bessy longed to tell them of the wonderful good luck in store for them! But she remembered her promise, and only answered:
"Yes, mamma. I am sleepy."
So mamma took a candle from the mantel-piece, and led Bessy to bed, undressed her, and listened to her little prayer, and tucked in the quilt; then she said:
"I'll be back for the light after I have had my supper. Shut your eyes, like a good girl, and go to sleep."
As soon as her mother left the room Bessy slid off of the bed and into the next room, which was her mother's, to hunt for two pairs of shoes. After some fumbling, she found a pair of slippers of her mother's and a large pair of boots of her father's. She put them in a row by the door, and then jumped into bed again.
It was not until after what seemed to Bessy a long, long time that she heard her father and mother come out of the dining-room. Then she heard papa say:
"Why, what's the matter with the key? I can't turn it." She heard the key taken out, and papa say again: "What is this in the key? It looks like wax."
After a little, she heard her father turn the key and hang it up on the hook. Pretty soon mamma came into Bessy's room. Bessy closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She felt mamma kiss her, and heard her close the door.
How long she slept she never knew; but suddenly she started up wide awake, to find the stars shining down on her through the window. Everything was as still as it could be. Bessy wondered if the fairies had come yet.
She stepped out of bed and across the room, and put her hand into the big boots. They were empty; so were her own little shoes and mamma's slippers.
"Well, they haven't come yet," she whispered.
She was about to return, when her attention was attracted by a flash of light in the hall. Bessy peeped out, thinking it might be the fairy; but what was her surprise at seeing two large men, in stocking feet, coming up the lower stairs on tiptoe. The one behind carried a lantern, and was making it flash backward and forward, up and down, as the old fairy did in the lane.
What could they want? she wondered.
The first man carried a sack over his shoulder, and pointed toward the closet where Bessy knew all the silver-ware was kept. Then the man with the lantern began pushing what looked like an enormous nail between the lock and the door, stopping every now and then to listen.
In a few moments the door flew open, and both went in together. Then Bessy saw them take down the beautiful silver pitchers, tea-pots, trays, and forks and spoons, and put them into the bag. They did it so softly that there was not even the least little chink from them.
Though Bessy was a very little girl, and believed in fairies, she knew these men had no right to take papa's silver. So she thought she must tell him. She ran to the door between their rooms, and pushed it open a little way.
"Papa! papa!" she cried, "two big men are in the house. They have taken everything in the silver closet. Take a stick and drive them away."
Up jumped papa, seizing a pair of great pistols, and made a rush for the stairs, with Bessy behind him.
They had not reached the first step when the two men darted out of the room below.
But on seeing papa with a pistol in each hand, they dropped the bag and ran toward the open hall door, and were out of sight in a moment.
Mamma, awakened by the noise, came hurrying out to see what was the matter, and found Bessy crying in the corner, and papa rushing through the house with a pair of pistols. Bessy's mother clasped her very closely in her arms.
In a little while papa came back, looking very serious. The men had disappeared, and Watch lay dead on the mat outside of the door.
By the time they had emptied the bag, and put everything in its place, it was quite daylight, and Bessy knew the fairy had been frightened away. So she climbed up in her mother's lap and began sobbing softly. Then, when her mother coaxed her to tell what ailed her, she pointed to the shoes, and told her about the old fairy in the lane and the key.
Bessy had to tell that story ever so many times that day. And for a long time her mamma did not leave her alone in the evenings; so that Bessy never saw the fairy godmother again.
[THE CITY OF THE CALIPHS.]
BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY, U.S.N.
It was impossible for our friend Master Tom Fairweather not to indulge in a chuckle when he opened his eyes upon the harbor of Bagdad the morning after his arrival at that ancient city.
The passengers of the Blosse Lynch were being carried ashore by the basketful in the kufas which swarmed about the steamer, and which, made of wicker-work, and round in shape, reminded our young friend of peach and strawberry baskets.
It was not long, however, before Mr. Jollytarre and himself were likewise progressing shoreward, whereupon the humor of the situation considerably diminished. It is never as funny to do a thing ourselves as to see other people do it.
Immediately on landing Mr. Jollytarre was presented with a note by an important personage, who in a fez cap stood by while the Lieutenant read the missive. Having done so, he said, "Tom, you are in luck. One of the most influential merchants of Bagdad has invited us to lunch with him at twelve to-day. We shall have lots of time before then to walk through the bazars, and get, in fact, a general idea of the city. After lunch we can do more sight-seeing. Would you like to go?"
"I suppose there are no ladies," demurred Tom, doubtfully.
"I am afraid not," and the Lieutenant shook his head sadly.
"Then I'd like to go," agreed Tom, cheering up.
The Lieutenant smiled at him. "You will hold different views one of these days. But let me see; here, I'll write a line on my card;" and pulling out his card-case he wrote with a flourish,
"Accept with pleasure.
"Jack Jollytarre."
Then they started for the bazars, which they found to be long and broad, and moderately full of pretty things. The streets were cleaner than in most Eastern towns. The houses bore a family resemblance to each other—a square court-yard in the centre, around the four sides of which the rooms were built, sometimes to the height of three stories, and some of them being quite open to the sun and air of the court-yard, there being, as a rule, no windows on the dark narrow streets. The roofs are generally flat, and the people sleep on them during the hot summer. In fact, while the great heat lasts, the citizens of Bagdad spend the day in the serdaubs, or as we would call them, cellars.
Tom and Mr. Jollytarre in their walk stood gazing into one of these cellars through one of their grated windows.
"'Serdaub,'" read the Lieutenant from his guide-book, which he always carried like a devoted traveller, "'means cold water.' The Bagdadese call their cellars by this name because they keep cold water stored there. In short, these cellars might be called during the hot months the watering-places of Bagdad, when it is too intolerably hot to remain above-ground. But the nights almost always cool off, and then the frequenters of these summer resorts go up to spend their evenings on the roof by way of variety. This I should consider a change decidedly for the better, as venomous reptiles abound in the serdaubs, which do not make very pleasant companions. Besides which, the air is damp and the ventilation bad."
As they walked on, Tom said: "The air above-ground is good enough, though, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, delightful; no better air or climate in the East. The wind is always blowing over the city fresh from the surrounding desert. For six or eight months the climate is as pleasant as in any place on earth. In midwinter it is cold enough to form ice. The spring and autumn are particularly delightful. But the summer sets in early. In May, for instance, there are such swarms of insects as to render life almost insupportable. We are here, however, in the very nick of time—April."
"Such lots of flowers!" commented Tom. "I know what those little yellow flowers are in that garden—crocuses; and those are violets just like ours at home; and did you ever smell anything so sweet as those orange blossoms? That's something I never saw in our garden."
Here Tom and Jollytarre stood stock-still like two girls to stare in at the flowers in the Bagdad gardens, and up at the birds, and turtle-doves, and ring-doves on the mosques and minarets around them.
"There's a fine view from the top of that minaret," said Mr. Jollytarre, pointing to a very tall one in the middle of the city. "Shall we climb it?"
Of course Tom said yes, and off they started.
"The view is really very fine," exclaimed the Lieutenant, on their way up, "of the city, the gardens, the river, the plain of Mesopotamia, and the Persian hills; and the minaret itself is worth a visit on its own account, having been standing since the year 1235, more than six hundred years. It is, moreover, not only the oldest but the highest of any minaret in Bagdad. It is lucky for us that although unbelievers are not allowed entrance to Turkish minarets in general, this one being partly in ruins, and being besides unattached to any mosque, is therefore open to us dogs of Gentiles."
The entrance was high up, as in most minarets. A ladder was placed against the wall, and our friends climbed up and scrambled into the doorway over their heads.
From the top of the minaret Bagdad looked like a level plain made of the flat roofs of the houses, honey-combed by narrow ditches—the ditches, of course, being actually the streets.
Out of this plain of flat roofs rose mountain heights and peaks of mosques and minarets, which glittered in the sun with their gaudy covering of tiles, generally either blue or green.
THE BRIDGE OF BOATS.
From their lofty position our travellers made out the fact that the town was divided into two parts, one on the eastern and one on the western bank of the Tigris. A certain freshness and beauty was given to the river by the mulberry and date-palm trees growing in the court-yards of many of the houses. The eastern and western portions of Bagdad were connected by a pretty bridge of boats. Up and down the course of the river groves and gardens follow the flow of its waters northward and southward. But away from it to the east and west trees disappear and deserts stretch out into trackless wastes.
Eastward of Bagdad are the old walls, now for the most part dismantled. Long ago the bricks of which this wall was built were given to the soldiers of the Caliph's army to eke out their pay, but the soldiers of to-day are more fairly treated.
Tom made a visit to the citadel and barracks, which were in exceptionally good order. The soldiers appeared very young-looking, but steady and enduring. They wore a blue Zouave uniform.
Their lunch hour approaching, after leaving the barracks Tom and Mr. Jollytarre now turned their steps in the direction of the house of their host.
They found this house built around a court-yard, as you have been told is generally the case in Bagdad. In this particular court, however, they found a number of hawks, which their owner kept for sport. They are used to hunt down gazelles and antelopes, which they either kill outright, or else keep at bay until the hounds come up and put an end to them. The general effect of the house was European. The walls, to be sure, were plainly whitewashed, but other details were handsome and artistic. For instance, the ceilings were handsomely decorated, and the floors were carpeted. One large room was furnished as a billiard-room. In others were handsome mirrors. The lunch table was laid in accordance with our notions or prejudices; that is, with a cloth, knives, forks, and plates. But there all sense of familiarity ceased. The fare was thoroughly Oriental. First of all a sheep, roasted whole and elaborately stuffed, was brought in on a tray and carried around to every one at table. Next came a roast turkey, served in the same way. Then a goose, then a gazelle, and then dishes and dishes of unknown names and composition. Such was the menu. Besides all of which, the table was laden with countless dishes of fruit and sweetmeats.
Tom, of course, being only a small boy, was admitted on sufferance, and sat perfectly still, and did not once contribute a word to the conversation. But he looked and listened all the harder, and I do not believe he missed a single point in the entertainment. Still, he was not particularly amused, and was certainly greatly relieved when the feast was over, and Mr. Jollytarre and himself were once more in the streets of Bagdad.
"They have the plague here frequently," said the Lieutenant, as they strolled along, an Arab whom they had picked up for a guide at their heels, "and the mortality is fearful. Once the authorities decided to try the plan of shutting up every one in any house where the plague broke out. But this plan was bitterly opposed, as it meant certain death to all in the house. The Jewish rabbis proposed another plan. They persuaded their people to emigrate to the desert, and live there until the plague was stayed, or at least until they had themselves got rid of it, having left it behind in the filth and foul air of the city. Some Christians and Mussulmans followed their example. There is one curious fact about the plague: hardly a person has ever been attacked who slept on a bedstead, even when persons sleeping on the floor in the same room have caught the disease and died."
"I suppose it is a summer disease," said Tom.
"No; on the contrary, it disappears with the fierce heats of summer, only to perhaps re-appear in the fall."
"I should hate to live in a place where there was danger of such a vile disease breaking out. But look at the troops of children—just out of school, I suppose. Do you know whether schools are found here?"
"Excellent, I am told. The gentleman with whom we lunched just now told me that these Bagdad children are taught to be good linguists, for one thing. They learn to speak Arabic, Syriac, and Turkish, as well as French and English, with fluency, in a Jewish school which was started not long ago. When this school was first opened the Turkish parents would not send their children. Now, however, they see the advantage, and the attendance is very good, especially among the boys."
"They look very knowing in their little fez caps," said Tom. "But how they stare! And did you ever see such black eyes? Are there no Turkish schools?"
"Yes, one or two, and pretty good ones, besides a few others not so good."
As they stood near the wharves, watching the shipment of grain, Tom remarked that he supposed a great deal of the grain went out of the country.
"Yes," said Mr. Jollytarre. "Bagdad ships immense quantities—last year as much as 50,000 tons. Every now and then there is a grain riot here, when the people take it into their heads there will be a failure of the next harvest. They insist that the government shall put a stop to the exportation of the grain. Sometimes these demands are yielded to, when there is any prospect of a famine. The government does not give in often, to be sure, but the thing has been done."
"Hello!" said Tom; "here's the Blosse Lynch."
"Yes, and it is time we were on board, for we've done a good day's work, haven't we?"
The naughty little girl that cries,
And rubs her fingers in her eyes,
And pouts and frets all day,
A ragged hat and gown must wear,
And in the garden stand, to scare
The thievish birds away.
| Have a jolly gallop |
| Over sticks and stones; |
| Do not get a tumble, |
| Or you'll break your bones. |
| That was a bouncer— |
| Very much too high— |
| But my little horseman |
| Is too brave to cry. |
| Trippitty trip, trippitty trip, |
| Round and round we merrily skip; |
| Hippitty hop, hippitty hop, |
| Oh, 'tis such fun we never can stop! |
Up in the clouds little angel hands
Are shaking their beds so the feathers fly.
They flutter down through the frosty air,
Till soft and white on the ground they lie.
Oh, fair little angels, come and keep
A watch while the baby lies asleep!
LITTLE GOSSIPS.