TIM AND TIP;
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.
BY JAMES OTIS,
AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.
Chapter VIII.
MINCHIN'S ISLAND.
"I thought I told you to go below," said an angry voice, and, looking up, Tim saw it was the Captain who was detaining him. "If you so much as make a motion to go on shore, I'll whip you within an inch of your life."
Then, without giving him an opportunity to disobey, the same heavy hand pushed him back on the deck, and Mr. Rankin led him forcibly below.
"I won't stay here. I won't go down stairs an' leave Tip there to drown," cried Tim, passionately. "It's awful wicked, an' I won't do it."
"Listen to me, Tim," said Mr. Rankin, kindly but firmly. "There is no possible chance that your dog will drown, and you must come below, for it is the Captain's orders."
"But I must go an' get him," wailed Tim.
"Suppose you could get him before we leave the dock, which you can't, and suppose you should get him aboard without the Captain's seeing you, which is an impossibility, what would be the result? Captain Pratt would throw him overboard after we got out to sea again, and then he would be sure to drown."
Tim knew the steward's reasoning was correct, and yet he refused to be comforted. He was led below despite his struggles, but when he reached the main-deck he ran to the rail, from where he could see all that was going on in the water.
"Do you s'pose he will get ashore all right?" Tim asked of Mr. Rankin, as he watched Tip's exertions to save himself.
"Of course he will; he's almost there now, and in five minutes more he'll be just as safe as ever, and a good deal cleaner."
By this time the freight for the island had been landed, and the steamer was already leaving the wharf. Tim was in an agony of fear lest he should be obliged to depart without assuring himself that Tip was a saved dog.
But in order that the steamer should be put on her course again it was necessary to back her for some distance, and that was a bit of good luck for Tim, since they moved in the direction taken by Tip. Tim could see Bobby at the extreme point of land that jutted out into the sea, urging the dog to increased exertion, and aided by all the boys who were on the wharf at the time Tip was thrown overboard, as well as by a number of others who had learned of the excitement by seeing Bobby as he ran around the shore.
Just as the steamer's paddle-wheels ceased to force her back, and began to urge her in the opposite direction, Tip's short legs touched the bottom, and in another instant Bobby was holding him, all wet and dripping, high up in the air, while he executed a sort of triumphant war-dance before Tim's delighted gaze.
Tim stood looking with his very heart in his eyes as the Pride of the Wave carried him farther and farther from the only friend he had, and when he saw Tip run along the beach and shake himself, he laughed from very joy.
But in another instant he understood that if the dog was safe, he was being separated from him very rapidly.
"I sha'n't see him ever again in the world," he wailed, "an' he is the only feller that cares anything about me."
Then he ran to the little hole which had served Tip as a state-room, and there gave vent to his sorrow in passionate weeping.
When Tim had so far recovered from his grief as to present himself for work again, Minchin's Island was far astern, and the voyage drawing rapidly to an end.
Those who were friendly to the boy thought the wisest and kindest course to pursue was to say nothing about poor Tip, and as those who were not friendly did not speak of him, Tim got on without giving way to his grief in public. Captain Pratt seemed to have forgotten his threat of punishing Tim for venturing on the upper deck, or he may have thought best to wait until the end of the trip, for he said nothing to the boy, which was far more kind than he had any idea of being.
At the different landings Tim did not have curiosity enough to look at the towns, but worked as hard as he could, in order to prevent thinking about poor Tip. Captain Pratt summoned him to the wheel-house several times, and whenever he went there he felt certain he was to receive the promised whipping; but he was mistaken, for after ordering him to do some trifling work, the Captain paid no attention to him.
At about six o'clock on the afternoon of that day the steamer was made fast to the wharf at Bedlow, and the trip was ended.
After the work of cleaning the cabin was done, Mr. Rankin said, "You can go ashore and see the town if you want to; but be back by nine o'clock."
Tim shook his head; he had no desire to see anything new, since Tip was not there to enjoy the sights with him, and he crept off to his dirty berth in the forecastle, where he cried himself to sleep.
On the next morning he succeeded in supplying the Captain's wants at the table as quickly as that gentleman thought proper, and yet no mention was made of the events of the previous day.
The steamer was to leave Bedlow on her return trip at noon, and Tim took no interest in the bustle and excitement on the wharf, save that each succeeding moment was one less in the time that must elapse before he saw Tip again.
As the steamer started, his spirits rose, and he watched her course carefully, fretting at the time spent at each landing, content only when she was going at regular speed toward Minchin's Island and Tip.
He had formed no plan as to what he should do when he got there. He knew that Mr. Rankin's advice that Tip be left there was good, and should be followed, but he could not make up his mind to do so. Parting with Tip seemed like parting with a portion of his very life, and he could not bring himself to say that he would leave this his only friend, no matter how short the time.
It was nearly night-fall when the steamer neared Minchin's Island, and Tim was as far in the bow as he could get on the main-deck, in order that he might catch the first glimpse of Tip, for he felt sure Bobby would bring him to the wharf.
At last he could distinctly see the different objects on the wharf, and his heart sank when he failed to see any one who at all resembled Bobby. He looked eagerly among the crowd assembled, and could not even see one boy, when on the day before there had been at least twenty there. He was at a loss to account for this cruelty on Bobby's part. He knew the dog had been saved, for he had surely seen him held aloft in Bob's arms, and a cruel suspicion came into his mind that perhaps the boy was keeping out of sight with the intention of claiming Tip as his own.
The boat arrived at the wharf, and was made fast. Not a single boy or dog could be seen.
Tim's heart was full to bursting, and as he leaned against the rail he thought it was not possible for greater trouble to come to him, since he was denied even a sight of Tip.
Now he would willingly have promised that the dog should remain with Bobby if by making such promise he could see and hug him each time the boat arrived at that place.
So absorbed was he with his grief, caused by what looked very like an act of unkindness on Bobby's part, that he failed to notice what several of the employés on the steamer saw and wondered at. A man had called Captain Pratt on shore, and was talking to him in such a manner as to make him angry. So excited was he that he paid no attention to the fact that the steamer was ready to continue the trip, and that every one waited for him.
Tim saw nothing of all this; but when the Captain called loudly to him he started as if he had been caught in wrong-doing.
"Come ashore here," cried the Captain, much as if he was angry with himself for giving such an order.
Tim walked on to the wharf in a perfect maze of surprise, and when he went near his employer his wonder was increased by hearing that gentleman say to the one he had been talking with, "Here's the boy, and I wish you joy of him." And then to see him go quickly on board the steamer.
Before Tim had time to recover from his surprise the steamer had started, and as she was leaving the wharf he was almost knocked down by some soft substance that hit him on the legs.
TIM RECOVERS HIS LOST PET.
It did not take him many seconds to discover that this substance which had struck him so suddenly was his own little bob-tailed Tip, and then he sat right down on the wharf, and hugged him desperately, giving no heed to anything save the happy fact that he had his pet to himself once more.
Some time before he had finished hugging and kissing Tip a noisy crowd of boys appeared from behind one of the freight sheds, where they had evidently been in hiding, and gave him such a welcome to Minchin's Island as he never expected to receive anywhere.
Bobby was among the number, of course, and it was so long before he could calm himself down sufficiently to explain the meaning of all the strange occurrences, that Tim was left some time in doubt as to whether he had really escaped from the savage Captain Pratt, or if it was all a pleasant dream, from which he would awake to receive the promised flogging.
When Bobby did sober down sufficiently to talk understandingly, Tim learned that owing to his friend's pleading, and tales of how he had been abused, Mr. Tucker had promised that he would oblige Captain Pratt to let the boy come ashore at Minchin's Island, where he should have a home for a time at least.
Relying on that promise, Bobby had gathered all the boys of the town together to give Tim a proper welcome, and all had been hidden behind the shed when the steamer came in, so that the surprise should be as great as possible. By what means Mr. Tucker had induced Captain Pratt to part with the cabin-boy he was "breaking in" no one knew, and no one seemed to care, since it had been so successfully accomplished.
When Bobby looked around for his father, to introduce to him the boy for whom he had done so much, he was nowhere to be seen, and Bobby said in apology: "I s'pose he thought we would want to talk a good deal, and so he went off; but we'll see him when we get home."
"But am I really going to live with you?" asked Tim, hardly able to believe the good fortune that had come to him so suddenly.
"You're goin' to live with me a good while anyhow, an' I guess for all the time; but father didn't say." Then, as the boys started up the wharf, he added, eagerly: "We're goin' over to Bill Thompson's father's schooner now. We've got some chowder, an' Bill's father said we could go over there an' have supper, so we're goin' to show you one of the best times you ever had."
The countenances of all the boys told that some big time was near, and more especially was that the case with Bill Thompson. By his very manner he showed that he considered himself of the greatest importance in that party, and walked on in advance, almost unable to contain himself because of his excessive dignity. Instead of going up into the little town, Bill led the way around the shore, and as the boys reached the headland where Tip had first touched the land of Minchin's Island, Bobby pointed to a small fishing-schooner that lay at anchor a short distance from the shore.
Then the other boys began to tell about the supper and the good time generally, until it was impossible to distinguish one word; but Bill Thompson walked on in silence, looking neither to the right nor the left. It was enough for him that he was the one on whom the pleasure depended, since it was to take place on his father's vessel, and he could not lower his dignity by talking.
A dory hauled up on the beach served to convey the party to the schooner, and once there, Bill Thompson led the way to the cabin, where every preparation had been made for the feast of welcome.
The table, formed by letting down a shelf from the side of the cabin, was large enough to accommodate half the party, and was laid with every variety of crockery and cutlery such as would be likely to be found on board a fishing vessel. The only food on the table was crackers, but a huge pot, which was bubbling and steaming in a contented sort of way on the stove, told that there was enough to satisfy the wants of the hungriest boy there.
"Set right down to the table, Tim," said Bill, unbending from his dignity a little, "an' the rest of us will do the work; you're the company, you know."
Tim took the place of honor, the only arm-chair in the cabin, and was more than gratified to find that a seat had been placed close beside him for Tip, who had already jumped on it, sitting there looking as wise and hungry as a dog could look.
The entire boy portion of the population of Minchin's Island had worked hard and earnestly to prepare this feast of welcome, and the result of their labors was the chowder, which was being served by means of a cocoanut-shell dipper, with a large hole in the side that somewhat delayed the progress.
At last all were served, and those who could not find places at the table were seated on the sides of the berths, on trunks, fishing-tackle, or any available space, and the feast was begun.
Tip had his share in a saucer, and he ate it in as dignified a manner as the best-behaved dog could have done.
For several moments all gave their undivided attention to the chowder, which was not exactly as good as they were accustomed to at home, but which, being the product of their own labor, tasted better than anything they had ever eaten before.
Especially to Tim was it good, because of the spirit which prompted its manufacture, and because it was an evidence of their good-will to him. Tip rather turned his nose up at it, however. Since his arrival at Minchin's Island he had been petted and fed by every boy in town, thanks to Bobby's stories of his ability as a bear dog, until now it required something more than ordinary food to tempt his appetite.
But the feast was not the only way by which the boy who had come among them was to be honored, as Tim soon found out. A very elaborate programme had been arranged, and not one single detail was to be omitted.
Bill Thompson, with his mouth uncomfortably full, arose to his feet in such a clumsy manner that he upset what remained of Bobby's chowder, very much to the disadvantage of the table-cloth and his trousers, and said, with some hesitation:
"Mr. Babbige, we fellers heard all about you last night from our esteemed feller-citizen Mr. Bob Tucker, an' we wanted to do something to show you what we thought of you."
Here Bill stopped to swallow a portion of the cracker that impeded his speech, and Tim looked around him in blank amazement, not understanding this portion of the proceedings. Bill continued in the most serious manner:
"We knowed what a hard time you was havin' on the Pride, an' we wanted to have you come an' live here, 'cause we thought we should like you, an' 'cause you had such a fine dog. This little chowder welcome ain't all we've got for yer. To-morrer we're goin' to take Tip an' you out in the woods, an' we've decided that the first bear he kills shall be skinned, an' the skin nailed up on Bobby Tucker's father's barn, where everybody can see what your Tip has done."
At this point Bobby Tucker slyly pinched Tip's stub tail, and he uttered such a yelp that the remainder of the company applauded loudly, thinking he must have understood what was said.
When the noise ceased, Bill bowed gracefully to Tip as an acknowledgment of his appreciation, and having swallowed that which had been in his mouth, was able to speak more plainly.
"Mr. Babbige, we fellers want to 'gratulate you on gettin' off the Pride, an' more 'specially on comin' to this town, where the fellers will treat you an' Tip as you ought to be treated. We hope you'll stay forever with us, an' never want to go away. Now, fellers, I say three cheers for Tip and Tim Babbige."
The cheers were given with a will, causing Tim's face to turn as red as a boiled beet, while his confusion was as great as his face was red.
As soon as the noise had died away, Bobby was on his feet ready to express his opinion on the subject.
"Mr. Tim—I mean Tim—no, Mr. Timothy Babbige," he began, very earnestly; but his difficulty in getting the name right so confused him that he forgot what he was to say next. He cleared his throat until his voice was as hoarse as an aged frog's, and yet no words came. Then he seized a glass of water, drinking it so fast that he gasped and choked until the tears came into his eyes, and his face was as red as Tim's.
"Mr. Babbige," he began, and Tim's big eyes were fixed on him so pityingly that he was all at sea again so far as words were concerned, and making one desperate effort, he said, "Well, we're glad to see you here, Tim, an' we mean to make it jest as lively for you as we know how."
Then Bobby sat down very much ashamed that he had made such a failure; but when the boys cheered him as loudly as they had Bill, he began to think it was quite a speech after all.
Now every one looked expectantly at Tim, and he knew he was obliged to make some reply. He gazed at Tip, and Tip gazed at him; but no inspiration came from that source, and he stood up in a desperate way, feeling that as a rule he had rather go hungry than pay such a price for a supper.
"Fellers," he said, loudly, believing, if the thing must be done, the more noise the better, "I want to thank you all for what you did for Tip when you pulled him out of the water, an' for what you've done for me. The chowder was splendid—"
Here he was interrupted by loud and continued applause as he paid this delicate compliment to their skill as cooks, and it was some moments before he could continue.
"Tip an' me have had a nice time eatin' it, an' we're a good deal more glad to be here than you are to have us."
He could think of nothing more to say, and was about to sit down when Bobby asked, "What about killin' the bears?"
"I'd 'most forgotten about them," he said, as he straightened himself up and looked down at Tip with pride. "If you've got any bears 'round here that wants to be killed, Tip will fix 'em for you; but if you want to save the skins to nail up on the barn, you must rush in an' catch Tip before he chews 'em all up. Why, I saw Tip catch a woodchuck once, an' before you could say 'scat' he'd chewed him awfully. So you'll have to be kinder careful of your bears when Tip once gets his eye on 'em."
That was the end of Tim's speech, for the applause was so great that for the next five minutes it would have been useless for any one to try to make himself heard.
It was very near nine o'clock by the time the formal welcome to Tim was concluded, and after the cabin had been cleaned, Bill Thompson said, as he wiped the dishwater from his hands, smoothed down his hair, and made himself presentable for an appearance at home, "I guess we'd better go now, an' to-morrow mornin' we'll go 'round back of Bobby Tucker's father's wood-shed an' fix up about the bear-hunt."
The idea that they were to start the ferocious bear from his lair so soon caused a fresh burst of enthusiasm, and each one made another and a personal examination of Tip, until the much-inspected dog came very near being cross.
It was rather a sleepy party that clambered over the side of the schooner that night, but it was a party that had the most absolute faith in Tip Babbige's ability to kill all the bears on the island.
[to be continued.]
A VISIT TO THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.—Drawn by Henry Bacon.
[PIGEONS AND DOVES.]
Very likely more than one boy will say, when he reads the heading of this article, that any fellow knows how to take care of doves, and that it is perfectly needless to tell him anything regarding them. But however many there may be who know, or think they know, exactly how these feathered pets should be treated, there certainly are some who have had difficulty in keeping their pigeons at home, or found it almost impossible to raise any young ones.
It is for the benefit of this last class of readers that this article is written, and all others may pass it over if they choose.
Certainly it is a very easy matter to keep pigeons or doves, for they are pets that require but little care; but this care consists in something more than putting them into a box that is nailed to the side of the building, and then allowing them to get along as best they can by themselves.
The dove-cote should either be placed on a pole at such a height that it can readily be reached with a ladder, in order that it may easily be kept clean, or inside a building with the entrance facing the south, in order that the inmates may, in a measure, be sheltered from the winter storms.
In this dove-cote should be separate apartments for each pair of birds, and at the entrance should be a broad ledge for them to alight on when coming home, or to sun themselves on when they do not care to go on a visit. These little houses should be cleaned at least once each month, and plenty of gravel and old mortar spread on the floor. A little salt must be sprinkled around once in a while, and every precaution taken to guard against the invasion of rats or mice.
Wheat, oats, or barley should be fed each morning, with plenty of water, and green food if they are confined any length of time. Care should be taken to have the food fresh and clean, and not allow it to decay in the cotes.
If there is any trouble in keeping the birds at home, or if they persist in flying back to their old quarters, do not clip their wings or pull their tail feathers out, for both practices are barbarous. Instead of doing that, clean the dove-cote thoroughly, and sprinkle the floor with lavender, assafœtida, or anything that gives forth a strong odor. A sweet, cleanly house, with good food, will make home bodies of your doves more quickly than anything else, and once they begin to build a nest, there will be no longer any difficulty in persuading them to remain.
Doves that are cared for properly will produce from ten to twelve pairs of young each year, and at this rapid rate of increase it may readily be seen that the young fancier need not buy a large stock to begin with.
Of the different varieties of these feathered pets there are so many that it is impossible to name them all in the space given here; but a few of those best known to fanciers generally can be mentioned.
Among the high-priced pigeons is the Crowned Gouri, which comes from the Indian Archipelago. It is a beautiful purple-brown, with gray breast, and has white bars across the wings, while on its head is a light blue or delicate gray crown.
The Nicobar also has a crest. The upper portions of this bird are green, shading to bronze and steel, while the head is slate-colored, with purple shades. Long pointed feathers grow from the neck, showing almost every color in the different degrees of light.
The Top-knot comes from Australia, and is a large silver-gray bird, striped with black, having a crest on his forehead and another on the back of his head.
The Bronze-winged pigeon also comes from Australia, and is brown and gray, with bronze-green spots on the wings.
From India and Java comes the Aromatic Vinago, with back and neck of dark red and purple, while the under feathers are green; the forehead is green, the throat yellow, and the tail blue, gray, green, and brown.
The Passenger-pigeon is too well known in this country to need any description, since he is to be seen by scores in almost any market.
The Carrier-pigeon should be dark blue to possess the color supposed to be the requisite of a good bird, but he is often seen of a dun or cinnamon color.
The Tumbler-pigeon may be of any color, and his antics in the air, as he turns all sorts of somersaults, are very funny. There are many varieties of these pigeons, such as the German Feather-footed, the Baldpate, Short-faced, and Almond, while according to their color they are known as Rocks, Blues, Checkers, Silvers, Duns, Kites, Reds, Yellows, Buffs, Drabs, Mealies, Gray-mottled, Blue-black, Strawberries, and so on through every shade and combination of color.
Of the Pouter there are the Ring-headed, Swallow-tailed, Rose-pinioned, and Bishoped, nearly all of which varieties the boys are familiar with, since with his apparently swollen crop the Pouter always attracts attention.
The Runt is a common bird, and the easiest of all his tribe to keep. The chief varieties are the Roman, Leg-horn, Spanish, Friesland, and Frill-back. The first is the largest, and the last the most singular of the species, since the feathers seem to grow from the tail toward the head.
The Nun is a nice little bird, with a tuft of feathers at the back of the head, and it is from the shape and color of this that the varieties are known as the Red, Black, or Yellow headed Nuns.
The Archangel is dark blue and copper-color, and is a good bird for the dove-cote.
Then the Fan-tail, or Broad-tailed Shaker, with his tail spread out like an angry turkey-gobbler's.
The Trumpeter is usually a yellowish-white bird, with a crest on his head, and what looks very like a mustache.
The Jacobite has a ruff around his neck; the Turbot looks as if it had on a ruffled shirt front; the Owl has a hooked nose and great staring eyes, similar to the bird for which he is named; the Laugher makes a noise like the gurgling of water; the Barb has pink wrinkled skin around the eyes; the Mawmet, Magpie, Helmet, and Spot are varieties but seldom seen.
But though there are so many varieties of beautifully colored and formed birds, the ordinary Dove-house pigeon is by far the most satisfactory to raise, and repays its owner far better both in young and domestic habits than do those which are not only rare, but difficult to rear.
A RAINY DAY.—Drawn by F. S. Church.
[HOW THE DAY WENT.]
BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
"It was your work, Put, all of us fellows getting down here this morning. Now what'll we do?"
"Well, now, Dan, it's the last day of vacation, and school begins to-morrow, and we've just got to do something!"
"I don't care a cent for ball," remarked Charley Farrington at that moment, as he listlessly pitched a flat stone into the shallow river. "You don't catch me on the green to-day, anyhow. It's too near the 'cademy."
"Might go a-fishing," said Abe Larrabee, with a look of sadness on his sunburned face. "Jim Chandler, does your scow leak as bad as it did?"
"Worse and worse, and there isn't a fish left. I tried 'em yesterday all the way down to the mill."
"Nothing to shoot," said Dan Martin, "and no powder nor shot either. Boys, this 'ere vacation of ours is windin' up."
That was about it, or else it was very nearly run down, and there they all were on the bank, just above the old bridge, and not a boy of them could think of anything he cared three buttons to go and do. It was a trying time, and they all broke down under it, for in less than an hour there were five listless boys sauntering along up the hill toward Beecher's Woods, across lots, without any earthly reason to give for doing it. They could not travel straight, somehow, even then, for they went around through Deacon Chittenden's pasture lot. There was a level stretch in the middle of that pasture, and in the middle of that level there was a hole about five feet across. It had been a round hole once, Put Boswell remarked, but he may have been wrong in adding:
"You see, boys, he had two old wells at the house, and this was the meanest; so he carted it up here, and drove it into the middle of his cow lot."
"Didn't drive it in very deep," said Charley Farrington. "Not more'n ten feet. If I should tumble in there, I could climb out again up that broken side."
"Water's pretty deep."
"Guess not. The Deacon isn't the kind of man to throw away anything. That's why he saved up his old well."
Put Boswell must have had his reasons for disliking Deacon Chittenden, from the way he talked about him; but the whole party was too full of that end of their vacation, and of talk about all they had done since they got hold of it by its July end, and they began to walk on. They walked as far as Beecher's fence, but they were unwise to trust themselves on the rotten top rail all at one time, for Abe Larrabee was just saying, "If there ain't Beecher's prize ram! look at his horns!" when there was a cracking sound under them, and down they came, in a tangle, with a length of the rickety fence criss-crossed beneath them.
Worse than that: Abe had pointed straight at the ram, and the insulted animal was coming in a hurry to see why there had been such a gap made in his boundaries.
"Run, boys, run!" shouted Put Boswell. "He's the all-killingest butter in the county!"
They had found something to do, and so had the ram, and he seemed, in a minute more, to have decided that his duties included the care of Deacon Chittenden's cow lot.
It was odd, but every one of those five boys had the same idea in his head: "If I can only put that well between him and me."
They ran straight for it, and the ram was so close on Charley Farrington's heels when he reached it that there was nothing left for Charley but a long jump. Well for him that he was a good jumper on a run, and he landed three feet beyond the well, while the other four were dodging around it.
Where was the ram?
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
Either he had begun his leap too soon, or he had not made it long enough, for it had carried him with great accuracy to the very middle of the old well, and his piteous voice was now coming up from just above the surface of the water at the bottom.
"Beecher's lost his prize mutton."
"Hear him! Oh, but doesn't he feel bad!"
"He isn't drowning, anyhow."
"Not exactly drowning, but it's an awful cold bath."
"Boys," said Put Boswell, "we must get him out. Old Chittenden'll be sure to find out that we fellows were up here, and they'd lay it all to us."
"They lay pretty much everything to us now," remarked Dan Martin. "But how'll we ever work it? Put, you go down and lift him up, while we get hold of him. You ain't afraid of a sheep, are you?"
"Not where there's any chance to run, if he wanted to bite me. You go down. The water's real nice and cool."
Not one of them wanted to go down, and the council they held around the mouth of that well used up a good deal of what was left of that morning.
"Tell you what," said Jim Chandler at last, "I'm getting hungry. Let's go for dinner, and not say a word to anybody about it, and come back with a rope. We can rope him out."
There was a unanimous vote in favor of that, for Jim was not the only member of the council who had been thinking about his dinner. There was not an ounce of listlessness among them all the way back to the village, and there was plenty of rope at the side of the old well early in the afternoon.
"Is he there yet?" said Charley, eagerly, as he came up.
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!" arose in response from the dismal depths, where the ram was awaiting his deliverance.
"Ain't his feet wet by this time? Let's get some fence rails," said Put. "Good ones, too."
"Or we may join the ram," remarked Dan Martin. "That's it, Put, make a slip-noose."
"I'm going for his horns, soon as the rails get here."
That was quickly enough, and there was no special difficulty in dropping a wide noose over the horns of that ram, and in drawing it tight.
"We've got him now, unless his horns come off," shouted Abe Larrabee. "He's safe."
In the bottom of a well, and fastened by his horns to five boys and a fence rail, there was not a particle of danger that Beecher's prize ram would get away. The problem yet to be solved was at least as deep as the old well, nevertheless, and there was no telling how soon Mr. Beecher or Deacon Chittenden might put in an appearance.
"It's got to be done," said Put. "We can't leave an unfortunate fellow-creature in such a fix as that. Let's haul on the rope over the rail, and see how far we can draw him."
There were a good many experiments tried, hand running, and every boy had had his turn, sitting on the fence rails in the middle, and studying the ram after he had been let down again. It was beginning to look a little dark for him, when something put it into the head of Charley Farrington to grasp the rope tight at the rail where it was hitched, and swing down a little, with his feet on the projecting stones of the rude siding.
It was too bad for Dan Martin and Jim Chandler to get up from the rails to come and see what he was doing, for the one with the rope wound around it began to turn, with Charley's weight to turn it, and in five seconds more he was standing at the bottom of the well, by the side of what Put had called his "unfortunate fellow-creature."
"Boys! boys! pull me up."
"You're the man for me," responded Put Boswell, for it was plain no harm had been done. "That's just the thing. Now we'll haul on the ram, at the broken side, and we'll get him up. There's just slant enough, if you'll boost him behind and get him started. Is the water very warm?"
"Hurry up, then. It's cold as ice. I'll shove him."
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
"Don't those two feel bad?" unfeelingly remarked Abe Larrabee. "Let's hurry, boys. Charley's all right. He's a brick, too."
So he was, and when the moment of trial came he lifted and helped with a will. All the ram really needed was to be helped to put his fore-feet on the tumbling stones, and then to be hauled and shoved until his hind-feet were compelled to follow.
Ten minutes more, and then, with a big pull and a great shout, out came the unlucky sheep. It had been an unsettled question in the minds of the boys, until that instant, whether his horns, or his neck, or the rope might not give way, and as for themselves, a redder-faced lot had not been seen in the whole valley since school closed.
"Now, boys," shouted Charley, "the rope. Hitch it strong."
Charley's weakness was for climbing, and he would have scorned the idea of not being able to master so simple a situation as that.
"Here comes the other sheep," shouted Put. "Charley, are your feet wet? Look at your friend."
He was worth looking at, for he was himself looking at the well mouth as if he was studying, under his much-pulled horns, how on earth he ever got out of that thing.
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
"I'll take the rope off, and then we'll cut."
Abe was saying that in the very act of loosening the rope with his jackknife; but he should not have stood right in front of the ram to do it, for the very second the prize brute felt himself free, Abe felt something bump against him just above his waist. It was not very vigorous butting, and was only done from force of habit, but Abe went down.
"Run, boys, run! He'll go for you next."
"Deserves to have been left in the well," exclaimed Jim Chandler, "the ungrateful beast!"
There was no need of any running, however, for the ram had no heart, perhaps no very serviceable legs, to follow them. Abe Larrabee was the only fellow who really hurried much.
It was just as they all got to the other side of the old bridge on the road to the village that Put Boswell suddenly broke out with:
"Look a-here, boys, wasn't we a-wondering this morning what we'd do with this here last day of vacation?"
"That was just the trouble," said Charley Farrington, "and we've put it in a-helping an old sheep out of Chittenden's well."
"Don't care for that," stoutly responded Put. "Didn't I say last night I'd find something to do? I say it's the best day we've had. We know just what to do with an old well now. It's been real interesting."
"Yes," drawled Abe Larrabee, "so it has. Interesting to the old ram too. Worst of it is, we daren't tell anybody."
That was too bad, but they could all go back to school more cheerfully for it the next day.
[THE UNGRATEFUL WOOD-CUTTER.]
Once on a time there lived in a village a wood-cutter so poor, that he had only his hatchet with which to gain bread for his wife and children.
"What am I to do?" said he, one day. "I am worn out with fatigue, my wife and children have nothing to eat, and I have no longer strength to hold my hatchet to earn even bitter black bread for my family. Ah! it is very bad luck for the poor when they are brought into this world."
While he was lamenting in this way, a voice called to him in a compassionate tone, "What are you complaining of?"
"Am I not likely to complain, when I have no food?" said he.
"Go home," said the voice, "dig up the earth in the corner of your garden, and you will find under a dead branch a treasure."
When the wood-cutter heard this he threw himself on his knees, and cried out, "Master, how do you call yourself? who are you with so kind a heart?"
"My name is Merlin," said the voice.
"Ah, master, God will bless you if you will come to my aid, and save a poor family from destitution."
"Go quickly," said the voice, "and in a year's time come back here, and give me an account of what you have done with the money you will find in the corner of the garden."
"Master, I will come in a year's time, or every day if you command me."
So he went home, dug the earth in the corner pointed out to him, and there found the promised treasure.
At the end of the year he went, according to agreement, to the forest. The voice cried,
"So you have come!"
"Yes, master."
"And how have you fared?"
"Well, master; my family have good food and clothing, and we have reason to thank you every day."
"You are well off, then, now; but tell me is there anything else you long for?"
"Ah, yes, master, I should like to be made Mayor."
"All right; in forty days you shall be named Mayor."
"Oh, a thousand thanks, my dear protector."
The second year the rich wood-cutter came to the forest in fine new clothes, and wearing tied round his waist the scarf of Mayor.
"Mr. Merlin," called he, "come and speak to me."
"Here I am," said the voice. "What do you wish?"
"Our Bishop died yesterday, and my son, with your aid, would like to replace him. A fresh favor, then, I ask of your kindness."
"In forty days it shall be done," said Merlin.
Accordingly, in forty days the son became a Bishop, and yet they were not contented.
At the end of the third year the wood-cutter sought his protector, and in a low voice called,
"Merlin, will you do me another favor?"
"What is it?" said the voice.
"My daughter wishes to be the wife of a Director."
"So let it be," replied Merlin. "In forty days the marriage shall take place."
And so it all came to pass.
Then the wood-cutter spoke in this wise to his wife,
"Why should I go again into the forest to speak to a creature whom I have never seen? I am wealthy enough now, I have plenty of friends, and my name is respected."
"Go once more," said she. "You ought to wish him good-day, and thank him for all his benefits."
So the wood-cutter mounted his horse, and, followed by two servants, entered the wood, and began to shout, "Merlot! Merlot! I have no more need of you, for I am sufficiently rich now."
Merlin replied: "It seems that you have forgotten the time when you had not enough to eat, possessed only your hatchet, and could scarcely earn sixpence a day. The first service I rendered you, you went on your knees, and called me 'Master'; after the second, a little less polite, you said 'Mister'; after the third, only plain 'Merlin'; and now you have the impudence to address me as 'Merlot.' You think that you have made your account well, and have no longer need of me. We'll see to that. You have always been heartless and stupid; continue to be stupid, and remain poor as you were when I took you up."
The rich man laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and did not believe a word that had been said to him.
He went back to his home. Soon his son, the Bishop, died. His daughter, the Director's wife, also had a bad illness, and she died too. To crown his misfortunes, a war broke out, and the soldiers of each army entered his cellars, consumed his wine and his granaries of corn, and burned his maize in the field. His house also they set fire to, so he remained penniless and uncared for.
[LITTLE JACK'S DREAM.]
Little Jack Jones considered himself the happiest boy in Jonesborough when his father gave him a gun. The fact that it was a weapon with which to shoot peas, and had a spring that did away with the necessity for powder, did not make it any less dangerous in Jack's eyes, and he felt very warlike with it in his hands.
He was positive he could kill birds, and even animals for that matter, provided his aim was true, and the peas could be sent with sufficient force. That the woods in the rear of his house were alive with all kinds of animals he had no doubt, even though he had never seen any, and his father had said rabbits were the largest game to be found there. He felt certain his father was mistaken, for what were woods made for if not to shelter every species of the brute creation?
For a long time Jack had been anxious to go out for a day, and shoot about as many animals as would be necessary to start a large menagerie; but until this gun was given him he could not satisfy his desires. Now, however, all was changed, and he began the most warlike preparations.
He found an old powder-horn which would serve to hold his stock of peas, and make him look like a hunter, and the obliging tinman cut him out one of the most ferocious-looking tin knives that can well be imagined.
That night his gun, carefully loaded, stood by the head of his bed, while his knife and powder-horn of peas were tucked snugly away under the pillow, where he could reach them at a moment's notice.
It was a long time before he fell asleep that night, and as the last idea in his mind when the sand-man closed his eyes was of his hunting expedition, when he thought he awakened he was not surprised at finding himself already in the woods.
His gun was in his hands, his terrible knife in his belt, and his pea-horn slung over his shoulder in the proper manner. He laughed to himself at the thought that he was in the woods without remembering anything about the disagreeable morning task of combing his hair or going for the milk; but he took good care to peep cautiously behind every bush or rock lest an elephant should pop out and trample on him before he had time to kill him.
With his gun ready for instant use, he walked on, but saw nothing, not even a bird, that was anxious to be killed, until he heard a gruff voice just behind him shout,
"Here, young fellow, what are you trying to do?"
Jack turned very quickly, for he had not supposed any one was near, and his surprise was great at seeing an enormous gorilla, armed with a large club, and wearing two feathers on his head, and an apron of leaves, coming directly toward him.
"I wasn't tryin' to do nothin'," said Jack, in greatest alarm, and doing his best to keep his knees from shaking. "I was only walkin' round."
"That's a story," said the old fellow, sternly, as he called up five chimpanzees, all of whom wore aprons and carried clubs, and ordered them to lead Jack away to the court-house.
Frightened as Jack was, he thought how strange it was that animals should have a court-house, and then as he looked at his captors more closely, he fancied they acted something after the manner of policemen.
How frightened he was then, and how he wished he had never seen a pea-gun or a tin knife!
The policemen did not speak to him, but marched him along, the gorilla leading the way in the most dignified manner possible.
The distance was very long and Jack was tired; but he would willingly have walked during the entire day if by such means he could escape going to that court, where he felt certain some terrible punishment awaited him. There was no such good fortune for him, however, for when they reached what it seemed must be the very centre of the woods, they entered a cleared space, which marked the end of the journey.
BEFORE JUDGE LION.—Drawn by F. Bellew, Jun.
Jack knew he stood in the animals' court-room, for there, on a high bank on which moss had been spread for a carpet, sat a very ferocious-looking and very old lion, wearing an enormous pair of eyeglasses, while just behind him his wife looked over his shoulder curiously at the prisoner. Just below the lion a tiger sat on his haunches as if he was the clerk of the court; at one side stood a giraffe as crier, and on a swinging vine overhead perched an old crow, who, as the shade over his eyes plainly told, was the court reporter.
It was a terrible moment for poor Jack as he stood there before the savage-looking judge, and he resolved from that instant that there was not half so much fun in the so-called sport of hunting as some people seemed to think.
"What's your name?" asked the tiger, with a growl, and Jack's teeth chattered so that he could hardly answer,
"Jack Jones."
"What is the charge against the prisoner, Captain Gorilla?" asked the judge, as he stroked his whiskers and adjusted his eyeglasses.
"Carrying dangerous weapons," answered the old fellow, as he pointed to the pea-shooter, and then he motioned one of the chimpanzees to tell the story, he standing ready to corroborate what his lieutenant should say in case Jack attempted to deny his guilt.
The chimpanzee told the judge that he had been out with Captain Gorilla and his four comrades since six o'clock that morning, looking for some suspicious-acting animals who had been reported as being in that ward; they had discovered the prisoner, who was armed as his honor could see; he was, at the time of his arrest, looking around him in a singularly cautious manner, and was, to the best of his (the officer's) belief, a dangerous person to be at liberty.
The old crow looked down at Jack as if he was about to write a description of him for the next number of the Forest Herald, and the judge wiped his eyeglasses with his tail, as he asked, "Is his gun loaded?"
Captain Gorilla stepped forward, and was about to examine the weapon, when the giraffe put his hoofs in his ears, and insisted that if it was absolutely necessary to go into such slight details, the captain should go at least a mile from the court, since he was very nervous, and afraid of a noise.
The judge thought that perhaps it made no difference whether the charge was actually in the gun or not, since the prisoner had the ammunition in his possession, and then paused as if to consider what the sentence should be.
Jack, who was more frightened than ever before, had had no chance to speak since his trial began, but now he commenced to cry and plead his cause at the same time.
"Dear, kind, good Mr. Lion, if you'll only let me go home, I'll bend the knife all up, an' I won't ever shoot a single pea, except at the side of our barn, where they can't hurt anybody. Do let me go, 'cause I'm afraid I didn't get the milk for mother before I came here."
"If you neglected to do the errands for your mother, your punishment must be all the more severe," said the judge, and his wife nodded her head as if to say she thought that decision exactly correct.
"I'll never come out here again, an' I'll always do everything mother wants me to," pleaded Jack, but all in vain.
The judge considered the case in silence for some moments; the clerk licked his chops hungrily, as if he expected to be called upon to eat the prisoner; the captain of police brandished his club savagely; the crow made preparations for writing down the prisoner's last words; and Jack's hair would have stood straight up, because of his fright, if he had combed the snarls out so it could.
"Tie him up to the tallest tree by the hair, so he may act as scarecrow to other boys who come out pea-shooting in the morning before they have done the chores," said the judge, with a roar, and no sooner had he spoken than the gorilla and the chimpanzees caught Jack up, climbing the tree with him in their arms without the slightest difficulty.
It hurt terribly to hang there by the hair, but the pain was still greater when the branch broke, and he fell to the—floor, now thoroughly awakened, because he had tumbled out of bed.
It was some moments before he could understand that it was all a dream; but it had frightened him so that he bent the tin knife double and threw it out of the window before he crawled back to bed.
The next morning his mother was pleasantly surprised by seeing him do his work without being reminded of it, and that forenoon, when some of the boys asked him why he was not in the woods shooting lions, he simply told them that it was because he was obliged to take care of the baby.
A COUNTRY DAISY.
