"To the Butterfly Maid.
"At this solemn spot where the green rushes wave
Is buried fair Butterfly deep in the grave;
A friend unto all, she has run her short race:
Like a flower on wings with its beauty and grace
Was this Butterfly Maid."
[WHY DICK DROVE THE CAR.]
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
"I wonder what I am good for, anyway?" muttered Dick Winworth to himself as he sucked the finger he had caught in the gate, and gazed ruefully at the butter stain on his sleeve.
It was just after dinner on a warm summer's day, and at the table Dick had displayed more than usual awkwardness, for he had upset the salt in taking his seat, trod on his aunt Phœbe's tenderest foot in getting up, scalded his tongue with hot soup, and broken a decorated plate belonging to an old set, which his sister appeared to value more highly than if it were new. It was in a fit of despair over the latter catastrophe that the usually gentle maiden had uttered an exclamation or two, which led her brother to ask the above mournful mental question.
The first delicious freshness of vacation had worn off, and now that Town Bergen, Dick's great "chum," was away on a visit, young Winworth had begun to find time hang rather heavy on his hands, especially as he had just finished a very interesting book, and was quite sure he couldn't find another as good.
Pondering in his mind as to whether long holidays were such desirable things after all, Dick strolled on through the quiet village street, which had been lately dignified by being chosen as the thoroughfare of the only horse-railroad in the place.
The terminus of the route was not far from the Winworths', at the entrance to the little park, and as Dick in his walk came in sight of the latter, he suddenly resolved to take a trip into town and back.
"That'll keep me out of mischief for an hour at least, and besides, I've been meaning to ride in on the cars all the week," and the boy quickened his steps in order to catch the "bobtail" he saw standing there.
However, he need have been in no sort of hurry, as he soon discovered that the horse appeared to be asleep, with the lines wound around the brake, while there were no signs of the driver anywhere.
There were not more than a dozen cars on the road, and these ran at intervals of several minutes, and as here at the outskirts of the village there were as yet very few houses, it was not considered necessary to have a waiting-room, nor even a starter's box.
"But where can that driver be?" mused Dick, as he gazed admiringly up, down, and across the neatly painted vehicle, for the cars were all new and of the latest patent. "However, I seem to be the only passenger; but no, I guess here's another," as his attention was attracted toward a very stout old lady, all decked out in holiday attire, with artificial flowers in her bonnet, fresh roses in her belt, and a huge bouquet in her hand, who came panting across from the Park gate.
"Hi! hi! wait a minute!" she cried, frantically waving her parasol, and evidently under the impression that the car had already started off at a gallop.
Dick moved away from the step to allow her plenty of room to get in, when she exclaimed, "Oh, boy, can you tell me how long it will be before this car leaves?"
"No, ma'am," he replied, much gratified because she had not called him "little boy," for he had just entered his teens.
"Oh deary me, I'm in such a hurry! I think I'll speak to the driver. But I don't see any—why, where is he?" and the old lady bustled about from one side of the car to the other so impatiently that it danced upon its springs again.
Then she sat down for a minute, wiped her face with a perfumed handkerchief, took a sniff from her smelling-bottle, and began fanning herself with a fan which Dick thought she'd never finish opening out.
"I know I shall be too late, after all my promises, too!" and now there was more of regret than impatience in the old lady's tones.
Meantime Dick had gone on an exploring expedition, and presently came running back with the news that the driver had "a fit or something," and was lying on the kitchen floor of a farm-house around the corner.
"How did he get there?" asked the old lady, in her short way.
"He must have felt it coming on and started for the house, for they found him just outside the gate," replied Dick. "I didn't see him, but a boy who was running for the doctor told me about it."
The lady looked serious for a minute, took another sniff from her bottle, and then began: "Look here, boy, if you'll drive this car for me down to Clayton Street, I'll give you a crisp, new one-dollar bill, and a great many thanks besides. A friend of mine, whom I haven't seen since she was a little girl, is going to be married at three o'clock, and I've always promised I'd come to her wedding, even if I were three thousand miles away, and here I am, less than three, and likely to miss it after all!"
"I should think she'd wait till you come, ma'am," Dick ventured to suggest, consolingly.
"Oh, bless you," continued the old lady, "she thinks I'm in California. She sent the invitation to me out there, and it arrived just as I was unexpectedly called back to New York, so I determined not to let them know a word about it, but just walk in on them at the wedding. And now, if you'll only drive me down to Clayton Street, I think I can do it yet. I'm not afraid."
That last sentence nearly spoiled the effect of all the others, for Dick didn't like to have anybody think he couldn't drive a car-horse if he wanted to; but he graciously overlooked the blunder, promised to do the driving if his passenger would be responsible to the company, and then stepped out upon the front platform, feeling as if he had been asked to ascend the throne of an empire.
As for the old lady, she settled herself comfortably back in a corner, and began to button her white kid gloves.
Much impressed by this proof of the confidence reposed in his horsemanship, Dick untied the lines, gave the brake a twirl, chirped to the lazy nag, and, presto! the bell on the latter's neck commenced to jingle as loudly as when the regular official held the ribbons.
What fun it was, to be sure! No steering out of ruts and around puddles, the sole duties of the post being to slap the reins on the horse's back now and then, and keep a hand on that fascinating brake. Dick's only regret was that he had lost the opportunity of using the turn-table, but having found the car headed in the right direction, there was no help for it.
The street, as has been said, was a quiet one, especially so at that time of day, and thus no one saw and wondered at the sight of Dick Winworth, only son of the prominent lawyer, driving a "bobtail" car. As for Dick himself, he had never imagined so much enjoyment could be had by such simple means. The tinkle of the bell and the grating of the wheels on the track were as music in his ears, while the task of keeping the vehicle from running on to the horse's heels at down grades furnished most enchanting occupation for hand and eye.
On a sudden the latter chanced to light on the green tin box fastened to the dash-board, and he recollected that his passenger had not yet paid her fare. So, with a very broad smile, he rang the "reminder" bell, which caused the old lady to look up and smile too, as she handed him a dime. Dick having shut the door that he might have the fun of giving change through the "flap."
It was while he was thus engaged that he drove past a switch without noticing it, and at the next corner a young lady held up her finger as a sign for him to stop.
"What shall I do?" he called through the open window; for he felt that in a sense the old lady had hired the whole car, and ought therefore to be consulted before he admitted anybody else.
"Oh, let her get in, by all means," was his passenger's hospitable response; and to Dick's infinite delight, she pulled the bell.
However, when the young lady had taken her seat, and begun gravely fishing in her long knit purse for five cents, the serious side of his situation rather troubled the boy, and for a while he kept his eyes fixed steadily between the horse's ears, as if trying to see how this queer sort of an adventure was going to end, when the sharp ring of the bell over his head caused him to give a very undriver-like jump as he turned to find out what was wanted.
"Here," whispered the old lady, as she slipped the promised crisp bill through the flap, "this is Clayton Street. I'm ever so much obliged, and please stop just as short as you can, for I've only five minutes to walk to the house."
Then she hastened to the rear platform, and almost before the car came to a stand-still she had stepped off, and was hurrying up a side street, the white ribbons of her flowery bonnet streaming out behind.
And what was Dick to do now? He had completed the task intrusted to him, and been paid for it, but he could not very well walk off and leave the car standing there.
But if he should keep on, what would they say to him at the dépôt? and how could he refer to the old lady, when she had forgotten to give him her address? And there was the young lady patiently waiting inside.
Concluding that the finger of duty pointed onward, Dick was about to start the horse, when he heard the jingling of a bell down the street ahead of him. And then it flashed through his mind about the switch, and he realized that here was another car coming on the same track in an opposite direction.
What was to be done? For an instant the boy felt a strong inclination to jump off and run away, but then that would be cowardly; besides, there was the passenger. So he stuck to his post and the brake, and calmly awaited the crisis.
VERY NEARLY A COLLISION.
It arrived in due course, and came near being a collision as well, for the other driver, who was behind time, had whipped up. There was a curve in the street just there, and as Dick's car was standing still, there was no sound of bell to give warning.
However, no harm was done; but how that driver did scold when he saw the state of affairs!
Dick's young lady passenger fled in terror at the outbreak of the storm, while Dick himself stood up as if under a shower-bath of cold water.
And now, to make matters worse, two more cars arrived from down town, where it seemed there had been a blockade.
"The driver had a fit up at the Park," cried Dick, when he could make himself heard; and then he told his story of the old lady and the wedding, exhibiting the new dollar bill as proof of its truth. The three drivers shook their heads over the story, but looked more respectfully at the bill, which gave Dick an idea.
"Here," he cried, waving the dollar above his head, "you can divide this amongst you to pay for any trouble I've made. Will that do?"
They all exclaimed at once that it would. Then a passenger appeared, who knew Mr. Winworth, and who promised to explain matters to his neighbor, the superintendent of the road.
Then they— But Dick didn't wait to see how they got the cars straightened out. He walked back home as fast as he could, wondering if that dollar wouldn't have bought a pretty plate to replace the one he had broken. However, he consoled himself with the thought that it was easier to keep from breaking them in future than it was to earn whatever they might cost by driving a car.
[THE GEESE AND THE CAPITOL.]
THE GAULS MOUNTING THE WALLS OF THE CAPITOL.
Geese are not remarkable for bravery or for thoughtful care of the interests of their owners, yet the Romans firmly believed that geese once saved their Capitol from capture.
The Gauls, a savage people coming from the North, once captured the city of Rome, and burned it. Some of the Romans fled to Veii, a town not very far distant, and others shut themselves up in the Capitol, which was a strong building on the top of a steep and rocky hill. The Gauls encamped at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and resolved to wait until the Roman garrison should be forced to surrender through hunger. One night a young Roman came from Veii, and climbed up to the Capitol to encourage his countrymen to resist the Gauls until help should come. In the morning the Gauls saw the foot-prints of the young man, and said to themselves that they could climb wherever he could. So the next night a strong party of Gauls tried to capture the Capitol by climbing up the rocks.
Now a temple, sacred to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, three of the divinities of the Romans, stood on the top of the hill close to the place where the Gauls were stealthily climbing. There were some geese in the temple that were supposed to belong to Juno, and although the Gauls made so little noise, that neither the Romans nor their watch-dogs heard them, the geese knew that something was wrong, and they set up a noisy cackling. This awoke Marcus Manlius, a brave Roman soldier, who seized his sword and shield, and calling to his comrades to follow him, rushed upon the Gauls, and hurling one of them backward who had just reached the top of the hill, he so alarmed the other Gauls that they hastily retreated. Some years afterward the brave Manlius was cruelly put to death by the Romans on a false charge of treason, but the Romans always professed to feel great gratitude to the geese.
There is good reason for believing that this story is not strictly true, and it is probable that it was invented in order to account for the fact that among the Romans geese were sacred to Juno. Still, it is so good a story that people will always be quite willing to believe it.
[MR. THOMPSON AND THE OWLS.]
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
Mr. Thompson says that he was sitting under an old oak-tree, not far from the Long Island Sound; he had been watching the sunset, and was now musing, with his eyes wandering from the gold and crimson clouds to the blue water and the ground at his feet. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a globular object by his side, about the size of a small marble. He poked it attentively with his cane, and murmured: "Owls' pellets; there must be a nest in the tree. Now those owls must be strange birds; they eat a mouse or bird entire, and then spit out the bones and skin, or feathers, in a round ball like this. Let me see," he continued, turning the pellet over carefully with his knife; "this fellow has been eating a mouse, for here is the skull and skin. I wonder where the nest is? I'd get the young ones, and—and—" and Mr. Thompson began to nod—"and give 'em to—"
"To who-o?" inquired a voice just above his head.
"To—to—to Miss—" continued Mr. Thompson, drowsily.
"To who?" repeated the voice.
"Who-o-o-o?" echoed Mr. Thompson, in strong nasal tones, and his head dropped on his breast.
"Now you begin to talk," said the voice. "I have watched you for a long time, and I knew you must be a relation of ours from your looks and actions, and now it is proved by your voice, though you don't speak loud."
Mr. Thompson says that the moment he nodded he was perfectly aware of all that was going on, and looked up to see who was speaking. There on a branch just above his head sat a large white owl, with his great eyes staring directly at him.
"Come up here," said the owl.
"How?" inquired Mr. Thompson.
"Fly, stupid!" replied the owl.
Mr. Thompson flapped his arms obediently, and for a moment was somewhat surprised to find that he had become transformed into an owl.
"That was done very quietly," he murmured.
"Of course; owls do everything quietly."
Mr. Thompson settled himself on the branch, and fluffed up his feathers as naturally as if he had been used to it all his life.
"So you have had field mice for dinner," he said, after a few moments' hesitation.
"Yes," answered the owl, "and very good eating they are, too. Do you know," he continued, reflectively, "I can't see why the farmers are so opposed to us. We eat up lots of mice and grubs of different kinds."
"And young chickens sometimes," ventured Mr. Thompson.
"Barely," replied the owl; "not when we can get anything else. But come down-stairs and see the family;" and leading the way into the hollow tree, the owl climbed down to the nest. It was quite at the bottom of the tree, and was made of dried grass and feathers. In it were four young owls, and comical-looking birds they were, too, with their great round eyes and fluffy gray down.
After complimenting the old owl on the beauty of his family, Mr. Thompson remarked, "I notice that your feathers are not like other birds', but a sort of soft furry down."
"That is in order that we should make as little noise as possible when flying, so that we can come upon our game unaware of our presence," said the owl, climbing out of the nest. Mr. Thompson followed, and seated again on the limb, he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.
Presently the owl remarked, reflectively: "It seems strange that every one should hate us as they do. If I fly near the house in the evening, the farmer shouts, 'Shoot the owl! he is after the chickens.' If I sit on a tree during the day, all the birds find me, and bother me half to death. And some naturalist comes along and tries to take my children away."
"I don't see how they can get them at the bottom of that hole," said Mr. Thompson.
"Well, you see, everybody don't know how," replied the owl, "but Frank Buckland, the great English naturalist, gives the best way. You see, our two weapons of defense are our beaks and our claws, so if we can't get the better of an enemy with our beaks we turn over on our backs and clutch it in our claws, and we don't let go in a hurry either. So you see this Buckland lets down a ball of worsted into the nest, and keeps it bobbing up and down till we catch hold of it; then he draws it up."
"That makes me think," said Mr. Thompson, aloud, forgetting the presence of the owl, "that I wanted one of the young ones to take to Miss—"
"To who?" interrupted the owl, angrily.
"To Miss—"
"To who-o-o-o?"
"To Miss Angelina," answered Mr. Thompson.
The owl puffed his feathers angrily, and the movement so disconcerted Mr. Thompson that he lost his balance and fell from the branch. As he picked himself up, the owl uttered a derisive "To who," and flew away. It was quite late, and as Mr. Thompson walked slowly home, he murmured, "I'll try that ball and string method of catching owls to-morrow, but if they do more good than harm it seems a shame to disturb them, though I do want to give one to—"
"To who?" came the voice of the owl from the depths of the woods.
Mr. Thompson paused. "I guess I'll leave them alone," he muttered, as he strode along again.
"Good for you-u-u," shouted the owl, which last reply settled Mr. Thompson's resolution, and Miss Angelina had no young owl.
THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[2]
BY W. L. ALDEN,
Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc.