MASTER SATURDAY'S PICNIC.
BY AGNES CARR.
Little Master Saturday, who is devoted to holidays, and perfectly revels in all sorts of jollifications—although, poor boy, being a "Saturday's child," he has to "work hard for his living"—made up his frivolous little mind this summer to give a picnic, and invite all his cousins the Days to spend the livelong day with him in the "merry green wood."
It was easy to obtain leave of absence from his master, Mr. Workaday, on condition that he performed certain tasks before he went; so the earliest bird had not yet started out on his worm-hunt the next morning when Saturday popped briskly out of bed, and was so spry that all his "chores" about the house and barn were finished up long before breakfast, which so pleased Mrs. Workaday that she gave him a fine large frosted cake for his lunch.
"And a jolly good plummy one it is," remarked Saturday, with satisfaction, as he carefully packed it, surrounded by pickles, in a large basket, and set off for Monday's house, where he found the little girl, with her sleeves rolled up, merrily working away at the wash-tub.
"Dear Monday," he said, "will you not come to my picnic?"
"How can I," said Monday, "when I have all these clothes to wash and hang on the line."
"Oh, I will help you," said Saturday; and pulling off his coat, he set to work with so much vigor that in half an hour all the handkerchiefs and aprons were flapping gayly in the breeze, and the tiny queen of the soap-suds, hastily cutting a generous supply of sandwiches—for the Mondays always have a plentiful stock of cold meat in the house—they started off together to invite their cousin Tuesday, the little girl's pretty face peeping shyly out from beneath a picturesque gypsy hat, for every one knows that "Monday's child is fair of face," and all these little people were named for the day on which they were born.
Tuesday lived in a cozy, vine-covered cottage, and she opened the door for them herself, looking as red as a peony, and carrying a large flat-iron in one hand. On hearing their errand she at first danced for joy, for being "full of grace," she was rather fond of dancing, but stopped suddenly, exclaiming,
"But I have not finished my ironing yet."
"Oh, we will help you," said the two visitors; and before the hands of the clock had travelled half around the dial the clothes-horse was filled with nicely smoothed garments.
"It is so warm I will take lemonade," said Tuesday, bringing out a dozen lemons.
The syrup for the lemonade was soon prepared, and the three Days next called on Wednesday, whom they found as "merry and glad" as ever, busily helping his mother bake bread and pies in the great Dutch oven.
He would be delighted to join the party if they could wait until the last loaves were brown enough to come out of the oven, and meanwhile, to keep them out of mischief, his mother set them to filling tarts with strawberry jam, they being her contribution to the entertainment.
"Shall we invite Thursday?" asked Saturday. "He is always so 'sour and sad.' I'm afraid he will spoil all the fun."
"It would be too bad to leave him out," said Wednesday. "And perhaps he may be more cheerful to-day."
As they expected, they found Thursday with an ugly scowl on his face poring over a Latin grammar, with his little dog Tempus growling at his feet.
Whether time flies or not, Tempus certainly did at every cat, cow, or other animal he met, and he now, true to his name, flew at the children as though he would devour them.
"Lie down, sir," shouted Thursday, kicking at the dog, and frowning crossly. "Cousins, what brings you here to-day?"
"We have come to ask you to my picnic," said Saturday, politely.
At this, Thursday began to grumble and cry, whining out: "But I can't go, for I have to 'cram' to-day for examination. It is just my luck."
"Oh, never mind," said Monday, smiling sweetly, "I will stay and help you with your lessons, while Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday call on Friday, and I guess you will be ready in time."
So down she sat by the mournful student, and being a bright little Day, soon made a great deal clear to poor Thursday that was very dark before, while the other three hurried off to see Friday.
There have been "Black Fridays," and "Blue Fridays," but this was a very "Good Friday," and very "loving and giving," and she met them at the garden gate with both hands full of flowers, which she forced upon them, looking meanwhile as sweet as a rose-bud herself.
"Oh, Friday," they all called in a breath, "you must come to the picnic with us."
"I should love to," said Friday, "but I have the parlors to sweep, and a huge pile of stockings to darn."
"We will stay and help you," said the children, "for we won't go without you." So they all went to work with brooms and dust-pans, and needles and thread, and as many hands make light work, the rooms were soon as neat as wax, while not a pin-hole could be found in one of the hose.
"I have just made a lot of hot cross buns," said the cook, filling a paper bag, and tucking it under Friday's arm. Monday and Thursday too now joined them, bearing a large basket of golden pears, and followed by Tempus, who trotted along, quite serenely for him, sniffing at the lunch so anxiously that Friday presented him with a bun on the spot, and they then all started in a body for Baby Sunday's. "For we must take little Sunday," said Tuesday; "he is always so 'good and gay.'"
But Sunday's mamma did not approve of picnics for such little folks, and thought him too young and delicate to go.
The children, however, argued down her scruples, saying, "Of course it would be wrong for him to go to the woods alone, but surely there could be no harm with six Week Days to take care of him and do all the work."
So, on condition that Saturday and Monday would keep him between them on the road, and not let him fall, Mrs. Sabbath finally consented, dressed the boy in his best "bib and tucker," gave him a basket of sweeties and a dozen kisses, and sent him off as "blithe and bonny" as a lark.
The party being now complete, they started off with a hop, skip, and a jump for the jolly old wood, where the bees, birds, and flowers all buzzed, warbled, and nodded them a gay welcome.
"Hurrah!" shouted Saturday, tossing his cap in the air, "now for fun," and all the little people joined in the cheer, even Thursday venturing to smile a wee bit.
Sunday was chosen King of the festival, and seated high up on a moss-covered stump, while the other Days ran hither and thither, gathering for him the prettiest wild flowers and ripest and sweetest berries.
"Let us play 'Here we go round the barberry bush,'" suggested Monday, it being a favorite game with all the Days; and they were soon repeating in play what they had already accomplished in earnest—"washing, ironing, and folding clothes so early in the morning."
Then Tuesday led them in a lively dance, as light and graceful as an elfin sprite; and Wednesday twined beautiful wreaths of oak leaves for their hats, and daisy chains for their necks.
Thursday alone was cross and sullen, sulking by himself, because Monday gave so many berries to little Sunday, and he persisted in knocking off the heads of the flowers, and robbing the radiant butterflies of their wings, until tender-hearted Friday was almost in tears, and offered him a bright dime she had in her pocket if he would stop doing so; and I am sorry to say he was mean enough to take it.
Saturday, meanwhile, who felt himself to be the host, was working like a little Trojan, unpacking bags, boxes, and baskets, spreading the cloth beneath a glorious old oak-tree, and bringing fresh sparkling water from a spring that gushed clear as crystal out of the solid rock, with which Tuesday brewed the lemonade.
"Make it sweet, and make it sour," laughed Wednesday, giving Tuesday's hand a squeeze that made her cry, "Don't take me for a lemon, I beg," and shower the squeezer with powdered sugar.
The forest, too, was not behindhand in adding to the rural feast, for the blackberries and blueberries hung thick and heavy on the bushes, tender wintergreen leaves grew beneath the children's feet, and down by a baby brook, that ran cooing and gurgling along into the arms of its mother, the river, they found quantities of spicy watercresses, while the wild roses, marguerites, and clover blossoms gave quite a festal appearance to the board. As at all picnics, they ate ants with their pickles, and flies with their bread and butter, but they only seemed to add a flavor to the repast, seasoned as it was with so much fun and frolic.
"Now, Sunday, sing for us," said Saturday, when they had all finished and were lying about on the green grass.
Sunday knew nothing but hymns, but these he sang in a sweet little childish voice, very pleasant to listen to; and he now warbled away with all his baby might, the older children joining in the choruses.
"Where is that singing-bird?" asked a cheerful voice behind them, as Sunday ended with a pretty trill, and they all turned to see a merry-looking old gentleman coming toward them.
"It is Grandpa Week!" they all cried, bounding toward him.
"I am glad, my children, to see you so happy," he said, patting each head kindly, "and gladder still to learn from your parents that you have all remembered 'duty before pleasure.'"
"That we did," said Saturday, thinking how hard he had worked for his picnic.
"And so I have brought you some little rewards."
"What can they be?" asked the children, clustering around the old gentleman, who drew numerous packages from his capacious pockets.
"You, Monday," he said, "are 'fair of face,' so I have brought you a parasol to protect it from the sun. Tuesday is 'full of grace,' so she must have a pair of fancy slippers in which to dance and skip more lightly. Wednesday is 'merry and glad,' and this Nonsense Book will surely make him 'laugh and grow fat.' While Thursday, I am sorry to say, is so 'sour and sad,' he only deserves this birch rod; but in consideration of his progress at school I have added a collar for Tempus, and trust he will hereafter improve both his time and temper. Friday is so 'loving and giving,' I was sure nothing would please her like a knot of true-blue ribbon, and a box of sugar-plums to share with you all; while, as Saturday has to 'work hard for a living,' I shall give him his present in money, to spend as he likes."
"But have you nothing for Sunday?" asked the children.
"To be sure I have," cried Grandpa Week, catching the little boy in his arms and fastening a glittering belt about his waist.
"'The child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is blithe and bonny and good and gay;'
"and Sunday is the golden clasp that binds the Weeks together."
"Hurrah for grandpa!" shouted all the young folks, hastening to thank him for their gifts. And then, as the sun's great red eye was blinking sleepily in the west, clinging to the hands and coat of the old man, they wended their way from beneath the protecting branches of the hospitable woods.
[THE RHINOCEROS.]
When the rhinoceros is at home—where it is probable he had much rather be than dragged around the country in a gaudily painted cart as one of the attractions of a menagerie, or confined in some zoological garden, where he is prevented from goring the small boy who gazes at him as impudently as he pleases—he lives in Asia or Africa. Perhaps it would be more proper to say that he fights in those countries, for the greater portion of his long life is made up of combats with his relatives or any other animals who come in his way.
In Africa there are four varieties, distinguished by the natives as follows: the borele, or black rhinoceros, the keitloa, or two-horned black, the moohooho, or common white, and the kaboba, or long-horned white rhinoceros. The first two are smaller but more fierce than the white ones, and are quite as willing to hunt the sportsman as to be hunted. The largest of the Africans is the long-horned white rhinoceros, which has been found eighteen feet six inches in length, and the circumference of its broad back and low-hanging belly is very nearly the same number of feet and inches.
There are three species of the Asiatic rhinoceros, two of which have but one horn, while the third has two. These are much smaller than their brothers from Africa, and their skin hangs in folds.
Mr. Greenwood says that the hunters and writers who have asserted that a bullet will hardly pierce this animal's hide are mistaken, and that a rifle-ball will penetrate the loose, baggy covering with little or no difficulty. The belief that the hide was so tough probably arose from experiments made with that which had been toughened almost like horn by a process employed by the natives, who make from it whip-stocks and walking-canes.
Mr. Gordon Cumming, the celebrated hunter, in speaking of the largest African species, says: "It is about as large around as it is long, while the body sets so low on its legs that a tall man a-tiptoe could see across its back. Attached to its blunt nose—not to the bone, but merely set in the skin with a net-work of muscles to hold it—is a horn more or less curved, hard as steel, sharp, and more than a yard long, and immediately behind this is a little horn, equally sharp, and nearly straight." His eyes are very small, and as useful to him by night as by day. His ears are long, pointed, and tipped with a few bristles, which, with a tuft at the end of his tail, make up all the semblance of hair he possesses.
The length of the horn varies in the different species, the main horn of the kaboba exceeding four feet, while that of the moohooho is seldom over two feet. In all cases, among the double-horned animals, the rear one—that is to say, the one nearest the forehead—is always short, not often more than six inches.
There are many singular superstitions regarding the horn of the rhinoceros, which is not as valuable for its ivory as that from the elephant. Rhinoceros-horn shavings are supposed by many people to cure certain diseases, and it is believed that if poison be poured in a cup made of the horn, it will burst it. A German writer says: "This horn will not endure the touch of poison; I have often been a witness of this. Many people of fashion at the Cape have cups turned out of the rhinoceros horn; some have them set in silver, and some in gold. If wine is poured into one of these cups, it immediately rises and bubbles up as though it were boiling, and if there is poison in it, the cup immediately splits. If poison is put by itself into one of these cups, it in an instant flies to pieces.... The chips made in turning one of these cups are ever carefully saved and returned to the owner of the cup, being esteemed of great benefit in convulsions, faintings, and many other complaints."
As to whether the horn of the rhinoceros is such a test for poison, the reader may safely doubt; but it can make little difference, since it is hardly probable he cares either for the wine or the poison, and has no need of such a sensitive drinking cup.
Clumsy-looking as the great brute is, Mr. Gordon Cumming says "a horse and rider can rarely manage to overtake him." Another famous African hunter writes: "He is not often pursued on horseback, and chiefly because his speed and endurance are such that it is very difficult to come up with and follow him, to say nothing of the danger attendant on such a course. Many a hunter, indeed, has thereby endangered his life."
One of the most singular of attendants is that which the rhinoceros has. It is a little bird called by ornithologists Buphaga africana, and known to hunters as the rhinoceros bird. This little fellow clings to the animal's hide by means of its long claws and elastic tail, feeding on the insects that infest the leathery skin. In doing this it renders great service to the huge brute, but trifling as compared to its other duty. It acts as sentinel to warn its movable feeding-place of approaching danger. While it is eating it is ever on the alert, and at the first sign of the hunter it flies up in the air uttering its warning note, which is ever quickly heeded, the rhinoceros starting off at once in the direction taken by its watchful friend. Mr. Cumming states that when the rhinoceros is asleep, and the bird, hearing the approach of the hunter, fails to awaken him by its voice, it will arouse him by pecking the inside of his ear.
Some species of the rhinoceros are inclined to peace, and will rarely attack man save in defense of their young or their lives, while others, and more particularly the keitloa, will attack man or beast simply to gratify their love for fighting. The lion never risks an encounter with the rhinoceros, save when absolutely necessary for his own safety, and it is but seldom the elephant cares to measure strength with him, for the larger animal is far less quick in his movements than the smaller.
A celebrated African hunter once witnessed a battle between these huge animals; but in this instance the impetuous rage of the rhinoceros proved his downfall, for having driven his terrible horn up to the hilt into the carcass of the elephant, he was unable to extract it, and the latter falling, crushed the life out of his assailant in the descent. A traveller once saw a fight between a gigantic male elephant and a black rhinoceros, that was ended by the flight of the former.
FIGHT BETWEEN A KEITLOA AND A PANTHER.
It is seldom that such an encounter as that shown in the engraving takes place, for the very good reason that the panther, knowing its death is the almost certain result of the combat, slinks away before the keitloa. Only in defense of its young, as in the case shown, or when it fears an attack is to be made, does it oppose the rhinoceros, and then the sharp horn easily pierces the spotted skin, or the ferocious mother is crushed beneath the ponderous feet of her enemy.
The rhinoceros of India is much better tempered than its African brothers, and Bishop Heber says of some which he saw at Lucknow: "These are quiet and gentle animals.... I should conceive that they might be available to carry burdens as well as the elephant, except that as their pace is still slower than his, their use could be only applicable to very great weights and very gentle travelling."
Nothing is definitely known as to the average age of this animal, but it is generally believed that the duration of life of an Indian rhinoceros is hardly less than a hundred years.
THE SWEETEST FLOWER.
[BITS OF ADVICE.]
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
ABOUT TELLING THE TRUTH.
All noble boys and girls tell the truth as a matter of course. In fact, the greatest possible insult that can be offered a person is to doubt his word. No matter what consequences are involved, it is always your duty to tell plainly and clearly just what has really happened so far as you are concerned.
I once knew a little fellow of quite timid and sensitive nature who had the misfortune to break a window while playing ball in the school yard. The teacher was thought to be very stern, and Charlie was very much frightened, but he went straight in-doors, and up to the desk, and told what he had done. A day or two later somebody said, "Who broke that window, Mr. ——?" "An honorable person, sir," was the reply, loud enough for everybody to hear.
When truth-telling concerns not yourself only, but others, it is sometimes right for you to refrain from speaking, simply declining to answer rather than to tell tales. You must judge about this when circumstances arise, but of one thing you may be sure, that it is never right to evade, or alter, or color a statement. Be true, whatever happens. An old pagan Emperor used to say, "No matter what other folks do, I must be good, just as if the emerald should say, I must always be emerald, and keep my color." Do not hesitate when questioned, but look the one who questions you straight in the face, and say what it is right to say, modestly and frankly.
Candor does not require you, on the other hand, to go about saying disagreeable things because they are true. A little girl I used to know once made a visit in a house where were twin sisters, one of whom was much prettier than the other. What should little miss do but remark, "I think Eunice is far more beautiful than Elsie, and I've heard Aunt Clara say she thinks so too." This was true, but it was a true thing which was never meant to be talked of. And the little girl felt very much ashamed of herself when she grew older and recollected it.