Chapter XI.
There's no telling how many anxious people there may have been in that region, after tea-time that evening, but of two or three circles we may be reasonably sure. Good Mrs. Foster could not endure to stay at home, and her husband and Annie were very willing to go over to the Kinzers' with her, and listen to the encouraging talk of Dabney's stout-hearted and sensible mother.
"O, Mrs. Kinzer, do you think they are in any danger?"
"I hope not. I don't see why they need be, unless they try to return across the bay against this wind."
"But don't you think they'll try? Do you mean they wont be home to-night?" exclaimed Mr. Foster, himself.
"I sincerely hope not," said the widow, calmly. "I should hardly feel like trusting Dabney out in the boat again if he should do so foolish a thing."
"But where can he stay?"
"At anchor, somewhere, or on the island. Almost anywhere but tacking on the bay. He'd be really safer out at sea than trying to get home."
"Out at sea!"
There was something dreadful in the very idea of it, and Annie Foster turned pale enough when she thought of the gay little yacht, and her brother out on the broad Atlantic in it, with no better crew than Dab Kinzer and Dick Lee. Samantha and her sisters were hardly as steady about it as their mother, but they were careful to conceal their misgivings from their neighbors, which was very kindly, indeed, in the circumstances.
There was little use in trying to think or talk of anything else besides the boys, however, with the sound of the "high wind" in the trees out by the road-side, and a very anxious circle was that, up to the late hour at which the members of it separated for the night.
But there were other troubled hearts in that vicinity. Old Bill Lee himself had been out fishing, all day, with very poor luck; but he forgot all about that when he learned that Dick and his young white friends had not returned. He even pulled back to the mouth of the inlet, to see if the gathering darkness would yield him any signs of his boy. He did not know it; but, while he was gone, Dick's mother, after discussing her anxieties with some of her dark-skinned neighbors, half weepingly unlocked her one "clothes-press," and took out the suit which had been the pride of her absent son. She had never admired them half as much before, but they seemed to need a red neck-tie to set them off; and so the gorgeous result of Dick's fishing and trading came out of its hiding-place, and was arranged on the white coverlet of her own bed with the rest of his best garments.
"Jus' de t'ing for a handsome young feller like Dick," she muttered to herself:
"Wot for'd an ole woman like me want to put on any sech fool finery. He's de bestest boy in de worl', he is. Dat is, onless dar aint not'in' happened to 'im."
But if the folks on shore were uneasy about the "Swallow" and her crew, how was it with the latter themselves, as the darkness closed around them, out there upon the tossing water?
Very cool, indeed, had been Captain Dab Kinzer, and he had encouraged the others to go on with their blue-fishing, even when it was pretty tough work to keep the "Swallow" from "scudding." He was anxious not to get too far from shore, for there was no telling what sort of weather might be coming. It was curious, too, what very remarkable luck they had, or rather, Ford and Dick; for Dab would not leave the tiller a moment. Splendid fellows were those blue-fish, and work it was to pull in the heaviest of them. That's just the sort of weather they bite best in; but it is not often such young fishermen venture to take advantage of it. Only the stanchest and best-seasoned old salts of Montauk or New London would have felt altogether at home, that afternoon, in the "Swallow."
"Don't fish any more," said Dabney, at last. "You've caught ten times as many as we ever thought of catching. Whoppers, too, some of 'em."
"Biggest fishing ever I did," remarked Ford, as if that meant a great deal.
"Or mos' anybody else out dis yer way," added Dick. "I isn't 'shamed to show dem fish anywhar."
"No more I aint," said Dab; "but you're getting too tired, and so am I. We must have a good hearty lunch, and put the "Swallow" before the wind for a while. I daren't risk any more of these cross-seas. We might get pitched over any minute."
"Dat's so," said Dick. "And I's awful hungry."
The "Swallow" was well enough provisioned, not to speak of the blue-fish, and there was water enough on board for several days, if they should happen to need it; but there was very little danger of that, unless the wind should continue to be altogether against them.
It was blowing hard when the boys finished their dinner, but no harder than it had already blown, several times, that day, and the "Swallow" seemed to be putting forth her very best qualities as a "sea-boat." No immediate danger, apparently; but there was one "symptom" which Dab discerned, as he glanced around the horizon, which gave him more anxiety than either the stiff breeze or the rough sea.
The coming darkness?
No; for stars and light-houses can be seen at night, and steering is easy enough by them.
A fog is the darkest thing at sea, whether by night or day, and Dabney saw signs of one coming. Rain might come with it, but that would be of small account.
"Boys," said Dabney, "do you know we're out of sight of land at last?"
"Oh no, we're not," replied Ford, confidently; "look yonder."
"That isn't land, Ford; that's only a fog-bank, and we shall be all in the dark in ten minutes. The wind is changing, too, and I hardly know where we are."
"Look at your compass."
"That tells me the wind is changing a little, and it's going down; but I wouldn't dare to run toward the shore in a fog and in the night."
"Why not?"
"Why? Don't you remember those breakers? Would you like to be blown through them, and not see where you were going?"
"No," said Ford. "I rather guess I wouldn't."
"Jest you let Capt'in Kinzer handle dis yer boat," almost crustily, interposed Dick Lee. "He's de on'y feller on board dat un'erstands nagivation."
"Shouldn't wonder if you're right," said Ford, good humoredly. "At all events I sha'n't interfere. But, Dab, what do you mean to do?"
"Swing a lantern at the mast-head and sail right along. You and Dick get a nap, by and by, if you can. I wont try to sleep till daylight."
"Sleep! Catch me sleeping!"
"You must, and so must Dick, when the time comes. Wont do to get all worn out together. Who'd handle the boat?"
Ford's respect for Dabney Kinzer was growing, hourly. Here was this overgrown gawk of a green country boy, just out of his roundabouts, who had never spent more than a day at a time in the great city, and never lived in any kind of a boarding-house: in fact, here was a fellow who had had no advantages whatever, coming out as a sort of a hero. Even Ford did not quite understand it, Dab was so quiet and matter-of-course about it all; and as for the youngster himself, he had no idea that he was behaving any better than any other boy could, should and would have behaved, in those very peculiar circumstances.
At all events, however, the gay and buoyant little "Swallow," with her signal-lantern swinging at her mast-head, was soon dancing away through the deepening darkness and the fog, and her steady young commander was congratulating himself that there seemed to be a good deal less of wind and sea, even if more of mist.
"I couldn't expect everything to suit me," he said to himself. "And now I hope we sha'n't run down anybody. Hullo! Isn't that a red light, though the haze, yonder?"
Chapter XII.
There was yet another "gathering" of human beings on the wind-swept surface of the Atlantic, that evening, to whose minds it had come with no small degree of anxiety. Not, perhaps, as great as that of the three families over there on the shore of the bay, or even of the boys, tossing along in their bubble of a yacht; but the officers, and not a few of the passengers and crew, of the great, iron-builded ocean steamer, were anything but easy in their minds.
Had they no pilot on board? To be sure they had, but they had, somehow, seemed to bring that fog along with them, and the captain had a half-defined suspicion that neither he nor the pilot knew exactly where they were. That is a bad condition for a great ship to be in, and that, too, so near a coast which requires good seamanship and skillful pilotage in the best of weather. Not that the captain would have confessed his doubt to the pilot, or the pilot to the captain, and that was where the real danger lay. If they could only have permitted themselves to speak of their possible peril, it would probably have disappeared.
The steamer was French and her captain a French naval officer, and very likely he and the pilot did not understand each other any too well. That speed should be lessened, under the circumstances, was a matter of course; but not to have gone on at all would have been even wiser. Not to speak of the shore they were nearing, they might be sure they were not the only craft steaming or sailing over those busy waters, and vessels have sometimes run against one another in a fog as thick as that. Something could be done in that direction, and lanterns with bright colors were freely swung out; but the fog was likely to diminish their usefulness, somewhat. None of the passengers were in a mood to go to bed, with the end of their voyage so near, and they seemed, one and all, disposed to discuss the fog. All but one, and he a boy.
A boy of about Dab Kinzer's age, slender and delicate looking, with curly, light-brown hair, blue eyes, and a complexion which would have been fair but for the traces it bore of a hotter sun than that of either France or America. He seemed to be all alone, and to be feeling very lonely, that night; and he was leaning over the rail, peering out into the mist, humming to himself a sweet, wild air, in a strange, musical tone.
Very strange. Very musical. Perhaps no such words had ever before gone out over the waves of that part of the Atlantic; for Frank Harley was a missionary's son, "going home to be educated," and the sweet, low-voiced song was a Hindustanee hymn which his mother had taught him in far-away India.
Suddenly the hymn was cut short by the hoarse voice of the look-out, as it announced: "A white light, close aboard, on the windward bow."
And that was rapidly followed by even hoarser hails, replied to by a voice which was clear and strong enough but not hoarse at all. The next moment something, which was either a white sail or a ghost, came slipping along through the fog, and then the conversation did not require to be shouted any longer. Frank could even hear one person say to another, out there in the mist: "Aint it a big thing, Ford, that you know French. I mean to study it as soon as we get home."
"It's as easy as eating. Shall I tell 'em we've got some fish?"
"Of course. Sell 'em the whole cargo."
"Sell them? Why not make them a present?"
"We may need the money to get home with. They're a splendid lot. Enough for the whole cabin full."
"Dat's a fack. Capt'in Dab Kinzer's de man for me, he is."
"How much then?"
"Twenty-five dollars for the lot. They're worth it. 'Specially if we lose Ham's boat."
Dab's philosophy was a little out of gear, but a perfect rattle of questions and answers followed, in French, and, somewhat to Frank Harley's astonishment, the bargain was promptly concluded.
How were they to get the fish on board? Nothing easier, since the little "Swallow" could run along so nicely under the stern of the great steamer, while a large basket was swung out at the end of a long, slender spar, with a pulley to lower and raise it. Even the boys from Long Island were astonished at the number and size of the prime, freshly caught blue-fish to which they were treating the passengers of the "Prudhomme," and the basket had to come and go again and again.
The steamer's steward, on his part, avowed that he had never before met so honest a lot of Yankee fishermen. Perhaps not; for high prices and short weight are apt to go together where "luxuries" are selling. The pay itself was handed out in the same basket which went for the fish.
The wind was not nearly as high as it had been, and the sea had for some time been going down.
Twenty minutes later, Frank Harley heard, for he understood French very well:
"Hallo, the boat! What are you following us for?"
"Oh, we wont run you down. Don't be alarmed. We've lost our way out here, and we're going to follow you in. Hope you know where you are."
And then there was a cackle of surprise and laughter among the steamer's officers, in which Frank and some of the passengers joined, and the saucy little "fishing-boat" came steadily on in the wake of her gigantic guide.
"This is grand for us," remarked Dab Kinzer to Ford, as he kept his eyes on the after-lantern of the "Prudhomme." "They pay all our pilot fees."
"But they're going to New York."
"So are we, if to-morrow doesn't come out clear and with a good wind to go home by."
"It's better than crossing the Atlantic in the dark, anyhow. But what a price we got for those fish!"
"They're ready to pay well for such things at the end of the voyage," said Dab. "I expected they'd try and beat us down a peg. They generally do. We only got about fair market price, after all, only we got rid of our whole catch at one sale."
Hour followed hour, and the "Swallow" followed the steamer, and the fog followed them both so densely that sometimes even Dick Lee's keen eyes could with difficulty make out the "Prudhomme's" light. And now Ford Foster ventured to take a bit of a nap, so sure did he feel that all the danger was over, and that "Captain Kinzer" was equal to what Dick Lee called the "nagivation" of that yacht. How long he had slept he could not have guessed, but he was suddenly awakened by a great cry from out the mist beyond them, and the loud exclamation of Dab Kinzer, still at the tiller:
"I believe she's run ashore!"
It was a loud cry, indeed, and there was good reason for it. Well for all on board the great French steamship that she was running no faster at the time, and that there was no hurricane of a gale to make things worse for her. Pilot and captain had both together missed their reckoning,—neither of them could ever afterward tell how,—and there they were stuck fast in the sand, with the noise of breakers ahead of them and the dense fog all around.
Frank Harley peered anxiously over the rail again, but he could not have complained that he was "wrecked in sight of shore;" for the steamer was anything but a wreck yet, and there was no such thing as a shore in sight.
"It's an hour to sunrise," said Dab to Ford, after the latter had managed to comprehend the situation. "We may as well run further in and see what we can see."
It must have been aggravating to the people on the steamer to see that cockle-shell of a yacht dancing safely along over the shoal on which their "leviathan" had struck, and to hear Ford Foster sing out: "If we'd known you meant to run in here, we'd have followed some other pilot."
"They're in no danger at all," said Dab. "If their own boats don't take 'em all ashore, the coast-wreckers will."
"The Government life-savers, I s'pose you mean?"
"Yes, they're all along here, everywhere. Hark! there goes the distress gun. Bang away! It sounds a good deal more mad than scared."
So it did, and so they really were—captain, pilot, passengers and all.
"Captain Kinzer" found that he could safely run in for a couple of hundred yards or so; but there were signs of surf beyond, and he had no anchor to hold on by. His only course was to tack back and forth, as carefully as possible, and wait for daylight, as the French sailors were doing, with what patience they could command.
In less than half an hour, however, a pair of long, graceful, buoyant-looking life-boats, manned each by an officer and eight rowers, came shooting through the mist, in response to the repeated summons of the steamer's cannon.
"It's all right now," said Dab. "I knew they wouldn't be long in coming. Let's find where we are."
That was easy enough. The steamer had gone ashore on a sand-bar a quarter of a mile from the beach and a short distance from Seabright, on the Jersey coast; and there was no probability of any worse harm coming to her than the delay in her voyage, and the cost of pulling her out from the sandy bed into which she had so blindly thrust herself. The passengers would, most likely, be taken ashore with their baggage, and sent to the city overland.
"In fact," said Ford Foster, "a sand-bar isn't as bad for a steamer as a pig is for a locomotive."
"The train you was wrecked in," said Dab, "was running fast. Perhaps the pig was. Now, the sand-bar was standing still, and the steamer was going slow. My! what a crash there'd have been, if she'd been running ten or twelve knots an hour with a heavy sea on."
By daylight there were plenty of other craft around, including yachts and sail-boats from Long Branch, and "all along shore," and the Long Island boys treated the occupants of these as if they had sent for them and were glad to see them.
"Seems to me, your're inclined to be inquisitive, Dab," said Ford, as his friend peered sharply into and around one craft after another, but just then Dabney sung out:
"Hullo, Jersey, what are you doing with two grapnels? Is that boat of yours balky?"
"Mind your eye, youngster. They're both mine, I reckon."
"You might sell me one cheap," continued Dab, "considering how you got 'em. Give you ten cents for the big one."
Ford thought he understood the matter, and said nothing; but the "Jersey wrecker" had "picked up" those two anchors, one time and another, and had no objection at all to talking "trade."
"Ten cents! Let you have it for fifty dollars."
"Is it gold, or only silver gilt?"
"Pure gold, my boy, but seein' it's you, I'll say ten dollars."
"Take your pay in clams?"
"Oh, hush, I haint no time to gabble. Mebbe I'll git a job here, 'round this yer wreck. If you want the grapn'l, what'll you gimme?"
"Five dollars, gold, take it or leave it," said Dab, as he pulled out a coin from the pay he had taken for his blue-fish.
In three minutes more the "Swallow" was furnished with a much larger and better anchor than the one she had lost the day before, and Dick Lee exclaimed:
"It jes' takes Capt'in Kinzer!"
For some minutes before this, as the light grew clearer and the fog lifted a little, Frank Harley had been watching them from the rail of the "Prudhomme" and wondering if all the fisher-boys in America dressed as well as these two.
"Hullo, you!" was the greeting which now came to his ears. "Go ashore in my boat?"
"Not till I have eaten some of your fish for breakfast," replied Frank. "What's your name?"
"Captain Dabney Kinzer, of 'most anywhere on Long Island. What's yours?"
"Frank Harley, of Rangoon."
"I declare!" almost shouted Ford Foster, "if you're not the chap my sister Annie told me of. You're going to Albany, to my uncle, Joe Hart's, aren't you?"
"Yes, to Mr. Hart's, and then to Grantley, to school."
"That's it. Well, you just come along with us, then. Get your kit out of your state-room. We can send over to the city for the rest of your baggage after it gets in."
"Along with you, where?"
"To my father's house, instead of ashore among those wreckers and hotel-people. The captain'll tell you it's all right."
It was a trifle irregular, no doubt, but there was the "Prudhomme" ashore, and all "landing rules" were a little out of joint by reason of that circumstance. The "Swallow" lay at anchor while Frank got his breakfast, and such of his baggage as was not "stowed away," and, meantime, Captain Kinzer and his "crew" made a very deep hole in their own supplies, for their night of danger and excitement had made them wonderfully hungry.
"Do you mean to sail home?" asked Ford, in some astonishment.
"Why not? If we could do it in the night and in a storm, we surely can in a day of such splendid weather as is coming. The wind's all right too, what there is of it."
THE WELCOME ON THE BEACH.
Chapter XIII.
The wind was indeed "all right," but even Dab forgot, for the moment, that the "Swallow" would go further and faster before a gale than she was likely to with the comparatively mild southerly breeze which was blowing. He was by no means likely to get home by dinner-time. As for danger, there would be absolutely none, unless the weather should again become stormy, which was not at all probable at that season. And so, with genuine boyish confidence in boys, after some further conversation over the rail, Frank Harley went on board the "Swallow" as a passenger, and the gay little craft slipped lightly away from the neighborhood of the very forlorn-looking stranded steamer.
"They'll have her off in less'n a week," said Ford to Frank. "My father'll know just what to do about your baggage, and so forth."
There were endless questions to be asked and answered on both sides, but at last Dab yawned a very sleepy yawn and said: "Ford, you've had your nap. Wake up Dick there, and let him take his turn at the tiller. The sea's as smooth as a lake, and I believe I'll go to sleep for an hour or so. You and Frank keep watch while Dick steers."
Whatever Dab said was "orders," now, on board the "Swallow," and Ford's only reply was: "If you haven't earned a good nap, then nobody has."
In five minutes more the patient and skillful young "captain" was sleeping like a top.
"Look at him," said Ford Foster to Frank Harley. "I don't know what he's made of. He's been at that tiller for twenty-three hours, by the watch, in all sorts of weather, and never budged."
"They don't make that kind of boy in India," replied Frank.
"He's de best feller you ebber seen," added Dick Lee. "I's jes' proud of 'im, I is."
Smoothly and swiftly and safely the "Swallow" was bearing her precious cargo across the summer sea, but the morning had brought no comfort to the two homes at the head of the inlet, or the cabin in the village. Old Bill Lee was out in the best boat he could borrow, by early daylight, and more than one of his sympathizing neighbors followed him a little later. There was no doubt at all that a thorough search would be made of the bay and the island, and so Mr. Foster wisely remained at home to comfort his wife and daughter.
"That sort of boy," mourned Annie, "is always getting into some kind of mischief."
"Annie," exclaimed her mother, "Ford is a good boy, and he does not run into mischief."
"I didn't mean Ford; I meant that Dabney Kinzer. I wish we'd never seen him, or his sail-boat either."
"Annie," said her father, reprovingly, "if we live by the water, Ford will go out on it, and he'd better do so in good company. Wait a while."
Summer days are long, but some of them are a good deal longer than others, and that was one of the longest any of those people had ever known. For once, even dinner was more than half neglected in the Kinzer family circle. At the Fosters' it was forgotten almost altogether. Long as the day was, and so dreary, in spite of all the bright, warm sunshine, there was no help for it; the hours would not hurry, and the wanderers would not return. Tea-time came at last, and with it the Fosters all came over to Mrs. Kinzer's again, to take tea and to tell her of several fishermen who had returned from the bay without having discovered a sign of the "Swallow" or its crew.
Stout-hearted Mrs. Kinzer talked bravely and encouragingly, nevertheless, and did not seem to abate an ounce of her confidence in her son. It seemed as if, in leaving off his roundabouts, Dabney must have suddenly grown a great many "sizes" in his mother's estimation. Perhaps that was because he did not leave them off too soon.
There they sat, the two mothers and the rest, looking gloomy enough, while, over there in her bit of a brown house in the village, Mrs. Lee sat in very much the same frame of mind, trying to relieve her feelings by smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her boy's best clothes, and planning for him any number of bright red neck-ties, if he would only come back to wear them.
The neighbors were becoming more than a little interested and even excited about the matter; but what was there to be done?
Telegrams had been sent to other points on the coast, and all the fishermen notified. It was really one of those puzzling cases where even the most neighborly can do no better than "wait a while."
Still, there were nearly a dozen people, of all sorts, including Bill Lee, lingering around the "landing" as late as eight o'clock, when some one of them suddenly exclaimed:
"There's a light, coming in."
And others followed with: "And a boat under it." "Ham's boat carried a light." "I'll bet it's her." "No, it isn't." "Hold on and see."
There was not long to "hold on," for in three minutes more the "Swallow" swept gracefully in with the tide, and the voice of Dab Kinzer shouted merrily: "Home again! Here we are!"
Such a ringing volley of cheers answered him! It was heard and understood away there in the parlor of the Morris house, and brought every soul of that anxious circle right up standing.
"Must be it's Dab!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer.
"Oh, mother," said Annie, "is Ford safe?"
"They wouldn't cheer like that, my dear, if anything had happened," remarked Mr. Foster, but, in spite of his coolness, the city lawyer forgot to put his hat on, as he dashed out of the front gate, and down the road toward the landing.
Then came one of those times that it takes a whole orchestra and a gallery of paintings to tell anything about, for Mrs. Lee as well as her husband was at the beach, and within a minute after "Captain Kinzer" and his crew had landed, poor Dick was being hugged and scolded within an inch of his life, and the other two boys found themselves in the midst of a tumult of embraces and cheers.
Frank Harley's turn came soon, moreover, for Ford Foster found his balance, and introduced the "passenger from India" to his father.
"Frank Harley!" exclaimed Mr. Foster, "I've heard of you, certainly, but how did you—boys, I don't understand——"
"Oh, father, it's all right! We took Frank off the French steamer after she ran ashore."
"Ran ashore?"
"Yes; down the Jersey coast. We got in company with her in the fog, after the storm. That was yesterday evening."
"Down the Jersey coast! Do you mean you've been out at sea?"
"Yes, father; and I'd go again, with Dab Kinzer for captain. Do you know, father, he never left the rudder of the 'Swallow' from the moment we started until seven o'clock this morning?"
"You owe him your lives!" almost shouted Mr. Foster; and Ford added, "Indeed, we do."
It was Dab's own mother's arms that had been around him from the instant he made his appearance, and Samantha and Keziah and Pamela had had to be content with a kiss or so apiece; but dear old Mrs. Foster stopped smoothing Ford's hair and forehead, just then, and gave Dab a right motherly hug, as if she could not express herself in any other way.
As for Annie Foster, her face was suspiciously red at the moment, but she walked right up to Dab, after her mother released him, and said:
"Captain Kinzer, I've been saying dreadful things about you, but I beg pardon."
"I'll be entirely satisfied, Miss Annie," returned Dabney, "if you'll ask somebody to get us something to eat."
"Eat!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer, "Why, the poor fellows! Of course they're hungry."
Of course they were, every one; and the supper-table, after all, was the best place in the world to hear the particulars of their wonderful cruise.
Meantime, Dick Lee was led home to a capital supper of his own, and as soon as that was over he was rigged out in his Sunday clothes,—red silk neck-tie and all,—and invited to tell the story of his adventures to a roomful of admiring neighbors.
He told it well, modestly ascribing pretty much everything to Dab Kinzer; but there was no reason, in anything he said, for one of his father's friends to ask, next morning:
"Bill Lee, does you mean for to say as dem boys run down de French steamah in dat ar' boat?"
"Not dat, not zackly."
"'Cause, if you does, I jes' want to say I's been down a-lookin' at her, and she aint even snubbed her bowsprit."
(To be continued.)
GERTY.
By Margaret W. Hamilton.
Ugh! How cold it was!—sleet driving in your face, wind whistling about your ears, cold penetrating everywhere! "A regular nipper," thought Dick Kelsey, standing in a door-way, kicking his feet in toeless boots to warm them, and blowing his chilled fingers, for in the pockets of his ragged trousers the keen air had stiffened them. He was revolving a weighty question in his mind. Which should he do,—go down to "Ma'am Vesey's" and get one of her hot mutton pies, or stray a little farther up the alley, where an old sailor kept a little coffee-house for the benefit of newsboys and boot-blacks such as he? Should it be coffee or mutton pie?
"I'll toss up for it!" said Dick, finally; and, fumbling in his pockets, the copper was produced ready for the test.
Just then, his attention was suddenly diverted. Close to him sounded a voice, weak and not very melodious, but bravely singing:
"There is a happy land
Far, far away,
Where saints in glory stand
Bright, bright as day!"
Dick listened in silence till the last little quaver had died away, and then said: "Whew! That was purty, anyhow. Where is the piper, I wonder!" He looked about for the musician, but could see no one. He was the only person in the alley.
Again the song began, and this time he traced the voice to the house against which he had been leaning. The window was just at his right, and through one of the broken panes came the notes. Dick's modesty was not a burden to him, so it was the work of only a moment to put his face to the hole in the window and take a view.
A small room, not very nice to see, was what he saw; then, as his eye became used to the dim light, he espied on a low bed in the corner a little girl gazing at him with a pair of big black eyes.
"I say, there! Was it you pipin' away so fine?" began Dick, without the slightest embarrassment.
"If you mean, was I a-singin'?—I was," answered the child from the bed, not seeming at all surprised at this sudden intrusion upon her privacy.
"I say, who are you, anyhow?"
"I'm Gerty, and I stay here all the day while mother is away washing; and she locks the door so no one can't get in," explained the girl.
"My eye!" was Dick's return. "And what are you in bed for?"
"Oh, I have a pain in my back, an' I lie down most of the time," replied Gerty in the most cheerful manner possible, as if a pain in the back were the one desirable thing, while Dick withdrew his head to ponder over this new experience.
A girl locked in a room like that, lying in bed with pain most of the time, with nothing to do, yet cheerful and bright—this was something he could not understand. All at once his face brightened. Back went his eyes to the window.
"I say, got anything to eat in there?"
"Oh yes, some crackers; and to-night maybe mother'll buy some milk."
"Pooh!" said Dick, with scorn. "Crackers and milk! Did you ever eat a mutton pie?"
"A mutton pie," repeated Gerty, slowly. "No, I guess not."
"Oh, they're bully! Hot from Ma'am Vesey's! Tip-top! Wait a minute,"—a needless caution, for Gerty could not possibly have done anything else.
Away ran Dick down the alley and around the corner, halting breathless before Ma'am Vesey.
"Gi'e me one, quick!" he cried. "Hot, too. No, I wont eat it; put it in some paper." The old woman had offered him one from the oven.
"Seems to me we're gettin' mighty fine," she said; for Dick was an old customer, and never before had he waited for a pie to be wrapped up.
"Never you mind, old lady," was his good-natured, if somewhat disrespectful, reply; and, dropping some pennies, he seized his treasure and was off again.
Gerty's eager fingers soon held the pie, which Dick dexterously tossed on the bed, and Dick's eyes fairly shone as he watched the half-starved little one swallow the dainty in rapid mouthfuls.
"Oh, I never in all my life tasted anything half so good! Don't you want some?" questioned the child, whose enjoyment was so keen she feared it hardly could be right.
"No, indeed!"—this with hearty emphasis. "I've had 'em. I'm goin' now," he added, reluctantly, "but I'll come back again 'fore long."
"Oh, do!" said Gerty, "an' I'll sing you some more of 'Happy Land,' if you want me; and I know another song, too. I learned them up to the horspital when I was there. You see, I was peddlin' matches and shoe-strings, and it was 'most dark and awful slippery, and the horses hit me afore I knowed it; and then they picked me up, and I didn't know nothin', and couldn't tell where I lived, and so they took me to the horspital; and the next day I told 'em where mother was, and she came. But the doctors said I had better stay, and p'r'aps they could help me. But they couldn't, you know, cos the pain in my back was too bad. And mother, she washes, and I watch the daylight, and wait for night, and sing; and when the pain aint too bad, the day don't seem so very long."
"My eye!" was all Dick could say, as he beat a hasty retreat, rubbing the much appealed-to member with a corner of his ragged coat.
"Well, them's hard lines, anyhow," he soliloquized, as he went to the printing-office. "An' she's chipper, too. Game as anything," he went on to himself. "Now, I'm just goin' to keep my eye on that little un, and some o' my spare coppers'll help her, I guess."
How he worked that night! His papers fairly flew, he sold them so fast; and when, under a friendly street-lamp, he counted his gains, a prolonged whistle was his first comment.
"More'n any night this week," he pondered. "Did me good to go 'thout the pie. Gerty'll have an orange to-morrow."
So, next morning, when the last journal had been sold, a fruit-stand was grandly patronized.
"The biggest, best orange you got, and never mind what it costs." Then but a few moments to reach Gerty's alley, and Gerty's window.
Yes, there she was, just the same as yesterday, and the pinched face grew bright when she saw her new friend peering at her.
"Oh! you're come, are you?" joyfully. "Mother said you wouldn't, when I told her, but I said you would. She wouldn't leave the door unlocked, cos she didn't know nothing about you; but she said, if you came to-day, you could come back to-night when she was home, and come in."
"Oh, may I?" said Dick, rather gruffly; for he hardly liked the idea of meeting strangers.
"Yes," went on Gerty; "I'll sing lots, if you want; and mother'll be glad to see you, too."
"All right; mebbe I'll come. And say, here's suthin for ye," and the orange shot through the window.
"Oh, my!" she gasped, "how nice! Is it really for me?" And Dick answered, "Yes, eat it now."
Half his pleasure was in watching her eager relish of the fruit; and as Gerty needed no second bidding, the orange rapidly disappeared, she pausing now and again to look across gratefully at Dick and utter indistinct expressions of delight.
"Now shall I sing?" she asked, when the last delicious mouthful was fairly swallowed; for she was anxious to make some return for the pleasure he had given her.
"All right," responded Dick, "I'm ready."
So the thin little voice began again the old refrain; Gerty singing with honest fervor, Dick listening in rapt attention. Following "Happy Land" came "I want to be an angel," "Little drops of water," etc.; and when full justice had been done to these well-worn tunes, Dick suggested a change.
"Don't you sing 'Mulligan Guards'?" he questioned, at the close of one of the hymns.
"No," said Gerty, perplexed. "They didn't sing that up to the horspital."
"Oh, mebbe they don't sing it to the horspital; but I've heard 'em sing it bully to the circus. I say," he went on suddenly, "was you ever there—to the circus, I mean?"
"No," said Gerty, eagerly. "What do they do?"
"Oh, it's beautiful!" was Dick's answer. "All bright, you know, and warm, and the wimmin is dressed awful fine, and the men, too; and the horses prance around; and they have music and tumbling, and—oh, lots of things!"
"My! and you've been there?"
"Oh yes, I've been!" Then, as he watched her sparkling eyes, "Look here, I'll take you. I could carry you, you know, and we'd go early, and I'd put you up against a post, and——Don't you want to go?"
"Want to go?" she repeated with rapture. "Oh, it's too good to be true! I was scared just a-thinkin' of it. Oh, if mother'd let me an' I could! Wouldn't I be too heavy? Mother says I'm light as a feather,—and I wouldn't weigh more'n I could help," she added, wistfully.
"Never you mind," was Dick's hearty reply. "I'll come to-night and see the old lady,—your mother, I mean,—and we'll go next week, if she'll let you."
So it was decided; and when Dick said "good-bye," and ran off, Gerty settled back with a sigh, half of delight and half of anxiety, lest her wild, wonderful hope should never be fulfilled.
But Dick came that night, and Gerty's mother, when she saw Dick's honest, earnest face, and her little girl's eager, pleading eyes, gave consent.
The next Monday night was fixed upon, and this was Thursday. "Four days," counted Gerty on her fingers; and oh, they seemed so long! But even four days will crawl away, and Monday night came at last. By seven o'clock, Dick appeared, his face clean and shining, radiant with delight.
Gerty was dressed in the one dress owned by her mother beside her working one, and the shrunken little figure looked pathetically absurd in its ample proportions. It was much too long for her, of course, but her mother pinned up the skirt. Good old Peggotty Winters, the apple-woman, who lived in the back room, had lent her warm shawl for the occasion, and the little French hair-dresser on the top floor had loaned a knitted hood which had quite an elegant effect. So Gerty considered herself dressed in a style befitting the event; and if she and Dick were satisfied, no one else need criticise.
"Pooh!" was Dick's comment as he lifted her in his arms. "Like a baby, aint you?"
"Oh, I'm so glad you don't think I'm heavy! It's the first time I ever was glad to be thin," sighed Gerty, clinging around his neck.
Then away they went, out through alleys and across side-streets to the main artery of travel, where Dick threaded his way slowly through throngs of gay people. At length, after what seemed miles to Gerty, they halted in front of a brilliantly lighted building, and in another moment were in the dazzling entrance-way.
On went Dick slowly, patiently, with his burden, down the aisle, as near to the front as possible, and—they were there!
Gerty was carefully set down in a corner place, and her shawl opened a little to serve as a pillow; and then she began to look about her, gazing with awe-struck curiosity at the great arena and the mysterious doors.
After a while the house seemed full, the musicians came out and took their places, the gas suddenly blazed more brightly, and the band struck up a gay popular air. Gerty felt as if she must scream with delight and expectation.
Presently, the music stopped, there was a bustle of preparation, a bell tinkled, and the great doors slowly swung open. Gerty saw beautiful ladies, all bright and glittering with spangles, and handsome horses in gorgeous trappings, and great strong men in tights, all the wonders and sights of the circus, and the funny jokes and antics of the clown and pantaloon. And Gerty had never known anything half so fine; and there was riding and jumping and tumbling, and all manner of fun, until the doors shut again.
"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Gerty. "Is that all?"
"Not half," said Dick; and Gerty leaned back to think it all over and watch for the repetition. But the next scene was different; there came an immense elephant, some little white poodle-dogs, and some mules, and everybody clapped hands and laughed, and was delighted. At last, the climax of ecstasy was reached,—a beautiful procession of all the gayly dressed and glittering performers, with their wonderful steeds, the wise old elephant, the queer little poodles, and the fun-provoking mules; and the band struck up some stirring music, and Gerty was dumb with admiration. But in another minute the arena was empty, the heavy doors had shut out all the life and magnificence, the band was hushed, the lights were dimmed, and Dick told her it was over.
Carefully he folded her in the shawl again, and once more the cold night air blew in her face. Not a word could she say all the way home, but when she sank in her mother's arms it was with the whisper, "I've seen 'Happy Land';" and Dick felt, somehow, as if no other comment were needed.
And the winter days went on, Dick's faithful service and devotion never ceasing. The window was mended, but Dick had a key to the door, and spent many an hour with the sufferer. As spring approached, the two watchers noted a change in the girl. She was weaker, and her pain constant; and when Dick carried her out to the park in the April sunshine, he was shocked to find her weight almost nothing in his arms.
Yes, Gerty was dying, slowly but surely; and Dick grew exceeding sorrowful. By and by, she even could not be carried out-of-doors, but lay all day on her little couch. Then Dick brought flowers and fruit, and talked gayly of the next winter, when, said he, "We'll go every week to the circus, Gerty."
AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CIRCUS.
"No, Dick," said the child, quietly, "I shall never go there again. But oh! 't'll be suthin better!"—at which Dick rushed off hastily, and soon after got into a quarrel with a fellow newsboy who had hinted that his eyes were red. Anon he was back with some fresh gift, only to struggle again with the choking grief.
And then came the end—quietly, peacefully. Near the close of a July day, when the setting sun glorified every corner of the room, Gerty left her pain, and, with a farewell sigh, was at rest.
"Oh, Gerty!" sobbed Dick, "don't forget me!"
Ah, Dick, you are held in everlasting remembrance, and more than one angel is glad at thoughts of you, in the "Happy Land!"
THE CROW THAT THE CROW CROWED.
By S. Conant Foster.
"Ho! ho!"
Said the crow:
"So I'm not s'posed to know
Where the rye and the wheat
And the corn kernels grow—
Oh! no,
Ho! ho!
"He! he!
Farmer Lee,
When I fly from my tree,
Just you see where the tops
Of the corn-ears will be
Watch me!
He! he!"
Switch-swirch,
With a lurch,
Flopped the bird from his perch
As he spread out his wings
And set forth on his search—
His search—
Switch-swirch.
Click!-bang!—
How it rang,
How the small bullet sang
As it sped through the air—
And the crow, with a pang,
Went spang—
Chi-bang.
The Tail Feathers.
Now know,
That to crow
Often brings one to woe;
Which the lines up above
Have been put there to show,
And so,
Don't crow.
THE LONDON MILK-WOMAN.
By Alexander Wainwright.
Very sturdy in form and honest in face is the London milk-woman shown in our picture. She has broad English features, smoothly parted hair, and a nice white frill running round her old-fashioned, curtained bonnet. Her boots are strong, and her dress is warm—the petticoats cut short to prevent them from draggling in the mud. A wooden yoke fits to her shoulders, which are almost as broad as a man's, and from the yoke hang her cans, filled with milk and cream, the little ones being hooked to the larger ones.
The London day has opened on a storm, and the snow lies thick on the area railings, the lamp-posts and the roofs; but the morning is not too cold or stormy for her. Oh, no! the mornings never are. It may rain, or blow, or snow the hardest that ever was known, no inclemency of weather keeps her from her morning round, and in the dull cold of London frosts and the yellow obscurity of London fogs, she appears in the streets, uttering her familiar cry, "Me-oh! me-oh!" which is her way of calling milk.
Pretty kitchen-maids come up the area steps with their pitchers to meet her, and detain her with much gossip. The one in the picture, whose arms are comfortably folded under her white apron, may be telling her that the mistress's baby is sick, and that the doctor despairs of its life. She may even be saying to her: "The only thing it can swallow, poor little dear, is a little milk and arrowroot, and the doctor says unless it can have this it must die." A great deal of the London milk is adulterated, and, perhaps, this honest-looking milk-woman knows that water has been added to hers. May be, she has babies of her own, and then her heart must be sore when she realizes that the little sick one upstairs may perish through her employer's greed for undue profits.
AT THE AREA GATE.
To-morrow, she may find the blinds drawn close down at that house, and the maid-of-all-work red-eyed and tearful; then she will turn away, bitterly feeling the pressure of her yoke on her shoulders, although, from her looks, she herself appears to be incapable of dishonesty; she is, and more than that, kindly, cheery, and industrious. Her cans are polished to the brilliancy of burnished silver, and betoken the most scrupulous cleanliness. Many breakfast-tables depend upon her for that rich cream which emits a delicious flavor from her cans, in the sharp morning air. "Me-oh! me-oh!" We turn over in bed when we hear her, and know that it is time to get up.
ALICE'S SUPPER.
Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep,
And the reapers are making the cradles sweep;
And this is the song that I hear them sing,
While cheery and loud their voices ring:
"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow,
And it is for Alice's supper—ho! ho!"
Far down by the river the old mill stands,
And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands;
And these are the words of the miller's lay,
As he watches the mill-stones grinding away:
"'Tis the finest flour that money can buy,
And it is for Alice's supper—hi! hi!"
Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,
And cook is a-kneading the soft white dough;
And this is the song she is singing to-day,
As merry and busy she's working away:
"'T is the finest dough whether near or afar,
And it is for Alice's supper—ha! ha!"
To the nursery now comes mother, at last,—
And what in her hand is she bringing so fast?
'T is a plateful of something, all yellow and white,
And she sings as she comes, with her smile so bright:
"'T is the best bread and butter I ever did see,
And it is for Alice's supper—he! he!"
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.
"Warm!" you say?
Don't mention it, but take it good-naturedly.
And, now, let's be quiet and have a talk about