"'NOW BE ALL READY TO RUN,' HE SAID."

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS,

Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.

Chapter IV.

THE PONY.

It certainly seemed, when they arrived at the pasture again, as if everything was conspiring in favor of their circus, for Chandler Merrill had willingly consented to let them use his pony; but he had done so with the kindly prophecy that the little animal would "kick their brains out" if they were not careful with him.

In order to make sure that the consent would not be withdrawn, and at the same time to prove that he told the truth, Bob had brought the pony with him, and, judging from his general appearance as he stood gazing suspiciously at the Douglass horse, he deserved all that was said of him regarding his vicious qualities. He was about half the size of an ordinary horse, and his coat was ragged-looking, owing to its having been rubbed off in spots, thus giving him the air of just such a pony as one would suppose willing to join a party of boys in starting a circus.

"Now there's a hoss that ain't either lame or blind," said Bob, proudly, as he led the pony once around the ring to show his partners how he stepped. If he was intending to say anything more, he concluded to defer it while he made some very rapid movements in order to escape the blow the "hoss" aimed at him with his hind-feet.

"Kicks, don't he?" said Toby, in a tone which plainly told he did not think him very well suited to their purpose.

"Well, he did then;" and Bob fastened the halter more securely by putting one end of the rope through the pony's mouth; "but you see that's because he ain't been used much, an' he's tickled 'cause he's goin' to belong to a circus."

"How long before he'll get over bein' tickled?" asked Joe. "I'm willin' to train Jack Douglass's hoss; but I don't know 'bout this one till he gets sorry enough not to kick."

"Oh, he'll be all right jest as soon as Toby rides him 'round the ring a little while."

"Do you think I'm goin' to ride him?" asked Toby, beginning to believe his partners expected more of him than ever Mr. Castle did.

"Of course; a feller what's been with a circus ought to know how to ride any hoss that ever lived," replied Bob, with considerable emphasis, owing to the fact that the pony kicked and plunged so that his words were jerked out of him, rather than spoken.

"I s'pose some fellers can; but I wasn't with the circus long enough to find out how to ride such hosses as them;" and Toby retired to the shade of the alder bushes, where Abner was sitting, to wait until Bob and the pony had come to terms.

It was quite as much as Bob could do to hold his prize, without trying to make any arrangements for having him ridden, and he called Reddy to help him.

Now, as the ring-master of the contemplated circus, Reddy ought to have known all about horses, and he thought he did until the pony made one plunge, just as he came up smiling with whip in hand. Then he said, as he ran toward Toby,

"I don't believe I want to be ring-master if we're goin' to have that hoss."

"Here, Joe, you help me," cried Bob, in desperation, growing each moment more afraid of the steed. "I want to get him up by the fence, where we can hitch him, till we find out what to do with him."

Joe was perfectly willing to assist the unfortunate clown in his troubles; but as he started toward him, the pony wheeled and flung his heels out with a force that showed he would do some damage if he could, and Joe also joined the party among the bushes.

Bob was thus left alone with his prize, and a most uncomfortable time he appeared to be having of it, standing there in the hot sun, clinging desperately to the halter, and jumping from one side to the other when the pony attempted to bite or strike him with his fore-feet.

"Let him go; he hain't any good," shouted Reddy, from his secure retreat.

"If I let go the halter, he'll jump right at me;" and there was a certain ring in Bob's voice that told he was afraid.

"Hitch him to the fence, an' then climb over," suggested Joe.

"But I can't get him over there, for he won't go a step;" and Bob continued to hold fast to the halter, afraid to do so, but still more afraid to let go.

He had borrowed the pony, but it certainly seemed as if the animal had borrowed him, for his fear caused him to cling desperately to the halter as the only possible means of saving his life.

The boys under the alder bushes were fully alive to the fact that something should be done, although they were undecided as to what that something should be.

Joe proposed that they all rush out, and scare the pony away, but Bob insisted that he would be the sufferer by such a course. Reddy thought if Bob should show more spirit, and let the vicious little animal see that he was not afraid of him, everything would be all right; but when it was proposed that he should try the plan himself, he concluded there might be serious objections to such a course.

Ben thought that if they all took hold of the halter, they could pull the pony to the fence, and this plan was looked upon with such favor that it was adopted at once.

Every one except Abner took hold of the halter, after some little delay in getting there, owing to the readiness of the pony to use his heels at the slightest provocation. But just when they were about to put forth all their strength in pulling, the pony jumped toward them suddenly, rendering their efforts useless, and starting all save Bob back to the alder bushes in ignominious flight.

Bob still remained at his post, or, more correctly speaking, the halter, and it was very much against his will that he did so.

"I wish Chandler Merrill would come up here, an' get his old hoss, for I don't want him any longer," he said, angrily. "He ought to be prosecuted for lettin' us have such a tiger."

Bob did not seem to remember that if he had been refused the loan of the pony he would have considered Chandler Merrill very selfish; in fact, he hardly remembered anything save his own desire to get rid of the animal as quickly as possible.

"What shall I do?" he cried, in desperation. "I can't stand here all day, an' the hoss don't mean to let me get away."

"We've got to help Bob," said Toby, decidedly, as he arose to his feet again, and went toward the unfortunate clown. "If you fellers will try to hold him, I'll get on his back, an' then Bob can get away."

"But he'll throw you off, an' hurt you," objected Abner, trying to protect his newly made friend.

"I can stop him from doing that, an' it's the only way I know of to help Bob."

"You get on, Toby, an' then I'll scoot jest as soon as you get hold of the halter," said Bob, happy at this prospect of being relieved. "Then, when you get a chance, you jump off, an' we'll let somebody else take him home."

It was a hard task, and they all ran considerable risk of getting kicked; but at last it was accomplished, so far as mounting was concerned. Toby was on the pony's back, with a firm grasp of the rope that was made to serve as bridle.

"Now be all ready to run," he said; and there was no disposition to linger shown by any of his friends. "Let go!" he shouted, and at the sound of his voice the boys went one way and the pony another at full speed.

It was not until the would-be circus managers were within the shelter of the clump of bushes that they stopped to look for their partner, and then they saw him at the further end of the pasture, the pony running and leaping as if doing his best to dislodge his rider.

Even the Douglass horse seemed to be excited by the display of spirit, for he capered around in a manner very unbecoming one as old and blind as he.

Only for a few moments could they watch the contest, and then the distant trees hid Toby Tyler and Chandler Merrill's pony from view.

Some time the boys watched for Toby's return; and just as they were beginning to think they ought to go in search of him, and fearing lest he had been hurt by the vicious pony, they saw him coming from among the trees, alone and on foot.

"Well," said Bob, with a sigh of relief, "he's got rid of the hoss, an' that was all we wanted."

Toby's story, when at last, hot and tired, he reached the alder bushes, was not nearly so exciting as his partners anticipated. He had clung to the pony until they entered the woods, where he was brushed off by the branches of the trees as easily as if he had been a fly, and with as little damage.

How they should get the pony back into its owner's keeping was a question difficult to answer, and they were all so completely worn out by their exertions to get rid of him that they did not attempt to come to any conclusion regarding it.

While they were resting from their labors, and before they had ceased to congratulate each other that they had succeeded in separating themselves from the pony, Leander Leighton, his accordion under his arm and his clappers in his hands, made his appearance.

His struggle with the baby had evidently come to an end sooner than he had dared hope, and the managers were happy at this speedy prospect of hearing what their band could do in the way of music.

"Boys!" shouted Leander, excitedly, while he was some distance away, "there's a real circus comin' here next week—the same one Toby Tyler run away with—an' the men are pastin' up the bills now down to the village!"

The boys looked at each other in surprise; it had never entered into their calculations that they might have a real circus as a rival, and certainly Toby had never thought he would again see those whom he had first run away with, and then run away from. He was rather disturbed by the prospect at first, for it seemed certain that Job Lord and Mr. Castle would try to compel him to go with them; but a moment's thought convinced him that Uncle Daniel would not allow them to carry him away, and he grew as eager for more news as any of the others.

Leander knew no more than he had already told; after having been relieved from his care of the baby, he had started for the pasture, and had seen the show-bills as he came along. He was certain it was the same circus Toby had gone with, for the names on the bills were the same, and he had heard some of the townspeople say so as he came along.

"An' I shall see the skeleton an' the fat woman again," said Toby, very much delighted at the idea of meeting those kind friends from whom he had thought himself parted forever.

"Don't you s'pose you could get 'em to leave that show an' come with ours?" asked Bob, thinking perhaps some kind fortune had thrown this opportunity in their way that they might the better succeed in their project.

Toby was not sure such a plan could be made to work, for the reason that they were only intending to give two or three performances, and Mr. and Mrs. Treat might not think it worth their while to leave the circus they were with on the strength of such uncertain prospects.

"And you shall go to the show, Abner," said Toby, pleased at the opportunity he would have of making the crippled boy happy for one day at least; "an' I'll take all of you fellers down, an' get the skeleton to talk to you, so's you can see how nice he is. You shall see his wife, an' old Ben, an' Ella, an'—"

"But won't you be afraid of Job Lord?" interrupted Leander, fearful lest Toby's dread of meeting his old employer might prevent them from having all this promised enjoyment.

"Uncle Dan'l wouldn't let him take me away; an' now I'm home here, I don't believe old Ben would let him touch me."

There was evidently no probability that they would transact any more business relative to their own circus that day, so intent were they on talking about the one that was to come, and it was not until nearly time to drive the cows home that they remembered the presence of their band.

Ben proposed that Leander should show them what he could do in the way of music, so that he need not be at the trouble of bringing his accordion up to the pasture again, and the boys ceased all conversation for the purpose of listening to the so-called melody.

[to be continued.]

[CATCHING QUAIL IN INDIA.]

India is a land of wonders; but among the strange sights few are more utterly ridiculous than that of a party of natives driving quail.

The quail-hunter throws a large white cloth over his head, which is extended in front by means of two sticks held in the hands. Arrayed in this manner, the quail-hunter performs various antics and movements which would lead a looker-on to suppose him insane.

There is a method in his madness, however. This remarkable adjustment of the white cloth is supposed to transform the man into a bull or other horned animal. He pretends to paw the earth, tosses his make-believe horns, turns round and round, pretending to scratch himself in true bovine fashion. It is irresistibly comic to watch him, and a little attention generally pleases him to such an extent that he will redouble his efforts and multiply his ridiculous pranks until the spectator is thrown into convulsions of laughter.

There are several distinct varieties of quail in India; they frequent open places near rivers, keeping near the ground when flying, and running rapidly among the grasses. The hunters spread fine nets around two sides of the field, and at the end they place a large cage with one or more decoy birds inside.

The idiotic-looking cow has all his wits about him. He proceeds warily; his keen eye detects the coveys of quail, and sees which way they are running. He is no more like a cow than that respectable animal is like a cucumber, but his ruse succeeds wonderfully. He moves about, tosses his head, switches his ingeniously contrived tail, and so manœuvres that he keeps the running quail away from the unprotected edges of the field.

When they get to the verge protected by the net they begin to take alarm. They are probably a little uncertain about the peculiar-looking "old cow" behind them, and running along the net, they see the decoy quail apparently feeding in great security and comfort. The V-shaped mouth of the large basket cage looks invitingly open. The puzzling nets are barring the way, and the cow is gradually closing up behind.

As the hunter moves along, he rubs two pieces of dry stick gently up and down his thigh with one hand, thus producing a crackling sound. It is not enough to startle the birds into flight, but alarms them sufficiently to make them get out of the way. One bird, perhaps a little bolder than the others, irritated by the queer crackling sound, now enters the basket, when the others follow like a flock of sheep, and once in, the puzzling shape of the entrance prevents their exit.

Hunters will not unfrequently bag twenty or thirty brace of quail in one field by this absurdly appearing but ingenious method.

MAY I COME IN?

May I come in? My little Grace
Peeps round the door with laughing face.
I lift my head, and feign surprise
At wistful mouth and roguish eyes.
I know she'll trip across to me,
And give me kisses, one, two, three.
May she come in? Of course she may—
The sweetest thing I've seen to-day.

[CHATS ABOUT PHILATELY.]

BY J. J. CASEY.

VIII.—SURINAM.

The design of the postage stamps of Surinam, or Dutch Guiana, is shown in the accompanying illustration, the name being spelled, of course, after the Dutch method. In English the final "e" is omitted.

Surinam lies on the northern coast of South America. On the east is French, and on the west British, Guiana. The territory over which the Dutch claim dominion is about fifty-eight thousand square miles in extent, or more than four times the size of Holland, but the actual area under cultivation is a little over two hundred square miles. The principal settlements are in the lower valley of the Surinam River, which at its mouth is three miles wide. The water is of a dirty yellow color, with bubbles on its surface, and its current can be traced far out to sea. Its source has not yet been found.

The Dutch began to visit the coasts of Guiana about 1580. In 1614, the States of Holland granted to any Dutch citizen four years' monopoly of any harbor or place of commerce he might discover in that region. The first settlement in Surinam, in 1630, was made by an Englishman, whose name is still preserved by Marshall's Creek. Thirty-six years afterward the English settlement was taken by the Zealanders, and one hundred thousand pounds of sugar were exacted as a ransom. Finally, the country was confirmed to the Dutch by treaty, in 1674.

The most renowned name connected with Surinam is that of Cornelis van Aerssens, lord of Sommelsdjik, who in 1683 purchased one-third of the territory from the New Dutch West India Company. Sommelsdjik agreed to govern the colony at his own expense, and his rule was marked by rare wisdom and energy. He repressed and pacified the Indians, he erected forts, established a court of justice, introduced the cultivation of the cocoa-nut, and, in short, devoted himself to the welfare of his people. But his soldiery turned against him, and massacred him, after five years of beneficent rule.

His death threw affairs into great confusion. It became necessary to make some new arrangement, and his widow offered to sell his large interest in the colony to William III. of England. The arrangement would not, however, have been satisfactory to Holland, and Sommelsdjik's portion of the territory was finally purchased by the city of Amsterdam.

Surinam has continued under Dutch rule from 1804, with the exception of a period of eleven years, when it was in possession of the English. Slavery was abolished during this period. There is a House of Assembly, the members of which may never be less than nine nor more than thirteen. Four are appointed by the government, and the others are regularly elected by the colonists. There is one curious provision. A royal decree may overrule a unanimous decision of the Assembly, and not infrequently a command will arrive from Holland undoing all that has been accomplished by that body.

The capital of Dutch Guiana is Paramaribo. It has a population of 22,000, a large proportion of which are negroes. The city is regularly built, and the streets present a pleasant sight, owing to the rows of tamarind and orange trees which line them on both sides. In 1832 the city was nearly destroyed by a band of negro slaves, who set fire to the city. The flames were fortunately subdued before they made any great headway. In order to deter others from making a similar attempt, the negroes who executed the horrible deed were publicly burned alive.

There are about seventeen thousand bush negroes in Surinam. These are descendants of runaway slaves, and consist of three tribes. They retain curious traces of their former connection with Christianity, though they are, and consider themselves, pagans. Their chief god is Gran Gado (grand god), his wife is Maria, and his son Jesi Kist. Various minor deities are also worshipped; Ampeeka, the bush god, Toni, the water god, etc. Among themselves these people speak a language based on a corrupt English, mingled with many Dutch, Portuguese, and native elements.

I came near neglecting to state that in Surinam, in addition to postage stamps, there are also in use postal cards, and an extensive series of revenue stamps. These are of two kinds, stamped and unstamped, and in color correspond to the postage stamps of the colony. The cards were introduced in July, 1876. A very neat frame surrounds the card, with the word "Briefkaart" at the top, and four lines for the address.

A card for fifteen cents was first issued; then followed, in 1877, a card for twelve and a half cents. But last year, a change being made in postal rates, a card of seven and a half cents was issued. As an example of the economy so characteristic of the Dutch, the old cards were still kept in use, and the change made by simply printing the new value on them in black figures.

[WANTED, A LIVE RATTLESNAKE.]

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.

ew strangers ever came to Cornham after the 1st of April. It was a sleepy little Southern town, and even the approach of spring made it too warm for comfort.

But one morning, when the sun was pouring down its beams with particular brightness, the few loungers at the railway station were astonished by the arrival of a middle-aged gentleman with a red beard and a pair of gold spectacles. He took lodgings at the only tavern in the place—the Bull's Head—and before he went to bed that night he had posted up by the side of the tavern door the following notice:

"WANTED, A LIVE RATTLESNAKE.

"The undersigned will pay for a live rattlesnake, not less than thirty inches long, and with at least three rattles, the sum of one dollar. The fangs of the snake must be extracted before it is offered for inspection, but the animal must not be injured in any other way, and must be perfectly healthy and lively. For a snake four feet long, with six or more rattles, two dollars will be paid.

"John G. Harriman."

This notice attracted the attention of a number of the people of the town, who gathered in a little crowd to read it; and after that had been done, most of the good folks sat down on the benches in front of the tavern to talk about it. It was generally agreed that Mr. Harriman must be either a showman, or one of those scientific fellows who go about the country collecting weeds and bits of stone, and all manner of worms and insects. Whatever he might have been, any one in the town who had happened to own a live rattlesnake would have been glad to let him have it for a dollar; but it was pretty certain that no one possessed such a creature. There were, however, in the stony hills and mountains around Cornham plenty of rattlesnakes, and it was in the hope of inducing some of the villagers to capture one of these for him that Mr. Harriman had put up his notice.

About nine o'clock Tom Welden came walking by the tavern, and stopped to read the notice. Tom was fourteen years old, and was the son of a farmer in the neighborhood. He had finished his morning's work about the barn, and had come into town to get something from the store.

The notice was very interesting to Tom, and he read it twice. A dollar was to him quite a large sum of money, and he was not long in making up his mind to try to get a rattlesnake for Mr. Harriman. If he could catch one four feet long, so much the better. He had nothing in particular to do that day, and he would start off at once for Block Mountain, where it was understood there were always rattlesnakes to be found.

He did not, however, wish to go on such an expedition by himself, and so he called on Charlie Crawford, one of his boy friends, and asked him to go with him.

"Is it to be half and half?" asked Charlie.

Tom hesitated a little at this. He had not thought of dividing the reward.

"All right," said Charlie, laughing. "I don't want any of the money; I'll go for fun."

But Tom was too generous a fellow to consent to anything like that. "We will first get the snake," he said, "and then we will see about dividing the money. But we must hurry up, for I've got to stop at the house on my way to the mountain."

In an hour from this time the boys had begun the ascent of Block Mountain, which was about two miles from the village. They had not gone very far up the mountain-side before they came to a cabin standing by itself on a small level space. An elderly man, very roughly dressed, was sitting on a bench by the door.

"Charlie," said Tom, "I'm going to stop for a moment to speak to old Ramsay. He can tell us more about rattlesnakes than anybody in these parts."

The boys found old Ramsay very willing to talk about rattlesnakes. "If it wasn't for my rheumatism," he said, "I'd just as lief go with you as not. But if you go up to the Break-Neck Rocks, and look around in the sunny places, you'll be sure to find some. You know how to scotch 'em, don't you?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "I've done it before; but what bothers me is how to get the fangs out of the snake after we catch it. It's got to have its fangs out before it's delivered."

"Don't you try to take 'em out at all," said Ramsay. "Just you get your snake into this basket, and fasten the lid down tight, and then bring it to me. I'll take the fangs out."

The man then handed Tom a small but strong basket, made of split white oak, and thanking him for it, the boys started off again. On the way up Tom cut a pole about six feet long. He whittled off the upper branches, leaving only a small crotch at the top.

The Break-Neck Rocks were near the top of the mountain, but before they got there the boys sat down to rest.

"Tom," said Charlie, "if I'd been you, I would have put on my shoes before I came out to hunt rattlesnakes."

Tom looked at his bare feet in despair. "I never thought of it," he said. "I had so many things to do, that shoes never entered into my head."

"If your feet had entered your shoes, that would have been much better," said Charlie.

"Well, I'm not going back," said Tom, "for it's too far. I'll pick my way gingerly, and I guess I won't tread on a snake."

"FOR SOME TIME THE BOYS RESTED ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN."

For some time the boys rested on the side of the mountain, looking out over the country below them, and at the river which flowed not far away. Then they started up again, and soon reached the Break-Neck Rocks.

These rocks covered several acres, and between them were clefts or openings, often a yard or more wide at the top, and extending downward for fifteen or twenty feet. In the middle of the day, when the sun shone down into these great fissures, the ground at the bottom was a favorite resort for rattlesnakes; and here it was old Ramsay had meant the boys to look for them.

Tom and Charlie now began their search, stepping from rock to rock, and carefully looking into every cleft. It was not long before they saw very plainly a large rattlesnake on the ground at the bottom of the cleft. He was coiled up, and evidently fast asleep.

"How are we going to get him?" whispered Charlie. "The pole won't reach down there."

"I think we can manage it," said Tom. "I'll get part of the way down, and then you can hand me the pole, and I'll rouse him up, and when he sticks his head out to crawl, I will clap the crotch down over his neck, and hold him fast."

"All right," said Charlie.

Tom now began to cautiously clamber down the sides of the cleft. He had often gone down into these little ravines, but the walls here were much smoother than he had generally found them, and he did not meet with many projections on which he could place his feet. He was, however, slowly working his way down, when, to his own horror, and that of Charlie, who was watching him from above, he suddenly began to slip. He vigorously thrust out his arms and legs on either side, and as the cleft gradually narrowed in a downward direction, he succeeded by a great exertion in stopping himself when about half-way down. But now his position was very critical. If he slipped to the bottom, he might not only hurt himself, but he would most likely come down with his bare feet right on the sleeping snake. In working his way down he had, without intending it, got into a position directly above the creature.

It was a situation of great peril, and Charlie, who watched the scene from above, was even more frightened than Tom. He reached down the pole to his companion, but Tom could not take either of his hands from the rocks to seize it, and even if he could have done so, it would have been of little service, for Charlie was not strong enough to pull him up.

Then another idea struck Charlie. "If I can drive away the snake," he thought, "it will not be so bad for Tom, if he must fall." He picked up some small pieces of stone, and going back a little distance, where there would be no chance of his hitting Tom, he began to hurl the stones at the sleeping snake. One of them soon struck it, and in an instant the animal was aroused; but instead of uncoiling himself and crawling away, he thrust up his head and glared around, at the same instant raising his tail and rattling violently.

"Now I have done it," thought poor Charlie. "Tom might have got away from the snake when it was asleep, but now it is all ready for him." Charlie was in despair, but stepping back to a point just above Tom, and looking down upon his friend, another idea entered his mind.

"Tom," he cried, "can you hold on for half a minute longer?"

"Yes," said Tom, rather faintly.

"All right, then," cried Charlie. "Hold on tight, and shut your eyes."

Charlie turned around, and looking about him, picked up a piece of rock as big as his head. Taking this in both hands he stepped across the chasm, and stood astride of it, not exactly over Tom, but a little in front of him. Charlie had noticed that the snake had moved a little, and its head was now so far forward that a large stone might possibly be dropped upon it without hitting Tom. To do so, however, the stone must almost graze Tom's nose. But there was no time to be lost, and this was the only plan Charlie could think of to save his friend.

"Keep your eyes shut," he cried, "and don't move."

Down dropped the stone, and the wind of it as it passed Tom's face made him jerk back his head.

"Did it touch you?" cried Charlie, excitedly.

"Nothing touched me," answered Tom.

"It's on top of the snake!" cried Charlie. "Now get down as fast as you can."

Tom gave a glance downward, and then, half-slipping, half-scrambling, he came heavily to the bottom of the ravine. Charlie now ran off some distance to a place where there was a comparatively easy descent to the paths among the rocks, and he soon reached the spot where Tom stood.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," said Tom, "only scratched a little. But there isn't a man alive who would give three cents for this snake. You've smashed its head nearly off."

"That is what I tried to do," said Charlie. "Now we will go and look for another one."

The boys moved slowly among the rocks, and it was not long before they saw another snake, coiled up and asleep. Tom roused him with the crotched end of his pole, and when the snake, after rattling and hissing, laid his head upon the ground to crawl, Tom clapped the crotch over his neck, and held him firmly down. It was of no use for the creature to squirm and wriggle; he could not get his head from under that crotch. Charlie carried the basket, and he now ran up to the snake. Taking a piece of twine from his pocket, he slipped it under the head, and tied it around the neck just in front of the crotch. It required some care to tie the cord tightly enough to prevent its slipping, but not so tight as to choke the snake. The ends of the cord were about two feet long, and each of the boys took hold of one of them. The stick was now removed, and the snake began to struggle violently, but could not get at either of his captors. He was then lifted up by the cord, and dropped, tail foremost, into the basket, when the lid was clapped down quickly upon him, and securely fastened. The ends of the twine, which hung outside, were tied together under the basket, and the boys started homeward with their prize.

When they reached the cabin of old Ramsay, the veteran snake-hunter was still sitting at his door. As soon as he heard that the boys had caught a snake, he began to make preparations to take out its fangs.

"It's too tetchy a business for young boys like you," he said.

Ramsay hobbled into the house, and brought out a strong leather strap. He then untied the ends of the twine, giving one to each of the boys to hold. The lid of the basket was removed, and the snake angrily raised its head. Ramsay then held the end of the strap toward it, when, quick as lightning, the shake struck at the leather, and fiercely bit it. The moment the creature's fangs entered the strap, Ramsay violently pulled it away.

Glancing at the end the snake had bitten, Ramsay held it out toward the boys.

"Thar's his fangs," he said, "sticking into the leather. I jerked 'em out. Now the varmint couldn't hurt a baby—that is, till his fangs grow again, which won't be for a good while."

When the snake was delivered that afternoon to Mr. Harriman, it was an object of great attention to that gentleman and many of the villagers. It was found to be forty-nine inches long, and had seven rattles.

"Why, it's a two-dollar snake!" said Tom.

"Yes," said Mr. Harriman, "it is a very fine specimen, and I gladly pay you the two dollars. To which of you must I give the money?"

"This is Tom's snake," said Charlie, quickly. "The one I got, I smashed to flinders."

And in spite of Tom's arguments, he refused to accept a cent of the reward.

"It was a plucky thing in you," said Tom to his friend as they walked away, "to drop that big stone so close to my face."

"There was nothing plucky about it," said Charlie, laughing. "It wouldn't have hurt me if it had hit you."

"I don't believe a word of that," said Tom. "I believe it would have hurt you just as much as me."

Which was exactly the truth.

[THE ORCHESTRA OF YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY.]

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

I suppose that every one who enjoys music likes to hear either a band or an orchestra. There is something very inspiring and fine about a performance where a great many people take part.

It is always well, even in the most delightful music, to stop and think how much you enjoy because you understand it; that is, if you are a student, and I am addressing myself chiefly to young people who are studying music.

Is not an orchestra a confusing sight in one way? You look at all the violins and violoncellos, the flutes, the hautboys, the wind instruments, and finally the conductor, and even if he waves his baton ever so knowingly, you wonder how he knows just what to do.

I think the conductor of an orchestra always looks like the possessor of some curious secret. His baton goes here and there; he waves it in a rhythmical or sharp fashion, and yet if you look closely you will see that not one in the orchestra but feels that he is his leader. There is a regular meaning in everything he does.

There are very few portions of musical history so interesting to me as the orchestra. To-day we have such excellent music in public orchestras that I suppose we forget there ever was a time when even musicians were not sure how orchestras ought to be arranged. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries there were flutes and many stringed instruments; but the people who played on them did not know that they might be used harmoniously together. I am sure that seems almost funny to you now, but it undoubtedly was the case.

You see, music was in just that unformed condition then that they did not know what they could do with it. Now we will try and think a little, and see when orchestras began, and how they gradually prospered.

To go very far back, I must tell you that certain instruments, like lutes and lyres, were used among the ancients. I think they played them in concert. At all events, they had a dim idea that, performed upon together, they would sound well. But it was not until the sixteenth century—in 1581—that anything like a real orchestra was known. And just here I want to tell you what the word itself means.

Orchestra is a Greek word. It really means an open space where people sit, but it expresses now a place for an instrumental band and a chorus, and, properly speaking, an orchestra must sit. This is one of the chief distinctions between an orchestra and a band. Bands must, by right, stand while they play; orchestras ought, by right, to sit, that is, unless the weight of their instruments obliges them to stand. Besides this distinction, a band is composed of wind instruments; an orchestra has both wind and stringed instruments.

Now, when you hear any orchestral concert, look back into olden days and see the first orchestra that we have record of. It was in the days of the sixteenth century.

In France there lived a certain famous nobleman—the Duc de Joyeuse. The splendor and beauty of his entertainments were renowned; and when, in 1581, he married the Lady Margaret of Lorraine, a very gorgeous festival was gotten up by him regardless of the expenditure of time or money or genius.

Now at this entertainment was produced a sort of dramatic performance with an instrumental band—the first on record. But it was in a very different fashion from the performance of an orchestra of to-day. They knew very few rules for harmonizing the instruments, yet, from the accounts given, the effect must have been very pleasing. Certain it is the gay audience were delighted by it.

Of course writing for orchestras was soon adopted by the various composers of the seventeenth century. Before the close of the century there were some quite well-ordered orchestras of stringed instruments, and when Bach began to write, the science of orchestration had gone very much further.

In writing for orchestras Bach used a great many times what is called the obligato. This word, when written over a part, means that it can not be left out—it must be played.

The other day I was listening to Beethoven's Fourth Symphony performed by some of the best players in the world, and led by a famous conductor, and I could not help thinking how very interesting it might be even to very young students to listen to any such performance, having a copy of the music with them, and then, on going home, to pick out certain parts and try to play them, reproducing some of the stringed effects. Now perhaps you will think this work for very advanced students. So it is, but little hands can try it too. Try some little chosen part of any symphony you may hear at a good concert, and see if you can remember, when you play, just what part of the expression belonged to any one particular instrument. I have heard pianists who seemed to me to almost reproduce the feeling of an entire orchestra.

Another interesting and useful study is to find out, before hearing a concert, the names of the various instruments used, and then, by means of a dictionary or encyclopædia, you can read all about them. See if it will not transform the whole concert to you.

Here is a list of the instruments of a complete orchestra: First violins 15, second violins 12, violas 10, violoncellos 10, double basses 8, flutes 2, piccolo 1, oboes, cor Anglais, clarionet, corno di bassetto, bassoon, double bassoon, trumpets, horns, trombones, timpani, cornet à piston, bass trumpet, tenor tuba, ophicleide, contra bass tuba, harp, bass drum, cymbals. The number and kind of instruments can of course be varied to a certain extent without losing the effect.

Chamber music differs from ordinary orchestras because none of the instruments are doubled; that is, only one of a kind is included in it, and it is adapted to a small number of performers on stringed instruments.

Many famous musicians have been equally famous conductors of orchestras. Mendelssohn and Moscheles, who were dear friends and great musicians, were celebrated for their conducting. Mendelssohn had a peculiar power over the musicians. They looked at his face as well as at his baton. Those sweet keen eyes seemed to tell each what to do—his whole soul was in the work. Very many stories are told of how on certain occasions parts of the score were found missing just as the men were taking their places, and yet Mendelssohn always contrived to get it together again with his marvellous faculty for rapid musical work. Once he is said to have dashed off a whole part while the audience were waiting, writing it from memory.

In an old house in London there is a book full of Mendelssohn's sketches when he and Moscheles were on their concert tours; and looking at them—some bright, some humorous, all happy and kindly—one could fancy just how much heart and soul he carried into his work; he put his fun into it as well as his sadness. Whatever he had, he gave it all to those around him when he stood in the conductor's place.

AN APRIL SHOWER.

[THE MAN IN THE MOON.]

Who does not know the Mother Goose jingle of

"The man in the moon
Came down too soon
To ask his way to Norwich"?

But the question is, how did he get in the moon, and what is he doing there? Most people can see only a face in the moon, and not always that; but in old times it was firmly believed that there was an actual man in the moon, with a bundle of sticks on his back, which he had to carry always as a punishment for gathering them on Sunday.

Some of the old English poets represented the man in the moon as a thief, who had been sent there for stealing, with a thorn bush on his back. Sometimes he had a dog with him for company, and in Shakspeare's Midsummer Night's Dream it is said,

"This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth moonshine."

In Sweden, the country people say that the spots on the moon are a girl and boy carrying a pail of water between them, whom the moon once kidnapped and carried up to heaven. But the Germans see a man and woman in the moon, who were put there for punishment; the man because he strewed thorns and brambles on the path to church to prevent people from going there on Sunday morning, and the woman because she did her churning on that holy day. The man has to carry a bundle of thorns, and the woman her butter tub, and to stand in the moon always as a warning to other Sabbath-breakers.

The Dutch say that the man was caught stealing vegetables. But in the island of Ceylon they speak of "the hare in the moon," instead of the man, and tell this story about it:

Buddha, the god whom they worship, was once a hermit on earth, and got lost in a forest. He wandered about until he met a hare, which said to him, "I can help you out of your trouble; take the path on your left hand, and it will lead you out of the forest."

"I am very much obliged to you," replied Buddha, "but I am very poor and very hungry, and have nothing to offer you as a reward for your kindness."

"If you are hungry," returned the hare, "I am again at your service. Make a fire, kill me, roast me, and eat me."

Buddha made the fire, the hare at once jumped into it, and has been seen in the moon ever since.

There are any number of old superstitions and strange beliefs in regard to the moon. In Suffolk County, England, it is considered unlucky to kill a pig when the moon is waning. The pork, so the old wives say, will waste in the boiling. Another fancy is that to look at the moon for the first time through glass brings ill luck. According to an old rhyme,

"A Saturday's moon,
If it comes once in seven years,
Comes once too soon."

The application of this is that if the new moon happens on a Saturday the weather will be bad for the ensuing month.

The Chinese represent the moon by the figure of a rabbit pounding rice in a mortar, and sometimes by a beautiful young woman with a rabbit at her feet. But, after all, we have got to let most of our fancies in regard to the moon go. They will not stand for a moment after one glance through an astronomer's telescope.

HOW JUMBO CROSSED THE OCEAN.

HOW JUMBO CROSSED THE OCEAN.

BY W. L. ALDEN.

Jumbo has arrived. Two weeks ago there was published in Young People an account of his departure from England by a lady who knew him very well, and who was very familiar with his doings during his last days on English soil.

Now we have the great elephant with us, safe at the Hippodrome, under Mr. Barnum's care, and where thousands of American children can make his acquaintance, and find out what made him such a wonderful favorite on the other side of the ocean.

Jumbo had a great time crossing the sea. A big elephant is a very awkward passenger when he travels by water. He weighs so much that he must be kept in the centre of the ship, and he must be fastened so securely that he can not possibly break loose. Jumbo made the passage in the same box in which he was drawn eight miles from the Zoological Gardens in London to the dock where the great steamer that was to carry him to America lay.

This box was made as strong as oak and iron could make it, and was provided with openings in the front, through which Jumbo could stretch out his trunk to receive his food and drink. Jumbo's cage was only a trifle smaller than the main hatchway of the steamer, and yet it fitted him almost as closely as if it had been an Ulster overcoat. Being wedged closely into the hatchway, the box could not be moved by the rolling or pitching of the ship, and Jumbo, being packed tightly in the box, could not bruise himself. Thus he was as well situated as a sea-faring elephant could expect to be.

Jumbo did not like the sea, particularly when he was seasick. When we remember how seasick a child weighing sixty pounds often is at sea, we can understand how tremendously seasick an elephant weighing six tons can be. For the first two or three days of the passage Jumbo suffered greatly from seasickness. He lost his appetite. He frequently sighed like a small earthquake, and he tried to get rid of his headache by beating his head against the front of his box. This remedy seemed to help him, for on the third day he began to get better, and made a light breakfast of two hundred pounds of hay, two bushels of oats, a bushel of biscuits, fifteen loaves of bread, twenty buckets of water, and a few trifles, and in a few hours he felt well enough to receive visits from the passengers.

Two keepers—Mr. Scott, who has been with Jumbo seventeen years in England, and one whom Mr. Barnum had sent over from New York—were with him constantly while at sea, taking turns in sitting up with him at night, so that he need never feel lonesome. Lamps were also kept burning in front of him all night, in case he should want to read, and far more care was taken of him in every way than of any other passenger. Most of the time he was amiable, and conducted himself in a way to win the approbation of everybody. Once, however, he became very ill-tempered, and his keepers could not please him, no matter what they did. Finally they brought some little children to him. The sight of them reminded Jumbo of his happy life in the Zoological Gardens, where he was accustomed to carry children on his back. The ill-temper vanished, and he became once more the gentle beast that he had been before he was forced to go to sea.

In spite of his general amiability, Jumbo does not like to be treated with disrespect. One of the sailors of the vessel found this out. The man was washing his clothes near Jumbo's box, and he rudely slapped the elephant's trunk to make him move it out of the way. This was, in Jumbo's opinion, an outrage which no gentleman would offer to a respectable elephant, and he determined to resent it. Presently the man went away, leaving his clean clothes within Jumbo's reach. The latter instantly seized them, wiped the deck with them until they were far blacker than before they had been washed, and with a sweet smile, handed them back to the astonished sailor.

The great ship, the Assyrian Monarch, arrived at New York on the morning of Easter Sunday. An immense floating derrick was brought alongside of the vessel, and heavy chains being made fast to the elephant's box, it was hoisted out of the ship, and lowered to the deck of a big lighter. Jumbo strongly disapproved of this proceeding, and mentioned it loudly. It was his opinion that the chains would break while the box was in the air, and that he would get a terrible fall. In this he proved to be mistaken, for he was brought without accident to Pier No. 1, North River, which, being built of stone and iron, was strong enough to bear his weight, and there he was landed.

It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening by the time that everything was ready for a start. Eight horses were harnessed to the box, which, with Jumbo, weighed over twelve tons, and long ropes were fastened to the axles, so that men could assist the horses in dragging the enormous load. Each rope was about two hundred feet long, and at least five hundred people took hold of them. The horses and the men made a tremendous effort, but after they had pulled the box about three feet, the wheels sank into the ground, and it could not be stirred. Mr. Barnum then sent to the Madison Square Garden for two elephants. He proposed to take Jumbo out of his box, and to introduce him to the two elephants, hoping that he would accept their invitation to take a stroll up Broadway with them, and to stop at their hotel—as they would politely call the Madison Square Garden.

Before the elephants arrived, eight more horses were harnessed to the box; it was pried out of the mud, and started slowly on its way. At the Bowling Green the two elephants from Madison Square Garden were met, and welcomed Jumbo with enthusiastic "trumpetings," to which he courteously replied. Two or three times the box came to a stop while on the way up Broadway, but the horses and men pulled and the two elephants pushed until it was in motion again. It was after midnight when the Madison Square Garden was reached, and then it was found that the box was so big it would not go through the doors. So poor Jumbo had to pass the night in the street.

On Monday, however, he was safely installed in his new home. He has not mentioned how he likes this new continent, or the strange people among whom he has come; but considering the attention he receives, and the dainties fed him by thousands of admiring little folks, he ought to be a serene and satisfied elephant.

[CHASED BY A SHARK.]

A REMINISCENCE OF THE RED SEA.

BY DAVID KER.

"What a jolly place for a swim! I'll have one as soon as my dinner's digested."

"Take my advice, and don't do nothin' of the sort; for if you do, as sure as eggs are eggs, there'll be somethin' else digested besides your dinner."

"How do you mean?"

"Sharks!"

And with this impressive conclusion, the worthy Captain turned on his heel and walked off.

We had run three parts of the way down the Red Sea, and were now anchored close to the Arabian shore, just off the Turkish fort of Koomfidah, the low massive wall of which stood out white and bare in the blistering sunshine, while beyond it stretched, far as the eye could reach, the dim immensity of the great central desert.

Our vessel lay fully a mile and a half from the shore, although it seemed within a stone's-throw in the clearness of that wonderful atmosphere. But between us and the interminable waste of flat sandy beach the clear bright water was flecked with a broad band of white, very much like a streak of thick cream, marking the whereabouts of one of those treacherous coral reefs which make the Red Sea as dangerous a place as any in the world.

Outside the reef where we lay the sea was still heaving restlessly from the effects of the gale that had blown overnight; but the broad shallow lagoon within was as calm as a mill-pond. Half a dozen gaunt, swarthy Arabs were splashing and wallowing in the smooth water with shouts of delight, which were very tantalizing to us as we "stood on the burning deck," with the very pitch melting between the planks under the intolerable heat. Others still were trooping down to the beach in their long white robes, like a train of ghosts, from the little group of tumble-down mud hovels which, clustering around the outer wall of the fort, represented the "town" of Koomfidah.

Their bathing-place was of course safe enough, for no shark could enter there; but as if on purpose to show us how little they cared for this, several of the nearest Arabs scrambled across the reef and began to swim toward us; and in a twinkling the water around our ship swarmed with dusky figures (including not a few round-faced "pickaninnies" who could not have been more than six or seven years old at the outside), plashing and paddling about as merrily as if no such thing as a shark had ever been heard of.

"Some o' them chaps'll be gettin' picked up, if they don't look out," said a young sailor, looking down at them over the bows.

"Not they!" rejoined a veteran "salt," who had made the Red Sea voyage many a time before. "Sharks never touches a Harab."

"Nor a darky neither," added another. "I've see'd the darkies in the West Injies, jist afore they dived, put tar on the palms o' their 'ands where they was rubbed white, so as to give the sharks nothin' to aim at, like."

"I take it them Harabs ain't good enough to suit Mr. Shark's taste, and mayhap it's the same way with the darkies," said No. 1, with a grin.

And the two old sea-dogs, perching themselves upon the bulwarks, watched with a look of quiet amusement the whirl of lean brown limbs that kept darting to and fro like shoals of fish through the cool, clear water.

"You see," remarked No. 1, "there ain't a sign o' their bein' touched, and yet there's lots o' sharks close by, I'll be bound. But if you or me, Bill, was to jump in there, we wouldn't ha' touched the water afore there'd be 'arf a dozen o' them sea-lawyers at us all to once."

This conversation, following so closely upon the Captain's warning, certainly did not encourage me to try a swim in these perilous waters, and a little incident which occurred that very afternoon encouraged me still less.

I was standing near the binnacle, watching the bursting of the waves upon the reef, when one of them suddenly broke into a high jet of glittering spray, flinging off a shower of tiny rainbows in every direction. A second glance showed me that the rainbows were a shoal of flying-fish, which plunged again the next moment, and then leaped a second time into the air, flashing and sparkling till the whole sea appeared to be on fire.

All of a sudden, just as the graceful little sea-fairies were passing close to our stern, up through the bright, smooth water shot a huge shovel-like snout and sharp three-cornered back fin, seeming to come right from under the ship itself, and in the very midst of the fluttering column appeared a monstrous black shark, at least sixteen feet from snout to tail. One snap of his powerful jaws took in a round dozen of the terrified fish, which scattered in all directions, two or three of them leaping even clear over our bulwarks, and falling upon the deck, where the sailors inhospitably seized and cooked them for supper.

This last incident was more effectual in keeping me from risking a "dip" than either the Captain's warning or that of the sailors. But what was to be done? To be roasted as if by a slow fire for six or seven days together in a temperature of 117 in the shade, with this splendid cool sea always before me to invite me to a bath, was not to be thought of, while to escape this martyrdom by going down the throat of a shark would be a case of "out of the frying-pan into the fire."

At last a bright idea struck me. One of our quarter-boats, which was getting rather shaky, had been moored astern, and allowed to fill with water, in order to keep it from being split by the heat of the sun. Here, then, was a first-rate bath ready-made, which, if not exactly big enough for a swim, would serve admirably for every other purpose. The first experiment was a complete success, and from that time regularly every morning I slid down the mooring-rope, and had a "duck" in my floating tub, to the unbounded amusement of the Arab boys, who came splashing and chattering around me.

In this way things went on up to the very day of our departure from Koomfidah. That morning I rose earlier than usual from my "luxurious couch" (which consisted of a spare sail on the planks of the after-deck) to have just one more bath before leaving. But it is always that "just one more" which does all the mischief; and as a matter of course, after being prudent and cautious up to the very last moment, I ended by committing an imprudence which all but cost me my life.

The sea, as I well remember, seemed cooler and more tempting than ever that day, and since the appearance of that energetic gentleman who had such a good appetite for flying-fish, no sharks had been seen except at a great distance. In short, I got tired of wallowing from side to side of my boat-bath, like a hippopotamus in a tank, and decided to scramble out of it, and have a swim round the ship itself.

Twice, thrice, four times, I made the circuit of the vessel, and then, seeing no sign of danger, determined to strike farther out to sea. I was already about a hundred yards from the ship's bow, when I suddenly heard a shout that made me feel creepy all over.

"Look out! here's a shark!"

Instantly came a rush in the water beside me, and up started between me and the ship the big ungainly head, the grinning teeth, the small, narrow, cruel eye, the huge pointed fin, like some ugly vision in a nightmare.

Luckily the shark's overlapping snout forces him to turn on his side in order to bite, or all would have been over at the first rush. A sudden turn foiled the monster, but the next moment he was round and at me again like an arrow. And so we went plunging to and fro, churning the smooth blue water into foam, while the shouts of the sailors (who had clustered like bees along the ship's side) seemed to rend the very sky.

But my enemy was too hungry to be scared by noise, and although we were gradually nearing the ship, always kept himself between. My breath began to fail, and I felt that before the boat could be lowered I should be past help, for the shark had turned short round and met me front to front.

There was a loud halloo from above—something splashed heavily into the water—and then the sea all round me became a whirl of foam. A billet of wood, flung from the upper deck, had hit the shark on his tenderest point, the snout; and before he could rally from this stunning blow, I had seized the anchor-chain and was safe on board.

"Captain," said I, as the worthy man came up just in time to witness my ascent, "I shall certainly take your advice after this."

"Dare say you will, when it's too late to be of any use!" growled the uncourteous skipper. "I always thought you was a fool, and now I'm sure of it."

This was certainly not complimentary, but on reflection I was much of the same opinion myself.

"DELLUSK."

BY A. W. ROBERTS.

There is in Chatham Street, New York city, an old Irish-woman who sits all day beside a stand on which is piled a substance, of a dark purple color, that strongly suggests dried red cabbage. No one seems to purchase any of this puzzling material, yet there she sits, serene and contented, behind a short black pipe.

Taking up a fragment, I found it soft and pliable. Smelling it, I seemed to be at once down by the shore at Canarsie Bay, packing soft crabs in sea-lettuce.

The old woman continued silently smoking her pipe, neither asking me to purchase nor informing me as to the cost of the mysterious substance, its use, its name, or that of the manufacturer.

Being an American, it was but natural that I should wonder if it was "patented." This word, however, proved too much for the old lady, and so I had to come down to the commonplace inquiry,

"Madam, what is this?"

"Dellusk."

"What is it good for?"

"To ate."

"Where does it come from?"

"From the say."

"I mean from what country."

"Tralee, County Kerry."

"How do you sell it?"

"Twinty cints a quart, tin cints a pint."

"Can I have this piece?"

"Yez can for a cint."

Taking a Third Avenue car for home, I secure a quiet corner seat, and say to myself, "I was born in New York city; I know it from one end to the other, particularly all things that are good to eat, but I don't know dellusk.'"

Presently we arrive at the Cooper Institute, and I ask the conductor to let me out. Hastily directing my steps toward the Astor Library, and entering, I ask the librarian for DEL in all the cyclopædias he has. I make a thorough search, and find nothing. Then I think of looking under DUL. What have we here? Not Dellusk by any means, but the following account of Dulse (Rhodomenia palmata): "A sea-weed of a dark purple color growing on rocks. It is used as food by the poor of Ireland, Scotland, Finland, and Iceland, and occasionally by those of the wealthier classes who have acquired a taste for it. It is eaten raw or roasted, or with vinegar as a salad. In Ireland it is boiled with milk, or broiled between hot irons. It is an important plant to the Icelanders, who eat it with zest."

Further on the same author, who is an Englishman, informed me: "In Kamtchatka a fermented liquor is made from it. Sheep are fond of it, eagerly seeking it at low water. 'De-ulse!' was once a common cry in the streets of Scotland. It is common to our coasts, but is imported from Ireland."

Some time after my conversation with the dulse woman, I purchased a pint of the sea-weed from which to obtain a perfect specimen to make a drawing. Taking it home, I left it spread out on my table. It had been there but a short time when "Landy," our old housekeeper, detected the strong odor that rises from it. In a moment she had seized my specimen, and with rapturous delight began to devour it, without even asking permission so to do.

"Oh, the beautiful, darling dellusk!" she exclaimed, between the pauses in the feast! "Shure it's thirty-five years gone last November, whin I was a slip of a girl, an' was clim'ing over the big stones in the big say, a-dryin' yez on them in the sun, till the lovely white salt would flake off, an' 'ating yez every day, till I grew so round and fat and rosy that me mother didn't know me."

I myself tried a bit of the dulse, but I can not say I liked it. At the same time I was glad to learn of one more article of food that I did not before know existed.

[TOPS, AND HOW TO SPIN THEM.]

BY AN OLD BOY.