Book: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, May, 1878, No. 7.

V >> Various >> St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, May, 1878, No. 7.



[Illustration: MANDY AND BUB BY THE NETS. [See page 450.]]




ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.
MAY, 1878.
No. 7.


[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]




HOW MANDY WENT ROWING WITH THE "CAP'N."

BY MARY HALLOCK FOOTE.


It was the month of May--the season of fresh shad and apple-blossoms on
the Hudson River. "Bub" and "Mandy" Lewis knew more about the shad than
they did about the apple-blossoms, for their father was a fisherman,
and they lived in a little house built on a steep bank between the road
above and the river below. Sometimes, on cool, damp spring evenings,
the scent of the orchards came down to them from the hills above, but
the smell of shad was much stronger and nearer.

Just in front of the house was an old wharf, where fishing-boats were
moored, and nets spread for drying or mending. One morning, Bub and
Mandy were sitting on the log which guards the edge of the wharf,
watching their father and brother Jeff getting ready to spread the nets
for next night's "haul." Jeff was busy with the buoy lines and sinkers,
while the father bailed out the boat with an old tin pan. The children
were rather subdued--Bub wondering how long it would be before he could
"handle a boat" like Jeff and go out with his father? Mandy was
expecting every moment to hear her mother's voice calling from the
house. It was Monday morning, and Mandy knew her mother would soon be
starting for the Hillard's, where she "helped" on Mondays and
Saturdays.

These were the longest days of the week to Mandy, for then she had baby
to tend all by herself and he was "such a bother!"

Yes, there it was: "Mandy!--Mandy!--Mandy _Lewis_! don't you hear?"
Mandy kept her eyes gloomily fixed on the curve of her father's back,
as it bent and rose in the boat below, in time with the scra-a-a-pe,
swish, of the bailer.

"What's the use makin' b'l'eve you don't hear?" said Bub. "You know
you've got to go!"

"I just wish mother'd make _you_ tend baby once, and see how you'd like
it!"--and Mandy rose with an impatient jerk of her bonnet-strings and
slowly climbed the steep path to the house. Her mother, standing in the
door-way with baby on one arm, shaded her eyes from the sun as she
watched the cloudy face under the pink bonnet. It was always cloudy on
Mondays and Saturdays.

"Seems as if you didn't love your little brother, Mandy--such work as
you make of tendin' him! Just look how glad he is to see you," as baby
leaned forward and began pulling at the pink bonnet. "He's just had his
bread and milk, and if you set right there in the door, where he can
watch the chickens, I shouldn't wonder if he'd be real good for ever so
long. Father and Jeff wont be home to dinner, but there's plenty of
bread and butter and cold beans in the closet for you and Bub. You can
set the beans in the oven to warm, if you like--only be sure you put
'em on an old plate; and you can divide what's left of the ginger-bread
between you."

"Oh, mother! can't we eat it now?" said Bub, who had watched his father
and Jeff off in the boat, and, now returning to the house, didn't
quite know what to do next.

"Why, it aint an hour sence breakfast! But you can do as you like;
only, if Mandy eats hers, baby'll want it, sure. Better wait till he's
asleep."

"All right; Mandy can wait," said Bub, cheerfully, as his mother set
the plate of cake on the table before leaving the house.

"Oh, Bub, I'm awful hungry, too!" said Mandy. "You cut the cake in
halves,--mind you cut fair,--and hold my piece for me where baby can't
see it. Sit right here behind me."

So Mandy on the door-step, and Bub on the floor, with his back against
the door, which he gently tilted as he munched his cake, were very
silent and comfortable for a minute or two.

The hens crawed and cackled, with cozy, gossipy noises, in the sun
before the door; the baby blinked and cooed contentedly.

"Ready for another bite?" said Bub, holding out Mandy's cake close to
her left ear.

"In a min-ute," said Mandy, with her mouth full. "Bub Lewis, aint you
ashamed of yourself? You've been eatin' off my piece! I saw you just
now!"

"Aint, either! You can see great things with the back of your head!
Here's your piece 'n' here's mine. Yours is ever so much bigger!"

"Well, you've been gobbling yours's fast's you could, and I only had
two little bites off mine."

"_Little_ bites! I sh'd think so! Don't know what you call big ones,
then! So chuck full you couldn't speak half a minute ago. Here, hold
your own cake, and let baby grab it!"

"Well, I'd rather give it _all_ to him, than have you eat it up on the
sly!"

Bub walked down toward the water without deigning a reply, but thought
of several things on his way which would have been more withering than
silence.

Mandy did not enjoy the rest of her cake very much,--eating it
furtively, so baby should not want it, and dropping crumbs on his
little white head, which he kept twisting around, to see what she was
doing. She began to think that perhaps she had been rather hasty in
accusing Bub; but surely that was the right-hand piece, instead of the
left, he was biting from? Well, anyway, it didn't much matter now the
cake was all eaten. The old rooster had wandered round the corner of
the house, where he was presently heard calling to his favorite hen.
She ran, and all the others followed. Baby grew restless, and made
little impatient noises, and the sun was getting very hot and bright on
the door-step. What _was_ Bub doing down there among the nets on the
drying-ground? He had been very still, with his head bent down and his
hands moving about for ever so long.

Mandy felt that, after their late unpleasantness, it would be more
dignified to take no notice of Bub for a while; but curiosity, and
baby's restlessness, finally prevailed over pride, and rolling up her
troublesome little burden in an old red shawl, she trotted with him
down to the river.

"Bub," she said, after standing by him some time in silence, watching
him driving a row of small sticks into the ground, "_was_ it my piece
you was bitin' off?"

"I told you 't wasn't. If you don't b'l'eve me, what's the use o' my
sayin' so again?"

"Well, I'm sorry, Bub. I just caught a sight of you as I turned my
head, an' I thought--"

"Oh, well, never mind what you thought; we've heard enough 'bout that
cake! Shove your foot one side a little? I want to drive another spile
there. Them's the hitchin' spiles on the inside."

"What you buildin'?" asked Mandy.

"Can't you see for yourself? What's built on spiles, I'd like to know!
Meetinghouses, may be you think. This is Lewis's dock; all the day
boats and barges stop here!"

"Where's the water?" asked Mandy.

"Oh, you wait till high tide, 'bout four o'clock this afternoon, 'n'
you'll see water enough!"

Just then, a boy in a blue blouse, with a basket of fish over his
shoulder, came whistling along.

"Perry! Perry Kent! Where you goin'?" Bub called.

"Down to little cove, to clean fish."

"Oh, can't I go along and help? I can scale a herrin' first-rate;
father said so."

"Aint herrin'; they're shad; got to be cleaned very partic'lar, too.
But come along, if you want to."

"Bub," said Mandy, in an eager whisper, "oh, Bub, wait for me! Baby's
fast asleep. I'll lay him right down here, in his shawl; the nets'll
keep the sun off, 'n' he'll be real cozy 'n' nice till we get back."

"Why don't you take him up to the house?" said Perry, looking with some
interest at Mandy's bundle. "'Taint a very good place for him here.
You'll find us at the cove, all right."

"He'll wake up sure, if I try to carry him up the hill. See how nice he
lays; and I'll hang the end of the shawl over this net-pole. I can see
it plain enough from the cove. If he wakes up, he'll be tumblin' round
and pull it off, so I'll know when to come back for him."

"Well, it takes a girl for contrivance," Perry said; and it was
something in his manner rather than the words which made Mandy, as she
followed the two boys, vaguely feel she was disapproved of.

The cove was a half-circle of pebble beach, washed by the ripples of a
slowly rising tide, with a wall of gray slate rock at the back.
Hemlock-trees leaned from the steep wooded cliff above, the shadows of
their boughs moving with the wind across the sunny face of the rock.

It was very warm and still and bright. Mandy climbed to a perch high up
in the twisted roots of an old hemlock, who, having ventured too far
over the edge of the cliff, was clinging there, desperately driving his
tough toes into the crevices of the rock, and wildly waving his boughs
upward and backward as if imploring help from his comrades, safe in the
dark wood above.

The river spread broad and bright below her. Mandy listened, in happy
silence, to all the mysterious rustlings and twitterings and cracklings
in the wood above, and the sounds, far and near, from the river below.
Now and then she looked to see if the shawl still fluttered from the
net-pole. She was glad she came, and it seemed but a very little while
before the fish were all cleaned, and the boys, sitting on a rock,
skipping pebbles, and watching for Perry Kent's father, who was coming
in his boat to take the fish up to the hotel.

Perry's father was always called Cap'n Kent. He kept a kind of floating
restaurant. One end of his boat was boarded over into a closet, with
shelves filled with a supply of fresh fruit and berries in the season,
cider, cakes, pies, root-beer, lemons, crackers, etc. His customers
were chiefly the "hands" on board sloops becalmed opposite the landing,
or passing barges and canal-boats, slowly trailed in the wake of a
panting propeller, or escorted by dingy little "tugs," struggling along
like lively black beetles.

The "Cap'n" was a very tall man, and his arms were so long that, as he
rowed, he sat quite upright, only stretching his arms back and forth,
scarcely bending his body at all. This gave great dignity to his
appearance in a boat. His feet were very long too, and when he walked
he lifted the whole foot at once, and put it down flat. Of course he
could not walk very fast; but so important a person as the "Cap'n"
could never be in a hurry.

As he held his boat against a rock while Perry lifted in the basket of
fish, he saw the wistful faces of the children standing on the beach.
Now, the "Cap'n" considered himself a very good-natured man, and
good-natured men are always fond of children. So he called out in a
loud voice:

"Whose little folks are you?"

"Bub and Mandy Lewis," Mandy answered quickly.

Bub nudged her with his elbow.

"He spoke to _me_, Mandy!"

"Want to take a little row up to the hotel? Let's see--your folks live
by the old fishin' dock, don't they? Wal, I can leave ye there comin'
back. You can tell your Pa that Cap'n Kent took ye out rowin'."

"I'd like to go, if you please," said Bub, who was ready with an answer
this time; "but Mandy, she's got to tend to the baby."

"The baby! What baby?" said the "Cap'n," while Mandy whispered,
crossly, "Bub, I think you're real mean!"

"Oh, sir, baby's fast asleep up on the dryin'-ground, where the nets
are! I could go as far as that, if you'd let me get out there,--if it
wouldn't be too much trouble, sir."

"Course it would!" said Bub, emphatically.

But the "Cap'n," who was not so good-natured that he liked to have
small boys answer for him, gravely considered the matter while he
settled his oars in the rowlocks.

"Wal, it's some trouble, perhaps; but I don't mind puttin' myself out
once in a while for a nice little gal. Step lively now, young man! Come
along, sissy!"

Mandy sat radiant in the little bow-seat, as the boat pushed off. A
great Albany "tow" was passing,--a whole fleet of barges and
canal-boats lashed together,--with calves and sheep bellowing and
bleating, cables creaking, clothes flapping on the lines; a big
steamboat, with a freight-barge under each wing, plowing the water on
ahead, and sending the waves chasing each other in shore.

The little boat danced gayly on the "rollers." A fresh wind blew toward
them, and brought with it a shout of "Boat ahoy! Hello, Cap'n! Got any
good stuff aboard?"

"Got some good _cider_," the "Cap'n" called in reply, with strong
emphasis on the last word.

"Come alongside, then!"

The "Cap'n" condescended to lean a little on his oars in pursuit of a
bargain, and sent the little boat spinning over the water toward one of
the barges in the rear part of the "tow."

Some men in a row were lounging over the rail; one of them threw a
rope, which hissed and splashed close to the boat. Perry caught it, and
they were soon under the lee of the floating village.

While the store was unlocked, and its wares handed out, Mandy noticed,
on the deck above, a woman washing a little boy three or four years
old. He stood in an old wooden pail, with a rope tied to the
handle,--his little white body, all naked and slippery, shining in the
sun. One could hardly help noticing him, he screamed so lustily as the
water was dashed over his head and shoulders.

Mandy saw how his face showed red and flushed with crying, under the
dripping yellow locks.

She thought uneasily of the baby, lying all alone on the old dock;
wondered if the sun had got round so as to shine in his face, and how
long the "Cap'n" would stand there, talking with those men. She was
happy again when the boat dropped behind and the "Cap'n" turned toward
the shore.

"Perry," he said, "just look at my watch--there in my weskit-pocket on
the starn-seat. What time's it got to be?"

"Twenty minutes to one," said Perry.

"What time'd I say we'd have them shad up there? One o'clock? Wal, one
o'clock it'll be, then. Only we can't leave this little gal ashore till
we come back."

"Oh, please----" Mandy began, in great dismay as she saw they were
passing the fishing-dock. "The baby! He's there all alone, and--oh,
Bub, the shawl's gone! I _must_ go ashore, Cap'n Kent--please!"

"Never mind, sissy; baby's all right. Bless my soul! who'd want to
carry off a baby? There aint no wild beasts roamin' round, and most of
us's got babies enough o' our own to hum, without borryin of the
neighbors. You'll find him there all safe enough when we get back. Them
shad, ye see, was promised at one o'clock up to the hotel. Cap'n Kent,
ye know, he never breaks his word."

"But you said----?" Mandy began, in a distressed voice, when Bub
interrupted her.

"You'd better keep quiet, Mandy. You would come, 'n' now I hope you'll
get enough of it!"

That was a very long twenty minutes to Mandy, while they drew slowly
nearer and nearer to the steamboat-landing, and the little white and
brown houses of the fishermen, scattered along shore, one by one were
left behind.

"Now, Perry," the "Cap'n" said, as he unshipped his oars, while the
children clambered out of the boat, "just look at that ere watch again.
See if the Cap'n aint as good as his word. Five minutes to one, eh?
Didn't I tell ye? Hello, sissy! Where's that gal goin' to now? What's
your hurry? I'll take ye back in half an hour."

But Mandy was off, running like a young fox along the edge of the
wharf.

"Cap'n," said Bub, "we're much obliged to you, sir, and I guess I'll go
on too. Mandy's awful scared about the baby, and--"

"Lord, what a fuss 'bout a baby!" the "Cap'n" broke in with his loud
voice, "Babies aint so easy got rid of. Wal, may be you'll go rowin'
with the Cap'n again, some day. Tell yer Ma I've got some first-class
lemons, if she wants to make pies for Sunday. Can't get no such lemons
at the store."

But the "Cap'n's" last words were wasted, for Bub was already speeding
off after Mandy.

When he reached the fishing-dock, there she sat, a dismal little heap,
on the ground between the net-poles. She had lost her bonnet; she had
fallen down and rubbed dust in her hair. Now she sat rocking herself to
and fro, and sobbing.

"Oh, Bub! The baby!" was all she could say.

"Look here, Mandy! Stop cryin' a minute, will you?" said Bub. "It's
after one o'clock; may be mother had only half a day at Hillard's, and
come home 'n' found the baby down here; she could see the shawl from
the house."

Mandy jumped up, "Let's go see. Quick!" she cried. But the string of
one shoe was broken, and the shoe slipped at every step. She stooped to
fasten it. "Don't wait, Bub. Go on, please!" Then she felt so tired and
breathless with running and crying, that she dropped down on the ground
again to wait for Bub's return.

She heard his feet running down the hill, and wondered if they brought
good news.

No; the house was empty. No baby or mother there!

"I must go to Hillard's," said Bub. "You'd better stay, Mandy; you look
'most beat out."

His voice was very gentle, and Mandy could not bear it.

"Oh, Bub! don't be good to me. I'm a horrid wicked girl! What will
mother say? How _can_ I tell her?" Then she broke into sobs again.

It was dreadful, sitting there alone, after Bub's footsteps died away
in the distance, thinking and wondering hopelessly about the baby.
Mandy remembered how his little head, heavy with sleep, had drooped
lower and lower, and tired her arms. How gladly would she feel that
ache if she could only hold the warm little body in her arms again!

How still it was! She could hear the children at McNeal's, down the
road, laughing and calling after their father as he went away to his
work. There was fresh trouble in the thought of _her_ father coming
home at night. Would it not be better that she should go away and hide
herself, where no reproachful eyes could reach her? Would they miss
her, and feel sorry for poor little Mandy? Would her mother go about
looking pale and quiet, thinking of her gently?

Hark! What noise was that under the drooping curtain of nets? Now she
does not hear it; but presently it comes again--a soft, happy little
baby voice, cooing and talking to itself.

With joyful haste, Mandy lifted the heavy festoon of nets, and crawled
under. There, in the warm, sunny gloom, lying all rosy and tumbled,
with his clothes around his neck, and the old red shawl hopelessly
tangled round the bare and active legs, lay baby, cramming his fists in
his mouth or tossing them about, while he talked stories to the gleams
of sunlight that flickered down through the meshes of the nets.

How he had managed to roll so far, Mandy did not stop to wonder about.
She scooped him up into her arms, the bare legs kicking and struggling,
and crawled with him into the open air.

There she sat, hugging him close, with her cheek resting on his head,
when the tired, anxious mother, hurrying on ahead of Bub, came running
down the hill.

Many times after that, the baby was a "bother" to Mandy, but she was
never heard to call him so.




THE SILLY GOOSE.

_(An Old Story Re-told.)_

BY E.A. SMULLER.


[Illustration]


There's a queer old story which you shall hear.
It happened, once on a time, my dear,
That a goose went swimming on a pond,
A pleasure of which all geese are fond.
She sailed about, and to and fro,
The waves bent under her breast of snow,
And her red feet paddled about below,
But she wasn't a happy goose--oh no!

It troubled her more than she could tell,
That in the town where she chanced to dwell,
The saying of "stupid as a goose,"
Was one that was very much in use.
For sneers and snubbing are hard to bear,
Be he man or beast I do not care,
Or pinioned fowl of the earth or air,
We're all of the same opinion there.

Now, as she pondered the matter o'er,
A fox came walking along the shore;
With a pleasant smile he bowed his head,
"Good-evening, Mrs. Goose!" he said.
"Good-evening, Mr. Fox!" quoth she,
Looking across at him tremblingly,
And, fearing he had not had his tea,
Pushed a trifle farther out to sea.

She had little harm to fear from him;
For, with all his tricks, he could not swim,
And, indeed, his voice was sweet and kind.
"Dear Mrs. Goose, you've a troubled mind;
I only wish I could help you through,
There's nothing I would not gladly do
For such a beautiful bird as you."
Which sounded nice, and was really true.

"Well, then, Mr. Fox," the goose replied,
"It hurts my feelings, and wounds my pride,
That in these days my sisters and I,
Who saved old Rome by our warning cry,
Should be called the _silly geese_. Ah, me!
If I could learn something fine, you see,
Like writing, or reading the A, B, C,
What a happy, happy goose I'd be!"

"Now, would you, indeed!" Renard replied
As the floating fowl he slyly eyed;
"I hardly know what 'tis best to say,
Let's think about it a moment, pray,
I may help you yet, my dear, who knows?"
So he struck a meditative pose,
And thoughtfully laid his small, red toes,
Up by the side of his pointed nose.

"Ah, yes!" he cried, "I have it at last:
Your troubles, dear Mrs. Goose, are past;
There is a school-master, wise and good,
I know where he lives in yonder wood,
To-morrow evening, you shall see
In yon broad meadow his school will be,
He'll bring you a book with the A, B, C,
And he'll give his little lesson free."

But now just listen, and you shall hear
About that fox; he went off, my dear,
And he bought a coat, and a beaver hat,
And a pair of specs, and a black cravat.
Next evening he came dressed up to charm,
With the little "Reader" under his arm,
Where the goose stood waiting without alarm,
For, indeed, she hadn't a thought of harm.

Had she looked at all, you would have thought
She need not have been so quickly caught,
For the long red bushy fox's tail,
Swept over the meadow like a trail.
But 'twas rather dark, for night was near,
And another thing, I greatly fear.
She felt too anxious to see quite clear;
She was simply _a goose of one idea_.

The school-master opens wide his book,
The goose makes a long, long neck, to look,
He opens his mouth, as if to cough,
When, snippety-snap! her head flies off.
Now, cackle loudly her sisters fond,
Who are watching proudly from the pond,
While off to the town that lies beyond,
The whole of the frightened flock abscond.

That day, the geese made a solemn vow,
Which their faithful children keep till now,
That, never shall goose or gosling look
At any school-master or his book.
So, if ever you should chance to hear
Them talking of school, don't think it queer
If they say some hard things, or appear
To show a certain degree of fear;
It is always so with geese, my dear.


[Illustration: "LADY-BIRD, FLY AWAY HOME!"]




PARISIAN CHILDREN.

BY HENRY BACON.


[Illustration]

Parisians adore the sunshine. On a sunny day the many squares and parks
are peopled by children dressed in gay costumes, always attended by
parents or nurses. The old gingerbread venders at the gates find a
ready sale for chunks of coarse bread (to be thrown to the sparrows and
swans), hoops, jump-ropes, and wooden shovels,--for the little ones are
allowed to dig in the public walks as if they were on private grounds
and heirs of the soil. Here the babies build their miniature forts,
while the sergents-de-ville (or policemen), who are old soldiers, look
kindly on, taking special care not to trample the fortifications as
they pass to and fro upon their rounds.

Here future captains and admirals sail their miniature fleet, and are
as helplessly horror-stricken when the graceful swans sally out and
attack their little vessels, as when from Fortress Monroe the
spectators watched the "Merrimac" steam down upon the shipping in the
roads.

[Illustration: EXTREMES MEET.]

Here the veterans, returned again to childhood, bask in the sun, and,
watching the fort-building, forget their terrible campaigns amidst
snows and burning sands, delighting to turn an end of the jumping rope
or to trot a long-robed heiress on, perhaps, the only knee they have
left.

[Illustration: THE STAFF OF LIFE.]

Parisians are very fond of uniforms, and so begin to employ them in the
dress of citizens as soon as they make their entry into the world, even
before they are registered at the mayor's office; for the caps and
cradles of a boy (or _citoyen_) are decorated with blue ribbons, and
the girl (or _citoyenne_) with pink.

Every boys' or girls' school of any pretension has a distinctive mark
in the dress, and so has each employment or trade,--the butcher's boy,
always bareheaded, with a large basket and white apron; the grocer's
apprentice, with calico over-sleeves and blue apron; and the
pastry-cook's boy, dressed in white with white linen cap, who despises
and ridicules the well-blacked chimney-sweep, keeping the while at a
respectful distance. And we must not forget the beggars, with their
carefully studied costumes of rags, or the little Italians, born in
Paris, but wearing their so-called native costume, which has been cut
and made within the city walls.

The little ones of the outskirts of the city are generally independent
and self-reliant youngsters, and sometimes, before they are quite
steady on their feet, we meet them already doing the family errands,
trudging along, hugging a loaf of bread taller than themselves. But the
rosy plumpness of the fields is wanting; for children are like
chameleons, and partake of the color of the locality they inhabit, so
these poor little ones are toned down by the smoke and dust of the
workshops. Their play-ground is under the dusty, dingy trees of the
wide avenues; but they have the same games of romps their peasant
mothers brought from their country homes, and above the noise of the
passing vehicles we often hear their voices as they dance round in a
circle, and sing verses of some old provincial song.

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