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: THE VETERAN AND HIS CHARGE.]

The delightful hours spent in boyhood, going to and from school, are
unknown in the gay French capital to children of well-to-do parents.
Instead of starting early and lingering on the way, they watch from the
window until a black one-horse omnibus arrives, when a sub-master takes
charge of the pupil, and the omnibus goes from house to house,
collecting all the scholars, who are brought home in the same manner,
the sub-master sitting next the door, giving no chance to slip out to
ride on top, or to beg the driver to trust a fellow with the reins; and
as it is the custom to obey all in authority, the master is respected.
Girls are either sent to boarding-school or go to a day-school; in the
latter case, always accompanied by one of their parents or a trusty
servant. But the parents, if their means will not permit them to send
their boys to schools that support a one-horse omnibus, or if they have
not a servant to go with them, perform that task themselves. In the
schools for the poorer classes, when teaching is over, the children
file out, two by two, the older children being appointed monitors, and
the little processions disappear in different directions; the teachers
standing at the gate until they are lost from sight, for they have not
far to go, as there is a free school in each quarter.

[Illustration: THE ENEMY.]

But I pity the charity-school girls. Although always neatly and cleanly
dressed, they are all alike, with white caps, and dresses which might
have been cut from the same piece. They file through the streets or
public gardens, under the charge of the "good sisters," and perhaps
they stop to play or rest sometimes, but I never saw them do so.
Perhaps there is no real reason to pity these charity-children, boys or
girls; but I remember my own free and happy school-days in America, and
so I pity them.

[Illustration]




THE PETERKINS ARE OBLIGED TO MOVE.

BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.


Agamemnon had long felt it an impropriety to live in a house that was
called a "semi-detached" house, when there was no other "semi" to it.
It had always remained wholly detached as the owner had never built the
other half. Mrs. Peterkin felt this was not a sufficient reason for
undertaking the terrible process of a move to another house, when they
were fully satisfied with the one they were in.

But a more powerful reason forced them to go. The track of a new
railroad had to be carried directly through the place, and a station
was to be built on that very spot.

Mrs. Peterkin so much dreaded moving that she questioned whether they
could not continue to live in the upper part of the house and give up
the lower part to the station. They could then dine at the restaurant,
and it would be very convenient about traveling, as there would be no
danger of missing the train, if one were sure of the direction.

But when the track was actually laid by the side of the house, and the
steam-engine of the construction train puffed and screamed under the
dining-room windows, and the engineer calmly looked in to see what the
family had for dinner, she felt indeed that they must move.

But where should they go? It was difficult to find a house that
satisfied the whole family. One was too far off, and looked into a
tan-pit, another was too much in the middle of the town, next door to
a machine shop. Elizabeth Eliza wanted a porch covered with vines, that
should face the sunset, while Mr. Peterkin thought it would not be
convenient to sit there looking toward the west in the late afternoon,
(which was his only leisure time) for the sun would shine in his face.
The little boys wanted a house with a great many doors, so that they
could go in and out often. But Mr. Peterkin did not like so much
slamming, and felt there was more danger of burglars with so many
doors. Agamemnon wanted an observatory, and Solomon John a shed for a
workshop. If he could have carpenters' tools and a work-bench, he could
build an observatory, if it were wanted.

But it was necessary to decide upon something, for they must leave
their house directly. So they were obliged to take Mr. Finch's at the
Corners. It satisfied none of the family. The porch was a piazza, and
was opposite a barn. There were three other doors,--too many to please
Mr. Peterkin, and not enough for the little boys. There was no
observatory, and nothing to observe, if there were one, as the house
was too low, and some high trees shut out any view. Elizabeth Eliza had
hoped for a view, but Mr. Peterkin consoled her by deciding it was more
healthy to have to walk for a view, and Mrs. Peterkin agreed that they
might get tired of the same every day.

And everybody was glad a selection was made, and the little boys
carried their India rubber boots the very first afternoon.

Elizabeth Eliza wanted to have some system in the moving, and spent the
evening in drawing up a plan. It would be easy to arrange everything
beforehand, so that there should not be the confusion that her mother
dreaded, and the discomfort they had in their last move. Mrs. Peterkin
shook her head, she did not think it possible to move with any comfort.
Agamemnon said a great deal could be done with a list and a programme.

Elizabeth Eliza declared if all were well arranged a programme would
make it perfectly easy. They were to have new parlor carpets, which
could be put down in the new house the first thing. Then the parlor
furniture could be moved in, and there would be two comfortable rooms,
in which Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin could sit, while the rest of the move
went on. Then the old parlor carpets could be taken up for the new
dining-room and the down-stairs bedroom, and the family could meanwhile
dine at the old house. Mr. Peterkin did not object to this, though the
distance was considerable, as he felt exercise would be good for them
all. Elizabeth Eliza's programme then arranged that the dining-room
furniture could be moved the third day, by which time one of the old
parlor carpets would be down in the new dining-room, and they could
still sleep in the old house. Thus there would always be a quiet,
comfortable place in one house or the other. Each night when Mr.
Peterkin came home, he would find some place for quiet thought and
rest, and each day there should be moved only the furniture needed for
a certain room. Great confusion would be avoided and nothing misplaced.
Elizabeth Eliza wrote these last words at the head of her
programme--"Misplace nothing." And Agamemnon made a copy of the
programme for each member of the family.

The first thing to be done was to buy the parlor carpets. Elizabeth
Eliza had already looked at some in Boston, and the next morning she
went by an early train, with her father, Agamemnon, and Solomon John,
to decide upon them.

They got home about eleven o'clock, and when they reached the house
were dismayed to find two furniture wagons, in front of the gate,
already partly filled! Mrs. Peterkin was walking in and out of the open
door, a large book in one hand, and a duster in the other, and she came
to meet them in an agony of anxiety. What should they do? The furniture
carts had appeared soon after the rest had left for Boston, and the men
had insisted upon beginning to move the things. In vain had she shown
Elizabeth Eliza's programme, in vain had she insisted they must take
only the parlor furniture. They had declared they must put the heavy
pieces in the bottom of the cart, and the lighter furniture on top. So
she had seen them go into every room in the house, and select one piece
of furniture after the other, without even looking at Elizabeth Eliza's
programme; she doubted if they could have read it, if they had looked
at it.

Mr. Peterkin had ordered the carters to come, but he had no idea they
would come so early, and supposed it would take them a long time to
fill the carts.

But they had taken the dining-room sideboard first,--a heavy piece of
furniture,--and all its contents were now on the dining-room tables.
Then, indeed, they selected the parlor book-case, but had set every
book on the floor. The men had told Mrs. Peterkin they would put the
books in the bottom of the cart, very much in the order they were taken
from the shelves. But by this time Mrs. Peterkin was considering the
carters as natural enemies, and dared not trust them; besides, the
books ought all to be dusted. So she was now holding one of the volumes
of Agamemnon's Encyclopedia, with difficulty in one hand, while she was
dusting it with the other. Elizabeth Eliza was in dismay. At this
moment, four men were bringing down a large chest of drawers from her
father's room and they called to her to stand out of the way. The
parlors were a scene of confusion. In dusting the books, Mrs. Peterkin
neglected to restore them to the careful rows in which they were left
by the men, and they lay in hopeless masses in different parts of the
room. Elizabeth Eliza sunk in despair upon the end of a sofa.

"It would have been better to buy the red and blue carpet," said
Solomon John.

"Is not the carpet bought?" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. And then they were
obliged to confess they had been unable to decide upon one, and had
come back to consult Mrs. Peterkin.

"What shall we do?" asked Mrs. Peterkin.

Elizabeth Eliza rose from the sofa and went to the door, saying, "I
shall be back in a moment."

Agamemnon slowly passed round the room, collecting the scattered
volumes of his Encyclopedia. Mr. Peterkin offered a helping hand to a
man lifting a wardrobe.

Elizabeth Eliza soon returned. "I did not like to go and ask her. But I
felt that I must in such an emergency. I explained to her the whole
matter and she thinks we should take the carpet at Makillan's."

"Makillan's" was a store in the village, and the carpet was the only
one all the family had liked without any doubt; but they had supposed
they might prefer one from Boston.

The moment was a critical one. Solomon John was sent directly to
Makillan's to order the carpet to be put down that very day. But where
should they dine? where should they have their supper? where was Mr.
Peterkin's "quiet hour?" Elizabeth Eliza, was frantic--the dining-room
floor and table were covered with things.

It was decided that Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin should dine at the
Bromwiches, who had been most neighborly in their offers, and the rest
should get something to eat at the baker's.

Agamemnon and Elizabeth Eliza hastened away to be ready to receive the
carts at the other house, and direct the furniture as they could. After
all, there was something exhilarating in this opening of the new house,
and in deciding where things should go. Gayly Elizabeth Eliza stepped
down the front garden of the new home, and across the piazza, and to
the door. But it was locked, and she had no keys!

"Agamemnon, did you bring the keys?" she exclaimed.

No, he had not seen them since the morning--when--ah--yes, the little
boys were allowed to go to the house for their India rubber boots, as
there was a threatening of rain. Perhaps they had left some door
unfastened--perhaps they had put the keys under the door-mat. No, each
door, each window was solidly closed, and there was no mat!

"I shall have to go to the school to see if they took the keys with
them," said Agamemnon; "or else go home to see if they left them
there." The school was in a different direction from the house, and far
at the other end of the town for Mr. Peterkin had not yet changed the
boys' school, as he proposed to do, after their move.

"That will be the only way," said Elizabeth Eliza; for it had been
arranged that the little boys should take their lunch to school and not
come home at noon.

She sat down on the steps to wait, but only for a moment, for the carts
soon appeared turning the corner. What should be done with the
furniture? Of course, the carters must wait for the keys, as she should
need them to set the furniture up in the right places. But they could
not stop for this. They put it down upon the piazza, on the steps, in
the garden, and Elizabeth Eliza saw how incongruous it was! There was
something from every room in the house! even the large family chest,
which had proved too heavy for them to travel with, had come down from
the attic, and stood against the front door.

And Solomon John appeared with the carpet woman, and a boy with a
wheelbarrow bringing the new carpet. And all stood and waited. Some
opposite neighbors appeared to offer advice, and look on, and Elizabeth
Eliza groaned inwardly that only the shabbiest of their furniture
appeared to be standing full in view.

It seemed ages before Agamemnon returned, and no wonder; for he had
been to the house, then to the school, then back to the house, for one
of the little boys had left at home the keys, in the pocket of his
clothes. Meanwhile, the carpet woman had waited, and the boy with the
wheelbarrow had waited, and when they got in they found the parlor must
be swept and cleaned. So the carpet woman went off in dudgeon, for she
was sure there would not be time enough to do anything.

And one of the carts came again, and in their hurry the men set the
furniture down anywhere. Elizabeth Eliza was hoping to make a little
place in the dining-room where they might have their supper and go home
to sleep. But she looked out, and there were the carters bringing the
bedsteads, and proceeding to carry them upstairs.

In despair Elizabeth Eliza went back to the old house. If she had been
there she might have prevented this. She found Mrs. Peterkin in an
agony about the entry oil-cloth. It had been made in the house, and how
could it be taken out of the house? Agamemnon made measurements; it
certainly could not go out of the front door! He suggested it might be
left till the house was pulled down, when it could easily be moved out
of one side. But Elizabeth Eliza reminded him that the whole house was
to be moved without being taken apart. Perhaps it could be cut in
strips narrow enough to go out. One of the men loading the remaining
cart disposed of the question by coming in and rolling up the oil-cloth
and carrying it off on top of his wagon.

Elizabeth Eliza felt she must hurry back to the new house. But what
should they do?--no beds here, no carpets there! The dining-room table
and sideboard were at the other house, the plates and forks and spoons
here. In vain she looked at her programme. It was all reversed,
everything was misplaced. Mr. Peterkin would suppose they were to eat
there and sleep here, and what had become of the little boys?

Meanwhile, the man with the first cart had returned. They fell to
packing the dining-room china. They were up in the attic, they were
down in the cellar. Even one of them suggested to take the tacks out of
the parlor carpets, as they should want to take them next. Mrs.
Peterkin sunk upon a kitchen chair.

"Oh, I wish we had decided to stay and be moved in the house!" she
exclaimed.

Solomon John urged his mother to go to the new house, for Mr. Peterkin
would be there for his "quiet hour." And when the carters at last
appeared carrying the parlor carpets on their shoulders she sighed and
said, "There is nothing left," and meekly consented to be led away.

They reached the new house to find Mr. Peterkin sitting calmly in a
rocking-chair on the piazza, watching the oxen coming into the opposite
barn. He was waiting for the keys, which Solomon John had taken back
with him. The little boys were in a horse-chestnut tree, at the side of
the house.

Agamemnon opened the door. The passages were crowded with furniture,
the floors were strewn with books, the bureau was upstairs that was to
stand in a lower bedroom, there was not a place to lay a table, there
was nothing to lay upon it; for the knives and plates and spoons had
not come, and although the tables were there, they were covered with
chairs and boxes.

At this moment came a covered basket from the lady from Philadelphia.
It contained a choice supper, and forks and spoons, and at the same
moment appeared a pot of hot tea from an opposite neighbor. They placed
all this on the back of a book-case lying upset, and sat around it.
Solomon John came rushing from the gate:

"The last load is coming. We are all moved!" he exclaimed, and the
little boys joined in a chorus, "We are moved, we are moved!"

Mrs. Peterkin looked sadly round; the kitchen utensils were lying on
the parlor lounge, and an old family gun on Elizabeth Eliza's hat-box.
The parlor clock stood on a barrel; some coal-scuttles had been placed
on the parlor table, a bust of Washington stood in the door-way, and
the looking-glasses leaned against the pillars of the piazza. But they
were moved! Mrs. Peterkin felt indeed that they were very much moved.




[Illustration: GET UP!]

[Illustration: GOT DOWN!]




THE SING-AWAY BIRD.

BY LUCY LARCOM.


[Illustration]


O Say, have you heard of the sing-away bird,
That sings where the Runaway River
Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills
That stand in the sunshine and shiver?
"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"
How the pines and the birches are stirred
By the trill of the sing-away bird!

And the bald-headed hills, with their rocks and their rills,
To the tune of his rapture are ringing.
And their faces grow young, all their gray mists among,
While the forests break forth into singing,
"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"
And the river runs singing along;
And the flying winds catch up the song.

It was nothing but--hush! a wild white-throated thrush,
That emptied his musical quiver
With a charm and a spell over valley and dell
On the banks of the Runaway River.
"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"
Yet the song of the wild singer had
The sound of a soul that is glad.

And, beneath the glad sun, may a glad-hearted one
Set the world to the tune of his gladness.
The rivers shall sing it, the breezes shall wing it,
Till life shall forget its long sadness.
"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"
Sing, spirit, who knowest joy's Giver,--
Sing on, by time's Runaway River!




OLD SOUP

BY MRS. E.W. LATIMER.


The following curious anecdote is from a book about elephants, written
by a French gentleman, named Jacolliot, and we will let the author tell
his own story:

In the autumn of 1876 I was living in the interior of Bengal, and I
went to spend Christmas with my friend, Major Daly. The major's
bungalow was on the banks of the Ganges near Cawnpore. He had lived
there a good many years, being chief of the quartermaster's department
at that station, and had a great many natives, elephants,
bullock-carts, and soldiers under his command.

On the morning after my arrival, after a cup of early tea (often taken
before daylight in India), I sat smoking with my friend in the veranda
of his bungalow, looking out upon the windings of the sacred river.
And, directly, I asked the major about his children (a boy and a girl),
whom I had not yet seen, and begged to know when I should see them.

"Soupramany has taken them out fishing," said their father.

"Why, isn't Soupramany your great war-elephant?" I cried.

"Exactly so. You cannot have forgotten Soupramany!"

"Of course not. I was here, you know, when he had that fight with the
elephant who went mad while loading a transport with bags of rice down
yonder. I saw the mad elephant when he suddenly began to fling the rice
into the river. His 'mahout' tried to stop him, and he killed the
mahout. The native sailors ran away to hide themselves, and the mad
elephant, trumpeting, charged into this inclosure. Old Soupramany was
here, and so were Jim and Bessy. When he saw the mad animal, he threw
himself between him and the children. The little ones and their nurses
had just time to get into the house when the fight commenced."

"Yes," said the major. "Old Soup was a hundred years old. He had been
trained to war, and to fight with the rhinoceros, but he was too old to
hunt then."

"And yet," said I, becoming animated by the recollections of that day,
"what a gallant fight it was! Do you remember how we all stood on this
porch and watched it, not daring to fire a shot lest we should hit Old
Soupramany? Do you remember too, his look when he drew off, after
fighting an hour and a half, leaving his adversary dying in the dust,
and walked straight to the 'corral,' shaking his great ears which had
been badly torn, with his head bruised, and a great piece broken from
one of his tusks?"

"Yes, indeed," said the major. "Well, since then, he is more devoted to
my dear little ones than ever. He takes them out whole days, and I am
perfectly content to have them under his charge. I don't like trusting
Christian children to the care of natives; but with Old Soup I know
they can come to no harm."

[Illustration: "BESIDE THE CHILDREN STOOD OLD SOUP WITH A LARGE BAMBOO
ROD IN HIS TRUNK."]

"What! you trust children under ten years of age to Soup, without any
other protection?"

"I do," replied the major. "Come along with me, if you doubt, and we
will surprise them at their fishing."

I followed Major Daly, and, after walking half a mile along the wooded
banks of the river, we came upon the little group. The two
children--Jim, the elder, being about ten--both sat still and silent,
for a wonder, each holding a rod, with line, cork, hook and bait,
anxiously watching the gay corks bobbing in the water. Beside them
stood Old Soup with an extremely large bamboo rod in his trunk, with
line, hook, bait, and cork, like the children's. I need not say I took
small notice of the children, but turned all my attention to their big
companion. I had not watched him long before he had a bite; for, as the
religion of the Hindoos forbids them to take life, the river swarms
with fishes.

The old fellow did not stir; his little eyes watched his line eagerly;
he was no novice in "the gentle craft." He was waiting till it was time
to draw in his prize.

At the end of his line, as he drew it up, was dangling one of those
golden tench so abundant in the Ganges.

When Soupramany perceived what a fine fish he had caught, he uttered
one of those long, low gurgling notes of satisfaction by which an
elephant expresses joy; and he waited patiently, expecting Jim to take
his prize off the hook and put on some more bait for him. But Jim, the
little rascal, sometimes liked to plague Old Soup. He nodded at us, as
much as to say, "Look out, and you'll see fun, now!" Then he took off
the fish, which he threw into a water-jar placed there for the purpose,
and went back to his place without putting any bait on Old Soup's
hook. The intelligent animal did not attempt to throw his line into the
water. He tried to move Jim by low, pleading cries. It was curious to
see what tender tones he seemed to try to give his voice.

Seeing that Jim paid no attention to his calls, but sat and laughed as
he handled his own line, Old Soup went up to him, and with his trunk
tried to turn his head in the direction of the bait-box. At last, when
he found that all he could do would not induce his willful friend to
help him, he turned round as if struck by a sudden thought, and,
snatching up in his trunk the box that held the bait, came and laid it
down at the major's feet; then picking up his rod, he held it out to
his master.

"What do you want me to do with this, Old Soup?" said the major.

The creature lifted one great foot after the other, and again began to
utter his plaintive cry. Out of mischief, I took Jimmy's part, and,
picking up the bait-box, pretended to run with it. The elephant was not
going to be teased by _me_. He dipped his trunk into the Ganges, and in
an instant squirted a stream of water over me with all the force and
precision of a fire-engine, to the immense amusement of the children.

The major at once made Soup a sign to stop, and, to make my peace with
the fine old fellow, I baited his hook myself. Quivering with joy, as a
baby does when it gets hold at last of a plaything some one has taken
from it, Old Soupramany hardly paused to thank me by a soft note of joy
for baiting his line for him, before he went back to his place, and was
again watching his cork as it trembled in the ripples of the river.




Four little houses, blue and round,
Hidden away from sight and sound.
What is in them? The leaves never tell,
But they know the secret very well.
The daisies know, and the clover knows;
So does the pretty, sweet wild rose.
Don't be impatient, only wait
Just outside, at the leafy gate;
Soon a fairy will open the door,
And let out birdies--one, two, three, four!




UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.


CHAPTER XII.

GOOD TIMES.


Every one was very kind to Ben when his loss was known. The Squire
wrote to Mr. Smithers the boy had found friends and would stay where he
was. Mrs. Moss consoled him in her way, and the little girls did their
very best to "be good to poor Benny." But Miss Celia was his truest
comforter and completely won his heart, not only by the friendly words
she said and the pleasant things she did, but by the unspoken sympathy
which showed itself, just at the right minute, in a look, a touch, a
smile, more helpful than any amount of condolence. She called him "my
man," and Ben tried to be one, bearing his trouble so bravely that she
respected him, although he was only a little boy, because it promised
well for the future.

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