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.




"Last year Jimmy got his arm blown off when they fired the old cannon.
Didn't we have a lively time going for the doctors and getting him
home?" asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of the most
interesting part of the anniversary, because no accident had occurred.

"Ain't going to be fire-works either, unless somebody's barn burns up.
Don't I just wish there would," gloomily responded another youth who
had so rashly indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a
neighbor's cow had been roasted whole.

"I wouldn't give two cents for such a slow old place as this. Why, last
Fourth at this time, I was rumbling through Boston streets up top of
our big car, all in my best toggery. Hot as pepper, but good fun
looking in at the upper windows and hearing the women scream when the
old thing waggled round and I made believe I was going to tumble off,"
said Ben, leaning on his bat with the air of a man who had seen the
world and felt some natural regret at descending from so lofty a
sphere.

"Catch me cutting away if I had such a chance as that!" answered Sam,
trying to balance _his_ bat on his chin and getting a smart rap across
the nose as he failed to perform the feat.

"Much you know about it, old chap. It's hard work, I can tell you, and
that wouldn't suit such a lazy bones. Then you are too big to begin,
though you might do for a fat boy if Smithers wanted one," said Ben,
surveying the stout youth with calm contempt.

"Let's go in swimming, not loaf round here, if we can't play," proposed
a red and shiny boy, panting for a game of leap-frog in Sandy pond.

"May as well; don't see much else to do," sighed Sam, rising like a
young elephant.

The others were about to follow, when a shrill "Hi, hi, boys, hold on!"
made them turn about to behold Billy Barton tearing down the street
like a runaway colt, waving a long strip of paper as he ran.

"Now, then, what's the matter?" demanded Ben, as the other came up
grinning and puffing, but full of great news.

"Look here, read it! I'm going; come along, the whole of you," panted
Billy, putting the paper into Sam's hand, and surveying the crowd with
a face as beaming as a full moon.

"Look out for the big show," read Sam. "Van Amburgh & Co.'s New Great
Golden Menagerie, Circus and Colosseum, will exhibit at Berryville,
July 4th, at 1 and 7 precisely. Admission 50 cents, children
half-price. Don't forget day and date. H. Frost, Manager."

While Sam read, the other boys had been gloating over the enticing
pictures which covered the bill. There was the golden car, filled with
noble beings in helmets, all playing on immense trumpets; the
twenty-four prancing steeds with manes, tails, and feathered heads
tossing in the breeze; the clowns, the tumblers, the strong men, and
the riders flying about in the air as if the laws of gravitation no
longer existed. But, best of all, was the grand conglomeration of
animals where the giraffe appears to stand on the elephant's back, the
zebra to be jumping over the seal, the hippopotamus to be lunching off
a couple of crocodiles, and lions and tigers to be raining down in all
directions with their mouths wide open and their tails as stiff as that
of the famous Northumberland House lion.

"Cricky! wouldn't I like to see that," said little Cyrus Fay, devoutly
hoping that the cage, in which this pleasing spectacle took place, was
a very strong one.

"You never would, it's only a picture! That, now, is something like,"
and Ben, who had pricked up his ears at the word "circus," laid his
finger on a smaller cut of a man hanging by the back of his neck with a
child in each hand, two men suspended from his feet, and the third
swinging forward to alight on his head.

"I'm going," said Sam, with calm decision, for this superb array of
unknown pleasures fired his soul and made him forget his weight.

"How will you fix it?" asked Ben, fingering the bill with a nervous
thrill all through his wiry limbs, just as he used to feel it when his
father caught him up to dash into the ring.

"Foot it with Billy. It's only four miles, and we've got lots of time,
so we can take it easy. Mother wont care, if I send word by Cy,"
answered Sam, producing half a dollar, as if such magnificent sums were
no strangers to his pocket.

"Come on, Brown; you'll be a first-rate fellow to show us round, as you
know all the dodges," said Billy, anxious to get his money's worth.

"Well, I don't know," began Ben, longing to go, but afraid Mrs. Moss
would say "No!" if he asked leave.

"He's afraid," sneered the red-faced boy, who felt bitterly toward all
mankind at that instant, because he knew there was no hope of _his_
going.

"Say that again, and I'll knock your head off," and Ben faced round
with a gesture which caused the other to skip out of reach
precipitately.

"Hasn't got any money, more likely," observed a shabby youth, whose
pockets never had anything in them but a pair of dirty hands.

Ben calmly produced a dollar bill and waved it defiantly before this
doubter, observing with dignity:

"I've got money enough to treat the whole crowd, if I choose to, which
I _don't_."

"Then come along and have a jolly time with Sam and me. We can buy some
dinner and get a ride home, as like as not," said the amiable Billy,
with a slap on the shoulder, and a cordial grin which made it
impossible for Ben to resist.

"What are you stopping for?" demanded Sam, ready to be off, that they
might "take it easy."

"Don't know what to do with Sancho. He'll get lost or stolen if I take
him, and it's too far to carry him home if you are in a hurry," began
Ben, persuading himself that this was the true reason for his delay.

"Let Cy take him back. He'll do it for a cent; wont you, Cy?" proposed
Billy, smoothing away all objections, for he liked Ben, and saw that he
wanted to go.

"No, I wont; I _don't_ like him. He winks at me, and growls when I
touch him," muttered naughty Cy, remembering how much reason poor Sanch
had to distrust his tormentor.

"There's Bab; she'll do it. Come here, sissy; Ben wants you," called
Sam, beckoning to a small figure just perching on the fence.

Down it jumped and came fluttering up, much elated at being summoned by
the captain of the sacred nine.

"I want you to take Sanch home, and tell your mother I'm going to walk,
and may be wont be back till sundown. Miss Celia said I might do what I
pleased, all day. You remember, now."

Ben spoke without looking up, and affected to be very busy buckling a
strap into Sanch's collar, for the two were so seldom parted that the
dog always rebelled. It was a mistake on Ben's part, for while his eyes
were on his work, Bab's were devouring the bill, which Sam still held,
and her suspicions were aroused by the boys' faces.

"Where are you going? Ma will want to know," she said, as curious as a
magpie all at once.

"Never you mind; girls can't know everything. You just catch hold of
this and run along home. Lock Sanch up for an hour, and tell your
mother I'm all right," answered Ben, bound to assert his manly
supremacy before his mates.

"He's going to the circus," whispered Fay, hoping to make mischief.

"Circus! Oh, Ben, _do_ take me!" cried Bab, falling into a state of
great excitement at the mere thought of such delight.

"You couldn't walk four miles," began Ben.

"Yes, I could, as easy as not."

"You haven't got any money."

"You have; I saw you showing your dollar, and you could pay for me,
and Ma would pay it back."

"Can't wait for you to get ready."

"I'll go as I am. I don't care if it is my old hat," and Bab jerked it
on to her head.

"Your mother wouldn't like it."

"She wont like your going, either."

"She isn't my missis now. Miss Celia wouldn't care, and I'm going,
anyway."

"Do, do take me, Ben! I'll be just as good as ever was, and I'll take
care of Sanch all the way," pleaded Bab, clasping her hands and looking
round for some sign of relenting in the faces of the boys.

"Don't you bother; we don't want any girls tagging after us," said Sam,
walking off to escape the annoyance.

"I'll bring you a roll of chickerberry lozengers, if you wont tease,"
whispered kind-hearted Billy, with a consoling pat on the crown of the
shabby straw hat.

"When the circus comes here you shall go, certain sure, and Betty too,"
said Ben, feeling mean while he proposed what he knew was a hollow
mockery.

"They never do come to such little towns; you said so, and I think you
are very cross, and I wont take care of Sanch, so, now!" cried Bab
getting into a passion, yet ready to cry, she was so disappointed.

"I suppose it wouldn't do--" hinted Billy, with a look from Ben to
the little girl, who stood winking hard to keep the tears back.

"Of course it wouldn't. I'd like to see _her_ walking eight miles. I
don't mind paying for her; it's getting her there and back. Girls are
such a bother when you want to knock round. No, Bab, you _can't_ go.
Travel right home and don't make a fuss. Come along, boys; it's most
eleven, and we don't want to walk fast."

Ben spoke very decidedly, and, taking Billy's arm, away they went,
leaving poor Bab and Sanch to watch them out of sight, one sobbing, the
other whining dismally.

Somehow those two figures seemed to go before Ben all along the
pleasant road, and half spoilt his fun, for though he laughed and
talked, cut canes, and seemed as merry as a grig, he could not help
feeling that he ought to have asked leave to go, and been kinder to
Bab.

"Perhaps Mrs. Moss would have planned somehow so we could _all_ go, if
I'd told her. I'd like to show her round, and she's been real good to
me. No use now. I'll take the girls a lot of candy and make it all
right."

He tried to settle it in that way and trudged gayly on, hoping Sancho
wouldn't feel hurt at being left, wondering if any of "Smither's lot"
would be round, and planning to do the honors handsomely to the boys.

It was very warm, and just outside of the town they passed by a wayside
watering-trough to wash their dusty faces and cool off before plunging
into the excitements of the afternoon. As they stood refreshing
themselves, a baker's cart came jingling by, and Sam proposed a hasty
lunch while they rested. A supply of gingerbread was soon bought, and,
climbing the green bank above, they lay on the grass under a wild
cherry-tree, munching luxuriously while they feasted their eyes at the
same time on the splendors awaiting them, for the great tent, with all
its flags flying, was visible from the hill.

[Illustration: "THERE STOOD BAB WAITING FOR SANCHO TO LAP HIS FILL OUT
OF THE OVERFLOWING TROUGH."]

"We'll cut across those fields,--it's shorter than going by the
road,--and then we can look round outside till it's time to go in. I
want to have a good go at everything, especially the lions," said Sam,
beginning on his last cookie.

"I heard 'em roar just now;" and Billy stood up to gaze with big eyes
at the flapping canvas which hid the king of beasts from his longing
sight.

"That was a cow mooing. Don't you be a donkey, Bill. When you hear a
real roar, you'll shake in your boots," said Ben, holding up his
handkerchief to dry after it had done double duty as towel and napkin.

"I wish you'd hurry up, Sam. Folks are going in now. I see 'em;" and
Billy pranced with impatience for this was his first circus, and he
firmly believed that he was going to behold all that the pictures
promised.

"Hold on a minute while I get one more drink. Buns are dry fodder,"
said Sam, rolling over to the edge of the bank and preparing to descend
with as little trouble as possible.

He nearly went down head first, however, for, as he looked before he
leaped, he beheld a sight which caused him to stare with all his might
for an instant, then turn and beckon, saying in an eager whisper: "Look
here, boys--quick!"

Ben and Billy peered over, and both suppressed an astonished "Hullo!"
for there stood Bab waiting for Sancho to lap his fill out of the
overflowing trough.

Such a shabby, tired-looking couple as they were! Bab with a face as
red as a lobster and streaked with tears, shoes white with dust,
play-frock torn at the gathers, something bundled up in her apron, and
one shoe down at the heel as if it hurt her. Sancho lapped eagerly,
with his eyes shut; all his ruffles were gray with dust, and his tail
hung wearily down, the tassel at half-mast, as if in mourning for the
master whom he had come to find. Bab still held the strap, intent on
keeping her charge safe though she lost herself; but her courage seemed
to be giving out, as she looked anxiously up and down the road, seeing
no sign of the three familiar figures she had been following as
steadily as a little Indian on the war-trail.

"Oh, Sanch, what _shall_ I do if they don't come along? We must have
gone by them somewhere, for I don't see any one that way, and there
isn't any other road to the circus, seems to me."

Bab spoke as if the dog could understand and answer, and Sancho looked
as if he did both, for he stopped drinking, pricked up his ears, and,
fixing his sharp eyes on the grass above him, gave a suspicious bark.

"It's only squirrels; don't mind, but come along and be good, for I'm
so tired I don't know what to do!" sighed Bab, trying to pull him after
her as she trudged on, bound to see the outside of that wonderful tent,
even if she never got in.

But Sancho had heard a soft chirrup, and with a sudden bound twitched
the strap away, sprang up the bank, and landed directly on Ben's back
as he lay peeping over. A peal of laughter greeted him, and having got
the better of his master in more ways than one, he made the most of the
advantage by playfully worrying him as he kept him down, licking his
face in spite of his struggles, burrowing in his neck with a ticklish
nose, snapping at his buttons, and yelping joyfully, as if it was the
best joke in the world to play hide-and-seek for four long miles.

Before Ben could quiet him, Bab came climbing up the bank with such a
funny mixture of fear, fatigue, determination, and relief in her dirty
little face that the boys could not look awful if they tried.

"How dared you come after us, miss?" demanded Sam, as she looked calmly
about her and took a seat before she was asked.

"Sanch _would_ come after Ben; I couldn't make him go home, so I had to
hold on till he was safe here, else he'd be lost, and then Ben would
feel bad."

The cleverness of that excuse tickled the boys immensely, and Sam tried
again, while Ben was getting the dog down and sitting on him.

"Now you expect to go to the circus, I suppose."

"Course I do. Ben said he didn't mind paying if I could get there
without bothering him, and I have, and I'll go home alone. I aint
afraid. Sanch will take care of me, if you wont," answered Bab,
stoutly.

"What do you suppose your mother will say to you?" asked Ben, feeling
much reproached by her last words.

"I guess she'll say you led me into mischief," and the sharp child
nodded as if she defied him to deny the truth of that.

"You'll catch it when you get home, Ben, so you'd better have a good
time while you can," advised Sam, thinking Bab great fun, since none of
the blame of her pranks would fall on him.

"What would you have done if you _hadn't_ found us?" asked Billy,
forgetting his impatience in his admiration for this plucky young lady.

"I'd have gone on and seen the circus, and then I'd have gone home
again and told Betty all about it," was the prompt answer.

"But you haven't any money."

"Oh, I'd ask somebody to pay for me. I'm so little, it wouldn't be
much."

"Nobody would do it, so you'd have to stay outside, you see."

"No, I wouldn't. I thought of that and planned how I'd fix it if I
didn't find Ben. I'd make Sanch do his tricks and get a quarter that
way, so now," answered Bab, undaunted by any obstacle.

"I do believe she would! You are a smart child, Bab, and if I had
enough I'd take you in myself," said Billy, heartily; for, having
sisters of his own, he kept a soft place in his heart for girls,
especially enterprising ones.

"I'll take care of her. It was very naughty to come, Bab, but so long
as you did, you needn't worry about anything. I'll see to you, and you
shall have a real good time," said Ben, accepting his responsibilities
without a murmur, and bound to do the handsome thing by his persistent
friend.

"I thought you would," and Bab folded her arms as if she had nothing
further to do but enjoy herself.

"Are you hungry?" asked Billy, fishing out several fragments of
gingerbread.

"Starving!" and Bab ate them with such a relish that Sam added a small
contribution, and Ben caught some water for her in his hand where the
little spring bubbled up beside a stone.

"Now, you go and wash your face and spat down your hair, and put your
hat on straight, and then we'll go," commanded Ben, giving Sanch a roll
on the grass to clean him.

Bab scrubbed her face till it shone, and pulling down her apron to wipe
it, scattered a load of treasures collected in her walk. Some of the
dead flowers, bits of moss and green twigs fell near Ben, and one
attracted his attention,--a spray of broad, smooth leaves, with a bunch
of whitish berries on it.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, poking it with his foot.

"In a swampy place, coming along. Sanch saw something down there, and I
went with him 'cause I thought may be it was a musk-rat and you'd like
one if we could get him."

"Was it?" asked the boys all at once and with intense interest.

"No, only a snake, and I don't care for snakes. I picked some of that,
it was so green and pretty. Thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you
know," answered Bab, "spatting" down her rough locks.

"Well, he wont like that, nor you either; it's poisonous, and I
shouldn't wonder if you'd got poisoned, Bab. Don't touch it;
swamp-sumach is horrid stuff, Miss Celia said so," and Ben looked
anxiously at Bab, who felt her chubby face all over and examined her
dingy hands with a solemn air, asking eagerly:

"Will it break out on me 'fore I get to the circus?"

"Not for a day or so, I guess; but it's bad when it does come."

"I don't care, if I see the animals first. Come quick and never mind
the old weeds and things," said Bab, much relieved, for present bliss
was all she had room for now in her happy little heart.

_(To be continued.)_

[Illustration: THE LITTLE ITALIAN FLOWER-MERCHANT.]




FATHER CHIRP.

BY S.C. STONE.


Three little chirping crickets
Came, one night, to our door;
Tried all their keys,
Then tried their knees.
Till they could try no more.

The biggest of the crickets
Scratched hard his shiny head;
And what to do,
And what to do,
He didn't know, he said.

[Illustration: "THEN TRIED THEIR KNEES."]

The door, it would not open
To comers so belated;
Nobody heard,
Nobody stirred,
As still the crickets waited.

And then, as on a sudden,
By some new impulse bent,
Their voices three
'Rose shrill and free,
To give their feelings vent!

[Illustration: "HIGH UPON THEIR TINY LEGS."]

Then high upon their tiny legs
They stretched, to peep and peer;
While right behind
The window-blind
I crouched, to see and hear.

Louder the crickets chirped and chirped,
And, as I heard it then,
The tale they sung
In crickets' tongue
I render with my pen.

The tallest one was Father Chirp;
Here was his early home;
Here lived his mother
And dearest brother,
And hither had he come;

And with him brought his two brave sons,
Both skipping at his side,
To show to her,
Their grandmother,
With true paternal pride.

"There used to be," sang Father Chirp,
"A little child about;
And that door there
Was free as air
For going in or out.

"But days have passed since I lived here,--
It's like the folks are dead!
My children, oh!
My children, oh!
I'm going to weep," he said.

And then into his handkerchief
His little head went bobbing,
And his two heirs
They pulled out theirs,
And all three fell to sobbing.

[Illustration: "ALL THREE FELL TO SOBBING."]

I lost no time in opening wide
The door that had been fast;
And I could see
Those crickets three
Like dusky ghosts flit past.

And when I, listening, heard a chirp,
Another, and another,
I knew as well
As words could tell
They'd found the old grandmother!




WHERE MONEY IS MADE.

BY M.W.


"Ho!" I hear some New York boys say; "no need to tell us that.
Everybody knows that New York is the place to make money. Look at the
men in Wall street."

Indeed! And what will you say if I tell you that there is not a dollar
of money made in New York; nor in Chicago, neither; though I know my
young friends who live there are eager to speak up and claim the honor.
There are but three cities in all the Union where money is actually
made; that is, where metals are coined. The principal mint of the
United States is in Philadelphia. Here are made all the copper and
nickel coins--one, two and five cent pieces--and a large part of the
gold and silver coins used in the country. There are also branch mints
at San Francisco and Carson City. And at these places gold and silver
coins of every value are coined in great quantities.

Those of you who have been in Philadelphia will remember, on the north
side of Chestnut street, near Broad, a Grecian building of white
marble, somewhat gray from age, with a tall chimney rising from the
center, and the United States flag flying from the roof. This is the
mint. Let us climb the long flight of steps and enter the building. On
the door is a placard: "Visitors admitted from 9 to 12." The door opens
into a circular entrance hall, with seats around the wall. In a moment
a polite usher, who has grown gray in the service of the institution,
comes to show us all that visitors are allowed to see. He leads us
through a hall into an open court-yard in the middle of the building.
On the left is the weighing-room; and if you owned a gold mine, like
the boy I read of in a late number of ST. NICHOLAS, it is to this room
you would bring your gold to be weighed, so that you might know how
much money the mint must pay you for it. All the gold and silver
received in the mint is weighed in this room. Sometimes the gold is
brought in the form of fine dust; sometimes in the shape of grains from
the size of a pin's head to that of a pea; sometimes in plates and
bars, and sometimes it is old jewelry and table service. Visitors are
not allowed to enter the weighing-room; but, by looking through the
window you can see the scales, large and small, which are balanced with
wonderful delicacy, and the vault on the other side, where the treasure
is kept.

[Illustration: THE MINT AT PHILADELPHIA.]

"When the gold has been weighed," says our guide, "it is locked up in
iron boxes, and carried to the melting-room, where it is melted and
poured into molds."

A small piece is then cut off, and its fineness ascertained by a long
and delicate process called assaying. This decides the value of the
lot. The depositor is then paid, and the metal is handed over to the
melter and refiner, to be entirely freed from its impurities and made
fit for coinage.

And a hard time it has of it, to be sure. Nothing but pure gold and
silver could ever stand such treatment. It is melted again, dissolved
in nitric acid, squeezed under immense pressure, baked in a hot cellar,
and finally carried to this dingy-looking room, at the left of the
court-yard, where we have stood all this time. The metal is perfectly
pure now, but before the final melting one-tenth of its weight in
copper is added to it, to make it hard enough to bear the rough usage
which it will meet with in traveling about the world.

The room would be dark but for the fiery glow of the furnaces which
line one end of the place. On these are a number of small pots, filled
with red-hot liquid metal; and while we look, a workman lifts one after
another, with a pair of long tongs, and pours the glowing gold in
streams into narrow iron molds.

"This piece of gold," says the usher, taking up one of the yellow bars
from a cold mold, "is called an ingot, and is worth about 1,200
dollars."

One of the party asks why one end of the ingot is shaped like a wedge.

"That it may enter easily between the rollers," is the reply. "You will
see the rollers when we go upstairs."

The guide calls our attention to the curious false floor, made of iron
in a honey-comb pattern, and divided into small sections so that it can
be readily taken up to save the dust. He tells us that the sweepings of
these rooms have sometimes proved to be worth fifty thousand dollars in
a single year. The particles which adhere to the workmen's clothing are
also carefully saved, and there is an arrangement in the chimney for
arresting any light-minded atoms that may try to pass off in the smoke.

We would gladly remain longer, peering in at the glowing fires and the
swarthy figures of the workmen, but our guide is already half-way
across the court, and we reluctantly follow, stepping aside to make
room for a workman with his burden of silver bars, which he is carrying
to the next process.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.