Book: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, Nov 1877 Nov 1878

V >> Various >> St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, Nov 1877 Nov 1878




"Oh, husband!" exclaimed Mrs. Foster, "are you sure none of them were
injured?"

"So the telegraphic report said. Not a bone broken of anybody but the
pig that got in the way."

"But how I wish he would come!" groaned Annie. "Have you any idea,
papa, how he can get home?"

"Not clearly," said her father, "but you can trust Ford not to miss
any opportunity. He's just the boy to look out for himself in an
emergency."

Ford Foster's father took very strongly after the son in whose ability
he expressed so much confidence. He had just such a square, active,
bustling sort of body, several sizes larger, with just such keen,
penetrating, greenish-gray eyes. Anybody would have picked him out, at
a glance, for a lawyer, and a good one.

That was exactly what he was, and if any one had become acquainted
with either son or father, there would have been no difficulty
afterward in identifying the other.

It required a good deal more than the telegraphic report of the
accident or even her husband's assurances, to relieve the motherly
anxiety of good Mrs. Foster, or even to drive away the shadows from
the face of Annie.

No doubt if Ford himself had known the state of affairs, they would
have been relieved earlier; for even while they were talking about him
he was already in the house. It had not so much as occurred to him
that his mother would hear of the accident to the pig and the railway
train until he himself should tell her, and so, he had made sure of
his supper down-stairs, before reporting himself. He might not have
done it, perhaps, but he had come in through the lower way, by the
area door, and that of the dining-room had stood temptingly wide open
with some very eatable things ready on the table.

That had been too much for Ford, after his car-ride and his smash-up
and his long walk. But now, at last, up he came, brimful of new and
wonderful experiences, to be more than a little astonished by the
manner and enthusiasm of his welcome.

"Why, mother!" he exclaimed, when he got a chance for a word, "you and
Annie couldn't have said much more if I'd been the pig himself."

"The pig?" said Annie.

"Yes, the pig that stopped us. He and the engine wont go home to their
families to-night."

"Don't make fun of it, Ford," said his mother, gently; "it's too
serious a matter."

Just then his father broke in, almost impatiently, with, "Well, Ford,
my boy, have you done your errand, or shall I have to see about it
myself? You've been gone two days."

"Thirty-seven hours and a half, father," replied Ford, taking out his
watch. "I've kept an exact account of my expenses. We've saved the
cost of advertising."

"And spent it on railroading," said his father, with a laugh.

"But, Ford," asked Annie, "did you find a house?--a good one?"

"Yes," added Mrs. Foster, "now I'm sure you're safe, I do want to hear
about the house."

"It's all right, mother," said Ford, confidently. "The very house you
told me to hunt for. Neither too large nor too small, and it's in
apple-pie order."

There were plenty of questions to answer now, but Ford was every way
equal to the occasion. His report, in fact, compelled his father to
look at him with an expression of face which very clearly meant, "That
boy resembles me. I was just like him at his age. He'll be just like
me at mine."

There was really very good reason to approve of the manner in which
the young gentleman had performed his errand in the country, and
Mr. Foster promptly decided to go over, in a day or two, and settle
matters with Mrs Kinzer.

(_To be continued_.)



[Illustration: MAKING READY FOR A CRUISE.]



HOW WILLY WOLLY WENT A-FISHING.

BY S.C. STONE.


One day, on going fishing
Was Willy Wolly bent;
And, as it chanced a holiday,
Why, Willy Wolly went.

[Illustration: Willy Wolly going fishing.]

Now, Willy Wolly planned, you see,
To catch a speckled trout;
But caught a very different fish
From what he had laid out!

In view of all the fishes,--
Who much enjoyed the joke,
With many a joyous wriggle
And finny punch and poke,--

Young Willy Wolly, leaping
A fence with dire design,
Had carelessly left swinging
His fishing-hook and line.

[Illustration: Willy Wolly caught himself.]

How Willy Wolly did it,
He really could not tell,
But instantly he had his fish
Exceeding fast and well!

He hooked the struggling monster
Securely in the sleeve;
And, all at once, he found it time
His pleasant sport to leave;--

'T was not a very gamy fish
For one so large and strong,
That Willy Wolly, blubbering,
Helped carefully along.

The giggling fishes crowded to
The river bank to look,
As Willy Wolly, captive, led
Himself with line and hook!

[Illustration: Mother unhooks Willy Wolly.]

When Willy Wolly went, you see,
To catch a speckled trout,
Why, Willy Wolly caught _himself!_
And so the joke is out.

His mother saved that barbed hook,
And sternly bid him now
No more to dare a-fishing go,
Until he has learned how!






CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.

BY JULIA E. SARGENT.


III.--THOMAS CARLYLE.


"Shakespeare says we are creatures that look
before and after. The more surprising, then, that
we do not look around a little, and see what is
passing under our very eyes."

So writes Thomas Carlyle.

Although he politely says "we," when speaking
of people in general, that part of the "we" known
as Thomas Carlyle certainly keeps his eyes wide
open. So wide, indeed, that much that is disagreeable
comes under his notice, as always will
be the case with those who choose to see everything.

I once watched the round, red sun as it crimsoned
the sparkling waters in which it seemed
already sinking. When, at last, I turned my
dazzled eyes away, all over lake and sky I saw
dancing black suns. Perhaps it is through dwelling
long on one idea that Carlyle sees only spots
of blackness on what others call clear sky. The
great want of that foggy, smoky city where he lives
is pure, health-giving light, and this we also miss
in his writings, which, like London, have not
enough sunshine.

But, whatever people may say, when Carlyle
speaks the world is quite ready to listen.

Who is Thomas Carlyle?

He is a Scotchman, a philosopher, an essayist,
an historian, a biographer, and an octogenarian.

What has he done to be so famous?

He has written twenty books. But you might
live to be an octogenarian yourself without meeting
twenty persons who would have read them all. It
would not be a hard matter, though, to find those
who have read one of his books twenty times;
perhaps this very green-covered book with "Sartor
Resartus" on the back.

What does it mean, and what is it all about?

It means "The Tailor Re-tailored," and Carlyle
says it is a book about clothes. But you need not
look for fashion-plates; there are none there. You
will hear nothing about new costumes; for this
book is full of Carryle's own thoughts, clothed in
such words that you will surely enjoy the book.

Hear how he tells us that nothing that we do is
really "of no matter," as we so often think:

"I say, there is not a red Indian hunting by
Lake Winnepeg can quarrel with his squaw but the
whole world must smart for it: will not the price
of beaver rise?"

You think it would not make much difference if
the price of beaver should rise? Let us look at
the matter. First, Mr. B. Woods, the trader, must
pay a larger price for his beaver, and therefore
must sell for more to the firm of Bylow & Selhi.
These shrewd gentlemen do not intend to lose on
their purchase, so they pay a less sum to Mr.
Maycup, the manufacturer. This reduction in his
income causes Mr. Maycup to curtail family expenses.
So his subscription to ST. NICHOLAS is
discontinued, and the youthful Maycups are overwhelmed
with grief, because of that unfortunate
quarrel which raised the price of beaver.

But why should the price change because of that?

Really, Mr. Carlyle should answer you. Perhaps
the Indian in his quarrel forgets to set his traps, or
the whole neighborhood may become so interested
in the little affair that beavers are forgotten.

"Were it not miraculous could I stretch forth
my hand and clutch the sun? Yet thou seest me
daily stretch forth my hand and clutch many a
thing and swing it hither and thither. Art thou a
grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in
miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of
weight; and not to see that the true miracle lies
in this, that I can stretch forth my hand at all?"

What is it that Carlyle thinks so wonderful?
See how quietly my hand rests on this table. Why
should it move any more than the table on which
it rests? Is not Carlyle right when he calls every
movement of my hand a wonder? You never
thought of it before? That is as Carlyle says:
"We do not look around a little and see what is
passing under our very eyes."

It was this great old man whose hand brushed
the clinging mud from a crust of bread, and placed
it on the curbstone, for some dog or pigeon, saying,
"My mother taught me never to waste anything."

Here is a word for those who are always planning
what great things they will do--who think so much
_about_ doing that no time is left _for_ the doing:

"The end of man is an action, and not a
thought, though it were the noblest."

Now, for our final crumb, comes a well-clothed
thought that I like better than quarreling Indians
or familiar wonders. It is the reason why selfish
people are never really happy. Carlyle thinks they
have only themselves to blame, for he says:

"Always there is a black spot in our sunshine;
it is even, as I said, _the shadow of ourselves_."






[Illustration: "JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT."]


JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.


Hurrah for June!--bright, rosy June! "Joy
rises in me like a summer's morn!" as one of
those pleasant people, the poets, has said.

Let everybody be glad! But most of all, you,
my youngsters! The month properly belongs to
you. Don't I know? Wasn't it set apart by
Romulus, ages and ages ago, especially for the
young people, or "Juniores," as they then were
called? And hasn't their name stuck to it ever
since? Yes, indeed! So, be as merry as you can,
my chicks; but, with all your fun and frolic, be
thankful, and make June weather all about you.
June time--any time--is full of joy when hearts,
brimming over with thankfulness, carry cheer to
other hearts, making

"A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune,"--

like the little stream that bubbles by the foot of our meadow.

Now to business. First comes a letter about

A ROPE OF EGGS.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

My Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I know about a rope of eggs, and I
will tell you. It is in Japan. The eggs are plaited and twisted
into ropes made from straw, and so it is safe and easy to handle
them. Just think how queer it would seem to buy eggs by the yard!

AMY M.


CONVERSATION BY FISTICUFFS.

After being flurried by clouds of paragrams about sphygmographs,
and phonographs, and pneumatic telegraphs, and scores of other
extraordinary scientific ways of communication, I'm not in the least
surprised to learn that ants converse by one tapping another's head.

I'm told that an Englishman named Jesse once put a small caterpillar
near an ants' nest, and watched. Soon an ant seized it; but the
caterpillar was too heavy to be moved by one ant alone, so away he ran
until he met another ant. They stopped for a few moments, during which
each tapped the other's head with his feelers in a very lively manner.
Then they both hurried off to the caterpillar, and together dragged it
home.


A HORSE THAT LOVED TEA.

Roxbury, Mass.

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: This is a true story of Mary's horse. He
was just as black as a coal all over, except a pretty white star
on his forehead.

Once in two or three weeks Mary had him take tea with her and her
little brother and sisters. She went to the stable where he lived
with Kate and Nell, two pretty twin ponies, and said to him:

"Come, Jack! Don't you want some, tea?"

At that, he came right up to her, and found out the buttons on
her dress, and tried to pull them off, and then untied her apron
strings.

"Now, Jack," Mary said, "tea is all ready. Come along!"--and he
followed her along the walk to the back door and up the three
steps into the house.

What a clatter his iron shoes made along the entry to the
dining-room!

Harry and Annie and Fanny rushed out, crying:

"Oh, mamma! Here's Jack coming to tea!"

Then mamma filled a large bowl with tea, put in plenty of milk and
three or four pieces of white sugar (for Jack had a sweet tooth),
and cut a slice of bread into pieces, and put them on a plate,
with a doughnut or piece of gingerbread. And Mary said:

"Now, Jack, come up to the table!"

You see, he was too big to sit in a chair; but he came close up to
the table and stood there, and drank his tea without slopping any
over, and ate up his bread and cake. And when he had done, what
do you think he did? Why, he went up to the piano that stood in a
corner of the room and smelled the keys, and looked round at Mary.
That was to ask her to play him a tune before he went home.

Then she said, "Oh, you dear Jack! I know what you want!" And she
sat down and played some merry tune, while he pricked up his ears
and put his nose down close to her fingers, he was so pleased.
Then he rubbed her shoulder with his nose, and Mary played another
tune for him.

"Now, Jack," mamma said, "you've had a nice time; but you must
go back to your stable. Kate and Nell will miss you if you stay
longer."

Then Mary opened the dining-room door, and Jack followed her down
the long entry and out to the stable, just like a dog.--Yours
truly,

B.P.


TONGUES WHICH CARRY TEETH.

You've heard of folks with biting tongues, I dare say, and very
disagreeable they are, no doubt, though, of course, they do not
actually bite with their tongues. However, there really is an
unpleasant fellow whose tongue carries twenty-six thousand eight
hundred teeth! A capital one for biting, you'd suppose. He is nothing
but a slug, though, and his army of teeth only scrape, not bite, I'm
told. Then, too, there is a sort of cousin of his, a periwinkle, who
has a long ribbon-like tongue, armed with six hundred crosswise rows
of hooks, about seven in a row.

You can make sure of these surprising facts, my dears, with the aid of
patience and a microscope.


DIZZY DISTANCES.

The other day, one of the school-children said to a chum, "The Little
Schoolma'am told us this morning that some parts of the ocean are more
than four miles deep!"

That's easy to say, thought I, but try to think it, my dear! Fix on
a place four miles away from you, and then imagine every bit of that
distance stretching down under you, instead of straight before you.
Perhaps in this way you may gain an idea of the depth of the ocean;
but just consider the height of the air--which, I'm told, is a sort
of envelope about the earth--more than nine times the depth of the
ocean! Yet, what a wee bit of a way toward the moon would those
thirty-six miles take us! And from the earth to the moon is only a
very little step on the long way to the sun.

Oh dear! Let's stop and take a breath! Why did I begin talking of such
dizzy distances?


LAND THAT INCREASES IN HEIGHT.

Here is a letter in answer to the Little School-ma'am's question which
I passed over to you in April, and it raises such startling ideas,
that, may be, you'd do well to look farther into the matter:

DEAR JACK: We suppose that the Little Schoolma'am and her writers
on Greenland will concede its accidental discovery by Gunnbjorn,
as narrated by Cyrus Martin, Jr., in his "Vikings in America" [ST.
NICHOLAS, Vol. III., page 586]. We have always thought Iceland
appropriately named, and Greenland the reverse.

And now about that question of temperature. If portions of
Greenland are colder than formerly, may it not be because less
heat comes through its crust from subterranean fires, as well
as because the surface is constantly gaining in height, as some
report?--Very truly yours,

NED AND WILL WHITFORD.


THE ANGERED GOOSE.

The picture of which you here have an engraving formed at first a kind
of panel of a wall, and occupied a space beneath one of the cartoons
of Raphael, the great Italian painter, whose grand picture of "The
Transfiguration" is thought to be his chief work. This panel-picture,
also, was painted by Raphael, as some say, though others think it may
be the work of one of his pupils.

[Illustration: THE ANGERED GOOSE.]

A curious thing about the picture is this: the goose is so excited,
and scolding its tortoise so angrily for going slowly, that it has
forgotten its own wings, when, if it would only use them, it could fly
to its journey's end long before the tortoise could crawl there. Now,
there are other two-legged geese who let themselves get angered and
excited easily, and so lose many chances of serving others and helping
themselves. Perhaps you may know some of them.

That is what the Deacon says; but, for my part, I never knew a goose
that _hadn't_ two legs.


A CITY UNDER THE WATER.

In past ages, as the Deacon once told some of his older boys in my
hearing, the people of some parts of Europe used to live above the
surfaces of lakes, in huts built on spiles driven into the water.

Well, now I hear that some one has found, under the water of Lake
Geneva, a whole town, with about two hundred stone houses, a large
public square, and a high tower; and, from the looks of the town, the
shape of the houses, and the way the stones are cut, some say that the
place must have been built more than two thousand years ago!

Now, I can understand how men were able to live in the way the Deacon
described, but it strikes me that this other story has something in it
that's harder to swallow than water.

Who ever heard of men living in cities under the water, as if they
were fishes?


REFLECTION.

The Red School-house.

My Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: Many thanks for putting into your
April sermon the picture and letter which I sent to you. Now, I
must let you know about the explanations that some of your bright
chicks have given.

Arnold Guyot Cameron, S.E.S., O.C. Turner, Louise G. Hinsdale, and
the partners E.K.S. and M.G.V. guessed the right word, which is
"Reflection"; and, of course, it needed some "reflection" to find
it out. The lady in the picture is absorbed in "reflection" upon
something she has been reading in her book; but, besides this,
the water is represented as sending back a "reflection" of nearly
every other object in the picture.

Several others of your youngsters wrote, but they were not so
fortunate in their attempts. "Mignon" suggests the word "Heads,"
for the reason that the guessing has given employment to many
heads. John F. Wyatt thinks that "Beautiful" is the word. Alfred
Whitman, C.H. Payne, and Nellie Emerson, though writing from three
places far apart, agree in giving the word "Reverie" as their
notion of the right one. George A. Mitchell thinks it is "Study";
Arthur W. James guesses "Meditation"; and Hallie quietly hints
"Calm." "P.," however, believes that the word is "Misrepresented,"
which he inclines to write, "Miss represented." But Nathalie
B. Conkling puts forward the exclamation "Alas!" as the proper
solution, spelling it "A lass."

Now, puns are not always good wit, and these two are not puns of
the best kind; but they, as well as the other guesses, show that
your chicks have lively minds, able to see a thing from more than
one point of view, even although their conjectures do not hit the
very center of the mark in every instance. I am much obliged
to them all for their letters, and to you, dear Jack, for your
kindness.--Sincerely your friend,

THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.






"FIDDLE-DIDDLE-DEE!"


Little Davie ran through the garden,--a great slice of bread and
butter in one hand, and his spelling-book in the other. He was going
to study his lesson for to-morrow.

You could not imagine a prettier spot than Davie's "study," as he
called it. It was under a great oak-tree, that stood at the edge of a
small wood. The little boy sat down on one of the roots and opened his
book.

[Illustration: The Little Brown Wren.]

"But first," thought he, "I'll finish my bread and butter."

So he let his book drop, and, as he ate, he began to sing a little
song with which his mother sometimes put the baby to sleep. This is
the way the song began:

"I bought a bird, and my bird pleased me;
I tied my bird behind a tree;
Bird said----"

"Fiddle-diddle-dee!" sang something, or somebody, behind the oak.
Davie looked a little frightened, for that was just what he was about
to sing in his song. But he jumped up and ran around to the other side
of the tree. And there was a little brown wren, and it had a little
golden thread around its neck, and the thread was tied to a root of
the big tree.

"Hello!" said Davie, "was that you?"

Now, of course Davie had not expected the wren to answer him. But the
bird turned her head on one side, and, looking up at Davie, said:

[Illustration: The Little Bantam Hen.]

"Yes, of course it was me! Who else did you suppose it could be?"

"Oh yes!" said Davie, very much astonished. "Oh yes, of course! But I
thought you only did it in the song!"

"Well," said the wren, "were not you singing the song, and am not I in
the song, and what else could I do?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Davie.

"Well, go, then," said the wren, "and don't bother me."

Davie felt very queer. He stopped a moment, but soon thought that he
must do as he was bid, and he began to sing again:

"I bought a hen, and my hen pleased me;
I tied my hen behind a tree;
Hen said----"

"Shinny-shack! shinny-shack!" interrupted another voice, so loudly
that Davie's heart gave a great thump, as he turned around. There,
behind the wren, stood a little Bantam hen, and around her neck was a
little golden cord that fastened her to the wren's leg.

[Illustration: The Speckled Guinea-Hen.]

"I suppose that was you?" said Davie.

"Yes, indeed," replied the hen. "I know when my time comes in, in a
song. But it was provoking for you to call me away from my chicks."

"I?" cried Davie. "I didn't call you!"

"Oh, indeed!" said the Bantam. "It wasn't you, then, who were singing
'Tied my hen,' just now! Oh no, not you!"

"I'm sorry," said Davie. "I didn't mean to."

"Well, go on, then," said the little hen, "and don't bother."

Davie was so full of wonder that he did not know what to think of it
all. He went back to his seat, and sang again:

"I had a guinea, and my guinea pleased me;
I tied my guinea behind a tree----"

[Illustration: The Duck.]

But here he stopped, with his mouth wide open; for up a tiny brown
path that led into the wood, came a little red man about a foot
high, dressed in green, and leading by a long yellow string a plump,
speckled guinea-hen! The little old man came whistling along until he
reached the Bantam, when he fastened the yellow string to her leg, and
went back again down the path, and disappeared among the trees.

Davie looked and wondered. Presently, the guinea stretched out her
neck and called to him in a funny voice:

"Why in the world don't you go on? Do you think I want to wait all day
for my turn to come?"

Davie began to sing again: "Guinea said----"

"Pot-rack! pot-rack!" instantly squeaked the speckled guinea-hen.

Davie jumped up. He was fairly frightened now. But his courage soon
came back. "I'm not afraid," he said to himself; "I'll see what the
end of this song will be!"--and he began to sing again:

"I bought a duck, and my duck pleased me;
I tied my duck behind a tree;
Duck said----"

"Quack! quack!" came from around the oak. But Davie went on:

[Illustration: The Dog.]

"I bought a dog, and the dog pleased me;
I tied my dog behind a tree;
Dog said----"

"Bow-wow!" said a little curly dog, as Davie came around the spreading
roots of the tree. There stood a little short-legged duck tied to the
guinea's leg, and to the duck's leg was fastened the wisest-looking
Scotch terrier, with spectacles on his nose and a walking-cane in his
paw.

The whole group looked up at Davie, who now felt perfectly confident
He sat down on a stone close by, and continued his song:

"I had a horse, and my horse pleased me;
I tied my horse behind a tree."

Davie stopped and looked down the little brown path. Then he clapped
his hands in great delight; for there came the little old man
leading by a golden bridle a snow-white pony, no bigger than Davie's
Newfoundland dog.

"Sure enough, it is a boy!" said the pony, as the old man tied his
bridle to the dog's hind leg, and then hurried away. "I thought so!
Boys are always bothering people."

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