Book: Our Boys

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All that night, for it was by this time nearly dark, the hills flared
with pine torches and resounded with the shrill cries of the squaws,
the whoops of the warriors, the shouts of the captain; but the search
was fruitless.

This adventure drove the bear-trap from its builder's mind, and it
was two days before it occurred to him to go there in quest of captive
bears.

Coming in view of it he immediately saw the lid was down. Hastily he
approached, bent over, and peeped in. And certainly, in the whole of
his adventurous life the captain was never more taken by surprise; for
there, crouched in one corner, was that precious Indian infant.

Yes, true it was, that all those massive timbers, all that ponderous
mass of rock, had only availed to capture one very small Ute pappoose.
At the thought of it, the builder of the trap was astounded. He
laughed aloud at the absurdity. In silence he threw off the rock
and lid and seated himself on the edge of the open trap. Captor and
captive then gazed at each other with gravity. The errant infant's
attire consisted of a calico shirt of gaudy hues, a pair of little
moccasins, much frayed, and a red flannel string. This last was tied
about his straggling hair, which fell over his forehead like the
shaggy mane of a _bronco_ colt and veiled, but could not obscure, the
brightness of his black eyes.

He did not cry; in fact, this small stoic never even whimpered, but he
held the bacon, or what remained of it, clasped tightly to his breast
and gazed at his captor in silence. Glancing at the bacon, the captain
saw it all. Hunger had induced this wee wanderer to enter the trap,
and in detaching the bait, he had sprung the trigger and was caught.

"What are you called, little one?" asked the captain at length, in a
reassuring voice, speaking Spanish very slowly and distinctly.

"Osito," replied the wanderer in a small piping voice, but with the
dignity of a warrior.

"Little Bear!" the captain repeated, and burst into a hearty laugh,
immediately checked, however by the thought that now he had caught
him, what was he to do with him? The first thing, evidently, was to
feed him.

So he conducted him to the cabin and there, observing the celerity
with which the lumps of sugar vanished, he saw at once that Little
Bear was most aptly named. Then, sometimes leading, and sometimes
carrying him, for Osito was very small, he set out for the Ute
encampment.

Their approach was the signal for a mighty shout. Warriors, squaws and
the younger confreres of Osito, crowded about him. A few words from
the captain explained all, and Osito himself, clinging to his mother,
was borne away in triumph--the hero of the hour. Yet, no--the captain
was that, I believe. For as he stood in their midst with a very
pleased look on his sunburnt face, the chief quieting the hubbub with
a wave of his hand, advanced and stood before him. "The great captain
has a good heart," he said in tones of conviction. "What can his Ute
friends do to show their gratitude?"

"Nothing," said the captain, looking more pleased than ever.

"The captain has been troubled by the bears. Would it please him if
they were all driven back to their dens in the great mountains towards
the setting sun?"

"It would," said the captain; "can it be done?"

"It can. It shall," said the chief with emphasis. "To-morrow let the
_captain_ keep his eyes open, and as the sun sinks behind the mountain
tops he shall see the bears follow also."

The chief kept his word. The next day the uproar on the hills was
terrific. Frightened out of their wits, the bears forsook the acorn
field and fled ingloriously to their secret haunts in the mountains to
the westward.

[Illustration: "WHAT ARE YOU CALLED, LITTLE ONE?" ASKED THE CAPTAIN.]

In joy thereof the captain gave a great farewell feast to his red
allies. It was spread under the pines in front of his cabin, and every
delicacy of the season was there, from bear steaks to beaver tails.
The banquet was drawing to a close, and complimentary speeches 'twixt
host and guests were in order, when a procession of the squaws was
seen approaching from the encampment. They drew near and headed for
the captain in solemn silence. As they passed, each laid some gift
at his feet--fringed leggings; beaded moccasins, bear skins, coyote
skins, beaver pelts and soft robes of the mountain lion's hide--until
the pile reached to the captain's shoulders. Last of all came Osito's
mother and crowned the heap with a beautiful little brown bear skin.
It was fancifully adorned with blue ribbons, and in the center of the
tanned side there were drawn, in red pigment, the outlines of a very
stolid and stoical-looking pappoose.

F.L. STEALEY.




THE LITTLE LION-CHARMER.


Outside the little village of Katrine,
Just where the country ventures into town,
A circus pitched its tents, and on the green
The canvas pyramids were fastened down.

The night was clear. The moon was climbing higher.
The show was over; crowds were coming out,
When, through the surging mass, the cry of "fire!"
Rose from a murmur to a wild, hoarse shout.

"Fire! fire!" The crackling flames ran up the tent,
The shrieks of frightened women filled the air,
The cries of prisoned beasts weird horror lent
To the wild scene of uproar and despair.

A lion's roar high over all the cries!
There is a crash--out into the night
The tawny creature leaps with glowing eyes,
Then stands defiant in the fierce red light.

"The lion's loose! The lion! Fly for your lives!"
But deathlike silence falls upon them all,
So paralyzed with fear that no one strives
To make escape, to move, to call!

"A weapon! Shoot him!" comes from far outside;
The shout wakes men again to conscious life;
But as the aim is taken, the ranks divide
To make a passage for the keeper's wife.

Alone she came, a woman tall and fair,
And hurried on, and near the lion stood;
"Oh, do not fire!" she cried; "let no one dare
To shoot my lion--he is tame and good.

"My son? my son?" she called; and to her ran
A little child, that scarce had seen nine years.
"Play! play!" she said. Quickly the boy began.
His little flute was heard by awe-struck ears.

"Fetch me a cage," she cried. The men obeyed.
"Now go, my son, and bring the lion here."
Slowly the child advanced, and piped, and played,
While men and women held their breaths in fear.

Sweetly he played, as though no horrid fate
Could ever harm his sunny little head.
He never paused, nor seemed to hesitate,
But went to do the thing his mother said.

The lion hearkened to the sweet clear sound;
The anger vanished from his threatening eyes;
All motionless he crouched upon the ground
And listened to the silver melodies.

[Illustration: The Little Lion Charmer.]

The boy thus reached his side. The beast stirred not.
The child then backward walked, and played again,
Till, moving softly, slowly from the spot,
The lion followed the familiar strain.

The cage is waiting--wide its opened door--
And toward it, cautiously, the child retreats.
But see! The lion, restless grown once more,
Is lashing with his tail in angry beats.

The boy, advancing, plays again the lay.
Again the beast, remembering the refrain,
Follows him on, until in this dread way
The cage is reached, and in it go the twain.

At once the boy springs out, the door makes fast,
Then leaps with joy to reach his mother's side;
Her praise alone, of all that crowd so vast,
Has power to thrill his little heart with pride.

HARRIET S. FLEMING.




THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.


You've quizzed me often and puzzled me long,
You've asked me to cipher and spell,
You've called me a dunce if I answered wrong,
Or a dolt if I failed to tell
Just when to say _lie_ and when to say _lay_,
Or what nine sevens may make,
Or the longitude of Kamschatka Bay,
Or the I-forget-what's-its-name Lake,
So I think it's about _my_ turn, I do,
To ask a question or so of you.

The schoolmaster grim, he opened his eyes,
But said not a word for sheer surprise.

Can you tell what "phen-dubs" means? I can.
Can you say all off by heart
The "onery twoery ickery ann,"
Or tell "alleys" and "commons" apart?
Can _you_ fling a top, I would like to know,
Till it hums like a bumble-bee?
Can you make a kite yourself that will go
'Most as high as the eye can see,
Till it sails and soars like a hawk on the wing,
And the little birds come and light on its string?

The schoolmaster looked oh! very demure,
But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost sure.

Can you tell where the nest of the oriole swings,
Or the color its eggs may be?
Do you know the time when the squirrel brings
Its young from their nest in the tree?
Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready to drop
Or where the best hazel-nuts grow?
Can you climb a high tree to the very tip-top,
Then gaze without trembling below?
Can you swim and dive, can you jump and run,
Or do anything else we boys call fun?

The master's voice trembled as he replied:
"You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," he sighed.

E.J. WHEELER.

[Illustration: Little Mer-Folks.]




WON'T TAKE A BAFF.


[Illustration: ESCAPE.]

To the brook in the green meadow dancing,
The tree-shaded, grass-bordered brook,
For a bath in its cool, limpid water,
Old Dinah the baby boy took.

She drew off his cunning wee stockings,
Unbuttoned each dainty pink shoe,
Untied the white slip and small apron,
And loosened his petticoats, too.

And while Master Blue Eyes undressing,
She told him in quaintest of words
Of the showers that came to the flowers,
Of the rills that were baths for the birds.

And she said, "Dis yere sweetest of babies,
W'en he's washed, jess as hansum'll be
As any red, yaller or blue bird
Dat ebber singed up in a tree.

"An' sweeter den rosies an' lilies,
Or wiolets eder, I guess--"
When away flew the mischievous darling,
In the scantiest kind of a dress.

"Don't care if the birdies an' fowers,"
He shouted, with clear, ringing laugh,
"Wash 'eir hands an' 'eir faces forebber
An' ebber, _me_ won't take a baff."

MARGARET EYTINGE.




ONE WAY TO BE BRAVE.

(_A TRUE STORY._)


"[[P]]apa," exclaimed six-year-old Marland, leaning against his
father's knee after listening to a true story, "I wish I could be as
brave as that!"

"Perhaps you will be when you grow up."

"But maybe I sha'n't ever be on a railroad train when there is going
to be an accident!"

"Ah! but there are sure to be plenty of other ways for a brave man to
show himself."

Several days after this, when Marland had quite forgotten about trying
to be brave, thinking, indeed, that he would have to wait anyway until
he was a man, he and his little playmate, Ada, a year younger, were
playing in the dog-kennel. It was a very large kennel, so that the two
children often crept into it to "play house." After awhile, Marland,
who, of course, was playing the papa of the house, was to go "down
town" to his business; he put his little head out of the door of the
kennel, and was just about to creep out, when right in front of him in
the path he saw a snake. He knew in a moment just what sort of a snake
it was, and how dangerous it was; he knew it was a rattlesnake, and
that if it bit Ada or him, they would probably die. For Marland had
spent two summers on his papa's big ranch in Kansas, and he had been
told over and over again, if he ever saw a snake to run away from it
as fast as he could, and this snake just in front of him was making
the queer little noise with the rattles at the end of his tail which
Marland had heard enough about to be able to recognize.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE RANCHMAN. (From a photograph.)]

Now you must know that a rattlesnake is not at all like a lion or a
bear, although just as dangerous in its own way. It will not chase
you; it can only spring a distance equal to its own length, and it
has to wait and coil itself up in a ring, sounding its warning all
the time, before it can strike at all. So if you are ever so little
distance from it when you see it first, you can easily escape from
it. The only danger is from stepping on it without seeing it. But
Marland's snake was already coiled, and it was hardly more than a foot
from the entrance to the kennel. You must know that the kennel was not
out in an open field, either, but under a piazza, and a lattice work
very near it left a very narrow passage for the children, even when
there wasn't any snake. If they had been standing upright, they could
have run, narrow as the way was; but they would have to crawl out of
the kennel and find room for their entire little bodies on the ground
before they could straighten themselves up and run. Fortunately, the
snake's head was turned the other way.

"Ada," said Marland very quietly, so quietly that his grandpapa,
raking the gravel on the walk near by, did not hear, him, "there's
a snake out here, and it is a rattlesnake. Keep very still and crawl
right after me."

"Yes, Ada," he whispered, as he succeeded in squirming himself out and
wriggling past the snake till he could stand upright. "_There's room_,
but you mustn't make any noise!"

Five minutes later the two children sauntered slowly down the avenue,
hand in hand.

"Grandpapa," said Marland, "there's a rattlesnake in there where Ada
and I were; perhaps you'd better kill him!"

And when the snake had been killed, and papa for the hundredth time
had folded his little boy in his arms and murmured, "My brave boy! my
dear, brave little boy!" Marland looked up in surprise.

"Why, it wasn't _I_ that killed the snake, papa! it was grandpapa! I
didn't do anything; I only kept very still and ran away!"

But you see, in that case, keeping very still and running away was
just the bravest thing the little fellow could have done; and I
think his mamma--for I am his mamma, and so I know just how she did
feel--felt when she took him in her arms that night that in her little
boy's soul there was something of the stuff of which heroes are made.

MRS. ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS.




THE MYSTERY OF SPRING.


Come, come, come, little Tiny,
Come, little doggie! We
Will "interview" all the blossoms
Down-dropt from the apple-tree;
We'll hie to the grove and question
Fresh grasses under the swing,
And learn if we can, dear Tiny,
Just what is the joy called Spring.

Come, come, come, little Tiny;
Golden it is, I know:
Gold is the air around us,
The crocus is gold below;
Red as the golden sunset
Is robin's breast, on the wing--
But, come, come, come, little Tiny,
This isn't the half of Spring.

Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny;
Fragrant it is--for, see,
We catch the breath of the violets
However hidden they be;
And buds o'erhead in the greenwood
The sweetest of spices fling--
Yet color and sweets together
Are still but a part of Spring.

Then come, come, come, little Tiny,
Let's hear what _you_ have to tell
Learned of the years you've scampered
Over the hill and dell--
What! Only a _bark_ for answer?
Now, Tiny, that isn't the thing
Will help unravel the riddle
Of wonderful, wonderful Spring.

Yes, Tiny, there's something better
Than form and scent and hue,
In the grass with its emerald glory;
In the air's cerulean blue;
In the glow of the sweet arbutus;
In the daisy's perfect mould:--
All these are delightful, Tiny,
But the secret's still untold.

Oh, Tiny, _you'll_ never know it--
For the mystery lies in this:
Just the fact of such warm uprising
From winter's chill abyss,
And the joy of our heart's upspringing
Whenever the Spring is born,
Because it repeats the story
Of the blessed Easter-morn!

MRS. MARY B. DODGE.




[Illustration: ... THE LEAST LITTLE THING HATH MESSAGE SO WONDEROUS
AND TENDER.]


MIDSUMMER WORDS.


What can they want of a midsummer verse,
In the flush of the midsummer splendor?
For the Empress of Ind shall I pull out my purse
And offer a penny to lend her?
Who cares for a song when the birds are a-wing,
Or a fancy of words when the least little thing
Hath message so wondrous and tender?

The trees are all plumed with their leafage superb,
And the rose and the lily are budding;
And wild, happy life, without hindrance or curb,
Through the woodland is creeping and scudding;
The clover is purple, the air is like mead,
With odor escaped from the opulent weed
And over the pasture-sides flooding.

Every note is a tune, every breath is a boon;
'Tis poem enough to be living;
Why fumble for phrase while magnificent June
Her matchless recital is giving?
Why not to the music and picturing come,
And just with the manifest marvel sit dumb
In silenced delight of receiving?

Ah, listen! because the great Word of the Lord
That was born in the world to begin it,
Makes answering word in ourselves to accord,
And was put there on purpose to win it.
And the fulness would smother us, only for this:
We _can_ cry to each other, "How lovely it is!
And how blessed it is to be in it!"

MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.




PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.


Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend--"If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

[Illustration]

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade--
Up the light ladder, slender and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the quiet town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the church-yard lay the dead
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread
The watchful night-wind as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay--
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

It was twelve by the village-clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town,
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village-clock,
When he rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village-clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed,
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear--
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.




TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS.


[Illustration]

"Wake, Otanes, wake, the Magi are singing the morning hymn to Mithras.
Quick, or we shall be late at the exercises, and father promised, if
we did well, we should go to the chase with him to-day."

"And perhaps shoot a lion. What a feather in our caps that would be!
Is it pleasant?"

Smerdis pulled open the shutters that closed the windows, and the
first rays of the sun sparkled on the trees and fountains of a
beautiful garden beyond whose lofty walls appeared the dwellings and
towers of a mighty city. Already the low roar of its traffic reached
them while hurrying on their clothes to join their companions in the
spacious grounds where they were trained in wrestling, throwing blocks
of wood at each other to acquire agility in dodging the missiles,
the skilful use of the bow, and various other exercises for the
development of bodily strength and grace.

A few minutes later the two brothers, Smerdis and Otanes, with scores
of other lads, ranging in age from seven to fourteen years, were
assembled in a vast playground, surrounded on all sides by a lofty
wall.

The playground of a large boarding-school?

It almost might be called so, but the pupils of this boarding-school
were educated free of expense to their parents, and it received
only the sons of the highest nobles in the land. This playground
was attached to the palace of Darius, King of Persia, who reigned
twenty-four hundred years ago, and these chosen boys had been taken
from their homes, as they reached the age of six years, to be reared
"at his gate," as the language of the country expressed it.

Otanes and Smerdis were sons of one of the highest officers of the
court, the "ear of the king," or, as he would now be called, the
Minister of Police. Handsome little fellows of eleven and twelve,
with blue eyes, fair complexions, and curling yellow locks, their long
training in all sorts of physical exercises had made them stronger
and hardier than most lads of their age in our time. Though reared
in a palace, at one of the most splendid courts the world has ever
seen, the boys were expected to endure the hardships of the poorest
laborer's children. Instead of the gold and silver bedsteads used by
the nobles, they were obliged to sleep on the floor; if the court was
at Babylon, they were forced to make long marches under the burning
sun of Asia, and if, to escape the intense heat, the king removed
to his summer palaces at Ecbatana and Pasargadae, situated in the
mountainous regions of Persia, where it was often bitterly cold, the
boys were ordered to bathe in the icy water of the rivers flowing from
the heights. In place of the dainty dishes and sweetmeats for which
Persian cooks were famous, they were allowed nothing but bread, water,
and a little meat; sometimes to accustom them to hardships they were
deprived entirely of food for a day or even longer.

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