Various
Happy Days for Boys and Girls
MY MOTHER’S STORIES
I RECALL a little verse my mother taught me one summer twilight, which, she remarked, she had taught the older children when they were little like me. It was this: —
“Have communion with few, be intimate with One, deal justly by all, and speak evil of none.”
And then she added cheerfully, “It took some time to get your brother to repeat it correctly; he would say untimate for intimate, and justless instead of justly. But he learned it correctly at last, and, I may add, has never forgotten it.” So with amusement were mother’s good instructions blended; after the pleasant story about my brother’s childhood it was impossible to forget the text.
But, alas, I have never taught it to my children; so many papers, books, and magazines made expressly for children of this generation, hasten the lighting of the evening lamp, and the twilight lessons of home become fewer. But in them all, I never read a more comprehensive paragraph, and one that would do to put in practice in every particular so thoroughly, and I hope if it gets into print, not only my children, but those of other households, will commit it to memory, imbibe its spirit, and put it in practice through life.
E. E.
SAILING THE BOATS
HO! the jolly sailors,
Lounging into port!
Heave ahead, my hearties —
That’s your lively sort!
Splendid sky above us,
Merrily goes the gale.
Stand by to launch away
Rag and paper sail!
Archie owns a schooner,
Jack a man-o’-war,
Joe a clipper A 1
Named the Morning Star;
Charlie sails a match-box,
Dignified a yawl;
Breakers on the lee shore —
Look out for a squall!
Now we’re bound for China —
That’s across the pond;
When we go a-cruising
Many a mile beyond.
Man-o’-war is watching
A rakish-looking craft —
Kerchunk! goes a bullfrog
From his rushy raft.
There’s a fleet of lilies
We go scudding round, —
Bumblebees for sailors, —
And they’re fast aground.
Here’s a drowning fly
In her satin dress.
All hands, about ship!
Signals of distress.
Argosies of childhood,
Laden down with joys,
Gunwale-deep with treasures!
Happy sailor boys,
May your merry ventures
All their harbors win,
And upon life’s stormy sea
Every ship come in.
George Cooper.
IT TAKES TWO TO MAKE A QUARREL
A STORY FOR OUR YOUNGEST READERS
HOW Harry Marshall had reckoned upon that piece of currant-pudding! The farmer’s wife, whose name was Jolly (and a very fit name for her it was), had promised him a plateful for dinner, because he had taken such good care of her pet brood of chickens while she had been away from Elm Tree Farm on a visit.
Harry was a farmer’s lad, ten years old, tall and stout for his age, and able to do a great many more things than some city boys of fourteen. He could ride and drive, keep the stable in order, and even handle a plough. Nor was he a dunce; for, thanks to an evening school, which some of his Sunday teachers had opened in the village, he had learned to read and write very fairly. He had a comfortable place at farmer Jolly’s; but there was plenty of work to do, and the food was plain, though he always had enough; so he did not get pudding every day. No wonder, then, that he should go to bed and dream about that particular currant-pudding of which I am writing. You must not suppose that this was made with such “currants” as are put into a Christmas pudding; they are only small grapes. No; it was a real currant-pudding, full of nice red fruit and juice, enough to make your mouth water.
The long morning’s work was at last over, and Harry, nothing loath, hastened in and took his place at the side table in the kitchen, where he usually sat. His plate of meat and potatoes was soon cleared, for the boy’s appetite had been sharpened by several hours in the fields.
“And now, Harry,” said Martha, the servant, “here’s your pudding, and a nice piece it is; but you mustn’t be long about it, for John and Peter will want you back in the field; they have been gone this half hour.” So saying, Martha placed the longed-for treat before Harry, and went out to attend to some work in the farm-yard.
Just at that moment a wasp, who had grown tired of buzzing about the peaches in the garden, and trying in vain to get at them (for Peter had covered them with network), peeped in at the window with one of his many eyes, and, spying Master Harry’s pudding, thought, I suppose, that he should like a share. So, without waiting to be invited, he flew in with a loud hum, and made straight for the table, just as Harry had stuck his fork into the first piece of crust.
Now, our farmer’s boy, though he liked pudding, did not like wasps, which he fancied were always ready to sting; and being himself rather hasty in temper, he at once declared war against the little intruder. First he hit at it with his knife, but without success; and then with his fork, but only with this result – that the pudding, instead of going into Harry’s mouth, flew under the grate among the ashes, while the wasp seemed to be humming a song of defiance.
Harry grew red in the face, and vowed vengeance against “the nasty thing;” but “the nasty thing” would not come and be killed. Seizing a large wooden pudding spoon, which lay close at hand, Harry jumped on one of the wooden chairs and aimed a desperate blow at the poor insect. But Yellow-band was too sharp for him, and Harry, losing his balance, fell down with a thump on the sanded floor, while his weapon, spinning across the kitchen, came in contact with one of Mrs. Jolly’s basins, and brought it down with a crash. In rushed Martha in a fright, and, worse still, farmer Jolly’s round, good-natured face appeared close behind.
“Bless the boy,” cried Martha, “what have you been up to now?”
“Why – why,” said Harry, rubbing his shoulder and looking ruefully at the broken china, “it was all that horrid wasp.”
“And why couldn’t you leave the wasp alone?” retorted Martha, angrily, as she picked up some of the pieces.
“Ay, boy,” said farmer Jolly, “why couldn’t you leave the wasp alone, eh? Why couldn’t you leave it alone?” he repeated, catching Harry by the arm with a grip that made him wince.
“Please, sir – please, sir,” stammered the boy, “I thought the nasty – the wasp I mean – was going to sting me.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” replied the farmer; “if you don’t interfere with the wasps, the wasps won’t interfere with you. How often have I told you that it takes two to make a quarrel? Now you have wasted your time, spoiled your dinner, and done mischief; so you had better be off to your work, and Martha will put the pudding away till to-morrow.”
Harry hastened out, looking very foolish, and feeling very much disappointed. “I wish I’d left the wasp alone,” he said to himself; “then I shouldn’t have lost the pudding. The farmer says, ‘It takes two to make a quarrel,’ and I suppose it does. At that rate we needn’t quarrel at all, unless we like. I’ll think about that, so I will.” And so he did; and when he felt inclined to quarrel, not only with wasps, but with boys, he checked himself by calling to mind farmer Jolly’s words.
And I am of opinion that, if the boys and girls who read this story would remember it too, they would escape many unpleasant and disagreeable things, and be more likely to have a really happy year. For a far wiser Teacher than farmer Jolly once said, “Blessed (or happy) are the peacemakers.”
A GOOD WORD NOT LOST
FIELD-MARSHAL ALEXANDER SUVAROFF, the commander-in-chief of the Russian army during the reigns of Catharine II. and Paul I., was especially fond of mixing with the common soldiers, and sharing in their sports and conversations, being always highly delighted when his men failed to discover him; and this happened pretty often, for, thanks to his small stature and ugly face, as well as the extreme plainness of his dress, the great marshal looked as little like a general as any man could do. In this way he got to understand thoroughly the character of his soldiers, and had a greater power over them than any Russian general before or after him. His marvellous power of enduring fatigue, his insensibility to heat, cold, or hunger, and his untiring energy on the field of battle (in all which points he surpassed the hardiest of his grenadiers), made him the idol of the rough soldiers whom he commanded; and a word of reproof from Father Alexander Vasilievitch, as his men affectionately called him, was more dreaded than the fire of a battery.
Before one of his Italian campaigns, Suvaroff gathered together a number of his best men, and made them one of the short pithy speeches for which he was famous, and some of which are remembered among the peasantry to this day: —
“My children, we are going to fight the French. Remember, whatever you meet, you must go forward. If the enemy resist, kill them; but if they yield, spare them; and always remember that a Russian soldier is not a robber, but a Christian. Now, go and tell your comrades what I have said!”
A few days later a great battle took place, in which the day went against the French, who began to retreat about sunset; and a soldier named Ivan Mitrophanoff, who had distinguished himself by his bravery throughout the whole day, captured, with the help of a comrade who was with him, a French officer and two of his men. Mitrophanoff bound up the officer’s wounded arm, and seeing that the prisoners appeared faint from want of food, shared with them the coarse rye loaf which was to have served him for supper. He had scarcely done so, when up came three or four Russian grenadiers, hot with fighting, and raising furious cries.
“What,” cried they, “three of these French dogs living yet!” and they ran upon the prisoners with levelled bayonets.
“Hold, my lads!” cried Mitrophanoff. “I’ve given them their lives, and no one must touch them now!”
But the soldiers would not listen to him, and were rushing forward, when a stern voice from behind shouted, “Halt!” and a little, pugnosed, dirty-faced man, dressed only in a coarse linen shirt and a pair of tattered gray trousers, stepped into the circle. But, ragged and dirty as he was, the fierce soldiers could not have looked more frightened had he been a giant in full armor.
“The general!” muttered they, slinking off.
“Ay, the general!” roared Suvaroff, “who will have some of you shot presently, if you can’t learn to obey orders better! And you,” he added, turning to Mitrophanoff, “who taught you to be so good?”
“Your highness’ own self taught me,” answered the grenadier. “I haven’t forgotten what you told us last week – that a Russian soldier is not a robber, but a Christian!”
“Right!” exclaimed Suvaroff, with a brightening face. “A good word is never lost, you see. Give me your hand, my lad; you shall be a sergeant to-morrow, and a right good one you’ll make!”
And the next day he made good his word.
PONTO
OUR dog Ponto is a knowing old fellow. It is as good as a show to watch him sometimes. He has one quality that most of us might seek after with advantage – that is, a will to overcome difficulties that scarcely anything can hinder. If Ponto takes it into his head to do anything, he is pretty sure to succeed. What helps his dogship is the faculty of imitation. He is like a monkey in this, only a great deal more sensible than any monkey I ever heard tell of. You never catch him venturing upon unknown danger, or making himself ridiculous, because his human friends and companions choose to step aside from the ways of safety and respectability.
One day, a few years ago, Ponto was missing. He had been about as usual during the morning, but all at once disappeared. A neighbor told us that he had seen him fighting with the butcher’s dog about noon, and that he was getting the worst of it. I went over to the butcher’s during the afternoon, and the butcher’s boy confirmed the neighbor’s story. Ponto had come over there for a fight, as the boy said, and “got more than he bargained for.”
“He’ll not try it again very soon, I’m thinking,” added the boy, with a malicious pleasure.
“Do you know where he is now?” I asked.
“Home, I suppose. He went off that way, limping,” answered the boy.
“Was he much hurt?”
“Considerable, I guess.”
I went back home, but no one had seen Ponto. I was beginning to feel anxious about the dog, when he was found in one of the third-story rooms, snugly covered up in bed, with his head on the pillow. On turning down the clothes a sight met our eyes. The sheets were all stained with blood, and the poor dog, hurt and exhausted, looked as helpless and pitiful as any human being.
I will not tell you of all the wounds he had received. There were a great many of them, and some quite severe. “A good lesson for him,” we all said. And it proved so, for he was a little more careful after that how he got into a fight.
A few months before, I had been thrown from a wagon and badly hurt – so much so that I was confined to bed for a week. Ponto was with me at the time of the accident, and on my arrival at home followed me into the house and up to the chamber where I was taken. He watched every movement as I was laid in bed, and then sat down with his eyes on my pale face, regarding me with such looks of pity and interest that I was touched and surprised.
When Ponto’s turn came, he remembered the comfortable way in which I had been cared for, and profited by what he had seen. But his mistress, while she pitied the poor animal, did not fancy having her spare bedroom turned into a dog-hospital; and so we removed him to an out-house and made him as comfortable there as possible.
One cold winter evening Ponto was absent from his accustomed place in the hall, where he slept on a mat. The wind was high and there was a confusion of sounds outside.
“Hark!” said one.
We all listened.
“I thought I heard a knock at the hall door.”
“Only the wind,” was replied.
“Yes; there it is again.”
We all heard two distinct knocks, given quickly one after the other.
I arose, and going into the hall went to the front door and opened it. As I did so Ponto bounded in past me, gave two or three short, glad barks, and then paid his boisterous respects to the family in the sitting-room. I waited a moment, and then stepped out to see who had lifted the knocker, but found no one. Ponto had done it himself, as we had proof enough afterward; for ever since that time he has used the knocker as regularly as any two-legged member of the family.
I could tell you stories for a whole evening about Ponto, but these two must answer for the present.
BRUIN AT A MAPLE-SUGAR PARTY
ONE evening near the first of April, three years ago this spring, I was making my way the best I could down from the west branch of the Penobscot River towards the plantation of Nikertou. (Up in Maine they call an unincorporated town a plantation. Down south the word has a different meaning.) How and why I came to be in that wild section, at the hour of twilight, may need a word in explanation.
A month previously I had been sent up to the “Head of Chesuncook” from Bangor, by the lumbering firm of which my uncle was a member, to pay off one of their “gangs,” which made the “head” of that lake a sort of depot and place of rendezvous.
Both going up and coming back as far as the foot of Lake Pemadumcook, I had had with me, as guide and armed protector, an old hunter named Hughy Clives. But on getting down to the foot of this lake, and within six or eight miles of Nikertou, old Hughy had been seized with a sudden desire to leave me and to go to Millinocket Lake in quest of otters; and so giving me my “course” for Nikertou, he had bidden me “good luck,” and again started northward.
It was a warm, spring-like afternoon, though the snow in that region still lay to the depth of three or four feet; but on my snow-shoes I didn’t mind the depth; the main thing was to keep out of the brush and the dense hemlock and cedar thickets.
It was about two o’clock when I left the river; and I had expected to get down to the little “settlement” by sunset. But the sun went below the distant spruce-clad ridges, and dusk fell, with as yet no signs of a “clearing.” Had I lost my way? My little pocket-compass said I was all right – if Hughy had given me a correct course; and I had all confidence in the old man too. Still, as the twilight deepened around me, with the unbroken forest stretching drearily ahead, I began to feel rather uneasy; especially as (since parting with Hughy and his rifle) I had no weapon save a jack-knife and a little pocket-pistol I had brought along with me from Bangor – not very effective arms in case a catamount should take it into his head to drop down upon me from a tree-top, or a big black bear to step out from behind one of those low hemlocks, or even a cross old “lucivee” to rush out from some of those thick cedar clumps. For thoughts of these things had begun to pop into my mind. I was but seventeen then, and hadn’t quite outgrown my fear of the dark. And thus plodding timorously onward, thinking on many things injurious to a boy’s courage, I had begun to think I should have to make a night of it there, somewhere, when the red gleam of a fire, from the crest of the ridge before me, suddenly burst out on the darkness, banishing all my fears. For a fire, whether in a hunter’s camp or a farm-house window, is good evidence of man’s presence, with food and shelter – the two great wants of the belated.
Hurrying on, I made my way up the slope. The fire seemed to be in the open air, among trees – a woodman’s camp probably; and, knowing that these men are sometimes a little ticklish about having strangers come too suddenly into their night camps, I halted, while yet at some distance, for a good look ahead.
There seemed to be several large kettles, slung with chains from a “lug-pole” supported by strong crotched stakes at each end – a circumstance which struck me as a little odd at a hunting-fire. No one was in sight, though a sort of half shelter of hemlock might contain the campers. Whatever they were, it would be well to hail them. So, calling in my breath, I gave a loud “hullo.”
Two dusky figures rose from the shelter, and looked out towards me into the darkness.
“Hullo!” I repeated; and in response heard a clear boyish voice exclaiming, —
“Who’s there?”
“Belated tramper.”
“Well, walk up, Mr. Tramper, where we can see what you are.”
I moved up to be seen, and on my part saw a couple of youngsters, of about my own age, who were tending what turned out to be a sugar-camp.
“Where from?” demanded the taller of the two.
“Head of Chesuncook. Going to Bangor. Can I stay here to-night?”
“Of course you can. Had any supper?”
“Not a mouthful.”
“Something left – wasn’t there, Zeke?” said he, turning to his comrade, who was now pouring cold sap into the “heater.”
“Enough for one, I guess,” said Zeke; and, taking a bucket and a wooden bowl from under the hemlock, he produced a slab of johnny-cake from the former, and, pouring out something like a quart of maple sirup into the latter, bade me “go ahead.”
I did so without further invitation, and never made a better supper, the programme being to dip the bread into the sirup, mouthful by mouthful.
The boys were now preparing their night’s wood.
There had been, they said, “an excellent run of sap” during the last few days. The kettles were kept boiling day and night, steadily. It was truly a wild scene. Clouds of steam gushed up from the surging kettles; and the fires gleamed brighter as the darkness deepened, while all about us seemed a wall of blackness. But my long tramp had thoroughly tired me down, and my recollections of the remainder of the evening are a little drowsy, though I learned in the course of it that the names of the two youthful sugar-makers, upon whose camp I had stumbled, were Zeke Murch and Sam Bubar; and I also helped to take off a large kettle of hot sirup, which we set in a snow-drift, two or three rods from the fire, to cool. This done, I was soon asleep, rolled up in an old coverlet, and knew very little till, hearing voices, I opened my eyes to the fact that the sun was staring me in the face from over the eastward ridge, as if surprised at my sloth.
Hastily unrolling myself, I saw Sam and Zeke out at the kettle we had set in the snow, pointing and excitedly discussing something.
“Old scamp!” exclaimed Zeke. “What work he’s made here!”
“All this sugar gone – spoiled!” cried Sam.
“What is it?” said I, going out to them. “What’s the matter?”
“Why,” said Sam, turning and laughing in spite of his vexation, “something has guzzled up ’most the whole of this ‘honey’ we set out here last night. Only see there!”
The kettle, which must have held several pailfuls, was nearly empty; and what was left hadn’t a very inviting look certainly.
“What in the world ate all that?” cried I.
“Well – a bear, we expect,” said Zeke. “There’s been one hanging round here for several nights. We heard him hoot out, down in the swamp, ever so many times, after you had gone to sleep last night. Didn’t think he’d come up so near the fire, though. But we both got to sleep a little while after midnight. I suppose he must have lushed up the sirup then.”
“Tremendous fellow, too,” said Sam. “Look at those tracks!”
Tracks indeed! There in the snow about the kettle were his broad, deep footmarks, long as a man’s boot, and much wider, pressed down, too, into the snow, as only great weight could have pressed.
“Gracious!” exclaimed I, “you wouldn’t have caught me going to sleep here if I had known there was such a monster as that round!”
“Rather lucky, I think,” said Zeke, “that he didn’t take it into his head to top off his sirup with some of us.”
“And I’m mad, too,” continued Zeke. “We were depending on this kittle of sirup for our party to-night.”
“Your party?”
“Yes; we’ve invited a lot of the boys – and girls, too – to come up here this evening, to make ‘sheep-skins.’ You’ll stay – won’t you? We were going to ask you.”
“Don’t know,” said I, still thinking of the bear.
“O, I don’t think he’ll meddle with us,” said Sam, guessing at my hesitation. “I’m going down to get some fixins, and shall bring up a gun. If he calls again, he may get a dose of buckshot.”
No one is apt to be a great coward after the sun is up. Thus reassured, I concluded to stop to the party, for which the boys were intending to make a great preparation.
“Let’s do the thing up in style now,” said Sam.
We went at it. First we cut low, shrubby evergreens, hemlocks mostly, and with these made a sort of enclosure, some four rods in diameter, around the kettles, by planting them in the snow. Then clipping off an immense quantity of smaller boughs, we strewed the snow inside the enclosure with these. We thus had a sort of green room (without any roof), in the centre of which steamed the boiling kettles; and at the entrance, or doorway, we made a grand arch of cedar. For seats we rolled in “four-foot” cuts from the trunk of a large poplar they had lately felled, first splitting off a slab from the side of each to form a seat, which we cushioned with cedar.
Meanwhile another kettle of sirup was boiling down to supply the place of that the bear had drank; and filling some fifteen or twenty sap-buckets with clean snow, crowded down hard to make the “sheep-skins” on, we were ready for our company.
It was nearly night before all this had been completed. Sam had been down to the “settlement” and brought up a quantity of bread to go with our honey; and I was glad to see that he hadn’t forgotten the gun; for, as night began to close in again, I couldn’t help remembering the great tracks out there in the snow-drift. As it grew dark and the fire began to shine on the green boughs, our scenery looked even better than by daylight; and for beacons to our incoming guests, we fixed torches of pitch-wood upon stakes thrust into the snow around our camp, and at several points out in the woods, like lamp-posts in a town.
“Quite a show,” said Sam, surveying the preparation. “How changed and odd it makes it look all about!”
Ere long voices began to be heard coming up through the woods, – merry shouts and hails, – to which the boys responded, bidding them hurry, and promising a big “sheep-skin” to the one who first got up there.
A chorus of merry cries and laughter followed this announcement; and in a few moments a racing, panting crowd of a dozen boys and girls came up in sight, and poured under the arch – sturdy lads, and lasses in red frocks and checked aprons. And here be it said that a girl – a certain rosy Nell Ridley – won the sheep-skin by being the first under the archway. But the others were not far behind, and in another moment our green arena was swarming with the young folks.
Though a stranger, I soon found myself acquainted and on the best of terms with everybody. Sheep-skins were now being run by the dozen, the process being to pour hot sirup upon the cold, hard-pressed snow in the buckets, where it instantly cooled, becoming tough and of the color of sheep-skin. And if one has a “sweet tooth,” nothing among all the “sugars” can compare with a maple sheep-skin.
We all had sweet teeth there, and were in the midst of a furious romp around the kettles in chase of Nell, whom some one had accused of appropriating “the great one,” when somebody suddenly cried, —
“Hark!”
There was an instant hush; when clear on the evening air there came a wild cry – a long, quavering “Hoo-oo-oo.”
“Bear! A bear!” exclaimed several of the boys, to whom bruin’s nightly cries were but familiar sounds. But save that a few of the girls looked a little startled, no one seemed to be much alarmed. I saw Zeke looking to the priming of the old gun, though; and for a while we were pretty whist, listening; but the cry, which had seemed at a considerable distance, was not repeated. Indeed, in the merriment which soon succeeded, the most of us had entirely forgotten it, I think. At least we were all in the midst of another scrimmage over the “last biscuit,” when a loud snort, like that of a startled horse, a sort of “woof! woof!” accompanied by a great rustling in our evergreen hedge, startled us; and turning, we saw – I shall never forget the sight – an enormous black creature coming through our fence, with all the independence of a sole proprietor! Of course, as Zeke afterwards expressed it, “if he was coming in, we wanted to go out.”
The girls were not of the fainting sort; but they did scream some, and we all sprang away like cats through the opposite side of the hedge. The gun had been left standing near the place where the bear had broken in, and was not to be got at, of course. But, catching out my pistol, as we scrambled through the hemlock, I discharged it at the old fellow, hitting him, I guess; for he growled and came straight after me. ’Twas no time to be loitering. Down the slope we all ran together, slumping and sprawling full length in the soft snow! Up and on again, knocking out spiles and kicking over sap-buckets, bumping and grazing ourselves against the rough bark of the maples; for it was pitch dark in the woods. But on we went for dear life, expecting every moment to feel the bear’s teeth or claws from behind. At first I had a sort of impression that we boys should have to wait and put ourselves between the girls and the bear; but I soon found I had all I could do to keep up with them. Such girls to run I never saw before! And we never stopped till, at a distance of a mile below, the forest opened out into a cleared field.
There we began to discover that the bear was not after us, and gradually came to a halt. After getting breath, however, we kept on – at a little slower pace, though – down to the “corners,” where, after seeing the girls to their respective dwellings, guns were procured, and, rallying out Mr. Bubar and Mr. Murch, senior, with several other men, we all started back to hunt up the bear. Going quietly up through the woods, we cautiously approached to a point where the gap we had made in rushing out of our enclosure enabled us to see what was going on inside; and there by the firelight we beheld the bear sitting cosily before the coals, and gazing wistfully into the boiling kettles. He had probably found them too hot for his use.
Raising their guns, the men all fired together – a murderous volley of bullets and buckshot. Rearing upon his haunches with a sullen growl, old bruin glared around a moment, then fell over backwards, and, with a few dying kicks and groans, was dead. And this was the end of Bruin and the maple-sugar party.