Various
Harper's Young People, January 25, 1881
There seemed no prospect of the rain ceasing, and so Meg sat down in the back room upon a bench; and as it was not in the nature of such an active little girl to sit still long and keep awake, she very soon fell asleep.
When she started up from a dream full of strange sea-goblins, it was to find that everything was dark. The rain had ceased, and Meg, after rubbing her eyes, concluded to go home. When she lifted the board she discovered, to her terror, that the rain had washed her burrow full of sand, and she was a prisoner. The strong doors and windows resisted her puny efforts, so she sat down upon a coil of rope to consider the situation.
Now most children would have cried; but Meg hadn't done such a thing since she was teething. No, she only taxed her little head for some means of escape. First, she must have a light. She well knew where the matches were kept, and in a moment she had a lantern burning brightly. Then it occurred to her to try the roof. It was a difficult matter to lift the heavy trap leading to the little platform from which the men usually watched during the winter days; but she soon stood out in the bleak night, the salt spray driving against her face, and the gale rushing by, as though it would tear her hold from the railing to which she clung.
White sea-gulls whirled about her head, attracted by the light, screaming hoarse and discordant notes in her ears. They terrified her at first, but she soon recalled what her "granny" had said, and felt sure the birds were trying to tell her something, and that it must be about her father, who was still out in the terrible storm, unable to find the inlet.
From far out on the sea the wind brought a moaning sound, as though some unhappy creature called in vain for help. It came nearer and more distinct from the northward, finally dying away in the distance upon the other hand.
Fierce lightning flashes broke from the retreating storm-clouds, and by the weird electric glare Meg saw a wild figure, with arms upraised, which seemed to come out of the surf, and speed along the sands. By the same light she thought she saw the topmasts of a vessel on the sea.
The gulls wheeled and screamed now more excitedly than ever. Meg was nearly overcome with terror, but losing not a moment, she sprang down the stairs, returning with an armful of torches. And now the lurid flare of the life-saving signal burned up fiercely, the winds catching the flame, and bearing thousands of dancing sparks away across the beach, while the shape of the station and the heroic little girl upon the roof stood out boldly, just in time for Lucky Tom to put his helm down, and head his boat away from the fatal breakers he was nearing in the darkness.
And now suppose we let good-natured Lucky Tom tell the rest of the story in his own style.
"Well, sir, you see, the blow came up kind o' unexpected like, an' I knowed we couldn't make port; but I didn't much care for that, as pilots has to take all sorts o' weather, but we reckoned we could keep the craft off an' on about the blowin' buoy; but, bless you! the buoy got adrift, an' floated away down the beach. We heard it groanin' ahead of us all the time, an' afore we knowed where we was, we got nigh into the breakers. Just then I seen a twinkle on the beach, an' shortly a torch showed us the station, with an angel o' mercy a-wavin' it from the roof; an' it wa'n't a minnit too soon, nuther.
"We kept away till daylight a-watchin' an' wonderin' at the torches burnin' all the time from atop o' the station, and then we made the inlet. Mebbe it'll seem queer to you, but none of us thought of Meg when we saw the light; but the whole thing was plain enough when one of the crew came runnin' to the house, after we'd been ashore a bit, an' hollered:
"'Why, Lucky Tom, the angel we saw was nobody but your own Shadow, little Meg, an' she's there yit, wavin' a flag.' So we went over an' let her out. The young'un told us all about hearin' the sound o' complainin' on the sea, the black figure that ran along the beach, an' the warnin' the birds give her. You see, that was a notion her granny put into her head, the one about the birds. Speakin' of the old woman, there was another queer thing that happened on the same night. We couldn't find marm high nor low; but when Meg spoke of the wild spirit on the beach, we knowed it must be her, and sure enough we found the poor old body 'way up by the point, 'most dead. She had an idee, you see, that when it blowed hard the Petrel would come ashore, though I reckon the Petrel has been at the bottom more'n twenty years now. We took her home an' 'tended her, but she didn't last long after that."
The story of Meg's adventure came to the ears of a lady on the mainland, and she soon afterward paid a visit to the little girl, who was now left all alone when her father went away, and it was arranged that she should live in the lady's house, and go to school. And now the school-master says she promises to prove as bright as she is brave.
HOW IT HAPPENED TO SNOW
BY I. M
What Jack Frost said to the trees, dear,
It never would do to tell;
He whispered the magic words, dear,
To oak and maple as well.
Some of them blushed bright red, dear,
And some of them turned to yellow,
While Jack he laughed in his sleeve, dear,
The good-for-nothing old fellow.
What Jack Frost did to the leaves, dear,
I never would dare to say;
They wrung their little brown hands, dear,
In a pitiful, helpless way.
The kind sun felt so sad, dear,
To see the leaves in pain,
That he hid his face for a week, dear,
And wept great showers of rain.
But Jack Frost's cruel breath, dear,
Grew colder day by day,
And chilled the leaves, until, dear,
They withered and dropped away.
Then the tall trees stood amazed, dear,
Lamenting, when they found
That their green and rustling robes, dear,
Lay faded on the ground.
The angels too were grieved, dear,
When the trees looked cold and bare,
So they gathered the soft white clouds, dear,
That floated in upper air,
And tossed great armfuls down, dear,
In the stillness of the night,
And were glad to see how pure, dear,
The world looked clothed in white.
What the children said next day, dear,
I think you must surely know;
But please don't say that I told, dear,
Just how it happened to snow;
For that wicked old Jack Frost, dear,
Would nip my nose in spite,
And pinch my poor ten toes, dear,
The next cold winter's night.
THE ADVENTURES OF A RUNAWAY KING
BY I. D. WILDER
A king running away from his kingdom, with all his courtiers and people in hot pursuit to catch him and bring him back! Did you ever hear of anything more absurd?
There was a reason for it too, or at least the King thought so. The truth is, this unfortunate monarch was embarrassed by the possession of two kingdoms at once, and it so happened that the kingdom where he was was not the kingdom where he desired to be, so he made up his mind to run away.
Now I suppose, before I go any farther, I may as well let you into the secret of his name and country, if you have not already guessed it. He was Henry III. of France and Poland, son of Catherine de Medicis, one of the wickedest Queens who ever ruled over any country, and brother of Charles IX., King of France.
Only a few months before his flight from Cracow he had been elected King of Poland. He had been received with great magnificence by the Polish nobles, and the festivities had lasted many days. After everything had settled down into the usual quiet, Henry found life in Poland rather dull; so when he received a letter from Queen Catherine announcing the death of Charles IX., and saying that his presence in France was very necessary to maintain his rights as his brother's heir, he was quite ready to abandon his Polish kingdom, and start at once for Paris.
But it was very far from being the intention of the Polish magnates to let him off so easily. They naturally considered the well-being of their kingdom as important – to them at least – as that of France could possibly be. So they voted an address of condolence to the King on the death of his brother, prayed him still to remain King of Poland, and entreated him not to leave the kingdom without giving notice to the Senate, and first appointing some one to act as Viceroy.
Henry returned a courteous but rather vague reply, thanking the nobles for their good wishes, but giving them little satisfaction as to his intentions.
In the mean time Henry's French attendants were urging upon him the necessity of returning at once to France, lest he should lose the French crown. His mother, Queen Catherine, sent messenger after messenger, urging him to hasten, and his own inclinations were entirely in favor of instant departure. So during the night a council of the French nobles was held in Henry's apartments, and it was settled that they should arrange matters for a secret departure. They must go secretly, if they went at all, for the Polish Senate was determined to keep their King in the country, and the people were equally determined not to let him go.
Then the preparations began. In the first place, the French Ambassador, as had been agreed upon, asked permission to return immediately to France, as his mission had ended with the death of Charles IX. Permission was granted, and he left Cracow at once. He took with him the King's jewels and valuable papers, and made arrangements at all the principal towns on his route for horses and provisions to be got ready for illustrious members of his suite, who, as he said, were not able to leave as soon as he did. Next the King sent off M. Chémerault (the messenger who had brought him the news of Charles's death), on the pretense of carrying letters to Queen Catherine, but really to wait at a short distance from the capital until the King could join him. He was to act as guide, and conduct Henry in safety across the border.
The next step was rather unfortunate for the King. A train of ten mules laden with coffers was observed to leave the city, and when it was found that the baggage belonged to the Grand Master of the King's household, the suspicions of the people were aroused, and they became wild with excitement. It was in vain that Henry assured them that he had no intention of leaving the kingdom. They did not believe him – and with very good reason – and the tumult increased, until at last the Senate ordered guards to be placed at all the entrances to the palace, and gave instructions to arrest any one who should that night attempt to stir out, not even excepting the King himself.
After supper the King retired, and kept all his courtiers about him for a long time, chatting merrily with them, and appearing so easy and unconcerned that he fancied he must have entirely deceived the Poles, and then he made a sign that he wanted to go to sleep. The Chamberlain, Count Teuczin, drew the curtains of the King's bed, and a page put his sword and a candle on a table close by – a ceremony which all understood as a signal to leave the room, except the Chamberlain, whose duty it was to stand at the foot of the bed until the King was asleep. It had been agreed that the King and a few of his nobles should meet at a ruined chapel, half a mile from the city gate, where one of Henry's equerries was to be waiting with horses.
The nobles supped together, and then quietly left the palace. They were permitted to pass the sentinels on their assurance that they were bound for a frolic in the town.
Henry, in the mean time, was doing his best to make the Chamberlain believe him asleep, and when he was at length convinced of the fact, he left the room. In a moment the King's attendants had softly entered the room and barred the door against all intruders, had hurriedly dressed the King, and made all their preparations for departure. Fortunately, Souvré, one of the King's gentlemen, happened to remember a small postern-door at the end of a passage leading from the kitchen, which opened at the back of the castle on a faubourg of Cracow outside the walls. This door, which had been made for the use of the servants of the palace, had often been found useful by the cavaliers of Henry's court when they wished to go out and in unobserved. Souvré having found that no sentinel had been posted there, sent Miron, the King's physician, to reconnoitre, and see if they could get out by that way. He found the door ajar, and was joyfully returning to report, when suddenly the steward of the household, Alemanni, appeared from the kitchen, where he was evidently on the watch, and carefully looking about him – though without discovering Miron, who was sheltered by the staircase – gave orders for the postern to be locked and the key to be brought to him.
This was a terrible blow to all their hopes. The King was in despair and was about to return to bed, but Souvré encouraged him to persist, and rely upon him to get him out of the dilemma.
So they cautiously left the apartments of the King, and crept softly down the stairs until they came to the passage, where another flight of steps led down to the kitchen. Here they got a great fright from hearing the voice of the steward just at the foot of the stairs. He heard their steps, and called out, "Who goes there?"
"It is I, monsieur," said Souvré, boldly descending a few steps, while he made a sign to the others to go on toward the door.
"And what do you want?" asked the steward.
"The key of the postern-door," replied Souvré. "I have a private errand, now that the King my master can dispense with my services."
"What errand?" persisted the steward.
"The truth is," replied Souvré, haughtily, "I have an appointment in the faubourg. I pray you therefore, monsieur, give me the key of the little door without further parley."
This haughty manner impressed the steward, who knew that Souvré was high in his master's favor, and he somewhat reluctantly gave the key, and offered to accompany Souvré to open the door for him. He, however, only laughed at this, and bounding up the staircase long before the steward, who was old and infirm, could reach the top, he found the King and his companions concealing themselves as much as possible in the shadow of the walls, opened the door, through which they hurriedly passed, and locking it behind them, they made all possible speed toward the little ruined chapel, the place of rendezvous.
The night was pleasant, though very dark, and after losing their way once or twice, they finally reached the chapel. There they found the equerry with the horses, but Chémerault, who was to be their guide, and several other gentlemen of the King's household, had not made their appearance. They waited for them as long as they dared, but finally Souvré persuaded the King to mount, and trust to God and fortune for safety.
They set out, therefore, but their difficulties had only just begun. In the first place, not one of them knew the way, being all absolute strangers in Poland; and they did not even understand the dialect of the country, so that they could inquire. The night was dark, and the roads were horrible, though that did not matter so much, as they could not keep in them, but continually found themselves wandering away and floundering in deep morasses, blundering about in pine forests, and getting entangled in brambles.
So they went on, stumbling over stones, sinking into bogs, and wading through brooks, till I think they must have wished themselves safe back in their beds in Cracow.