Chapter XI: Front Matter (11)

“Oh, how I wish,” said one little girl to another, “some one here would keep books to lend as they do in cities. My auntie writes she has the reading of all the books she desires by simply paying two cents a day for their use.”

Janet started as the thought flashed across her mind that, perhaps, here was something she could do; and she wondered how many books fifty dollars would buy, and if she would be capable of managing a circulating library of this kind.

The more she thought about it the more pleasing seemed the idea; and when Saturday came, bringing a respite from school duties, as was her wont with all matters of importance, she went to talk it over with grandpa and get his opinion.

Without preamble or delay, waiting only to exchange greetings, she plunged directly into her subject by saying:

“Grandpa, I have decided that I would like to open a circulating library with my money. Do you think I have enough?”

Evidently grandpa was not a little surprised, as well as amused, for he seemed for a moment to be struggling between a desire to both whistle and laugh, although he actually did neither; but, giving Janet a quizzical look over his spectacles he said:

“Oho! and so you propose to devote your means to charitable purposes, do you?”

“No, I don’t mean to do anything of the kind,” answered Janet; “I propose to have pay for lending my books.”

Then grandpa did laugh and whistle too. But Janet did not allow herself to be disturbed, well knowing that she was sure of his sympathy and attention when he should have his laugh out; and directly, as she expected, he became quite grave, and asked her what had put such an idea into her head.

Then, as she was confident he would, he listened most kindly while she told him all that had been in her mind from the moment of receiving her gift, and of how the little girl’s remark had seemed to indicate a way by which she could do not only that which she so much desired, but also to gratify a wish she had herself often felt--a wish for more fresh reading matter than it had been at all times convenient to procure. For she thought, could she purchase a small number of volumes and lend them in the manner suggested, that perhaps these might yield a sufficient return to enable her to get such others as might from time to time be desired.

A look of pleased interest gradually stole over grandpa’s face as Janet told her plan, and when she had finished he took his spectacles in his hand, and while balancing them on his forefinger, remarked:

“Why, Janet, you bid fair to become a capital business woman! This is not a bad project for a fifteen-year-old head!”

“But what do you think, grandpa?--can I make it work?” queried Janet impatiently, too intent upon her purpose to care for compliments.

Grandpa deliberated a few moments and then replied:

“Yes, Janet, I believe your idea is a practicable one, providing you are willing to begin in a small way.”

This Janet expected, as a matter of course, for she well knew fifty dollars could not be made to buy a great number of books; but thinking there might be more in grandpa’s remark than appeared, she asked him to explain.

“Why,” said he, “inasmuch as your means will not admit of many books, it seems to me that it would be advisable to restrict the variety to only such as may be suited to a single class of readers; for instance, to young people like yourself.”

Janet’s eyes sparkled as she clapped her hands and said:

“I like that. So it shall be; and we will call it the Boys’ and Girls’ Library.”

The project approved and a name chosen, what further remained to be done seemed comparatively easy. At least so Janet thought; for grandpa, thoroughly pleased with the idea, very cheerfully offered to assume the entire care of bringing the library into working order, after which it was understood the whole management would rest upon Janet.

It would occupy too much space to enter into all the details of how this was finally brought about--of the letters written to distant booksellers and the answers received; of the catalogues he and Janet looked over together and their discussions in regard to the merits of different authors--therefore we will omit all this and come at once to the completed work as it stood when ready to hand over to Janet’s charge.

At first father and mother had been somewhat doubtful of her scheme; but upon learning that it met with grandpa’s approval they concluded to allow it a fair trial. They saw that to insure the harmonious working of the library, there were two important things to be secured at the outset: That patrons should have perfect freedom to come and go, and still not be allowed to intrude upon the quiet or privacy of the household; and with this end in view they caused a tiny room at the end of the hall, which had an outside door of its own, to be fitted up and set apart for the exclusive use of the library.

Across one side of the room was placed a row of low shelves where, after being carefully numbered, the books were neatly arranged, but leaving when all was done considerable unoccupied space which, grandpa said, was for growth should the venture prove a success.

Before the window stood a small table holding pens, ink, and record-book, with which, and two chairs, the furniture of the room was complete.

The main feature of the room, of course, was the books; and, considering that these had all come before the public long after grandpa had ceased to be personally interested in youthful literature, it seemed almost a mystery how he had been able to make his selections with such admirable taste and judgment. But this was soon accounted for by the fact that he had been governed in his choice by the standing of publishing houses and the approval of critics of established taste and ability. Only such as were thus vouched for were allowed a place in the collection. When all were shelved there were thirty-five volumes in strong cloth covers, including stories for both boys and girls, biographies, travels, etc., and one which would be classed under no general head, bearing the funny title “Behaving.”

These cost on an average $1.20 each, and were all the works of standard authors, such as Mrs. Whitney, Miss Muloch, Miss Alcott, Miss Yonge, Miss Jewett, T. B. Aldrich, J. T. Trowbridge, with others of equal merit. One novel feature of this library must not be omitted, which was a tiny microscope intended to accompany a book entitled, “Evenings with the Microscope,” indicating that grandpa meant this library to be a means of profit as well as pleasure to the young people of the village.

The cost of the books and microscope amounted to forty-four dollars, leaving six dollars, which were invested in a subscription to two monthly magazines, one a four-dollar monthly, suited to mature minds, and one copy of WIDE AWAKE, which took the remaining two. The magazines were Janet’s own suggestions, in order that every young person should be sure to find in the library something to please the individual taste.

Grandpa thought it advisable to burden the working of the library with as few rules as possible, and after careful deliberation he decided upon three which, if strictly adhered to, he thought would be quite sufficient.

_First_, The library was to be open to the public on three days of each week between the hours of four and six, P.M., _and at no other time_. Not even for the accommodation of some special friend were books to be either taken from or returned to the library at irregular hours.

_Second_, Borrowers of books were to pay for their use at the rate of two cents per day; and were to make good any damage received at their hands; and last but by no means least, no running accounts were to be allowed. Every book was to be paid for when returned, otherwise the delinquent person was to be denied another until the indebtedness was cancelled.

Grandpa’s idea in this was not so much to prevent loss, as to instil into the minds of Janet and her friends correct business habits.

He reasoned, very correctly, that if a person contracted the habit of incurring debt in youth it would be very likely to follow him through life; therefore, even in so small a matter as this he thought it wisest and best to be careful and exact.

Everything being in readiness, Janet announced her project by distributing among her schoolmates a few neatly written notices, containing a statement of her plan of lending books, and the rules to be observed, and then in a few courteous words invited patronage.

Such a commotion as this simple announcement created! The questions and explanations which arose from all sides were something to be remembered: “Whatever had made her think of such a thing? Could any one have a book that wished? and must every one pay? Surely she would make exceptions in favor of her dearest, dearest friends?” until poor Janet was fairly bewildered.

But she finally succeeded in making them understand all about it, and why it would be necessary to conduct the library with strict impartiality by showing them how unjust it would be to favor one above another.

Two or three of her most intimate friends were at first a little inclined to feel themselves personally aggrieved at this; but their better judgment soon convinced them of their error, and on the day of opening these were the very first to present themselves.

The eagerness with which others followed, and the number of books taken on this day proved that Janet’s venture had met with sufficient favor to warrant its success.

And Janet proved a good manager, too. When the hour for opening the library arrived, she took her place by the table before the open record-book, and as fast as each one made a choice of a book she wrote under the proper date its number and the name of the taker, leaving on the same line a blank space where the date of return, and amount received for use, was to be daily recorded.

Both magazines and fully two-thirds of the books were taken on this first day; but, as was to be expected, this was rather above the average on succeeding days. Still the demand for books continued fair throughout the winter, and also through the spring and summer months, one set of readers succeeding another until there was scarcely a house in the village where one or more books from Janet’s little library had not found its way.

And wherever they went they carried a good influence with them, one which tarried and before long became manifest in several different ways. For, besides being bright and interesting, affording entertainment of a high order, there was not one which did not teach some useful lesson, inculcate some pure and noble sentiment, or show the beauty and desirability of brave and unselfish purposes.

And so these few good books became a refining and inspiring element in the young society of this retired, humdrum little village, such as had never been felt there before, and from which the young people profited to a surprising degree.

Throughout the entire school this good influence was especially felt, helping the boys to grow more manly and courteous, the girls to become gentle and more attentive to their studies, while yet sacrificing nothing of their accustomed jollity but its rudeness and carelessness.

The boys and girls were not, to all appearances, conscious of the change in themselves, nor had they been would many have recognized its source; but their elders were not slow to discover the little leaven at work in their midst, nor to benefit by the suggestion of a duty owed to themselves and families which this contained, as the unusual number of subscribers to some of our best periodical literature the following year amply testified.

As the year was about drawing to a close, grandpa looked over Janet’s record-book to ascertain what had been the measure of the pecuniary reward of the enterprise; and this is what he learned: The different patrons of the library numbered nearly one hundred, a few having read every one of the books, while others had taken not more than one or two. But of the thirty-five books each and every one had been out several times, and as some had proved greater favorites than others, grandpa made a general average of time upon the whole of _one hundred days each_--equal to thirty-five hundred days--which, at two cents per day, had brought a return of seventy dollars. The magazines, evidently, had been the greatest favorites of all, as the record showed that they had been out fully three-fourths of the time, and had earned a trifle over ten dollars.

This, added to the earnings of the bound books, made the nice sum of eighty dollars in something less than one year--thirty dollars over and above the original investment--while not one book was lost, nor one so badly worn that it would not do good service some time longer.

To say that grandpa was delighted at this showing would be but a feeble expression of his feelings; and when the facts in regard to the success of her undertaking were laid before Janet’s friends, they were so well pleased that their united judgment was in favor of a continuance of the work, advising that she withdraw the thirty dollars profit and put this amount out on interest, while the original sum should be reinvested in new books.

This was quite in accordance with her own wishes; and as the year had been prolific of cheap editions of old and standard works, as well as of many new ones, she was enabled to increase her stock to over one hundred choice volumes suited to both old and young readers, naturally increasing the number of her patrons and adding greatly to the popularity of the little library. And although only about one-fourth of the second year has elapsed, the people of the village are already beginning to look upon Janet’s library as one of the permanent and praiseworthy institutions of the town, many talking confidently of a time in the near future when it shall comprise many hundreds of volumes, and be no longer “the Little Library.”

CHRISTMAS ROAST BEEF.

BY A. W. LYMAN.

I had just sat down to my dinner, Christmas Day, when there was a distant shout down the street; then another still nearer. The policeman on the corner sounded his rattle for reinforcements; there was the sharp clatter of hoofs on the paving stones; two pistol shots in quick succession, and the confused murmur of many voices. I rushed to the window in time to see an excited crowd gathered about a prostrate and wounded steer, a fugitive from a passing drove of Texas cattle. There was little damage done by his mad flight; the old newsman on the corner was knocked down and sustained trifling injuries, and the excitement was soon over. The wounded animal was taken away in a wagon, and I resumed my dinner, with my mind on the Texas steer. “Poor fellow!” I mused, “you have a long, hard journey of it from Texas to roast beef!” and I began mentally to follow him in his successive steps.

From the peculiar figure which I saw on his flank as he lay in the street, I could trace him back through two thousand miles of wanderings, down to the ranche of Col. Mifflin Kennedy, where he was born.

There are three or four larger ranches in Texas, but Kennedy’s is a model in its way, and a brief description of it will give an idea of the manner in which stock-growing is carried on here. Kennedy’s ranche is a peninsula, comprising more than one hundred thousand acres of land, projecting into the gulf between the Neuces and Rio Grande rivers. On three sides of this tract are the waters of the gulf, so that all the owner had to do was to build a fence on the land side, and his farm was enclosed. But this was not so easy a task as one might think, for this fence of stout planks is thirty-one miles long. At intervals of three miles along the fence are little villages, groups of houses for the herders, stables for their horses, and pens for the stock. Within the enclosure roam about forty thousand cattle, ranging in size from young calves to three-year-olds, and perhaps as many more horses, sheep and goats.

I should guess that our steer began his first experience with life at Kennedy’s, on an early spring day. A spring day in March, the very thought of which makes you shiver, is in Texas a season of bud and blossom and singing birds. The new grass is thrusting its bright green blades up through the brown and faded tufts of last year’s dead verdure, the trees are unfolding their leaves and the broad prairies are white and blue and purple by turns, with the early wild flowers which grow in beds miles in extent.

The little calf has enjoyed a happy existence of a few days amid scenes like this, when his first sorrow comes--an experience much like that of the baby with vaccination. This is the branding process which he must undergo, a hot iron being placed against his flank, which burns off the hair, and imprints upon the tender hide a mark--a sort of monogram--which he never outgrows--and which serves to distinguish him forever from the cattle of other ranches. In Texas every stock-grower has his own peculiar brand, which is registered with the proper official, and no person is permitted to use that mark besides himself. By this means cattle that wander away or are stolen can be singled out wherever found, as you see I recognized our wanderer in New York.

After the branding the calf is turned loose to make his living on the plains, and for two or three years he leads a life of absolute freedom. He rapidly grows tall, gaunt, uncouth and belligerent, and by the time he is a full-fledged steer, what with his immensely long horns, shaggy hair, and wild-rolling eyes, he is a fierce-looking fellow. I have a pair of horns taken from a steer in Western Texas, which measure more than five feet across from tip to tip, and this is not a remarkably large measurement.

When our steer is not more than three years old, he enters upon another stage of his existence, which for him ends ingloriously, in a few months, in a Northern slaughter-house. Some spring day, such as I have described, the cattle-buyer appears, and the steer changes owners.

The collecting and assorting of the herds for the drive Northward, on the fenced ranches in the settled portions of the State, are easily accomplished; but in the grazing regions further west, where the cattle roam without limit, this work is both difficult and perilous. The cattle in these remote regions are mostly bought by a class of bold, daring men, of long experience on the frontier, known as “out-riders,” who buy and collect the cattle from the stock-raiser, and sell them to the speculators from the north.

The outrider fills his saddle-bags, and most likely a belt which he wears around his waist, with gold coin to the amount of tens of thousands of dollars, for in the section of country he visits there are no banks; and, taking a few trusty companions, all well mounted and armed, sets out on his long journey, beset by constant danger from lurking Indians and white outlaws who infest this wild country.

The stock-grower who has lived remote from the settlements, perhaps seeing no human being except the owner of a neighboring ranche for a year, looks upon the “outrider’s” visit as an event in his existence.

He is a most hospitable host, and for several days after his guest’s arrival no business is thought of, and a season of feasting, riding and hunting is observed. When this is over they begin their negotiations.

The herds are scanned over to get some idea of their condition, but the cattle are not carefully counted and weighed as stock is in the North. The herds are simply sold “as they run.” That is, the owner looks through his book to see how many cattle he has branded, and the “outrider” pays him so much for his brand, which entitles the buyer to all the cattle that he can find in scouring the prairies, which bear the purchased mark.

There is considerable sport and a great deal of hard, rough riding in getting the wild herds together and assorting them. It is in this work that the splendid horsemanship and wonderful skill with the lasso or lariat, of which so much has been written, are displayed by the Texas herder.

In a few days everything is in readiness, and the herds are started on their long Northern march.

A route is selected which affords the best pasturage, and is most convenient to the streams, as it is essential that the cattle should reach the end of the drive in prime condition for the market.

There are few incidents to enliven the wearisome weeks that follow. The herds browze leisurely along from six to ten miles a day, following the winding courses of the creeks and rivers, the herders following lazily after to keep them in the general direction northward.

For days and days human habitations are lost sight of, and the droves and riders are alone in the midst of the great, grassy ocean. Not quite alone, either--I came near forgetting that bright and cheerful companion of the drove, the cow-bird, a brown little fellow about the size of the well-known chipping-sparrow, or “chippy,” as the boys call him. Flitting along on the outskirts of the drove, one moment tilting gleefully on a tall, swaying weed, the next perching saucily on the tip of a steer’s horns, perhaps at night roosting complacently on his back, the cow-bird goes through the long journey from the Texas plains to the stock-pens at the Kansas railroad station, whence the cattle are shipped to the east. Whether the little fellows return to Texas to accompany the next herd, or die of grief at separation from their long-horned friends, I cannot say; but I think they must go back, for their cheerful presence is never missed, and their number never grows less.

Although, as I have said, there are few incidents to interrupt the monotony of the drive, the cattle-men sometimes meet with thrilling experiences. In former years Indian attacks were not infrequent, and many a brave band of herders has been surrounded and killed by the savages whose hunting-grounds were encroached upon by the droves. There is always danger, too, of stampedes in the herds, caused either by the terrific thunder-storms and tornadoes which burst upon the great plains without warning, or by the “cattle thieves,”--bands of white, Indian, or half-breed outlaws, who live by stealing stray cattle from the herds, and sell them or kill them for their hides. Having in his early life encountered one or more of the devastating prairie fires which sweep over the great, dry pastures almost every fall, the slightest smell of smoke or sight of flame will plunge the steer into a panic of fright, and this well-known circumstance is turned to advantage by the cattle thieves in securing their plunder.

Getting some distance to windward of a herd on a dark night, the rogues set fire to a buffalo robe, and the pungent smoke of the burning hair is borne down upon the reposing cattle by the wind. The first whiff gives the alarm, ten thousand pairs of horns are reared aloft in air, and one united snort of terror is heard. Before the herders can mount their horses and check the panic the herd is past control, and the maddened and terrified animals, trampling one another and whatever comes in their way under foot, dash frantically off in the darkness with a noise like the roll of distant thunder. They scatter beyond hope of recovery. In the confusion following upon the heels of the stampede the thieves succeed in driving off scores and sometimes hundreds of the stragglers.

There are other incidents that I could narrate of amusing and exciting adventures during the drive. One episode I now recall of my first trip over the great cattle trail, was the encountering of a large herd of buffaloes which became intermingled with our cattle just after we crossed the Arkansas River in Southern Kansas. The buffaloes became so bewildered that they marched along with the cattle, and the young Texans enjoyed rare sport for two days in lassoing them. We had a welcome variety in our scanty bill of fare by the addition of tongue and other choice tid-bits to our larder.

As the railroads are neared the drive becomes more and more tiresome, and the Texas herders, longing for the wider freedom of the plains, are not sorry to have it end. But the steer, if he could peep into the future, would be sorry to have the journey brought to a close, for with the railroad the romance of his career is over, and the last two weeks of his life are full of hunger, thirst and suffering. The great droves are divided into small herds, and distributed among the hundreds of stock pens. After a rest of a few days the last journey is begun. With eighteen or twenty of his companions the steer is taken from the pens and stowed away in the cattle-car--a sort of gigantic coop on wheels. There is neither room to turn around nor to lie down, so closely are the poor fellows wedged in. Now and then a steer contrives to get down on his knees at the risk of being trampled under the feet of his neighbors, but he gains little rest in this way.

The cattle trains run slowly, and from ten or twelve days are occupied in the journey from Central Kansas to New York. At intervals of three hundred miles the trains are stopped and the cattle are taken off, placed in pens and fed and watered. After a rest of twenty-four hours the journey is again resumed. During the continuous runs of three hundred miles--about thirty hours in time--the poor creatures are without food or drink, and their suffering, especially in warm weather, is intense. Is it a wonder that they lose on an average two hundred pounds in weight each between the Texas prairies and New York?

The cattle dealers are not, as might at first appear, regardless of the sufferings of their stock. To them the loss in weight is a loss in money, and for selfish reasons, if for no other, they would be interested in any plan for keeping the animals in good condition. Many devices and inventions have been tried to lessen suffering and save flesh, all of which have been found objectionable. One of these inventions was a “palace cattle car,” which was introduced a few years ago. It was a car divided into stalls, so as to allow each animal a separate apartment. There was room to lie down, and food and drink were supplied to every stall, so that there was no need to take the cattle from the cars during the entire journey. But for some reason the cars did not work well. The speculators and butchers objected on the ground that with so few cattle in a car the cost of getting them to market was too great; and those who had welcomed them because they promised to relieve suffering, acknowledged that the steer, placed singly in a stall, was bruised more by being thrown against the partition walls than when he was jammed in between two of his fellow prisoners in the old cars. So the “palace cars” were withdrawn, and the old system of slow torture--twenty-four to thirty-six hours of fasting and jolting followed by a day of feasting and rest--went on. But thoughtful and humane men have for years been studying the question of live stock transportation, and some day not long distant means will be found to lessen the sufferings of the steer in his railroad trip to New York. Even no less a personage than a United States Senator has devoted many years to this subject, and I am not sure but more real fame will attach to the name of the Hon. John B. McPherson of New Jersey for a recent invention to relieve suffering cattle than he will earn in the Senate Chamber; at any rate he is entitled to everlasting gratitude from all the sons and daughters of Bos.

The invention to which I refer is a simple arrangement for feeding and watering stock on the cars, and consists of a trough for water which revolves on a pivot so as to be readily cleaned and inverted when not in use; and a folding rack for hay, which can be shut up out of the way when empty. Experiments with Mr. McPherson’s invention have proved its usefulness, and the Pennsylvania Railroad Company will soon have two hundred cars built with his improvement. With a well-filled rack before him, and fresh water always within reach, the steer will be able to get through the journey with a tolerable degree of comfort, even though he is without a bed to lie upon.

The cattle-yards in our large cities, acres of small, square pens, ranged in long rows, with narrow lanes between, are familiar and not particularly inviting places, and, luckily for the steer, his life there is short. Landed from the cars he is driven into one of the small pens with about thirty others, where he stays for a day or two without experiencing any new incident in his life, except that he is poked and yelled at by any number of beef-buyers who want to learn his condition. Poor fellow! It makes little difference what condition he may be in, for there are a million mouths to feed in the city over there, and three thousand miles across the blue ocean yonder, those pursy Englishmen are calling for “American beef!”

About the second morning after his railroad journey is finished, and our steer is in the Jersey stock pens, a dirty-looking old ferry-boat runs up alongside the wharf. The gates are opened and the cattle go rushing pell-mell on deck, where they find themselves in pens similar to those they have just left. Twenty minutes steaming up and across the Hudson River, and the steamer ties up at the Thirty-fourth Street dock in New York.

Manhattan Market, where the cattle are going, is that large brick building nearly two blocks away from the river. The river-front and the broad avenue between the landing and the market are crowded with piles of freight, and heavily-loaded trucks, and we instinctively wonder how the timid and frightened cattle can ever be driven through such jam and confusion. At many of the landings this work has been attended with the greatest difficulty; accidents have been of frequent occurrence, and many cattle have escaped and rushed madly through the crowded streets, like the hero of our story.

But the cattle dealers have overcome this obstacle just as the railroads conquer the mountains and rocks--by tunneling. As the cattle come from the boat they pass under an archway, and find themselves in an underground passage, a long tunnel dug many feet underneath buildings and streets. The further end of the tunnel opens in the abattoir, or slaughter-house, and the cattle come out face to face with fate in the shape of a hundred butchers, who stand with gleaming knives awaiting their victims. The cattle are driven forward. Overhead, fastened to strong cross-beams, is a windlass, around which a rope is coiled. A stout iron hook hanging from the end of the rope is seized by one of the butchers, who deftly catches it around the hind leg of a steer. The windlass is turned, and in a trice the poor fellow is swinging in mid-air, head downward. A huge tin pan is slipped under his head, and a long knife, keen-edged as a razor, is drawn across his throat. The life-blood gushes out in a dark stream, and in less time than it takes to tell it our steer ceases to exist, and becomes beef.

We shall not have time to watch the process of cutting up and the disposition of all the parts in detail. From the time the steer passes into the hands of the man with the hook until he is hung up two halves of beef occupies eleven minutes, and on a trial of skill between the butchers the work has been done in eight minutes. But this is a small part of the work. The pan of blood has to be taken to the tanks in the adjoining room, where it is dried and made into a fertilizer to enrich the earth; the horns are saved for the comb manufacturer; the large bones in the head are sent to the button factory; the hide to a tannery; the hoofs to the glue and gelatine makers. The tripe man comes around for the stomach; one man buys all the tongues, and another has a contract for all the tails; and so on, until every scrap is disposed of.

If we visit the abattoir on a cold day we shall see perhaps three thousand beeves hanging up in the cool and airy room, but in warm weather we shall have to take a peep into one of those gigantic refrigerators yonder, each of which holds three hundred cattle. The meat is suspended from hooks over a vast bed of ice which keeps the air at a temperature of thirty-eight degrees. Similar refrigerators have been built recently in the holds of vessels, and with forty tons of ice three hundred beeves have been safely transported to Liverpool and sold in the British markets.

Around the door, as we pass out, is a group of pale, hollow-faced men, delicate women, and sickly children, with hacking coughs. These are the blood-drinkers--people in all stages of consumption, who come hither to catch the warm blood of the cattle, which they drink with the eagerness of hope. Some of them have been coming for many months, and have been benefited by the medicine, but in the case of others it is plainly to be seen that they are making a hopeless struggle against death.

As soon as the meat has cooled sufficiently it is delivered to the retail butchers of the city and its suburbs, who haul it to their shops or to the markets. All night long, while the great city is asleep, the market wagons creak and rumble through the almost deserted streets, and by four o’clock in the morning the beefsteaks for a million breakfasts, and the roasts and other choice cuts for a million dinners, are temptingly displayed on the white wooden blocks or marble slabs, behind which stand the fat, ruddy-faced, good-natured butchers in white aprons ready to serve all comers. The days before Thanksgiving and Christmas are the occasions when the butchers make their greatest displays, and the markets are then well worth a visit. Beef in halves and quarters, fancifully decked with wreaths and streamers, fat haunches, juicy sirloins with just the right proportion of fat to lean, “porterhouse” steaks garnished with sprigs of parsley, and other tender bits, are set off with as much art and made as attractive as a Broadway shop window in the holiday season.

But we have finished our slice of Christmas roast beef and thus ends our story. We may wonder whether there will always be meat enough to supply all the world; but a moment’s reflection will satisfy us that we need not worry about that. There are in Texas alone nearly five millions of cattle and there are nearly half a million driven to market every year. Only think of it! supposing this number all in one drove marching in single file at the rate of ten miles a day, it would be nearly two months from the time the first steer entered New York until the last one came in sight. They would make a line reaching from Columbus, Ohio, to New York--550 miles long.

GRANNY LUKE’S COURAGE.

BY M. E. W. S.

“Come, Tim, hurry up and be courageous.”

Tim didn’t hurry up, nor was he in a hurry to be courageous.

“Can’t you shoot the creature?”

“No, grandma, I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Well, grandma, I’m afraid of hurting it,” said Tim.

“But that’s what shooting was meant for!” said Granny Luke, indignant at the weak-minded grandson.

“You shoot it, grandma!”

“I don’t know how to shoot--and, well--I am afraid of a gun, because I am a woman!” said Mrs. Luke, who was known in all the mining region as “Granny Luke”--more because she called herself so, than because anybody else gave her that title.

She was an “old country” woman who, having lost her children, was left with a number of young grandchildren to bring up. Fate had wafted her to the lead mines in Iowa, down by one of which she had settled in a log cabin, and had picked up a living by boarding the miners, attending to them in sickness, and by sending her eldest, Tim, down the shaft with the miners’ dinners. A lead mine is worked far under ground, from a shaft which is sunk like a bucket in a well. Tim was not afraid to go down this bucket, nor to crawl on his hands and knees far into Yorkshire Tom’s lead, with a tallow candle in his cap, to carry the miner his dinner; nor did he dread an occasional rattlesnake, who, coiled at the mouth of the cave, would often ring his deadly rattle at the boy. No, Tim was inured to danger, and he knew how to give the rattlesnake a good tap over his ugly head with a stick, and silence his hiss forever; and he knew how to measure and guard against the equally poisonous air, in some parts of the mine, by the uncertain flame of his candle.

But he could not “_shoot the creature_.” Love made him a coward.

For the “creature” was a beautiful fawn, the loveliest, soft eyed, tender pet that ever lived, whom Tim had trained and fed and educated, and brought in from the prairie when the fawn was a baby. Some hunters had shot the pretty doe, the fawn’s mother, and Tim had educated the orphan.

Granny Luke had a little garden where she raised with her own hands a few vegetables, highly prized by the miners. The fawn had shown a great appreciation of early cabbage sprouts, green peas, beet tops and other succulent green things. No bars could keep him out, and no ropes could tie this gentle robber. He would jump over everything, and he nibbled so neatly and judiciously that Granny Luke’s garden had been ruined several times, and now her really long-suffering patience was at an end.

“No early peas and no late peas, no corn, no squash, no lettuce, no anything,” said Granny, in despair. “The creature shall be shot.”

She loved Primrose, too--as Tim had named the pretty fawn, whom he found deserted, lying on a bed of those yellow flowers which grow in tufts on the prairie. Primrose had tears in his big eyes, and was crying for his mother just like a human baby, when Tim found him and brought him home in his arms. Granny Luke had fed him with warm milk then, and had tended him as carefully as she did Tim, at a similar tender age; but those days were past, and Primrose was growing every day to be a buck of promise; and although he was tame enough to them, his moral nature could not be cultivated to know that while it was proper to eat green boughs and the coarse grass of the prairie, it was a sin to eat the fine things behind the fence.

Granny Luke gardened like a German woman, and sowed her water-cresses and spinach every day, hoping for continuous crops. But Primrose allowed them to nearly reach perfection, and then down they went, under his even, strong, white teeth.

If Granny Luke threw a stone at him he would give her one tender, loving look out of his beautiful eyes, and run away over the prairie for fifty miles, perhaps, glad of the exercise; always back, however, to greet Tim, when he crawled up out of the well-like bucket and from the cold, dark mine into the sun, and ready to offer him the warm friendship of his own well-furred neck, as the poor boy threw an arm around his four-footed friend, and the twain sat down, to an out door supper.

And now his grandma wished him to shoot this intimate, dear, beautiful friend!

No wonder that Tim’s courage failed.

“I have invited the General to a venison dinner day after to-morrow,” said Granny Luke; “and Primrose must be shot. I shall roast his saddle.”

Poor Tim shuddered. Granny Luke’s sensibilities had been blunted by time, and hard work and poverty. She had been doing very well in her affairs--thanks to the friendship of the General Superintendent of the mines, an old-country friend of her’s; and as he appreciated her excellent cooking, and fresh vegetables, she occasionally gave him and his fellow officers a good dinner. Primrose was to be offered up to two passions--revenge and avarice--for as he ate her spinach, he must therefore be eaten.

The group was standing outside the cabin door, Tim leaning irresolutely on his gun; Granny Luke, her arms akimbo, looking at him; and Primrose, as beautiful as only a fawn can be, was calmly nibbling the lower branches of a tree. Animals are better off than we are; they never suffer from anxiety. So Primrose had no possible idea that those branches might be the last which he would ever munch. He looked up at Mrs. Luke and her grandson and gave a friendly “_neigh!_”

This upset Tim, and he burst out a-crying: “I can’t shoot him! Granny--and I won’t!”

There came round the corner of the house a slow, massive tread. It was Yorkshire Tom, with his pick-axe on his shoulder.

“What’s all this! what’s all this!” said the man, catching Mrs. Luke’s arm as it was descending on Tim’s back.

“The boy is disobedient, and refuses to shoot Primrose,” said the stern old woman.

Yorkshire Tom was a patient man, and he staid a half hour to listen to the ins and outs of this curious case. He liked Tim and had felt his heart warm many a time as the little pale fellow, with the candle in his cap, came creeping through the dark alleys bringing him a dinner, and staying to chat awhile of the bright upper earth.

“Now, Dame, thee’s a little hard on the young un! ain’t thee!” said Tom, in broad Yorkshire brogue. “Come lad, take the beast, and come along o’ me. I’ll shoot him for thee.”

So Tim, with his arm around the neck of dear Primrose, walked off to Yorkshire Tom’s, far out of sight and hearing of Granny Luke.

It was ten o’clock, of a moonlight night, when Tim came wearily home, with a saddle of venison on his back. Although he was weary, he looked bright, and his cheeks very red--perhaps from the exercise.

“A large, plump saddle!” said his grandmother, “I had no idea Primrose was so fat--that comes from eating my spinach! A nice roast this for the General--why, boy, you look feverish. I must give you some peppermint tea! So Yorkshire Tom did it, did he? Well, Tim, you tell him to keep the rest of the meat to pay himself for the trouble--all but two steaks from the hind leg, remember.”

“Yes, Granny; I’ll remember,” said Tim, whose eyes were sparkling.

That was a good dinner that Granny Luke cooked for the General. The saddle was done to a turn, and she had some wild currant jelly, some fried potatoes, and a few vegetables which Primrose had not eaten. As she waited on the gentlemen, she enjoyed hearing them commend her cooking, and did not hesitate to utter a few words of praise over her departed Primrose! We often think of virtues in our friends after they have gone, which did not occur to us while they were living.

Alas, for human constancy! Tim ate a large plateful of roast Primrose; and what was more, he liked him.

“Well! I was right,” said his grandma; “he has forgotten all about his lost pet, and I am glad I have had Primrose shot!”

But Granny Luke missed the fawn more and more, and she saw her spinach and water-cresses and lettuces grow unmolested without that supreme pleasure which she had thought would be hers! Her days were lonely, as her grandchildren left her for their tasks, and no Primrose came to give her trouble.

She awoke one day feeling rather unwell, and as she was tying her cap over her gray hairs, which were her crown of glory, she saw a little black snake wiggling its way through the logs of her cabin.

It frightened her; not because she cared for the little snake, but because the miners believe it an evil omen if a snake crawls into a house. She was superstitious, the poor old ignorant woman; and although she had plenty of courage in every other way, she was afraid of a “bad sign.”

However, she drove the snake away, and went about her household tasks. Tim was sent off with the miners’ breakfast--her other grandchildren were fed and sent out to pick out the shining bits of metal from a heap of stones, and the strong old woman bent over a wash-tub to do her week’s washing. She had got about half through when she, fairly tired, let the soap fall, rubbed her arms dry, and thought she would look at her spinach and see how it was growing.

“Oh! gracious goodness!” what did she see?

Who was there nibbling the spinach, eating off the young water cresses, and taking an occasional shy glance at the beet tops, and shaking his pretty furry ears? Who but Primrose!

“I knew it! I knew it!” said Granny Luke. “I knew when I saw that black snake that I was going to have bad luck! That is an evil spirit--and he has come after me! Oh, hou! ough! hou! Tim!”

Granny Luke’s courage was all gone. Primrose was dead--and she had eaten him; yes, two steaks out of his hind legs. But there he was, with little horns growing out of his forehead!

But Primrose--_for it was he_, and no other--hearing her familiar voice, had leaped the paling and ran to lick the kind hand that had fed his infant deership.

This was too much, and Granny Luke fainted dead away; and when Tim came home he found her on the ground in front of the cabin, and Primrose was licking her forehead with his cool, rough tongue.

“You see, grandma,” said he, in explanation, “Yorkshire Tom goes a-hunting sometimes, and he had just shot a fine buck when you wanted me to shoot Primrose. So he took us both over to his cabin and we tied Primrose up, and he sent you some venison from his buck, and he kept Primrose at his house. I went over to see him every day; and Yorkshire Tom said it was not wicked, so that I didn’t have to tell a lie; and you never asked me anything about Primrose, and so I didn’t have to say anything. And we meant to keep him always tied up, and he has got away to-day and I’m sorry, grandma; but I hope you won’t make me shoot him now, because he’s so big; and all I’m afraid of is that somebody else will shoot him--”

And Tim skipped off as lightly as Primrose himself to caress and fondle the creature who was now no longer a fawn.

It took Granny Luke some time to believe that Primrose was not a spirit! He had to eat a whole crop of lettuces before she believed in him, but she was secretly so glad to see him that she forgave Tim, and only asked of Yorkshire Tom that he would build a more secure paling for Mr. Primrose, and also to make her a higher fence for her vegetables; all of which he did, and she forgave him, particularly as he sent her another saddle of venison, and “two steaks from the hind leg,” of another deer which he had shot, assuring her that Primrose was still too young to make good venison.

BILLY’S HOUND.

(_A Two-Part Story._)

BY SARA E. CHESTER.