Chapter XIII (1)

During these early months of the year a change had come over Miss Betsey Trinkett's life. Silas Green had died.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin went to Wayborough for the funeral, and found Miss Betsey quite broken.

"To think that the day was fixed at last," she said, "and he died only the week before. Well, well, it does seem passing queer, after all these years. It doesn't do to put a thing off too long. And yet, perhaps, it's all for the best, for if I'd given up and gone down there to live, I should have had nothing now to look at but the Soldiers' Monument, and I'd have felt real lonesome without the Merrimac."

And with this consolation the old lady took up her life again, and found it very much the same thing it had been before, with the exception of Sunday night. On that evening she would not have the lamps lighted, but would sit in her favorite window and look out across the valley at her beloved view, her eyes turned in that direction long after it became too dark to see.

Sometimes then she regretted that she had not yielded to Silas's arguments, and gone to live in the house in the village. It would have pleased him. And it seemed very lonely Sunday night without Silas.

After a while--it was a day or two after the communications came from Bronson--Mr. Franklin received a letter from his aunt. She was pretty well, but felt as if she had not heard from them for a long time. She would send Willy's present soon. Had Janet's been placed in the savings-bank? She had not heard from Janet since she sent it. Why did not the child write?

As nothing had come to Janet from Miss Trinkett, this caused some surprise.

"I am afraid Aunt Betsey has trusted to government once too often," said Mr. Franklin, "for evidently the package has gone astray. I wonder what was there besides the gold dollars?"

"Something to make it an odd-looking package, you may be sure, papa," said Cynthia.

Mr. Franklin inquired of the postmaster. That personage was a nervous little man, much harassed with the responsibilities and duties of his position.

"Something lost, Mr. Franklin? Now that's very strange. I can't think it's lost. Yes, I remember a number of odd-looking packages that have come for your family from Wayborough. There may have been one lately, though I can't say for sure. Let me see. I remember young Gordon coming for the mail one day, and getting--no, he didn't get one, he sent it--a money-order. Happen to remember it because he paid for it in gold. That's all I can safely say about anything, Mr. Franklin. There may have been a package. What did you say, miss? Stamps and postal-cards? Yes, yes." And the busy little man turned to the next comer.

Mr. Franklin left the office with a thoughtful face. He was a very impulsive man, too apt to say the first thing that occurred to him, without regard to consequences. Therefore when he got into the carriage and, taking the reins from Edith, drove hurriedly out High Street towards Oakleigh, he exclaimed:

"I am almost inclined to believe that Neal knows more about Aunt Betsey's present to Janet than any of us."

Janet, who was perched on the back seat, heard her own name mentioned, and proceeded to listen attentively. Both her father and sister forgot that she was there, and she took especial pains not to remind them of her presence.

"How do you mean, papa?" asked Edith.

"I think it is a remarkable coincidence, if nothing more. I had a letter the other day from young Bronson, stating that Neal owed him fifty dollars. The same night I had another letter from him, saying that he had received a money-order from Neal for the amount. We questioned Neal, and he would give no satisfactory answer as to where he got the money. The postmaster tells me that Neal paid for his money-order in gold. Aunt Betsey's present to Janet is missing; we all know that Aunt Betsey always sends gold. The postmaster seems to think that a package may have come through the office to us, though he is not absolutely certain of it. What more natural than to suppose that the gold Neal had was meant for Janet? He may have called for the mail that day, recognized the package from Aunt Betsey, and the temptation was too much for him."

"Oh, papa!" cried Edith, much shocked. "I can't believe that Neal would do a thing like that."

"I can't either," said her father, cutting the air with his whip in his impatience, and making his horse prance madly--"I can't either, and I am sure I don't want to! Let us forget that I said it, Edith. Don't think of it again, and on no account repeat what I said. The idea came into my head, and I spoke without thinking. I wouldn't have Hester know it for the world. But it is strange, isn't it, that Neal paid gold for his money-order. Where did he get it?"

"It is strange, papa, but indeed I think Neal is honest. I am sure--oh, I am very sure--that it couldn't have been Janet's."

"Then where did he get it?" repeated Mr. Franklin, with another cut of his whip.

"Perhaps Mrs. Franklin gave it to him."

"Of course she didn't," exclaimed her father, with irritation, "and I wish you would oblige me, Edith, by not calling my wife 'Mrs. Franklin.' If you do not choose to speak of her as the rest of my children do, you can at least call her 'Hester.' You annoy me beyond measure."

Edith turned very white as she said: "I am sorry, papa. Then I will call her nothing. I can't possibly say 'mamma' to her, and I don't feel like speaking to her by her first name."

"What nonsense is all this!" said Mr. Franklin. "I am thoroughly disappointed in you, Edith."

"I don't know why you should be, papa. I have nothing to do with it. If the Gordons had not come here this would never have happened. The money would not be missing, you wouldn't have had the letters from Tony Bronson, and I--oh, I would have been so much happier!"

"If you are not happy, it is entirely your own fault," said her father, sternly. "Now let me hear no more of these absurd notions of yours. I have too much to think of that is of more importance."

Edith wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She was to drive with her father over to Upper Falls, where he had to attend to some business, and now she had made him seriously angry, she knew. She swallowed the lumps that rose in her throat, and presently she managed to speak on some indifferent subject; but her father made no reply, and they soon turned in at Oakleigh gates. Janet, the small, quiet person on the back seat, could scarcely wait to get home. She must find Neal at once.

But Neal was not easily to be found. She trotted up to his room, but he was not there. She went to the cellar stairs and called, but Neal had neglected his duties of late as partner in the poultry business; in fact, he had retired altogether, and the eggs reposed there alone. Janet was not allowed to descend the stairs because of her misdemeanors last year.

She went to the workshop, but all was quiet. Looking out from the upper window, however, she spied Bob in the pasture; perhaps Neal was with him. She went down and unfastened the big gate that opened into the barn-yard.

Country child though she was, Janet was sorely afraid of venturing through the barn-yard alone. Were there any pigs there? Yes, there were a great many. Janet detested pigs, ugly-looking creatures! And there were some cows also, and she had on her red jacket. She promptly laid it aside and made a bold rush through the yard.

On the whole, she rather enjoyed the excitement. She was alone, for Willy had gone to Boston with her mother, and Cynthia and Jack were at school. Janet felt herself enjoying an unlooked-for holiday owing to the illness of her teacher, and she was about to fulfil the proverb which tells of the occupation that is found for idle hands to do, though in this case it was an idle tongue.

The dangers of the barn-yard overcome, Janet pursued her way along the cart-road that led to the far meadow, and there, sitting on a rock near the river, she found the object of her search. He was whittling a boat while he pondered moodily about his affairs.

"Neal, Neal!" she called, breathless from excitement and haste, "I want to speak to you. What have you done with my present?"

"Where did you come from, you small imp?" said Neal, with lazy good-nature. Preoccupied though he was, he was fond of children, and particularly of mischief-loving Janet, and he was not sorry to have his solitude relieved by her coming.

"Where's my present?" repeated Janet; "I want it dreadful bad."

"Your present! What do you mean, young one? You don't suppose for an instant that I'm making this boat for you, do you?"

"Boat!" cried Janet, disdainfully; "I don't want any old boat; I want Aunt Betsey's present."

"I suppose you do. I would myself if I were so lucky as to own an Aunt Betsey. But I'm afraid I can't help you in that line, my child."

"Yes, you can," said Janet, tugging at his elbow; "you can too. You've got it. Papa said so."

"Got what?"

"Aunt Betsey's present. He and the postmaster man said you took it."

"Said I took it?"

"Yes. Come, Neal, give it to me. I don't want the gold dollars--you can have those--but I'd like the funny thing she sent with them. Aunt Betsey allus sends funny things. Come along, Neal. Give it to me."

"Did your father say I took that money?"

"Yes, he did. Didn't I say so lots of times? Edith said you didn't, and papa said you did. What's the matter with your face? It looks awful funny."

"Never mind what it looks like. Tell me what your father said."

"Oh, I don't know what he said, and I've told you ten hundred times. Don't hold my arm so tight; it hurts. Let me go, Neal."

"I won't, till you tell me what he said."

"I'll never tell unless you let go. I'll scream, and people'll know you're killing me dead, and then you'll get punished."

She opened wide her mouth and gave a long, piercing shriek.

"Oh, hush up!" exclaimed Neal, roughly; "if I let go will you tell me?"

"Yes, if you'll give me that boat. I think I'd like it, after all."

Neal released her and thrust the boat into her hand.

"Now what?" he said.

"Oh, nothing much, except papa came out of the post-office and told Edith the postmaster man said maybe you'd taken Aunt Betsey's package, 'cause you gave him some gold dollars. And papa said it must have been my present,'cause you couldn't get gold dollars any other way, no-how, and papa was mad, I guess, 'cause his face looked the way it does when some of us chillens is naughty, with his mouth all shut up tight. There, that's all. Now, Neal, give me the thing Aunt Betsey sent."

"I haven't got it and I never had it. And now good-by to you, every one of you, forever! Do you hear? Forever! I'm not going to stay another minute in a place where I'm insulted."

He strode away, and Janet, frightened at she knew not what, sat down on a rock and began to cry. How very queer Neal was, and how queer his face looked! She wondered what he was going to do. Perhaps he was going down to the cellar to smash all the eggs. He looked that way.

She sat there awhile, but it was cool without the red jacket, left on the other side of the barn-yard--for although it was spring according to the almanac, there was still a sharpness in the air--and very soon she too went towards home. She had not found Aunt Betsey's present, after all, and she had nothing to repay her for her search but a half-made wooden boat and an aching arm.

And there were those pigs, still at large. She got through safely, but left the gate open, thereby allowing the animals to escape, and incurring the wrath of the farmer.

When she reached the house Neal was not to be found. There was no one at home, for Edith and her father had driven over to Upper Falls on business, after leaving Janet at the door. There was nothing to do but to go out and tease the good-natured kitchen-maid into giving her a huge slice of bread and butter and sugar. Mary Ann and Martha, the old servants, would never do it, but the youthful Amanda was more lenient.

"Where's Neal, 'Manda?" asked Janet, as she munched the delicious portion which was placed before her. They were in the pantry, beyond the sight of the other maids.

"I don't know. He came a-stalkin' past the kitching windies a little while ago, an' I heard him run up stairs an' down like a house a-fire, an' out the front door with a bang."

"Guess he's excited," murmured Janet, with her mouth full; "guess that must be it. He's gone off mad. We had a fight out in the pasture."

"La, child! What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm not going to say any more, 'cept me and Neal, we fit a fight in the pasture. I made him awful mad," with another huge bite.

"La, child, you do beat everything! But there's Mary Ann calling me. Don't you take a bit more sugar. Now mind!"

But Janet, left to herself in the pantry, made a fine repast.

The family came home to dinner, with the exception of Mr. Franklin and Edith, and although Neal's absence was commented upon, no one thought anything of it. He frequently went off for a long day alone on the river.

When the meal was nearly over and dessert had been placed upon the table, Janet thought that she would announce what had taken place. She felt quite important at being the cause of Neal's disappearance.

"Guess Neal's awful mad with me," she said, suddenly. No one paid much attention. She would try again. "Guess Neal's awful mad with me 'bout what I said 'bout Aunt Betsey's present."

"What did you say about it?" asked Jack, who sat next to her. There was a lull in the conversation, and every one heard her reply.

"Oh, I told him to give it to me. I said papa said he took it, and he could have the gold dollars, but I wanted the funny thing. Why, maybe it was a doll or a purse or some other nice thing. Course I wanted it. My, though, Neal was mad!"

"What did you tell him, Janet?" asked Mrs. Franklin, in much astonishment; "that your father said Neal had taken your present? When did he say so, and what do you mean?"

"Goody, mamma, you're asking 'most as many questions as Neal did. Guess you're excited, like he was. I told him papa said he'd taken my present from Aunt Betsey. The postmaster man said so this morning. And Neal looked awful queer when I told him, and he hurted my arm awful bad. And then he went off and left me."

Mrs. Franklin became very white. "I think you will have to excuse me, children. I--I do not feel very well. I will go lie down. Jack, your arm, please."

Jack sprang to help her, and led her from the room. Cynthia only wailed to scold Janet for her idle chatter, and then followed.

"But it's true, Cynthia," her small sister called after her. "It's true, and you're real mean to say it isn't. You just ask Edith."

When Mr. Franklin returned and learned that his hastily uttered words of the morning had been repeated to his wife and to Neal, he was distressed beyond measure. "My dear, I never meant it," he said. "Hester, you must know that I could not really believe that Neal would do such a thing. It was impossible to help remarking upon the singular coincidence. I never thought the child would hear me. What shall I do with her? She ought not to have repeated what I said."

"Do nothing, John. Janet is not to blame; naturally, a child of her age would get it wrong. But oh, I am relieved to find you did not really think it! It gave me such a shock to hear that you thought him capable of such an action."

"Where is the boy? I want to tell him myself."

But Neal could not be found. Cynthia and Jack hunted over the place, looking for him in all his haunts. He was not on the river, for his canoe was in its place. He had not gone to the village, for no horse was out, and whether he had walked or driven, his sister would have met him when she returned from Boston. He could not have gone for a walk, for Bob had been left at home, and Neal never walked without Bob.

A horrible foreboding seized Cynthia. What if Neal had run away? But no; surely he would never do such a thing. The idea of her even thinking of it, when such a course would only make people believe that he had really taken the money. Cynthia scolded herself severely for having allowed the supposition to come into her mind. But where was he? As a last resource she called Janet to her and again questioned the child closely. They were standing on the drive in front of the house.

"What did Neal say to you, Janet, when he went off?"

"Oh, he was awful mad, I told you, Cynthia. He was just mad."

"But did he say anything?"

"Oh yes, lots. But I forget what."

"Can't you remember anything, Janet? Not one word? Did he say where he was going?"

"No-o," drawled Janet, "he just said-- My, Cynthia, look at that bluebird! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're alive. Wish I could catch him."

"But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal say?"

"Oh, he said good-by and he was going. Cynthia, I b'lieve if I had some salt to put on that bird's tail I could catch him. Mayn't I, Cynthia? Mayn't I get some salt and put it on his tail?"

"No, you can't!" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. "I do wish you would tell me all Neal said."

"There, now, you're in an angry passion," observed her small sister, gazing at her calmly; "you've let your angry passions rise. You frightened that bird away, a-stampin' of your foot that way. Aren't you 'shamed!"

"Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he really say good-by?"

"Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all he said?" said Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an opportunity.

"Yes, yes! Anything!"

"Well, he said-- Are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? I want the coral necklace with the nice little gold clasp and--"

"Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. "I've only got one coral necklace, you dreadful child! Go on, _do_ go on!"

"My, Cynthia! You're terrible impatient, and I guess your angry passions have riz again. Well, he said, 'Good-by forever; I'm going away;' and off he went."

"Was that all? Truthfully, Janet?"

"Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any longer 'cause he was salted, or something."

"Salted!"

"Yes, or 'sulted, or some word like that."

"_In_sulted, do you mean?"

"Yes, I guess so. And now where's the necklace?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

STORIES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Late on almost any summer day early in this century a blue-eyed, brown-haired lad might have been seen lying under a great apple-tree in the garden of an old house in Portland, forgetful of everything else in the world save the book he was reading.

The boy was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and the book might have been _Robinson Crusoe_, _The Arabian Nights_, _Don Quixote_, all of which were favorites; or possibly it was Irving's _Sketch Book_, of which he was so fond that even the covers delighted him, and whose charm remained unbroken throughout life. Years afterward, when, as a famous man of letters, he was called upon to pay his tribute to the memory of Irving, he could think of no more tender praise than to speak with grateful affection of the book which had so fascinated him as a boy, and whose pages still led him back into the "haunted chamber of youth."

It was during Longfellow's childhood that the British ship _Boxer_ was captured by the _Enterprise_ in the famous sea-fight of the war of 1812; the two captains who had fallen in the battle were buried side by side in the cemetery at Portland, and the whole town came together to do honor to the dead commanders. Long years afterward Longfellow speaks of this incident in his poem entitled "My Lost Youth," and recalls the sounds of the cannon booming over the waters, and the solemn stillness that followed the news of the victory.

It is in this same poem that we have a picture of the Portland of his early life, and are given glimpses of the black wet wharves where were the ships moored, and the Spanish sailors, "with bearded lips," who seemed as much a mystery to the boy as the ships themselves. These came and went across the sea, always watched and waited for with greatest interest by the children who loved the excitement of the unloading and loading, the shouts of the surveyors who were measuring the contents of cask and hogshead, the songs of the negroes working the pulleys, the jolly good nature of the seamen strolling through the streets, and, above all, the sight of the strange treasures that came from time to time into one home or another--bits of coral, beautiful sea-shells, birds of resplendent plumage, foreign coins, which looked odd even in Portland, where all the money nearly was Spanish, and the hundred and one things dear to the hearts of sailors and children. It was during his school-boy days that Longfellow published his first bit of verse. It was inspired by hearing the story of a famous fight which took place on the shores of a small lake called Lovell's Pond, between the two Lovells and the Indians. Longfellow was deeply impressed by this story, and threw his feeling of admiration into four stanzas, which he carried with a beating heart down to the letter-box of the _Portland Gazette_, taking an opportunity to slip the manuscript in when no one was looking.

The next morning Longfellow watched his father unfold the paper, read it, slowly before the fire, and finally leave the room, when the sheet was grasped by the boy and his sister, who shared his confidence, and hastily scanned. The poem was there in the "poets' corner" of the _Gazette_, and Longfellow was so filled with exultant joy that he spent the greater part of the remainder of the day in reading and rereading the verses, becoming convinced toward evening that they promised remarkable merit. His happiness was dimmed, however, a few hours later, when the father of a boy friend, with whom he was passing the evening, pronounced the verses stiff and entirely lacking in originality. Longfellow slipped away as soon as possible to nurse his wounded feelings in his own room, and instead of letting the incident discourage him, began with renewed vigor to write verses, epigrams, essays, and tragedies, which he produced in a literary partnership with one of his boy friends. None of these effusions had any literary value, being no better than any boy of thirteen or fourteen would produce if he turned his attention to literature instead of to bat and ball.

Longfellow remained in Portland until his sixteenth year, when he went to Bowdoin College, entering the Sophomore Class. Here he remained for three years, gradually coining a name for scholarship and character that was second to none. However much he enjoyed college sports and fun, he never distinguished himself in any act that called for even the mildest censure from the college authorities. The love of order, the instinct of obedience to proper authority, and his naturally quiet tastes kept him from any transgression of the rules that seemed irksome to those of more excitable natures and less carefully trained. Through his entire college career Longfellow kept the respect and affection of many of the students whose natural tendencies led them often into mischief, but who none the less highly esteemed the graver qualities of their friend.

Immediately after his graduation he was offered the chair of modern languages in Bowdoin, with permission from the college authorities to visit Europe for the purpose of fitting himself for his new duties. Accordingly at the age of nineteen Longfellow sailed for France, visiting also Spain, Italy, and Germany, meeting with adventure everywhere, and storing up memory after memory that came back in after-years to serve some purpose of his art. We have thus preserved in his works the impressions that Europe then made upon a young American who had come there to supplement his education by studying at the universities, and whose mind was alive to all the culture denied it in his own land. The grandeur of the world of antique art preserved in the museums, the works of living artists whose names were famous, the magnificence of the cathedrals and palaces, the thousand memories clustered around the old historic towns and cities, the picturesque details of peasant life, the gay student life which was so unlike that of the American youth that it seemed a different world, all struck Longfellow with a new and pleasant feeling of richness, as if the world had suddenly become wider, and full of stores of unsuspected wealth. One of Longfellow's great pleasures while on this trip was the meeting with Irving in Spain, where the latter was busy with his _Life of Columbus_.

The vividness of his impressions of European life was seen upon all his work, and was perhaps the first reflection of the old poetic European influence that began to be felt in much American poetry, where the charm of old peasant love songs and roundelays, heard for centuries among the lower classes of Spain, France, and Italy, was wrought into translation and transcription so perfect and spirited that they may almost rank with original work.

Longfellow returned to America after three years' absence, and at once began his duties at Bowdoin College, remaining three years, when he left to take a Professorship at Harvard, which he had accepted with the understanding that he was to spend a year and a half abroad before commencing his work. Two years after his return he published his first volume of poems, and his romance _Hyperion_. In _Hyperion_, Longfellow relates some of the experiences of his own travels under the guise of the hero, who wanders through Europe, and the book is full of the same biographical charm that belongs to _Outre Mer_. Here the student life of the German youths, the songs they sang, the books they read, and even their favorite foods are noted, while the many translations of German poetry opened a new field of delight to American readers. It was well received by the public, who appreciated its fine poetic fancy and its wealth of serious thought. But it was not by his prose that Longfellow touched the deepest sympathies of his readers, and the publication of his first volume of poetry a few months later showed his real position in the world of American letters. This little book, which was issued under the title _Voices of the Night_, consisted of the poems that had so far appeared in the various magazines and papers, a few poems written in his college days, and some translations from the French, German, and Spanish poets. In this volume occurs some of Longfellow's choicest work, the gem of the book being the celebrated "Psalm of Life."

It is from this point that Longfellow goes onward, always as the favorite poet of the American people. The "Psalm of Life" had been published previously in a magazine without the author's name, and it had no sooner been read than it seemed to find its way into every heart. Ministers read it to their congregations all over the country, and it was sung as a hymn in many churches. It was copied in almost every newspaper in the United states, it was recited by every school-child, and years afterwards one of America's greatest men said that in one of the darkest hours of his life he had been cheered and uplifted by its noble spirit. To young and old alike it brought its message, and its voice was recognized as that of a true leader. The author of _Outre Mer_ and _Hyperion_ had well touched hands with millions of his brothers and sisters, and the clasp was never unloosed while he lived.

In the same collection occurs "The Footsteps of Angels," another well-beloved poem, and one in which the spirit of home life is made the inspiration.

Longfellow's poems now followed one another in rapid succession, appearing generally at first in some magazine, and afterward in book form in various collections under different titles.

His greatest contributions to American literature are his "Evangeline" and "Hiawatha," and a score of shorter poems, which in themselves would give the author a high place in any literature.

In "Evangeline" Longfellow took for his theme the story of the destruction of the Acadian villages in Nova Scotia by the English during the French and Indian war. Longfellow has made of this sad story a wondrously beautiful tale that reads like an old legend of Grecian Arcadia.

The description of the great primeval forests stretching down to the sea; of the villages and farms scattered over the land as unprotected as the nests of the meadow-lark; of the sowing and harvesting of the peasant folks, with their fÍtes and church-going, their weddings and festivals; and the pathetic search of Evangeline for her lost lover Gabriel among the plains of Louisiana--all show Longfellow in his finest mood as a poet whom the sorrows of mankind touched always with reverent pity, as well as a writer of noble verse.

Everywhere that the English language is read, "Evangeline" has passed as the most beautiful folk-story that America has produced: and the French Canadians, the far-away brothers of the Acadians, have included Longfellow among their national poets. Among them "Evangeline" is known by heart, and the cases are not rare where the people have learned English expressly for the purpose of reading Longfellow's poem in the original, a wonderful tribute to the poet who could thus touch to music one of the saddest memories of their race.

In "Hiawatha" Longfellow gave to the Indian the place in poetry that had been given him by Cooper in prose.

"Hiawatha" is a poem of the forests and of the dark-skinned race who dwelt therein, who were learned only in forest-lore, and lived as near to nature's heart as the fauns and satyrs of old. Into this legend Longfellow has put all the poetry of the Indians' nature, and has made his hero, Hiawatha, a noble creation, that compares favorably with the King Arthur of the old British romances. From first to last Hiawatha moves among the people a real leader, showing them how to clear their forests, to plant grain, to make for themselves clothing of embroidered and painted skins, to improve their fishing-grounds, and to live at peace with their neighbors. From the time when he was a little child, and his grandmother told him all the fairy-tales of nature, up to the day when, like Arthur, he passed mysteriously through the gates of the sunset, all his hope and joy and work were for his people. He is a creature that could only have been born from a mind as pure and poetic as that of Longfellow. All the scenes and images of the poem are so true to nature that they seem like very breaths from the forests. We move with Hiawatha through the dewy birchen aisles, learn with him the language of the nimble squirrel and of the wise beaver and mighty bear, watch him build his famous canoe, and spend hours with him fishing in the waters of the great inland sea, bordered by the great pictured rocks painted by nature itself. Longfellow's first idea of the poem was suggested, it is said, by his hearing a Harvard student recite some Indian tales. Searching among the various books that treated of the American Indians, he found many legends and incidents that preserved fairly well the traditional history of the Indian race, and grouping these around one central figure, and filling in the gaps with poetic descriptions of the forests, mountains, lakes, rivers, and plains which made up the abode of these picturesque people, he thus built up the entire poem. The metre used is that in which the "Kalevala Thean," the national epic of the Finn, is written, and the Finnish hero Wainamoinen, in his gift of song and his brave adventures, is not unlike the great Hiawatha.

Among Longfellow's other long poems are "The Spanish Student," a dramatic poem founded upon a Spanish romance; "The Divine Tragedy" and "The Golden Legend," founded upon the life of Christ; "The Courtship of Miles Standish," a tale of Puritan love-making in the time of the early settlers; and "Tales of a Wayside Inn," which are a series of poems of adventure supposed to be related by the guests at an inn.

But it is with such poems as "Evangeline" and "Hiawatha," and the shorter famous poems like the "Psalm of Life," "Excelsior," "The Wreck of the _Hesperus_," "The Building of the Ship," "The Footsteps of Angels," that his claim as the favorite poet of America has its foundation. "The Building of the Ship" was never read during the struggle of the civil war without raising the audience to a passion of enthusiasm; and so in each of these shorter poems Longfellow touched with wondrous sympathy the hearts of his readers. Throughout the land he was received as the poet of the home and heart: the sweet singer to whom the fireside and family gave ever sacred and beautiful meanings.

Some poems on slavery, a prose tale called "Kavanajh," and a translation of the "Divine Comedy" of Dante, must also be included among Longfellow's work; but these have never reached the success attained by his more popular poems, which are known by heart by millions.

Longfellow died in Cambridge in 1882, in the same month in which was written his last poem, "The Bells of San Blas," which concludes with these words,

"It is daybreak everywhere."

JOHN CABOT.

Hickety, pickety, John Cabot
Longed to discover a brand-new spot.
He found Cape Breton, and, well content.
As fast as the billows would take him, he went
Back to his home with a very high head,
And unto King Henry the Seventh he said,
"I have found China, that empire old.
Give me a garment all trimmed with gold."
Hickety, pickety, John Cabot,
Garments and titles and honors he got.
And he said to his barber one summer day,
"I have an island to give away,
An island in China, a very nice spot,
I hope you will like it," quoth John Cabot.
Hickety, pickety, bless my heart,
To own an island is very smart.
"To own an island is great indeed,"
The barber he said, "and a title I'll need.
And I'll wear a mantle all trimmed with lace,
And never again will I shave a face."
But alas for the barber, and poor John too,
Their titles and honors and airs fell through.
It was only a corner of Canada, not
The Chinese Empire which John Cabot
Had found in 1497
And unto his barber so freely had given.
So then this poor barber of John Cabot
Back to his shaving went trit-ty-te-trot.
Both of his island and title bereft,
Lucky indeed that his razor was left.
But hickety, pickety, John Cabot
Really discovered a brand-new spot.

THE RACING YACHT OF TO-DAY.

BY L. A. TEREBEL.

When the _America's_ Cup was first contested for, a good many years ago, the boats that competed for it were out-and-out yachts--pleasure craft that could be of service to their owners for other purposes besides cup-hunting and cup-defending. But the craft that we see taking part in the international races nowadays are nothing more nor less than racing-machines. These are built solely to take part in the struggle with the Britisher, just as the Britisher is built solely to sail against the fastest Yankee: and after the cup contests are over these $250,000 beauties are of no further use, except, of course, to win other races. When I say that they are of no further use, I do not mean this statement to be taken as literally true, because the boats can be reconstructed and remodelled for cruising purposes, and sometimes are, but they cannot be used for anything but racing when in the condition they appear in at the starting-line. Many people not particularly interested in yachting cannot see why rich men should put a quarter of a million of dollars into a boat which, after it has sailed against an English yacht, will only bring about $10,000 in open market. They argue that the end of sport would be just as well served by the racing of smaller boats, and Lord Dunraven himself has been reported as saying he thought it would be advisable to restrict the length of the racers to seventy-five feet. A few years ago there were no such restrictions, but when _Puritan_ was built to meet _Genesta_ it was mutually decided by the Englishmen and the Americans that the sloops should not exceed ninety feet on the water-line.

But the builders have to a certain extent neutralized this rule by giving their yachts such an overhang fore and aft that they can stand much more sail than other sloops of larger dimensions. We have probably reached the limit in expense of yacht-building this year, however, and I doubt if any cup defender will ever be built to cost more than the present one. A new class, called half-raters (restricted to 15 feet racing length), is coming into popularity, and the Seawanhaka-Corinthian Yacht Club is to hold international races of boats of that kind next month. This new class in international matches will doubtless claim some of the interest that has been given to the giant single-stickers, and in years to come the expense involved in the defense of the _America's_ Cup ought not to be so excessive.

THE CHALLENGER AND DEFENDER OF THE "AMERICA'S" CUP IN DRY DOCK.]

But to return to the yachts themselves, and to what I said about their uselessness as cruisers. The _Valkyrie_ that sailed against _Defender_ on September 7th was not the _Valkyrie_ that crossed the ocean in August. The racer is an empty shell, with a towering mast and thousands of square feet of sail, whereas the travelling _Valkyrie_ was the home of the forty or forty-five men who constituted her crew, and she was a two-masted craft--with stubby masts at that. As the one aim of both _Valkyrie_ and _Defender_ is to attain the highest possible speed, everything is done that experience and money can do to make the boats as light and as swift-sailing as possible. The one thought of the builders from the moment they got the orders to design the yachts was to make the shape of each boat the best to cut through the water, and the sails the most efficient to catch every breath of air stirring overhead.

In order that his rival might not know what kind of a boat was going to be turned out, both the English and the American architects worked with the greatest secrecy, and even after the boats had been launched and seen by the public their true measurements were withheld. But enough is known about the construction of racing sloops in general, and sufficient has leaked out about the building of _Defender_ in particular, for us to have a pretty good knowledge of the boat that was depended upon to keep the _America's_ Cup on this side of the water.

About three months were required for the construction of _Defender_. She was built at Bristol, Rhode Island. The plans were first fully discussed by the owners and the architect and his assistants, and were then laid out on paper to a scale, probably one inch to the foot--although this would make a pretty large working plan. But still, the larger a plan is the better, and in an important matter of this kind no pains are spared to reach perfection. A model of a yacht under construction is unnecessary, and is seldom made, except for the pleasure or curiosity of the owner.

It was decided to give up the centreboard this year--much to the disappointment of a great many patriotic yachtsmen, for the centreboard is a purely American institution--and the plans were consequently designed for a keel boat. _Defender_'s keel is of lead, and weighs 80 tons. It is 5 feet 6 inches high, 3 feet 6 inches wide, and 35 feet long on top, and was cast in the shop where the yacht was built, for such a weight as that could not very well be moved from one end of a ship-yard to the other. A cross section of this lead keel would look very much like the cross section of a pear cut lengthwise, with the bulge at the bottom. Fore and aft it is shaped somewhat like a whale or a cat-fish--that is, it is largest forward and tapers toward the stern. This doubtless seems strange to a great many unobservant landsmen, who know that ships are usually made as pointed and sharp as possible at the bow. This is all very well for a body that is intended to cut through the water, but for anything meant to travel under the surface the fish shape is the proper thing. All fish are larger at the head than at the tail, and yet they seem to find no difficulty in getting through the water very rapidly. Following this natural phenomenon, the keel of _Defender_ is bulging at the bow and tapering at the stern.

Just, as the size and position of every stone in a large building are figured out before the work is begun, so was every part of _Defender_ designed and laid out in the mould loft at Bristol long before the actual work of construction could commence. The mould loft is a very large room, with a spacious floor and plenty of light. On the floor every part of _Defender_ was sketched out in chalk to the actual size required. Every beam and section was accurately laid down, and the workmen made wooden moulds or patterns from these sketches. To these wooden moulds the metal ribs and frames were afterwards bent. This work was done on the "bending table" by methods fully described in an article on ship-building published in No. 784 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. When the steel ribs were satisfactorily completed, and had been found to be exactly as designed in the mould loft, they were taken into the shed where the yacht was being constructed. This shed, by-the-way, was a harder place to get into than the palace of the Czar. The doors were kept locked all the time, and watchmen were on duty day and night to drive away intruders. Only the owners, the architects, and the workmen were permitted to enter.

The keel, which is made of cast brass in three sections, was bolted to the lead with great screws from six to eight inches long, and the ribs were riveted to the keel and steadied across the top with wooden cross spalls until the deck beams were ready to be put on. The latter are of aluminium bronze. Everything in the make up of the yacht so far has been metal, and everything will be metal to the end. Even the stern and stem are brass castings, and there is no wood in the body of _Defender_, except the deck, which is of 24-inch light pine. The two or three partitions inside of her are made of canvas stretched on light pine frames, and the only other wood on board is in the mast. Even the boom is metal--that is, since _Valkyrie_ came over with a steel boom.

To the ribs were riveted the plates, which are of manganese bronze, which is a kind of refined brass, only three-sixteenths of an inch thick, and the upper two streaks are of aluminium. This aluminium is said to be almost pure, and is the lightest metal known.

_Valkyrie_ is not such a metallic boat as _Defender_. She is of the composite type. Her stem and stern are of wood, and she is planked on the outside with American elm below water and spruce on top. This elm is an excellent wood for yacht construction. It will not decay if kept under water, but spoils if allowed to be wet and dry by turns. It is used a great deal in England, and yet, strange as this may seem, it cannot be bought in the New York lumber market. It is scarcely known here. It comes from Canada, in the neighborhood of Quebec, and the whole supply is shipped to England. In Canada the elms are grown in plantations, and cultivated so that they are straighter and taller than those we have in the United States. Here elm is seldom used in the construction of ships except for knees. It is also a favorite wood for the hubs of wheels. But this elm is the common elm, not the American elm of the English market, which, as I have said, is hardly ever seen on this coast.

But although _Valkyrie_'s hull and stern are of wood, her frames are of nickel steel strapped together with steel ribbons running at an angle. Thus, before her planking was put on, she must have looked like a huge steel basket.

The masts of both yachts are of Oregon pine. And with regard to this Oregon pine another peculiar feature of the Atlantic coast lumber market becomes apparent. Ten years ago Oregon pine was not known here. Ship-builders did not use it. But the Britishers did, and all the Oregon pine that could be purchased used to be shipped to England in sailing-vessels that went around Cape Horn from Puget Sound. When our ship-builders finally discovered that this pine was about the best that could be had for masts and spars, they tried to buy some, but they found they had to go to English markets to get it. Within the past few years, however, more and more Oregon pine has been offered for sale on this coast, and it is probable that _Defender_'s mast was not imported from England. The first boom of _Defender_ was also of Oregon pine. This boom cost nearly $2000, and was built like a barrel, or rather like two barrels--one on the outside of the other. This was to give additional strength. The inner boom was hooped together with steel bands, and then the outer layer of pine staves was fitted on and hooped with brass rings. But when _Valkyrie_ appeared in dry dock here and began to put on her racing togs, the _Defender_ syndicate saw the Britisher's steel boom, and forthwith set about to build one like it. _Valkyrie_'s boom is the first of the kind ever seen in this country, and probably the first of the kind ever made. Some of the big sailing ships of commerce have had steel yards, and racing-boats abroad have sometimes been fitted with spars of drawn steel; but nothing like this boom of _Valkyrie_ had ever before been attempted. It is hollow, of course, and although of steel, is about one ton lighter than the pine boom that _Defender_ first carried. The American yacht's steel boom is now a counterpart of her rival's. It is made in sections that are riveted together through flanges that project on the outer side. It is built on the plan of an elevated railroad pillar, and looks very much like one, being of about the same thickness, only round instead of square, and about twice as long as the average elevated-road pillar is high.

The sails of the racers are probably the most wonderful part of their whole make up. _Defender_, when she has her mainsail, her jib, her jib topsail, her staysail, and her working topsail up, carries 12,000 square feet of canvas. And when she substitutes for these working-sails her balloon jib, her club topsail, and puts out her spinnaker she almost doubles that area. These sails cost thousands of dollars, because there must be several of each in case of accident to one or another, and for use in the different kinds of wind that may prevail in a race. There is a heavy mainsail for strong winds, of sea-island cotton or Egyptian cotton or ramie cloth, while the jibs are made of lighter grades of the same material, until they come down to the constituency of a coarse pocket-handkerchief. One of _Defender_'s spinnakers is of Scotch linen. In 1893 it was reported that one of _Valkyrie II._'s big spinnakers was of silk, but it was not; it was of exceedingly fine Irish linen.

Taking all these matters into account, and considering that each boat must have from forty to fifty sailors to man her, it becomes evident that the building and maintaining of such a yacht is a matter of no small expense. Mr. George Gould spent no less than $40,000 to put _Vigilant_ in condition to race with _Defender_ in the preliminary trials this year. The crew has to be engaged and trained for weeks before the racer is put into commission, and kept at work for a couple of months before the great contests for the Cup are held. These sailors, of course, cannot live on the yacht, since there is no room for bunks or lockers or a galley on the modern racing-machine. Therefore both _Defender_ and _Valkyrie_ have steam-tenders.

There is really something humorous about a crew of sailors leaving their hollow unbunked boat every evening to go to bed in a tender near by. At meal-time, too, the gallant tars have to seek their floating hotel. When _Defender_ was with the New York Yacht Squadron on this summer's cruise she reached port one evening ahead of most of the fleet, and of her slow consort. She was too deep of draught to get far into the harbor, and being a "racer" she had nothing aboard but men and sails, a small anchor, and a small dinghy. Consequently the crew sat on the deck for several hours, with their legs hanging over the sides, waiting for the _Hattie Palmer_ to come along and give them their supper.

A great number of Americans--and I am one of them--would have preferred to see _Defender_ built on the American centreboard plan, all of American material, and without borrowing British ideas, especially as to the boom. They were sorry to hear that Mr. Gould last year wanted Mr. Ratsey, _Valkyrie_'s sail-maker, to make _Vigilant_'s sails, and they were very glad when the loyal and patriotic Ratsey (credit be to him for it!) refused to take the order. But, after all, this great number of Americans has nothing to say in the matter, and all they--and I--want is to see _Defender_ win by fair means the matches she was built to race in, and the Cup she was built to defend.

The only school in this country that I know of where rowing takes the leading position in sports is St. Paul's of Concord. There is rowing done at other schools, of course, as at Cascadilla, near Ithaca, and at St. John's, Delafield, Wisconsin, but at none of these institutions has the art reached the stage of perfection which characterizes the work of the St. Paul's oarsmen. It is doubtless because rowing has been indulged in there for almost twenty-five years, whereas at the other schools I have mentioned boating is a comparative novelty. It is growing in popularity as a scholastic sport, however, and in a few years I have no doubt that every school situated close enough to a lake or a river will have a crew, just as almost every school nowadays has an eleven and a nine.