Chapter XXV: Introduction (23)

Before he could say any more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, “Mercy me! it’s your grandpa!”

“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,” returned the boy, looking wicked.

“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you are any the worse for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.

“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.

“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,” said Laurie.

“Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn’t as handsome as _my_ grandfather, but I like him.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

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WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS.

THE WELL-BELOVED WRITER FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

PROBABLY no literary man in America has ministered to the pleasure of a greater number of our young people than William Taylor Adams, who is a native of Massachusetts and was born in Medway in 1822. He has devoted his life to young people; for more than twenty years as a teacher in the public schools of Boston, for many years a member of the school board of Dorchester, and since 1850 as a writer of stories. In his earlier life, he was the editor of a periodical known as “The Student and Schoolmate.” In 1881 he began the publication of “Our Little Ones,” and later “Oliver Optic’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.” His first book was published in 1853; it was entitled “Hatchie, the Guardian Slave,” and had a large sale. It was followed by a collection of stories called “In Doors and Out,” and in 1862 was completed “The Riverdale Series” of six volumes of stories for boys. Some of his other books are “The Boat Club;” “Woodville;” “Young America Abroad;” “Starry Flag;” “Onward and Upward;” “Yacht Club;” and “Great Western.” In all he has written at least a thousand stories for newspapers, and published about a hundred volumes. Among these are two novels for older readers: “The Way of the World” and “Living Too Fast.”

Mr. Adams’ style is both pleasing and simple. His stories are frequently based upon scenes of history and their influence is always for good.

* * * * *

THE SLOOP THAT WENT TO THE BOTTOM.¹

(FROM “SNUG HARBOR,” 1883.)

¹ Copyright, Lee & Shepard.

“STARBOARD your helm! hard a-starboard!” shouted Dory Dornwood, as he put the helm of the “Goldwing” to port in order to avoid a collision with a steam launch which lay dead ahead of the schooner.

“Keep off! you will sink me!” cried a young man in a sloop-boat, which lay exactly in the course of the steam launch. “That’s just what I mean to do, if you don’t come about,” yelled a man at the wheel of the steamer. “Why didn’t you stop when I called to you?”

“Keep off, or you will be into me!” screamed the skipper of the sloop, whose tones and manner indicated that he was very much terrified at the situation.

And he had reason enough to be alarmed. It was plain, from his management of his boat, that he was but an indifferent boatman; and probably he did not know what to do in the emergency. Dory had noticed the sloop coming up the lake with the steam launch astern of her. The latter had run ahead of the sloop, and had come about, it now appeared, for the purpose of intercepting her.

When the skipper of the sloop realized the intention of the helmsman of the steamer, he put his helm to port; but he was too late. The sharp bow of the launch struck the frail craft amidships, and cut through her as though she had been made of cardboard.

The sloop filled instantly, and, a moment later, the young man in her was struggling on the surface of the water. The boat was heavily ballasted, and she went down like a lump of lead. It was soon clear to Dory that the skipper could not swim, for he screamed as though the end of all things had come.

Very likely it would have been the end of all things to him, if Dory had not come about with the “Goldwing,” and stood over the place where the young man was vainly beating the water with his feet and hands. With no great difficulty the skipper of the “Goldwing,” who was an aquatic bird of the first water, pulled in the victim of the catastrophe, in spite of the apparent efforts of the sufferer to prevent him from doing so.

“You had a narrow squeak that time,” said Dory Dornwood, as soon as he thought the victim of the disaster was in condition to do a little talking. “It is lucky you didn’t get tangled up in the rigging of your boat. She went to the bottom like a pound of carpet-tacks; and she would have carried you down in a hurry if you hadn’t let go in short metre.”

“I think I am remarkably fortunate in being among the living at this moment,” replied the stranger, looking out over the stern of the “Goldwing.” “That was the most atrocious thing a fellow ever did.”

“What was?” inquired Dory, who was not quite sure what the victim meant by the remark, or whether he alluded to him or to the man in the steam launch.

“Why, running into me like that,” protested the passenger, with no little indignation in his tones.

“I suppose you came up from Burlington?” said Dory, suggestively, as though he considered an explanation on the part of the stranger to be in order at the present time.

“I have just come from Burlington,” answered the victim, who appeared to be disposed to say nothing more. “Do you suppose I can get that boat again?”

“I should say that the chance of getting her again was not first-rate. She went down where the water is about two hundred and fifty feet deep; and it won’t be an easy thing to get hold of her,” replied Dory. “If you had let him run into you between Diamond Island and Porter’s Bay, where the water is not more than fifty or sixty feet deep, you could have raised her without much difficulty. I don’t believe you will ever see her again.”

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SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT.

FAVORITE WRITER FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

ONE of the earliest papers devoted especially to young children was “The Little Pilgrim,” edited for a number of years under the name of “Grace Greenwood,” by Mrs. Lippincott. It had a very wide popularity, and its little stories, poems, and page of puzzles brought pleasure into very many home circles. Mrs. Lippincott is the daughter of Doctor Thaddeus Clarke. She was born in Pompey, New York, in September, 1823, and lived during most of her childhood in Rochester. In 1842 she removed with her father to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, and in 1853 she was married to Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She had early begun to write verses, and, in 1844, contributed some prose articles to “The New York Mirror,” adopting the name “Grace Greenwood,” which she has since made famous. Besides her work upon “The Little Pilgrim,” she has contributed for many years to “The Hearth and Home,” “The Atlantic Monthly,” “Harper’s Magazine,” “The New York Independent,” “Times,” and “Tribune,” to several California journals, and to at least two English periodicals. She was one of the first women to become a newspaper correspondent, and her letters from Washington inaugurated a new feature in journalism. She has published a number of books: “Greenwood Leaves;” “History of My Pets;” “Poems;” “Recollections of My Childhood;” “Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe;” “Merrie England;” “Stories from Many Lands;” “Victoria, Queen of England,” and others.

Mrs. Lippincott has lived abroad a great deal, and has been made welcome in the best literary circles in England and on the continent. During the war she devoted herself to the cause of the soldiers, read and lectured to them in camps and hospitals, and won the appreciation of President Lincoln, who used to speak of her as “Grace Greenwood, the Patriot.” Although devoted to her home in Washington, she has spent much time in New York City, and has lived a life whose activity and service to the public are almost unequalled among literary women.

* * * * *

THE BABY IN THE BATH-TUB.¹

(FROM “RECORDS OF FIVE YEARS,” 1867.)

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

“ANNIE! Sophie! come up quick, and see baby in her bath-tub!” cries a charming little maiden, running down the wide stairway of an old country house, and half-way up the long hall, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her soft dimpled cheeks tinged with the same lovely morning hue. In an instant there is a stir and a gush of light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sisterly, Annie and Sophie float noiselessly through the hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne on their respective clouds of blue and white drapery, and take their way to the nursery, where a novel entertainment awaits them. It is the first morning of the eldest married sister’s first visit home, with her first baby; and the first baby, having slept late after its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old house.

“Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, forgetting her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and disconsolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine-month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub! What simpletons we are!”

Thus Miss Annie, the _proude layde_ of the family; handsome, haughty, with perilous proclivities toward grand socialistic theories, transcendentalism, and general strong-mindedness; pledged by many a saucy vow to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to studies artistic, æsthetic, philosophic and ethical; a student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an exalter of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies.

“Simpletons, are we?” cries pretty Elinor Lee, aunt of the baby on the other side, and “Cousin Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneeling close by the bath-tub, and receiving on her sunny braids a liberal baptism from the pure, plashing hands of babyhood,――“simpletons, indeed! Did I not once see thee, O Pallas-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the ‘Crouching Venus?’ and this is a sight a thousand times more beautiful; for here we have color, action, radiant life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors of Greece were never able to entrance in marble. Just look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple holding a tiny, sparkling drop,――these rosy, plashing feet and hands,――this laughing, roguish face,――these eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy-land,――these ears, like dainty sea-shells,――these locks of gold, dripping diamonds,――and tell me what cherub of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so lovely. I say, too, that Raphael himself would have jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chastened dignity of young maternity,――of painting her as _Madonna_.”

“Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for once, over a baby in a bath-tub!”

“Well, Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspire _real_ poets, to call out and yet humble the genius of painters and sculptors? Isn’t it an object for the reverence of ‘a glorious human creature,’――such a pure and perfect form of physical life, such a starry little soul, fresh from the hands of God? If your Plato teaches otherwise, Cousin Annie, I’m glad I’ve no acquaintance with that distinguished heathen gentleman; if your Carlyle, with his ‘soul above buttons’ and babies, would growl, and your Emerson smile icily at the sight, away with them!”

“Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is ‘a man and a brother,’ in spite of his ‘Latter-day Pamphlets,’ and no ogre. I believe he is very well disposed toward babies in general; while Emerson is as tender as he is great. Have you forgotten his ‘Threnody,’ in which the sob of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells into an immortal’s pean? I see that baby is very lovely; I think that Louise may well be proud of her. It’s a pity that she must grow up into conventionalities and all that,――perhaps become some man’s plaything, or slave.”

“O _don’t_, sister!――‘sufficient for the day is the _worriment_ thereof.’ But I think you and Nellie are mistaken about the _pride_. I am conscious of no such feeling in regard to my little Florence, but only of joy, gratitude, infinite tenderness, and solicitude.”

Thus the young mother,――for the first time speaking, but not turning her eyes from the bath-tub.

“Ah, coz, it won’t go! Young mothers are the proudest of living creatures. The sweetest and saintliest among you have a sort of subdued exultation, a meek assumption, an adorable insolence, toward the whole unmarried and childless world. I have never seen anything like it elsewhere.”

“_I_ have, in a bantam Biddy, parading her first brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, leading her first little downy flock to the water.”

“Ha, blasphemer! are you there?” cries Miss Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter blush. Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably good one,――Edward Norton,――though he is oftenest called “Our Ned.” He is the sole male representative of a wealthy old New England family,――the pride and darling of four pretty sisters, “the only son of his mother, and she a widow,” who adores him,――“a likely youth, just twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, and standing six feet high in his stockings. Yet, in spite of all these unfavorable circumstances, he is a very good sort of a fellow. He is just home from the model college of the Commonwealth, where he learned to smoke, and, I blush to say, has a cigar in hand at this moment, just as he has been summoned from the garden by his pet sister, Kate, half-wild with delight and excitement. With him comes a brother, according to the law, and after the spirit,――a young, slender, fair-haired man, but with an indescribable something of paternal importance about him. He is the other proprietor of baby, and steps forward with a laugh and a “Heh, my little water-nymph, my Iris!” and by the bath-tub kneeling, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby lips, and a sudden wilting shower on shirt-front and collar, from moister baby hands.

Young collegian pauses on the threshold, essaying to look lofty and sarcastic, for a moment. Then his eye rests on Nellie Lee’s blushing face, on the red, smiling lips, the braids of gold, sprinkled with shining drops,――meets those sweet, shy eyes, and a sudden, mysterious feeling, soft and vague and tender, floods his gay young heart. He looks at baby again. “’Tis a pretty sight, upon my word! Let me throw away my cigar before I come nearer; it is incense too profane for such pure rites. Now give me a peep at Dian-the less! How the little witch revels in the water! A small Undine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby? Why, Louise, I did not know that Floy was so lovely, such a perfect little creature. How fair she is? Why, her flesh, where it is not rosy, is of the pure, translucent whiteness of a water-lily.”

No response to this tribute, for baby has been in the water more than long enough, and must be taken out, willy, nilly. Decidedly nilly it proves; baby proceeds to demonstrate that she is not altogether cherubic, by kicking and screaming lustily, and striking out frantically with her little, dripping hands. But Madonna wraps her in soft linen, rolls her and pats her, till she grows good and merry again, and laughs through her pretty tears.

But the brief storm has been enough to clear the nursery of all save grandmamma and Auntie Kate, who draw nearer to witness the process of drying and dressing. Tenderly the mother rubs the dainty, soft skin, till every dimple gives up its last hidden droplet; then, with many a kiss, and smile, and coo, she robes the little form in fairy-like garments of cambric, lace, flannel, soft as a moth’s wing, and delicate embroidery. The small, restless feet are caught, and encased in comical little hose, and shod with Titania’s own slippers. Then the light golden locks are brushed and twined into tendril-like curls, and lo! the beautiful labor of love is finished. Baby is bathed and dressed for the day.

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HORATIO ALGER.

AS a writer of books at once entertaining and at the same time of a healthy and earnest character a parent cannot recommend to his boys a more wholesome author than Horatio Alger, Jr. Mr. Alger always writes with a careful regard to truth and to the right principles. His heroes captivate the imagination, but they do not inflame it, and they are generally worthy examples for the emulation of boys. At the same time he is in no sense a preacher. His books have the true juvenile flavor and charm, and, like the sugar pills of the homœopathist, carry the good medicine of morality, bravery, industry, enterprise, honor――everything that goes to make up the true manly and noble character, so subtly woven into the thread of his interesting narrative that the writer without detecting its presence receives the wholesome benefit.

Mr. Alger became famous in the publication of that undying book, “Ragged Dick; or, Street Life in New York.” It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to writing for young people, which he has since continued. It was a new field for a writer when Mr. Alger began, and his treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. “Ragged Dick” first appeared in 1868, and since then it has been selling steadily until now it is estimated that over two hundred thousand copies of the series have passed into circulation. Mr. Alger possesses in an eminent degree that sympathy with boys which a writer must have to meet with success. He is able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He knows how to look upon life as they do. He writes straight at them as one from their ranks and not down upon them as a towering fatherly adviser. A boy’s heart naturally opens to a writer who understands him and makes a companion of him. This, we believe, accounts for the enormous sale of the books of this writer. We are told that about three-quarters of a million copies of his books have been sold and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets of them, of which but few volumes are found on the shelves at one time.

Horatio Alger, Jr., was born in Revere, Massachusetts, January 13, 1834. He graduated at Harvard University in 1852, after which he spent several years in teaching and newspaper work. In 1864 he was ordained as a Unitarian minister and served a Massachusetts church for two years. It was in 1866 that he took up his residence in New York and became deeply interested in the street boys and exerted what influence he could to the bettering of their condition. His experience in this work furnished him with the information out of which grew many of his later writings.

To enumerate the various volumes published by this author would be tedious. They have generally been issued in series. Several volumes complete one subject or theme. His first published book was “Bertha’s Christmas Vision” (1855). Succeeding this came “Nothing to Do,” a tilt at our best society, in verse (1857); “Frank’s Campaign; or, What a Boy Can Do” (1864); “Helen Ford,” a novel, and also a volume of poems (1866). The “Ragged Dick” series began in 1868, and comprises six volumes. Succeeding this came “Tattered Tom,” first and second series, comprising eight volumes. The entire fourteen volumes above referred to are devoted to New York street life of boys. “Ragged Dick” has served as a model for many a poor boy struggling upward, while the influence of Phil the fiddler in the “Tattered Tom” series is credited with having had much to do in the abolishment of the _padrone_ system. The “Campaign Series” comprised three volumes; the “Luck and Pluck Series” eight; the “Brave and Bold” four; the “Pacific Series” four; the “Atlantic Series” four; “Way to Success” four; the “New World” three; the “Victory Series” three. All of these were published prior to 1896. Since the beginning of 1896 have appeared “Frank Hunter’s Peril,” “The Young Salesman” and other later works, all of which have met with the usual cordial reception accorded by the boys and girls to the books of this favorite author. It is perhaps but just to say, now that Oliver Optic is gone, that Mr. Alger has attained distinction as the most popular writer of books for boys in America, and perhaps no other writer for the young has ever stimulated and encouraged earnest boys in their efforts to rise in the world or so strengthened their will to persevere in well-doing, and at the same time written stories so real that every one, young and old, delights to read them. He not only writes interesting and even thrilling stories, but what is of very great importance, they are always clean and healthy.

* * * * *

HOW DICK BEGAN THE DAY.¹

(FROM “RAGGED DICK; OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.”)

¹ Copyright, Porter & Coates.

“WAKE up, there, youngster,” said a rough voice.

Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly and stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not offer to get up.

“Wake up, you young vagabond!” said the man a little impatiently; “I suppose you’d lay there all day if I hadn’t called you.”

“What time is it?” asked Dick.

“Seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock! I oughter’ve been up an hour ago. I know what ’twas made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night and didn’t turn in till past twelve.”

“You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get your money?” asked the man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce Street.

“Made it on shines, in course. My guardian don’t allow me no money for theatres, so I have to earn it.”

“Some boys get it easier than that,” said the porter, significantly.

“You don’t catch me stealing, if that’s what you mean,” said Dick.

“Don’t you ever steal, then?”

“No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn’t.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe there’s some good in you, Dick, after all.”

“Oh, I’m a rough customer,” said Dick. “But I wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.”

“I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice sounded gentler than at first. “Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?”

“No; but I’ll soon have some.”

While this conversation had been going on Dick had got up. His bed-chamber had been a wooden box, half full of straw, on which the young bootblack had reposed his weary limbs and slept as soundly as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without taking the trouble of undressing. Getting up, too, was an equally short process. He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the day.

Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box, was rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.

Washing the hands and face is usually considered proper in commencing the day; but Dick was above such refinement. He had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had been clean and well-dressed he would have been decidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a straightforward manner that made him a favorite.

Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who passed, addressing each with, “Shine your boots, sir?”

“How much?” asked a gentleman on his way to his office.

“Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his profession.

“Ten cents! Isn’t that a little steep?”

“Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, who had already set to work. “There’s the _blacking_ costs something, and I have to get a new brush pretty often.”

“And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentleman, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in Dick’s coat.

“Yes, sir,” said Dick, always ready for a joke; “I have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on Fifth Avenue that I can’t afford to take less than ten cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.”

“Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry. So your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it?”

“It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke the truth there.

“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s attire.

“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.

“Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”

“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically. “He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got tore some, ’cause he fit so hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his own: so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have it reasonable.”

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t like to deprive you of it. And did your pants come from General Washington, too?”

“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis had outgrown ’em and sent ’em to me; he’s bigger than me, and that’s why they don’t fit.

“It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, my lad, I suppose you would like your money.”

“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.

* * * * *

And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to my young readers, I must refer them to the next chapter for his further adventures.

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EDWARD S. ELLIS.

WRITER OF POPULAR BOOKS FOR BOYS.

EDWARD S. ELLIS is one of the most successful of the large group of men and women who have made it their principal business to provide delightful books for our young people.

Mr. Ellis is a native of northern Ohio, born in 1840, but has lived most of his life in New Jersey. At the age of seventeen, he began his successful career as a teacher and was attached for some years to the State Normal School of New Jersey, and was Trustee and Superintendent of the schools in the city of Trenton. He received the degree of A. M. from Princeton University on account of the high character of his historical text-books; but he is most widely known as a writer of books for boys. Of these, he has written about thirty and continues to issue two new ones each year, all of which are republished in London. His contributions to children’s papers are so highly esteemed that the “Little Folks’ Magazine,” of London, pays him double the rates given to any other contributor. Mr. Ellis’s School Histories have been widely used as text-books and he has also written two books on Arithmetic. He is now preparing “The Standard History of the United States.”

Besides those already mentioned, the titles of which would make too long a list to be inserted here, he has written a great many miscellaneous books.

Mr. Ellis abounds in good nature and is a delightful companion, and finds in his home at Englewood, New Jersey, all that is necessary to the enjoyment of life.

* * * * *

THE SIGNAL FIRE.¹

(FROM “STORM MOUNTAIN.”)

¹ Copyright, Porter & Coates.

TALBOT FROST paused on the crest of Storm Mountain and looked across the lonely Oakland Valley spread out before him.

He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who were equally vigilant in their search for him.

He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been a border scout for a score of years or more, and he knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose ambition was to destroy every white person that could be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk.

Frost had been engaged on many duties for the leading American officers, but he was sure that to-day was the most important of all; for be it known that he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message in cipher from General George Washington himself.

Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, if he would place the piece of cipher writing in the hands of Colonel Nick Hawley, before the evening of the tenth day of August, 1777.

To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in Oakland Valley. The vale spread away for many leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles wide at the point where the small border settlement was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen families clustered near.

“Thar’s a good three hours of sunlight left,” muttered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry August sky, “and I orter tramp to the fort and back agin in half that time. I’ll be thar purty quick, if none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin’ this crest, I’d like to cotch the signal fire of young Roslyn from over yender.”

General Washington considered the message to Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in duplicate; that is to say, two messengers concealed the cipher about their persons and set out by widely different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley.

Since the distance was about the same, and it was not expected that there would be much variation in speed, it was believed that, barring accidents, the two would arrive in sight of their destination within a short time of each other.

The other messenger was Elmer Roslyn, a youth of seventeen, a native of Oakland, absent with his father in the Continental Army, those two being the only members of their family who escaped an Indian massacre that had burst upon the lovely settlement some months before.

It was agreed that whoever first reached the mountain crest should signal to the other by means of a small fire――large enough merely to send up a slight vapor that would show against the blue sky beyond.

The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in search of the tell-tale signal. They followed the craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of the point where Roslyn had promised to appear, but the clear summer air was unsustained by the least semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud being visible in the tinted sky.

“That Elmer Roslyn is a powerful pert young chap,” said the border scout to himself. “I don’t think I ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like his father, Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; but thar’s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old campaignor like _me_. I don’t s’pose he’s within twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. So I’ll start mine, and in case he should accidentally reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt agin me.”

Talbot Frost knew that despite the perils through which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the valley.

It was necessary, therefore, to use great care lest the signal fire should attract the attention of unfriendly eyes.

“I’ll start a small one,” he said, beginning to gather some dry twigs, “just enough for Elmer to obsarve by sarchin’――by the great Gineral Washington!”

To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to the crumpled leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the opposite mountain-crest, two miles away.

As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a suspicious eye happened to look toward that part of the sky.

“By gracious! It’s him!” he exclaimed, closing his mouth and resuming command of himself. “That ere young Roslyn is pearter than I thought; if he keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years he’ll be the ekal of me――_almost_. Wall, I’ll have to answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to start a blaze.”

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MARTHA FINLEY.

THE GIRLS’ FRIEND.

MARTHA FINLEY, author of the “Elsie Books,” etc., amounting in all to about one hundred volumes, was born in Chillicothe, Ohio, April 26, 1828, in the house of her grandfather, Major Samuel Finley, of the Virginia Cavalry, in the War of the Revolution, and a personal friend of Washington, who, while President, appointed him “Collector of Public Monies” for the Northwestern Territory of which Ohio was then a part. In the war of 1812–14 Major Finley marched to Detroit to the assistance of General Hull, at the head of a regiment of Ohio volunteers in which his eldest son, James Brown Finley, then a lad of eighteen, was a lieutenant. On Hull’s disgraceful surrender those troops were paroled and returned to their homes in Ohio. James Finley afterwards became a physician and married his mother’s niece, Maria Theresa Brown. Martha was their sixth child. In the spring of 1836 Dr. Finley left Ohio for South Bend, Indiana, where he resided until his death in 1851.

Something more than a year later Martha joined a widowed sister in New York city and resided there with her for about eighteen months. It was then and there she began her literary career by writing a newspaper story and a little Sunday-school book. But she was broken down in health and half blind from astigmatism; so bad a case that the oculist who years afterward measured her eyes for glasses, told her she would have been excusable had she said she could not do anything at all. But she loved books and would manage to read and write in spite of the difficulty of so doing; and a great difficulty it was, for in the midst of a long sentence the letters would seem to be thrown into confusion, and it was necessary to look away from the book or close her eyes for an instant before they would resume their proper positions.

But orphaned and dependent upon her own exertions, she struggled on, teaching and writing, living sometimes in Philadelphia with a stepmother who was kind enough to give her a home, sometimes in Phœnixville, Pa., where she taught a little select school. It was there she began the Elsie Series which have proved her most successful venture in literature. The twenty-second volume, published in 1897, is entitled Elsie at Home. The author has again and again proposed to end the series, thinking it long enough, but public and publishers have insisted upon another and yet another volume. The books have sold so well that they have made her a lovely home in Elkton, Maryland, whither she removed in 1876 and still resides, and to yield her a comfortable income.

But her works are not all juveniles. “Wanted a Pedigree,” and most of the other works in the Finley Series are for adults, and though not so very popular as the Elsie Books, still have steady sales though nearly all have been on the market for more than twenty years.

* * * * *

ELSIE’S DISAPPOINTMENT.¹

(FROM “ELSIE DINSMORE.”)

¹ Copyright, 1893, Dodd, Mead & Co.

THE school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment. Within sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in number.

“Young ladies and gentlemen,” said she, looking at her watch, “I shall leave you to your studies for an hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear your recitations, when those who have attended properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit the fair.”

“Oh! that will be jolly!” exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten.

“Hush!” said Miss Day sternly; “let me hear no more such exclamations; and remember that you will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. Louise and Lora,” addressing two young girls of the respective ages of twelve and fourteen, “that French exercise must be perfect, and your English lessons as well. Elsie,” to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a slate with an appearance of great industry, “every figure of that example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copy-book written without a blot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes of the darkest hazel for an instant to her teacher’s face, and then dropping them again upon her slate.

“And see that none of you leave the room until I return,” continued the governess. “Walter, if you miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay at home and learn it over.”

“Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do,” muttered Arthur, as the door closed on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard passing down the hall.

For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the school-room, each seemingly completely absorbed in study. But at the end of that time Arthur sprang up, and, flinging his book across the room, exclaimed, “There! I know my lesson; and if I didn’t, I shouldn’t study another bit for old Day, or Night either.”

“Do be quiet, Arthur,” said his sister Louise; “I can’t study in such a racket.”

Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck with a feather.

She started, saying in a pleading tone, “Please, Arthur, don’t.”

“It pleases me to do,” he said, repeating the experiment.

Elsie changed her position, saying in the same gentle, persuasive tone, “O Arthur! _please_ let me alone, or I never shall be able to do this example.”

“What! all this time on one example! you ought to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a dozen times over.”

“I have been over and over it,” replied the little girl in a tone of despondency, “and still there are two figures that will not come right.”

“How do you know they are not right, little puss?” shaking her curls as he spoke.

“Oh! please, Arthur, don’t pull my hair. I have the answer――that’s the way I know.”

“Well, then, why don’t you just set the figures down. I would.”

“Oh! no, indeed; that would not be honest.”

“Pooh! nonsense! nobody would be the wiser, nor the poorer.”

“No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I can never get it right while you are bothering me so,” said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then, taking out her geography, she began studying most diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions――tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making remarks, and asking questions; till at last Elsie said, as if just ready to cry, “Indeed, Arthur, if you don’t let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons.”

“Go away, then; take your book out on the veranda, and learn your lessons there,” said Louise. “I’ll call you when Miss Day comes.”

“Oh! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it would be disobedience,” replied Elsie, taking out her writing materials.

Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the paper, making quite a large blot.

“Oh!” cried the little girl, bursting into tears, “now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let me go; and I was so anxious to see all those beautiful flowers.”

Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. “Never mind, Elsie,” said he, “I can fix it yet. Just let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on the next, and I’ll not bother you. I’ll make these two figures come right, too,” he added, taking up her slate.

“Thank you, Arthur,” said the little girl, smiling through her tears; “you are very kind, but it would not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at home than be deceitful.”

“Very well, miss,” said he, tossing his head, and walking away, “since you won’t let me help you, it is all your own fault if you have to stay at home.”

Elsie finished her page, and, excepting the unfortunate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly that it had been written with great care. She then took up her slate and patiently went over and over every figure of the troublesome example, trying to discover where her mistake had been. But much time had been lost through Arthur’s teasing, and her mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in hand; and before the two troublesome figures had been made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned.

“Oh!” thought Elsie, “if she will only hear the others first;” but it was a vain hope. Miss Day had no sooner seated herself at her desk than she called, “Elsie, come here and say that lesson; and bring your copy-book and slate, that I may examine your work.”

Elsie tremblingly obeyed.

The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolerably recited; for Elsie, knowing Arthur’s propensity for teasing, had studied it in her own room before school hours. But Miss Day handed back the books with a frown, saying, “I told you the recitation must be perfect, and it was not. There are two incorrect figures in this example,” said she, laying down the slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she exclaimed, “Careless, disobedient child! did I not caution you to be careful not to blot your book? There will be no ride for you this morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your seat. Make that example right, and do the next; learn your geography lesson over, and write another page in your copy-book; and mind, if there is a blot on it, you will get no dinner.”

Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and obeyed.

During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretending to study, but glancing every now and then at Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, “It’s all her own fault, for she wouldn’t let me help her.”

As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora’s eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his upon his book.

“Miss Day,” said Lora, indignantly, “I see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed in her lessons; for she tried her very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink on her book; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear out the leaf from her copy-book, or to let him make her example right; both which he very generously proposed doing after causing all the mischief.”

“Is this so, Arthur?” asked Miss Day, angrily.

The boy hung his head, but made no reply.

“Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “you too must stay at home.”

“Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, “you will not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not to blame.”

“Miss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, “I wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated to by my pupils.”

Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day went on hearing the lessons without further remark.

In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger and indignation that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much of “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,” was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it was a common remark in the family that Elsie had no spirit.

The recitations were scarcely finished when the door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride.

“Not through yet, Miss Day?” she asked.

“Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied the teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it to Louise.

“Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the fair,” said Mrs. Dinsmore. “But what is the matter with Elsie?”

“She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore has been told that she must remain at home,” replied Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of anger; “and as Miss Lora tells me that Master Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him also to accompany us.”

“Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you,” said Lora, a little indignantly; “but I did not say _partly_, for I am sure it was _entirely_ his fault.”

“Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a little impatiently; “how can you be sure of any such thing; Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is only a child, and you must not be too hard upon him.”

“Very well, madam,” replied the governess stiffly, “you have of course the best right to control your own children.”

Mrs. Dinsmore turned to leave the room.

“Mamma,” asked Lora, “is not Elsie to be allowed to go too?”

“Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circumstances, is much better able than I to judge whether or no she is deserving of punishment,” replied Mrs. Dinsmore, sailing out of the room.

“You will let her go, Miss Day?” said Lora, inquiringly.

“Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, “I have already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break my word.”

“Such injustice!” muttered Lora, turning away.

Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by Louise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone.

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MARY MAPES DODGE.

EDITOR OF “ST. NICHOLAS” MAGAZINE.

IT would be difficult to name a writer of later years who has done more to delight the children with bright and chatty sunny-day stories than this estimable woman. While her mind has all the maturity, power, good judgment and strength of our best writers, her heart seems never to have grown out of the happy realm of childhood. It is for them that she thinks, and it is for them that she writes her charming stories when she is in her happiest moods. Not that she cannot write for grown up people, for she has given them several books――very good ones too. She edited “Hearth and Home” at one time, and many a mother remembers her good advice in bright and cheerful editorials, on the art of home-making, and on the care and training of children. She is also a humorous writer of considerable ability. “Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question” is one of her most amusing sketches. Mary Mapes was born in New York city, in 1838. Prof. James Mapes, the scientist, was her father. She married Mr. William Dodge, a lawyer, who lived only a few years, and it was after his death that she began to write for the “Hearth and Home” to which Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel) and Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe were at that time, also, contributors.

In 1864 Mrs. Dodge’s first volume entitled, “Irving Stories,” for children, appeared. It met with great success, and in 1865 she issued her second volume, “Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates,” a charming story for boys and girls. The scene was laid in Holland. The book was so popular that it was translated into French, German, Dutch, Russian and other languages and became a little classic. She wrote a number of other books, among which are “A Few Friends, and How They Amused Themselves” (1869); “Rhymes and Jingles” (1874); “Theophilus and Others;” “Along the Way,” a volume of poems, and “Donald and Dorothy.”

In 1873 the “St. Nicholas” Magazine for young folks was commenced and Mrs. Dodge was made its editor, which position she still retains in 1897, and its popularity and brightness have given her a permanent place in the hearts of the boys and girls for the last quarter century.

Mrs. Dodge has long been a leader in the literary and artistic circles in New York, where she has a pleasant home. She had two fine boys of her own and it is said her first stories were written for their amusement. One of her sons died in 1881. The other, a successful inventor and manufacturer, lives in Philadelphia.

* * * * *

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING.¹

(FROM “DONALD AND DOROTHY.”)

¹ Copyright, Mary Mapes Dodge.

JUST as Donald and Dorothy were about to end the outdoor visit to the Danbys, described in our last chapter, Coachman Jack was seen in a neighboring field, trying to catch Mr. Reed’s spirited mare, “Lady,” that had been let out to have a run. He had already approached her without difficulty and slipped a bridle over her head, but she had started away from him, and he, feeling that she had been allowed playtime enough, was now bent on recapturing her.

Instantly a dozen Danby eyes were watching them with intense interest. Then Donald and Ben, not being able to resist the impulse, scampered over to join in the race, closely followed by Dan and Fandy. Gregory, too, would have gone, but Charity called him back.