Chapter VIII: The Cow and Calf (1)

"The Old Cow" and "The Calf" are two enormous ledges lying not far asunder, within sight from the coast in clear weather. "The Cow" is never completely submerged; her bare brown back appears above the highest tides.

"The Calf" is not so fortunate; the sea must be very calm at high water, when it is not buried in the surf.

Near one end of it, to mark the position of the dangerous reef, a pole is anchored, rising out of the water with a slant that has gained for it the name of "The Calf's Tail." Often at high tide the tail only can be seen sticking out of the sea.

What Olly saw and heard was the billows combing over the end of one of those huge rocks. He wondered why he hadn't thought of them before; for it now occurred to him that if he could land on "The Old Cow," he might safely pass the night on her back, and be seen from the shore, or from some passing craft, in the morning.

But which of the ledges was he approaching? Familiar as their forms were to him, seen from the shore, he could not in his strange position, in the night, and amid the dashing waves, decide whether he was coming upon "The Old Cow" or "The Calf."

Trembling with fresh hope and fear, and paddling cautiously, he strained his eyes in the darkness, to get the broad outline of the ledge against the faint sky-line. There was something awful in the sound of the surf on those desolate rocks. The surges leapt and fell, rushing along the reef and pouring in dimly-seen cataracts over the ledges, their loud buffets followed by mysterious gurglings and murmurings, which might well appall the heart of a wave-tossed boy.

The wind was blowing him on; but it was still in his power to pass the end of the rock, or drive his dory upon the windward side, where the ocean swells broke with least force. If he could only be sure which rock it was! But he could distinguish nothing. All was as strange to him as if he had been adrift on the lonesomest unknown sea in the world.

If it was "The Calf," then "The Tail" should be at the other end, and "The Old Cow" beyond. If "The Cow," "The Calf" must be in the other direction, and a little farther seaward; he might pass between the two.

He was getting used to his clumsy paddle; with it he kept his dory off as well as he could, but in a state of terrible anxiety, thinking his life might depend on what he should decide to do the next minute. He was still hesitating, when accident decided for him.

The skiff was headed to the wind, against which he continued to paddle, when suddenly a billow shot over a sunken projection of the ledge, smiting the end of the boat with a force that slung it half about in an instant.

Olly felt a small deluge of water dash over and drench him from behind. He was past thinking of his new clothes now; he thought of the dory. Even then it might have escaped capsizing if it had not met at the same instant a cross-wave, which tumbled aboard from the other side.

The two filled it so nearly that the water rushed cold across his knees; and he knew that nothing he could do would prevent the boat from sinking. Indeed, as the very next wave swept in, it settled on one side, and then slowly rolled over. To save himself, Olly sprang up, grasping first the uppermost rail, then clinging to the bottom of the overturned skiff, until another billow swept him off.

He was an accomplished swimmer, as I think I have said before; and now that skill stood him in good stead. In the first moment of his immersion he lost his bearings; but rising with a wave, he looked about him from its crest, and saw the little island not a hundred feet away.

He made for it at once, directing his course to a spot which the overleaping surge did not reach.

The waves were dashing all about the rock, to be sure; and to land safely upon it at any point would require not only vigilance, but good fortune.

I hardly know whether he was much frightened or not; he himself couldn't have told. He didn't stop for a moment to reason about the situation, but obeying the mere instinct of self-preservation, he swam to the ledge.

He was lucky enough to find a spot where it sloped gently into the sea. He swam in on a wave, and as it subsided, he clung to the rock.

The broken surface of the rock was covered with barnacles, which cut his hands; but he held on. They also scratched his knees through his torn clothing, as he climbed up to the smoother rocks above.

The slant to the water was such that he could not, in the darkness, judge of his elevation above the sea-level; nor could he determine, from that, whether he had been thrown upon "The Old Cow" or "The Calf."

Yet everything depended upon the answer to that question. If on the greater rock, he was comparatively safe; if on the smaller, his respite would be brief--he might expect the next tide to carry him off.

Groping about on the jagged summit, trying to identify the rock by its form, his foot plashed in a pool of water. He paused, startled by the thought that here was a means of deciding his fate.

No doubt, much sea-spray dashed upon the back even of "The Old Cow," in rough weather. But copious rains had succeeded the last gale; and so, if that little pool was on the large rock, the water it held could not be very salt. If on the back of "The Calf," it was the leavings of the last tide. He felt that his doom was in the taste of that water.

He hesitated, heaving a sigh of dread; then he stooped quickly and put his hand into the pool. He lifted the wet fingers to his lips, and immediately grew faint--the water was bitterly salt.

Still, after a little reflection, he would not give up all hope. The sea must have broken clear over "The Cow's" back, in the last storm; and the rain might have had little effect in freshening the contents of the basin. He thought of another test.

Barnacles live in the sea, or in receptacles of sea-water replenished at every tide. If he was upon the back of "The Old Cow," the pool would be free from them; if on "The Calf," there would be the usual incrustations about its edges.

Once more he put down his groping hand; and then he uttered a despairing wail.

The barnacles were there!

(_To be continued_.)

AUNT DEBORAH'S LESSON.

BY G. H. BASKETTE.

"The good lands! What's that!" excitedly cried frightened Aunt Deborah.

Aunt Deborah might well exclaim in surprise. For as she sat knitting quietly and humming a quaint old tune of long ago, one she had learned as a child----C-r-rash! bang! came a stone into the room, shivering the window-pane, just missing the swinging lamp in the hallway, making an ugly scar on the cabinet, and breaking into fragments a handsome vase. Then, as if satisfied with the mischief it had done, it rolled lazily across the floor, and finally stopped under the table, an inert, jagged bit of granite.

Aunt Deborah, as the stone pursued its reckless course, placed her hands over her head, and shrank back into her chair, a frightened and unwilling witness to the destruction of her property. It was quite distressing.

Besides the nervous shock, there was the broken window; there was the cabinet showing a great white dent that could not easily be removed; and there, too, was the vase she had kept so many long years, lying shattered and ruined before her eyes.

Aunt Deborah was one of the best and most kind-hearted of women; but--she was human, and the sudden havoc wrought by the missile exasperated as well as frightened her. She rushed to the window and opened it in time to see three or four boys scampering down the street as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Oh, you young scapegraces!" she cried. "If I could once lay hold on you, wouldn't I teach you a lesson!"

But the boys never stopped until they had disappeared around a friendly corner. Aunt Deborah was so overcome by the accident, and so intent upon watching the retreating boys to whom she desired to teach a lesson, that she did not at first notice a barefooted lad standing under the window on the pavement below, holding a battered old hat in his hand, and looking up at her with a scared face and tearful eyes.

"Please, Miss," said the boy tremulously.

"Oh! Who are you? Who threw that stone at my window?" called out Aunt Deborah, as she spied him.

"Please, Miss," pleaded the boy, fumbling nervously his torn hat, "I threw it, but I didn't mean to do it."

"Didn't mean to do it, eh?" replied Aunt Deborah, fiercely. "I suppose the stone picked itself up and pitched itself through my glass!"

"I was going to throw it down the street, but Bill Philper touched my arm, and it turned and hit your window," he explained.

There was an air of frankness and truth about the boy, and the fact that he had not run away like the others (whom, somehow, Aunt Deborah held chiefly responsible for the outrage), caused her to relent a little toward him.

"Come in here," she said, after eying him closely for a moment.

The lad hesitated; but summoning all his courage, he went up the steps, and soon stood in her presence.

"Do you see that" she said, pointing at the window--"and that"--(at the cabinet)--"and that?"--(at the broken vase)--"and that?"--(at the stone.) "Now, isn't that a fine performance?"

"I am very sorry," said the boy, the tears welling into his eyes again.

He looked ruefully about at the damaged articles, and glanced at the stone, wishing heartily that he had never seen it.

"Now, what's to be done about it?" asked she.

"I don't know, ma'am," said he, very ill at ease. "I will try to pay you for it."

"What can you pay, I should like to know?" she said, glancing at his patched coat and trousers and his torn hat.

"I sell papers," said he; "and I can pay you a little on it every week."

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Sam Wadley," answered the boy.

"Have you a father?"

"No, ma'am," replied Sam; "he's dead."

"Have you a mother?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What does she do?" continued Aunt Deborah.

"She sews, and I help her all I can, selling papers."

"How can you pay me anything then?"

]

"Please, ma'am, I'll tell Mother all about it, and she'll be willing for me to pay you all I make."

"Well, now, we'll see if you are a boy to keep his word," said Aunt Deborah.

"How much must I pay?" Sam inquired anxiously.

"Let me see." Aunt Deborah put on her spectacles and made a critical survey of the room. "Window--fifty cents; vase--one dollar--I wouldn't have had it broken for five!--That'll do--one dollar and a half. I shan't charge you for the dent in the furniture."

"I'll try to pay you something on it every week," said Sam. "There are some days when I don't make anything; but when I do, I'll save it for you."

"Very well," said Aunt Deborah; "you may go now."

He thanked her, and went slowly out, while Aunt Deborah began to pick up the fragments strewn over the floor.

"Oh, wait a moment!" she cried.

Sam came back.

"Take this stone out with you, and be careful what you do with it, next time," she said. "By the way, if you wish to keep out of trouble, you'd better not keep company with that Flipper boy--" Aunt Deborah had a rather poor memory for names--"if I had him, wouldn't I give him a lesson!"

She uttered the last sentence with such a relish, that Sam was glad enough to get away. He was afraid she might conclude to bestow upon him the salutary lesson which she had proposed to give "Flipper," as she called him.

Sam hurried home as fast as he could. His mother, a pale, delicate woman whose wan features and sunken eyes showed the effects of too hard work, heard his simple tale, wiped away his tears and encouraged him in his resolve to pay for the damage he had done.

From that day, Sam began to be very diligent, and to earn pennies in every honest way possible to him. And every week he carried some small amount to Aunt Deborah.

"That boy has some good in him," she said when he had brought his first installment. And though she grew more kind toward him every time he came, occasionally giving him a glass of milk, a sandwich or a cake, she rarely failed to warn him against the influence of that "Flipper" boy.

His young companions laughed at him for paying his money to Aunt Deborah, and called him a coward for not running away when they ran; but all they said did not turn him from his purpose.

One evening he went with a cheerful heart to pay his last installment.

As he passed the window of the sitting-room he glanced in. There sat Aunt Deborah, earnestly knitting. The lamplight fell upon her sober face and Sam wondered if she ever looked really smiling and pleasant. "It doesn't seem as though she would be so stiff with a fellow," he said to himself. Then, in response to her "Come in," he entered the room and handed her his money.

"I believe that is all, ma'am," said he.

"Yes, that pays the whole sum," said Aunt Deborah; "you have done well."

"I am still very sorry I have troubled you, and I hope you forgive me," he said.

"I do, with all my heart," said she earnestly.

"Thank you," said Sam, as he started out, picking his old hat from the floor, where he had placed it; on entering.

"Come back," said Aunt Deborah, "I've something more to say to you."

With a startled look he turned into the room.

Aunt Deborah went to the cabinet and unlocked it. She first took out a pair of new shoes, then half a dozen pairs of socks, some underclothing, two nice shirts, a neat woolen suit, and lastly a good felt hat.

"Sam," said she to the astonished lad, "I have taken your money, not because I wanted it, but because I wished to test you. I wished to see whether you really meant to pay me. That Flipper boy would never have done it, I am sure. You have done so well in bringing me your little savings that I have learned to like you very much. Now I wish to make you a present of these articles. In the pocket of this jacket you will find the money you have paid me. I wouldn't take a cent of it. It is yours. You must keep working and adding to it, so that you can soon help your mother more. Go to work now with a light heart, and grow up a true and an honest man. Tell your mother that I say she has a fine son."

In making this speech, Aunt Deborah's features relaxed into a pleasant smile; and Sam smiled too, and was so pleased that he could hardly utter his thanks.

"And mind you," continued she, suddenly changing the current of his thoughts, "don't associate with that Flipper boy!"

"Please, ma'am," said Sam, feeling a twinge of conscience that his former companion should bear so much of the blame, "you have been very kind to me, but Bill Philper didn't know the stone would turn as it did, and break your window."

"Then why did he run away?" inquired Aunt Deborah somewhat fiercely. "It's quite proper that you should try to excuse him, Sam; but I should like to teach him a good lesson?"

"You--you--have taught me a good lesson," said Sam, with a blushing face, "and I--I--thank you very much for it."

Aunt Deborah smiled benignly again, and warmly bidding Sam to come often to see her, she let him out at the door.

She felt very happy as Sam disappeared down the street, and he was very happy, as he hurried home with his great bundle, and told his mother all about it, which made that good woman very happy, too. So they were very happy all around.

And it all came about because Sam had stood up like a brave boy to confess his wrong, which is always manly; and had offered reparation for it, which is always right; and had gone forward, in spite of the taunts of his companions, denying himself pleasures and comforts in order to do that which he knew to be right, which is always heroic.

697

Of Timothy Timid and his happy thought: these lines and pictures by A. Brennan.

Timothy Timid, they say,
Once traveled the loneliest way;
For he traveled by night
Lest he should take fright
At things he could see in the day.

READY FOR BUSINESS; OR, CHOOSING AN OCCUPATION.[B]

A SERIES OF PRACTICAL PAPERS FOR BOYS.

BY GEORGE J. MANSON

[Footnote B: Copyright by G. J. Manson, 1884]

BOAT-BUILDING

Boat-building is by no means one of the "lost arts," although in this age of steam and iron, the "good old days" of the ship-builders are a thing of the past. Of late years, however, there has been a marked increase in the trade, and although the work is confined principally to yachts and smaller craft, the steady growth of this branch of boat-building offers excellent inducements to any young man whose tastes lie in that direction.

I know of one boy at least, now sixteen years of age, who intends to fit himself during the next five or six years for the occupation; and his father, a prominent and highly successful naval architect, believes that there is a very promising future for American boat-building.

I take it for granted that the future boat-builder has, as a boy, been fond of boats. He has not only taken advantage of the rivers and ponds near his house, has navigated them in scow, in row-boat or in sail-boat, but I will suppose that, from the time he has been the owner of a jack-knife, he has been a constructor of toy boats. And, as he has grown older and become the possessor of a tool-chest, or, at least, of a gauge, a mallet, a saw, a plane, and a good knife, he has wrought out miniature cutters and schooners, possibly a square-rigged ship, all of which have been much admired by his young companions. If it has been his object in life to become a boat-builder, he could not have been better employed during the hours that have not been taken up with school duties.

In every business and profession there is some one object above all others sought after, upon which success may be said to depend. The orator endeavors to arouse our enthusiasm, the poet appeals to our sentiments, the lawyer to our reason, the clergyman to our conscience. The genius of the boat-builder lies in the one word "form." The one thing more than all others for which he aims to have a reputation is the ability to give a good shape to the mass of wood or iron coming from his hands, whether it be a man-of-war or a sail-boat. And so it was good for the boy that he made boats and models of boats. He was getting, as the naval architect would say, "form impressed upon his brain." It may have been, it probably was, a bad form, an incorrect form, but it was something from which to start. At all events, the boy has formed a speaking acquaintance with the occupation he is about to enter.

I shall assume that at the age of sixteen he has finished his school studies, has a good knowledge of arithmetic and algebra, and has gone through seven books in Euclid, with special reference to being proficient in the fourth and seventh books. Two years before this, we will suppose, he has expressed a desire to be a boat-builder. He has made a model of some kind of a boat, and he has, as occasions have permitted, visited such ship-yards as could be found in his vicinity, and carefully watched the men while they were at work. At last, at the age of sixteen, he enters the office of a thoroughly competent naval architect, who either is or has been a practical ship-builder. The naval architect stands in the same relation to ship-building that the architect of houses does to house-building, with this difference,--not only does he make the plan, but very often he executes it as well.

The beginner will find his quarters very pleasant. The room will be light, cheerful, and quiet. On the walls he will probably see pictures of famous yachts or other vessels; there will be a small library of technical books of reference, which he will have occasion to consult later on; there may be another student with whom he will chat now and then during the day; or his teacher, while they are at work, may give him some stirring bits of yachting reminiscence. I only mention this to show that there is none of that strict discipline to which the boy has been accustomed at school. The fact is, it is not needed, for, to use the language of a well-known ship-builder, "it is a fascinating occupation; it grows upon you; and the longer you are in it, the better you like it, that is, of course, if you like boats and everything pertaining to them."

The boy will at first be given the drawing of a midship, or central, section of a boat, and required to put a body to it, to give it a bow, a stern--in short, to give to the boat its form. After working in that way for a while, he will make more extended plans, until he is able to make the full design of a vessel. He will remain with this naval architect for the space of a year; and, by that time, he should have acquired a very good knowledge of form.

It is a fact that boys in England who choose this occupation for their life-work can more easily obtain a thorough education in it than can be had by youths in our country. In England, and in France, Denmark, and other European countries, there are schools where special technical instruction is given, and many of these are close to large ship-yards, where the practical work of ship-building can constantly be seen. The question now arises, therefore, shall the boy go to England and get the benefit of this instruction? It is by no means necessary that he should go there; but if he has begun to learn while young, he can spare the time, and his parents know whether they can spare the money which such a journey and residence would entail. If he decides to go, he will remain away for three or four years.

Suppose, however, it is decided that he can not go abroad. It has cost him for the year's instruction he has received from the naval architect, with whom he had been studying, about $1000; or, he has given his services as a draughtsman, paid $500, and during the twelve months has "picked up" such knowledge as he could without receiving any regular instruction. His case of drawing-instruments has cost him from $50 to $250, depending on the number of instruments, the manner in which they are finished and the style of the case in which they are kept. Let us assume that he has been a full-pay pupil. His time is, of course, his own. It would be a good plan, after he has acquired some theoretical knowledge of the business, to regularly visit a shipyard and there begin to do the practical work which falls to the lot of the boat-builder; studying in the office one-half the time and working in the yard the other half. Now you will see, as I observed before, that boat-building is a profession and a trade. It is possible to be simply a naval architect and only make designs for boats, but it is not advisable; it is better, by all means, to have the practical knowledge which is obtained working among the men in the shipyard.

They do not now apprentice boys as they did some fifty years ago. I have before me an indenture paper of a ship-builder (now alive) dated in the year 1825. In it he promises "not to waste his master's goods; not to contract matrimony within the said term; not to play at cards, dice, or any unlawful game, nor frequent ale-houses, dance-houses, or play-houses, but in all things behave himself as a faithful apprentice ought to do during the said term." There are no such rules laid down nowadays. Perhaps all the boys are so good that none are needed. All that needs to be done now is for the boy to make his verbal agreement with the owner of the shipyard, and go to work.

And now a word or two as to this practical work which will cover the second method of learning boat-building as mentioned at the beginning of my paper. The boy who has not had the benefit of any previous training with an instructor may have to commence with turning the grindstone. The tools used in boat-building are in such constant use that they grow dull very soon, and the grindstone is kept going almost the whole of the day. Besides, the work being very heavy, the men generally work in couples, so that the learner when he is not turning the grindstone is assisting in lifting the heavy timbers that have to be used. The first tool he is generally permitted to use is the saw; then he begins to use the adze; then he is trusted with the ax, and helps get out the planking and timber for the frame of the ship.

Then comes the difficult part of construction. The apprentice must have learned all this work with the tools (of which I am only able to make a passing mention), before he comes to the constructive part; that is, the part that our pupil has been studying with the naval architect.

Before the building of the ship is commenced, a small wooden model is made, to give the owner and the builder an idea of what she is going to look like.

"A little model the master wrought,
Which should be to the larger plan
What the child is to the man."

Doubtless, you have seen such models. They are built sometimes on a scale of a quarter of an inch to a foot; they are made of pieces of cedar and pine wood, placed alternately, and show the shape and whole arrangement of one side of the vessel. This model is glued, on its flat side, to a piece of board, for greater convenience in examination.

From this model, "life-size" plans of the ship are made with chalk on the floor of a long, wide room, like a big garret, which is used especially for this purpose. It will not be necessary to enter into a technical description of these plans. There are three of them,--the sheer plan, the half-breadth plan, and the body plan. They show the position of the different planks to be used in the construction of the ship. To gain a rough idea of these plans, take a cucumber, decide which you will call the bottom and which the top, and cut it in the middle, lengthwise, from end to end. Look into its interior and fancy that it is covered with lines, both horizontal and vertical--and that will give you a very rough idea of the sheer plan. By laying the cucumber on its side and cutting it lengthwise, you will have a notion of the half-breadth plan. A division in the middle (cutting it in two parts, so that you can see the whole circumference) may suggest to you the body plan. This can not be made very clear, not even with drawings, because it is the most technical part of the work; but its object is apparent. From these three plans, taken from different points of view, the boat-builder can locate the position of every piece of plank in his vessel. So true is this that I understand it is possible to number the planks of a ship, and send them off to some distant country, where a ship-builder can construct the vessel without ever having seen the design.

A great deal of calculation and figuring enters into this part of the work, but much of it has been made easy by the aid of a man (now dead, I believe) named Simpson, the author of what are called "Simpson's Rules." These rules are incorporated in small pocket handbooks which contain, in addition, a large number of tables, rules, and formulas pertaining to naval architecture. The most popular handbook of this character in England is said to be "Mackrow's Naval Architect and Ship-builders' Assistant," and in our country, "Haswell's Engineers' Pocket-book of Tables." These, however, are only aids in making calculations, and are very much like the interest tables you have probably seen, which save the trouble of going through the figuring in detail. There are a great many books which will be interesting and valuable to the young ship-builder. To give you some idea of their character, I copy the following from the table of contents of a recent standard work: "The displacement and buoyancy of ships;" "The oscillations of ships in still water;" "The oscillation of ships among waves;" "Methods of observing the rolling and pitching motions of ships;" "The structural strength of ships," etc.

These titles may not at present indicate a very promising literary feast, but when the young boat-builder has mastered the rudiments of the technical part of the profession, he will read and reread such productions with as much pleasure as he now peruses the stories in ST. NICHOLAS.

I have not entered into the details of iron ship-building, the practical part of which the boy will learn in the same yard in which he learns to work in wood; for it is presumed that he is going to some large yard to obtain his instruction. Indeed, in this occupation it is the practical part that is the easiest and the most interesting to young learners. They are apt to slight the theoretical knowledge required and to long to spend their time in the shipyard with real tools, doing real work, for a real ship. With the boy who, through force of circumstances, has to enter on the life of a journeyman and earn wages, there is more excuse for hastening to that branch of the work than for the lad who is better situated in life. The journeyman will learn construction last and from his master. Under the plan I have suggested, the other lad will learn the general principles of construction before he goes to the shipyard; at least he will not have to commence with turning the grindstone. His first few visits will be confined to watching the men at their work; then he will gradually make himself familiar with the use of the different tools.

The journeyman will receive at first $1 a day; during the second year, $1.50 a day, and be gradually advanced until he receives the regular wages, at the present time from $3 to $3.25 a day. It would not be advisable to make any estimate of the profits of boat-building as a business, for, no matter what they are now, by the time my young reader has started a shipyard, they may be entirely different, owing to the increase or decrease in the cost of material and labor.

WHAT IT WAS.

BY MALCOLM DOUGLAS

Oh, they were as happy as happy could be,
Those two little boys who were down by the sea,
As each with a shovel grasped tight in his hand,
Like a sturdy young laborer dug in the sand!

And it finally happened, while looking around,
That, beside a big shell, a small star-fish they found,--
Such a wonderful sight, that two pairs of blue eyes
Grew large for a moment with puzzled surprise.

Then--"I know," said one, with his face growing bright,
"It's the dear little star that we've watched every night;
But last night, when we looked, it was nowhere on high,
So, of course, it has dropped from its home in the sky!"

CAPTAIN JACK'S FOURTH-OF-JULY KITE.

BY DANIEL C. BEARD.

"Well, if that isn't the queerest sight!" exclaimed a passenger on the cars going from Flushing to New York, last Independence Day.

And all the passengers on that train, and on all other trains during the day, echoed the same words. It was a very strange occurrence.

Away up in the blue sky, and all alone, like a new declaration of independence, fluttered that soul-stirring piece of bunting, the stars and stripes. Not a sign of pole or support of any kind could the sharpest eye discern; and yet, as steadily as if fixed on the dome of the national capitol, it waved its gay stripes in the joyous breeze. It was a very mysterious flag.

There was, however, one individual who was both able and willing to clear away the mystery--a certain jovial man who, on the morning of that particular day, sat in exceedingly airy attire on the front porch of the boathouse of the Nereus Boat Club. As his striped shirt, knee-breeches, and skull-cap indicated, Captain Jack Walker was an oarsman.

He afterward explained to his faithful crew that he had gone to the boathouse early that morning, and while there had been struck with a novel idea. The result of that idea was the mysterious flag which was waving over the salt marsh by Flushing Bay, and was puzzling the brains of many good citizens.

Fastened to the top of the flagpole of the club's boathouse was the end of a piece of hempen twine. By following that piece of twine, which ran away into space at an angle of sixty degrees, the eye came at length to the floating flag. By looking closely, moreover, one could gradually discern that from the flag the twine ran up five or six hundred feet higher to a tiny kite--tiny, as seen away up there in the blue ether; but, in fact, a monster kite.

Captain Jack had first sent up that great kite which some one had left at the boathouse, and had let it out five or six hundred feet; then he took a flag about five feet long, which belonged to one of the boats, and fastened the upper end of its stick firmly to the kitestring. He next broke the lower end of the flagstick so as to leave a short projection (_a_), just long enough for him to fasten a piece of twine to it.

Then he again let the kite out, and also the string he had attached to the lower end of the flagstick. As soon as the flagstick was vertical, the line _a_, _b_ (see preceding page) was knotted securely to the kitestring at _b_. All that was necessary then was to let out about five hundred feet more twine, and Captain Jack's Fourth-of-July kite was soon gayly flying. There was to be a regatta that afternoon, however, and the gallant oarsman could not sit idly holding a kitestring in his hand. So he hauled down the boat club's flag, tied the kitestring to the flag-halyards and then hoisted both flag and kitestring to the top of the flagpole; and so his Fourth-of-July banner floated serenely in the sky all day long,--a beautiful sight, and an object of much surprise and wonder to all who saw it.

IF.

If I had a big kite,
With a very short tail,
And a very stout cord,--
And there came a great gale,--

I'd hold fast to the string,
And away we would fly,
I and my kite,
Up, up to the sky!

Tippie and Jimmie:

TIPPIE AND JIMMIE.

BY MARY L. FRENCH

Tippie and Jimmie had come over to play with Ajax. Tip's whole name is Tippecanoe. The boys call him a black and tan, but Bessie calls him a darling. He has a little black shining nose that he is always sticking into everything, and a little smooth, tapering tail that he is always wagging. Jimmie's name is James Stuart; he is a little Maltese kitten, with gentle blue eyes, and soft fur that is always ready to be smoothed, and claws that are never used where they can hurt, and a purr that is always wound up.

Tippie and Jimmie live together, and eat together, and are the best of friends.

Ajax is the kitten that lives next door. He is jet black, excepting a little white spot where his cravat should have been tied. And he has a long black tail that often waves over his back like a banner. He has large green eyes that snap and shine when he plays, and he has just begun to look for mice.

One day Tippie and Jimmie came around to the kitchen door of the house where Ajax lived, and looked in.

They could not see Ajax, so Jimmie began to climb up the screen door, sticking his claws into the holes. He had not climbed far before the lady of the house saw him, and she said:

"Here's Jimmie looking for Ajax. Come, Ajax, where are you?"

Ajax was asleep on the lounge, but he jumped up and came running to the door, for he comes when he is called, "quicker than any of the other children," Mamie says.

He touched noses with Jimmie, and then he took his visitors around to the front porch. There, he and Jimmie leaped upon a chair and shook their paws at Tippie, who was on the floor. Then Tippie got upon another chair, and Ajax ran under it and reached up to play with him.

It really seemed as if they knew how pretty they looked. After a while, they all three had a good race up and down, over chairs, under chairs, and through chairs. Sometimes Ajax stood on the back of a chair and poked his paw at Tippie, and sometimes he ran to the top of a high rocking-chair and jumped down to the porch railing. Jimmie was not so venturesome, however.

Soon they grew tired of such play, and then they rushed out-of-doors, and down upon the grass. There, Tippie began to tease Jimmie. He pushed him over, and stepped upon him, and nosed him, and even bit him gently, till Jimmie suddenly cried out, "Meow-ow-ow!"

Ajax had been quietly looking on, with a shade of contempt on his handsome countenance; but when he heard that appeal, he rushed at Tippie and pushed him away from Jimmie and scratched him, and chased him from one end of the yard to the other, two or three times.

When they stopped to rest after their run, Ajax settled himself comfortably on the grass, perfectly quiet, except for the tip of his tail, which moved just a little. Tippie watched that tail with longing. He danced around and around Ajax. He pranced forward and skipped back, and practiced all his dancing-steps, before he dared touch it. At last he boldly rushed upon it, and a moment later Ajax held him fast around the neck, and with heads close together, and smothered growls of happiness, the cat and the dog were rolling over and over. Then, they suddenly let go, and stood half a foot apart, glaring at each other for a second, before they rushed together again, and went through the whole frolic once more.

Mamie and Herbert had seen it all while building ships, in the side yard, and as they watched the grand closing scene, Herbert, in the tone of an oracle, announced,

The Moral:

"It is good to be good-natured, but bad to be imposed upon."

NUMBER ONE.

BY CHARLES R. TALBOT.

"I tell you," said Robbie, eating his peach,
And giving his sister none,
"I believe in the good old saying that each
Should look out for Number One."

"Why, yes," answered Katie, wise little elf,
"But the counting should be begun
With the _other one_ instead of yourself,--
And _he_ should be Number One."

VOL. XIII.--45.

AMUSING THE BABY.

BY EVA LOVETT CARSON.

A sudden tumult arose one day,
In the nursery overhead.
'T was like wild horses a-galloping there,
Or a whole procession led.
Nursie, with face of terror,
Deserted her cup of tea,
And rushed up the stair, in a state of despair,
To see what the noise might be.

She found in the room three Zulu chiefs
Prancing across the floor.
Their faces beamed, as they danced and screamed,
And their arms waved more and more.
In a corner sat Ted, the baby,
Silent and pale with fright:
"We're amusing the baby--Oh, Nurse, come and see!"
Cried the Zulus in great delight.

"Oh, horrors!" cried Nursie in anger,
Rushing to poor little Ted.
"To go on that way, such ri_dic_-u-lous play!--
'T will put the child out of his head!"
--With expressions of injured goodness,
Stood Dudley, and Gordon, and Fred,
"Why, Nursie, how mean!--We should think you'd have seen,
We're amusing the baby!" they said.

THE BROWNIES IN THE MENAGERIE.

BY PALMER COX.

The Brownies heard the news with glee,
That in a city near the sea
A spacious building was designed
For holding beasts of every kind.
From polar snows, from desert sand,
From mountain peak, and timbered land,
The beasts with claw and beasts with hoof,
All met beneath one slated roof.
That night, like bees before the wind,
With home in sight, and storm behind,
The band of Brownies might be seen,
All scudding from the forest green.

Less time it took the walls to scale
Than is required to tell the tale.
The art that makes the lock seem weak,
The bolt to slide, the hinge to creak,
Was theirs to use as heretofore,
With good effect, on sash and door;
And soon the band stood face to face
With all the wonders of the place.

To Brownies, as to children dear,
The monkey seemed a creature queer;
They watched its skill to climb and cling,
By either toe or tail to swing;
Perhaps they got some hints that might
Come well in hand some future night,
When climbing up a wall or tree,
Or chimney, as the case might be.

Then off to other parts they'd range
To gather 'round some creature strange;
To watch the movements of the bear,
Or at the spotted serpents stare.

The mammoth turtle from its pen
Was driven 'round and 'round again,
And though the coach proved rather slow
They kept it hours upon the go.

Said one, "Before your face and eyes
I'll take that snake from where it lies,
And like a Hindoo of the East,
Benumb and charm the crawling beast,
Then twist him 'round me on the spot
And tie him in a sailor's knot."

Another then was quick to shout,
"We'll leave that snake performance out!
I grant you all the power you claim
To charm, to tie, to twist and tame;
But let me still suggest you try
Your art when no one else is nigh.
Of all the beasts that creep or crawl
From Rupert's Land to China's wall,
In torrid, mild, or frigid zone,
The snake is best to let alone."

Against this counsel, seeming good,
At least a score of others stood.
Said one, "My friend, suppress alarm.
There's nothing here to threaten harm.
Be sure the power that mortals hold
Is not denied the Brownies bold."

So from the nest, without ado,
A bunch of serpents soon they drew.
And harmlessly as silken bands
The snakes were twisted in their hands.
Some hauled them freely 'round the place;
Some braided others in a trace;
And every knot to sailors known,
Was quickly tied, and quickly shown.
Thus 'round from cage to cage they went,
For some to smile, and some comment
On Nature's way of dealing out
To this a tail, to that a snout
Of extra length, and then deny
To something else a fair supply.

Around the sleeping lion long
They stood an interested throng,
Debating o'er its strength of limb,
Its heavy mane or visage grim.

But when the bear and tiger growled,
And wolf and lynx in chorus howled,
And starting from its broken sleep,
The monarch rose with sudden leap,
And, bounding round the rocking cage,
With lifted mane, it roared with rage,
And thrust its paws between the bars,
Until it seemed to shake the stars,
A panic seized the Brownies all,
And out they scampered from the hall,
As if they feared incautious men
Had built too frail a prison pen;
And though the way was long and wild,
With obstacles before them piled,
They never halted in their run
Until the forest shade they won.

A LETTER FROM A LITTLE BOY.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell little boys and girls about my two pets. One is a hen. She lives all alone, and leaves her coop every night, and goes in the barn, and flies up on old Jim's back, and sleeps there all night. Old Jim is a horse. Old Jim has a blanket for cold nights. It is an old one, and there is a hole in it on the top, and the old hen walks all around till she finds that hole, and puts her feet in there where it is warm, and there we find her every morning.

My other funny pet is an old cat, named Catharine. She has only three feet, but I liked her just as well as I ever did, till last summer, when one morning we found the bird-cage door pushed in, and the bird was gone. We have another cat. We don't know but the bird flew away; but who pushed the door in? I don't like any cats so well now. Your friend,

RALPH.

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS:

A sadder tale I never heard!
Just think of that poor little bird!
Ralph's bird was killed,--I say so, flat,--
By that three-footed sly old cat!
Now, I'm a gentlemanly pup,
And I say cats should be locked up.
For every time I walk the street,
A crowd of cats I'm sure to meet.
They rumple up my smooth, clean coat,
They spoil my collar, scratch my throat,
They rush and push, and tease and whirl,
And pull my ears all out of curl.--
There's nothing on four legs as rude
As cats and kittens are.

Yours,

"DUDE."

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPET

If I drum in the house,
"Oh, what a noise you make!"
Sighs Mamma. "Baby'll wake!"
If in the garden green
I drum, our Bridget cries:
"Ye'll mak' me spile the pies
And cakes! I can not think!
That droom destroys me wit!
Be off, me b'y,--or quit!"
If I drum in the street,
Out comes Miss Peters, quick,
And says her ma is sick;
Or Doctor Daniel Brown
Calls from his window: "Bub,
That dreadful rub-a-dub
Confuses my ideas.
My sermon is not done.
Run on, my little son!"

The creeps crawl up my back
When I am still, and oh,
Nobody seems to know
How very tired I get
Without some sort of noise,
Such as a boy enjoys!

Last summer, on the farm,
I used to jump and shout,
For Grandpa Osterhout
And Grandma both are deaf.
But soon some neighbors came
And said it was a shame,
The way I scared them all.
They called my shouts "wild yells,"
And asked if I had "spells"
Or "fits, or anything."
You see, grown people all
Forget they once were small.

Now, isn't there one place
Where "wriggley" tired boys
Can make a stunning noise
And play wild Injun-chief,
And Independence-day,
And not be sent away?
Or was that place left out?
Dear Jack, please tell me true;
I've confidence in you.

Your friend without end,

TOMMY.

This is a very touching epistle, my hearers, and Tommy has my hearty sympathy. There must be such a place as he is looking for, though the Deacon says that in the course of a long life he has never happened upon the exact locality. According to the Little School-ma'am, too, it is not described in any of the geographies; but she says that, for the sake of all concerned, it is very desirable that the missing paradise of little drummer boys should be discovered;--to which the Deacon adds, "Perhaps that's why the grown folk wish to find the North Pole."

While we are upon this subject, here is a letter describing some tiny drummers that make almost as much noise as patriotic youngsters, and do quite as much mischief. To his credit, however, it must be said that this other small musician only makes his appearance as a drummer once in seventeen years. Is he bent on setting an example, I wonder? He is called

THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR LOCUST.

DEAR JACK: The seventeen-year locust isn't a locust at all. This may seem a strange thing to say, but it is true, nevertheless. The locust looks very much like a grasshopper, while the seventeen-year cicada, which is the insect's proper name, looks a great deal more like a gigantic fly than anything else.

There is a cicada which comes every year, and is also wrongly called a locust. Anybody who has been in the country about harvest-time has heard the shrill noise made by this cicada and probably has come upon his cast-off shell sticking to a fence-rail or a tree-trunk.

The seventeen-year cicada is a cousin of the one-year chap; though, as he comes only once in every seventeen years, he is probably only a far-away cousin. Fancy spending the best part of your life prowling about in the darkness underground and then coming up into the sunlight with a gorgeous pair of wings, only to die in a short time!

That is what the seventeen-year cicada does. In the very first place, it is an egg which its mother deposits in a tiny hole in a twig. In a few weeks it makes its way out of the egg and drops to the ground, into which it burrows, and in which it remains for nearly seventeen years before it is prepared for life above ground.

When, at last, it is ready for the bright sunlight, it may be one foot from the surface or it may be ten feet deep in the ground. In either case it begins to dig upward until it finds its way out, when it climbs up the nearest tree and fastens itself by its sharp claws to a leaf or twig. There it waits until its back splits open, and behold! it immediately crawls out of itself, so to speak.

The new insect is a soft, dull fellow at first, but he grows as if he had been storing up energy for seventeen years for just that one purpose. Within an hour, two pairs of most beautiful wings have grown, and in a few hours more it has become hard and active.

The female cicadas are quiet enough, but the males are as noisy as so many little boys with new drums. Indeed, they do have drums themselves. Just under their wings are drums made of shiny membrane as beautiful as white silk, and these are kept rattling almost all the time.

One cicada can make noise enough; but imagine the din of millions of them all going at the same time. It sounds as if all the frogs in the country had come together to try to drown the noise of a saw-mill. Now it is the saw-mill you hear, and now the frogs.

It sounds like a big story to say millions, but if you could go into the woods where they are, you might be willing to say billions. I have counted over a thousand cast-off shells on one small tree, and on one birch leaf I have seen twelve shells. And the earth in some places is like a sieve from the holes made by the cicadas as they came out.

But within a few weeks from the insects' first appearance their eggs have been laid and the cicadas have all died. A great many of them are eaten by the birds and chickens, but most of them simply can not live any longer.

Yours truly,

JOHN R. CORVELL

"THE GREAT LUBBER LOCUST."