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Professor Bartholomew gave his performances the name of "The Equine Paradox." He now has his beautiful animals in delightful summer quarters at Newport, where they are counted among the "notable guests." He has the Opera House there for his training school for three months, preparing new ones for next winter's exhibition, and keeping the old ones in practice. It is pleasant to know that he cares so faithfully for their health as to give them a home through the warm weather in that cool retreat by the sea.
QUESTIONS
Can you put the spider's web back in its place, that once has been swept away?Can you put the apple again on the bough, which fell at our feet to-day?Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem, and cause it to live and grow?Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing, that you crushed with a hasty blow?Can you put the bloom again on the grape, or the grape again on the vine?Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers, and make them sparkle and shine?Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet?Can you put the flour again in the husk, and show me the ripened wheat?Can you put the kernel back in the nut, or the broken egg in its shell?Can you put the honey back in the comb, and cover with wax each cell?Can you put the perfume back in the vase, when once it has sped away?Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, or the down on the catkins—say?You think that my questions are trifling, dear? Let me ask you another one:Can a hasty word ever be unsaid, or a deed unkind, undone?KATE LAWRENCE.THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN
He lived in the Cumberland Valley,And his name was Jamie Brown;But it changed one day, so the neighbors say,To the "Bravest Boy in Town."'Twas the time when the Southern soldiers,Under Early's mad command,O'er the border made their dashing raidFrom the north of Maryland.And Chambersburg unransomedIn smouldering ruins slept,While up the vale, like a fiery gale,The Rebel raiders swept.And a squad of gray-clad horsemenCame thundering o'er the bridge,Where peaceful cows in the meadows browse,At the feet of the great Blue Ridge;And on till they reached the village,That fair in the valley lay,Defenseless then, for its loyal men,At the front, were far away."Pillage and spoil and plunder!"This was the fearful wordThat the Widow Brown, in gazing downFrom her latticed window, heard.'Neath the boughs of the sheltering oak-tree,The leader bared his head,As left and right, until out of sight,His dusty gray-coats sped.Then he called: "Halloo! within there!"A gentle, fair-haired dameAcross the floor to the open doorIn gracious answer came."Here! stable my horse, you woman!"—The soldier's tones were rude—"Then bestir yourself and from yonder shelfSet out your store of food!"For her guest she spread the table;She motioned him to his placeWith a gesture proud; then the widow bowed,And gently—asked a grace."If thine enemy hunger, feed him!I obey, dear Christ!" she said;A creeping blush, with its scarlet flush,O'er the face of the soldier spread.He rose: "You have said it, madam!Standing within your doorsIs the Rebel foe; but as forth they goThey shall trouble not you nor yours!"Alas, for the word of the leader!Alas, for the soldier's vow!When the captain's men rode down the glen,They carried the widow's cow.It was then the fearless JamieSprang up with flashing eyes,And in spite of tears and his mother's fears,On the gray mare, off he flies.Like a wild young Tam O'ShanterHe plunged with piercing whoop,O'er field and brook till he overtookThe straggling Rebel troop.Laden with spoil and plunder,And laughing and shouting still,As with cattle and sheep they lazily creepThrough the dust o'er the winding hill."Oh! the coward crowd!" cried Jamie;"There's Brindle! I'll teach them now!"And with headlong stride, at the captain's side,He called for his mother's cow."Who are you, and who is your mother?—I promised she should not miss?—Well! upon my word, have I never heardOf assurance like to this!""Is your word the word of a soldier?"—And the young lad faced his foes,As a jeering laugh, in anger halfAnd half in sport, arose.But the captain drew his sabre,And spoke, with lowering brow:"Fall back into line! The joke is mine!Surrender the widow's cow!"And a capital joke they thought it,That a barefoot lad of tenShould demand his due—and get it too—In the face of forty men.And the rollicking Rebel raidersForgot themselves somehow,And three cheers brave for the hero gave,And three for the brindle cow.He lived in the Cumberland Valley,And his name was Jamie Brown;But it changed that day, so the neighbors say,To the "Bravest Boy in Town."MRS. EMILY HUNTINGTON NASON.THE WOLF AND THE GOSLINGS
An old gray goose walked forth with pride,With goslings seven at her side;A lovely yellowish-green they were,And very dear to her.She led them to the river's brinkTo paddle their feet awhile and drink,And there she heard a tale that madeHer very soul afraid.A neighbor gabbled the story out,How a wolf was known to be thereabout—A great wolf whom nothing could pleaseAs well as little geese.So, when, as usual, to the woodShe went next day in search of food,She warned them over and over, beforeShe turned to shut the door:"My little ones, if you hear a knockAt the door, be sure and not unlock,For the wolf will eat you, if he gets in,Feathers and bones and skin."You will know him by his voice so hoarse,By his paws so hairy and black and coarse."And the goslings piped up, clear and shrill,"We'll take great care, we will."The mother thought them wise and wentTo the far-off forest quite content;But she was scarcely away, beforeThere came a rap at the door."Open, open, my children dear,"A gruff voice cried: "your mother is here."But the young ones answered, "No, no, no,Her voice is sweet and low;"And you are the wolf—so go away,You can't get in, if you try all day."He laughed to himself to hear them talk,And wished he had some chalk,To smooth his voice to a tone like geese;So he went to the merchant's and bought a piece,And hurried back, and rapped once more."Open, open the door,"I am your mother, dears," he said.But up on the window ledge he laid,In a careless way, his great black paw,And this the goslings saw."No, no," they called, "that will not do,Our mother has not black hands like you;For you are the wolf, so go away,You can't get in to-day."The baffled wolf to the old mill ran,And whined to the busy miller man:"I love to hear the sound of the wheelAnd to smell the corn and meal."The miller was pleased, and said "All right;Would you like your cap and jacket white?"At that he opened a flour binAnd playfully dipped him in.He floundered and sneezed a while, then, lo,He crept out white as a wolf of snow."If chalk and flour can make me sweet,"He said, "then I'm complete."For the third time back to the house he went,And looked and spoke so different,That when he rapped, and "Open!" cried,The little ones replied,"If you show us nice clean feet, we will."And straightway, there on the window-sillHis paws were laid, with dusty mealPowdered from toe to heel.Yes, they were white! So they let him in,And he gobbled them all up, feathers and skin!Gobbled the whole, as if 'twere fun,Except the littlest one.An old clock stood there, tick, tick, tick,And into that he had hopped so quickThe wolf saw nothing, and fancied evenHe'd eaten all the seven.But six were enough to satisfy;So out he strolled on the grass to lie.And when the gray goose presentlyCame home—what did she see?Alas, the house door open wide,But no little yellow flock inside;The beds and pillows thrown about;The fire all gone out;The chairs and tables overset;The wash-tub spilled, and the floor all wet;And here and there in cinders black,The great wolf's ugly track.She called out tenderly every name,But never a voice in answer came,Till a little frightened, broad-billed facePeered out of the clock-case.This gosling told his tale with grief,And the gray goose sobbed in her handkerchief,And sighed—"Ah, well, we will have to goAnd let the neighbors know."So down they went to the river's brim,Where their feathered friends were wont to swim,And there on the turf so green and deepThe old wolf lay asleep.He had a grizzly, savage look,And he snored till the boughs above him shook.They tiptoed round him—drew quite near,Yet still he did not hear.Then, as the mother gazed, to herIt seemed she could see his gaunt side stir—Stir and squirm, as if under the skinWere something alive within!"Go back to the house, quick, dear," she said,"And fetch me scissors and needle and thread.I'll open his ugly hairy hide,And see what is inside."She snipped with the scissors a criss-cross slit,And well rewarded she was for it,For there were her goslings—six together—With scarcely a rumpled feather.The wolf had eaten so greedily,He had swallowed them all alive you see,So, one by one, they scrambled out,And danced and skipped about.Then the gray goose got six heavy stones,And placed them in between the bones;She sewed him deftly, with needle and thread,And then with her goslings fled.The wolf slept long and hard and late,And woke so thirsty he scarce could wait.So he crept along to the river's brinkTo get a good cool drink.But the stones inside began to shake,And make his old ribs crack and ache;And the gladsome flock, as they sped away,Could hear him groan, and say:—"What's this rumbling and tumbling?What's this rattling like bones?I thought I'd eaten six small geese,But they've turned out only stones."He bent his neck to lap—instead,He tumbled in, heels over head;And so heavy he was, as he went downHe could not help but drown!And after that, in thankful pride,With goslings seven at her side,The gray goose came to the river's brinkEach day to swim and drink.AMANDA B. HARRIS.THE BISHOP'S VISIT
Tell you about it? Of course I will!I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come,For mamma said I must be quiet and still,And she put away my whistle and drum.—And made me unharness the parlor chairs,And packed my cannon and all the restOf my noisiest playthings off up-stairs,On account of this very distinguished guest.Then every room was turned upside down,And all the carpets hung out to blow;For when the Bishop is coming to townThe house must be in order, you know.So out in the kitchen I made my lair,And started a game of hide-and-seek;But Bridget refused to have me there,For the Bishop was coming—to stay a week—And she must have cookies and cakes and pies,And fill every closet and platter and pan,Till I thought this Bishop, so great and wise,Must be an awfully hungry man.Well! at last he came; and I do declare,Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you,With his gentle voice and his silvery hair,And eyes with a smile a-shining through.And whenever he read or talked or prayed,I understood every single word;And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid,Though I never once spoke or stirred;Till, all of a sudden, he laughed right outTo see me sit quietly listening so;And began to tell us stories aboutSome queer little fellows in Mexico.And all about Egypt and Spain—and thenHe wasn't disturbed by a little noise,And said that the greatest and best of menOnce were rollicking, healthy boys.And he thinks it is no matter at allIf a little boy runs and jumps and climbs;And mamma should be willing to let me crawlThrough the bannister-rails in the hall sometimes.And Bridget, sir, made a great mistake,In stirring up such a bother, you see,For the Bishop—he didn't care for cake,And really liked to play games with me.But though he's so honored in word and act—(Stoop down, this is a secret now)—He couldn't spell Boston! That's a fact!But whispered to me to tell him how.MRS. EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON.THE FIRST STEP
To-night as the tender gloamingWas sinking in evening's gloom,And only the glow of the firelightBrightened the dark'ning room,I laughed with the gay heart-gladnessThat only to mothers is known,For the beautiful brown-eyed babyTook his first step alone!Hurriedly running to meet himCame trooping the household band,Joyous, loving and eagerTo reach him a helping hand,To watch him with silent rapture,To cheer him with happy noise,My one little fair-faced daughterAnd four brown romping boys.Leaving the sheltering armsThat fain would bid him restClose to the love and the longing,Near to the mother's breast;Wild with laughter and daring,Looking askance at me,He stumbled across through the shadowsTo rest at his father's knee.Baby, my dainty darling,Stepping so brave and brightWith flutter of lace and ribbonOut of my arms to-night,Helped in thy pretty ambitionWith tenderness blessed to see,Sheltered, upheld, and protected—How will the last step be?See, we are all beside youUrging and beckoning on,Watching lest aught betide youTill the safe near goal is won,Guiding the faltering footstepsThat tremble and fear to fall—How will it be, my darling,With the last sad step of all?Nay! Shall I dare to question,Knowing that One more fondThan all our tenderest lovingWill guide the weak feet beyond!And knowing beside, my dearest,That whenever the summons, 'twill beBut a stumbling step through the shadows,Then rest—at the Father's knee!M.E.B.BINGEN ON THE RHINE
A Soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;But a comrade stood beside him while his life-blood ebbed away,And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say.The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;Take a message, and a token to some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine."Tell my brothers and companions when they meet and crowd aroundTo hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine."Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.For my father was a soldier, and even as a childMy heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;And when he died and left us to divide his scanty hoardI let them take whate'er they would, but I kept my father's sword;And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shineOn the cottage wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the Rhine."Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die;And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,And to hang the old sword in its place, my father's sword and mine;For the honor of old Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine."There's another, not a sister, in the happy days gone by,You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,O, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning.Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risenMy body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine,On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine."I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;And down the pleasant river and up the slanting hill,The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talkDown many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk,And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine,But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine."His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak;His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled—The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead;And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked downOn the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strewn;Yet calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,As it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine.CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.OSITO
On the lofty mountain that faced the captain's cabin the frost had already made an insidious approach, and the slender thickets of quaking ash that marked the course of each tiny torrent, now stood out in resplendent hues and shone afar off like gay ribbons running through the dark-green pines. Gorgeously, too, with scarlet, crimson and gold, gleamed the lower spurs, where the oak-brush grew in dense masses and bore beneath a blaze of color, a goodly harvest of acorns, now ripe and loosened in their cups.
It was where one of these spurs joined the parent mountain, where the oak-brush grew thickest, and, as a consequence, the acorns were most abundant, that the captain, well versed in wood-craft mysteries, had built his bear trap. For two days he had been engaged upon it, and now, as the evening drew on, he sat contemplating it with satisfaction, as a work finished and perfected.
From his station there, on the breast of the lofty mountain, the captain could scan many an acre of sombre pine forest with pleasant little parks interspersed, and here and there long slopes brown with bunch grass. He was the lord of this wild domain. And yet his sway there was not undisputed. Behind an intervening spur to the westward ran an old Indian trail long traveled by the Southern Utes in their migrations north for trading and hunting purposes. And even now, a light smoke wafted upward on the evening air, told of a band encamped on the trail on their homeward journey to the Southwest.
The captain needed not this visual token of their proximity. He had been aware of it for several days. Their calls at his cabin in the lonely little park below had been frequent, and they had been specially solicitous of his coffee, his sugar, his biscuit and other delicacies, insomuch that once or twice during his absence these ingenuous children of Nature had with primitive simplicity, entered his cabin and helped themselves without leave or stint.
However, as he knew their stay would be short, the captain bore these neighborly attentions with mild forbearance. It was guests more graceless than these who had roused his wrath.
From their secret haunts far back towards the Snowy Range the bears had come down to feast upon the ripened acorns, and so doing, had scented the captain's bacon and sugar afar off and had prowled by night about the cabin. Nay, more, three days before, the captain, having gone hurriedly away and left the door loosely fastened, upon his return had found all in confusion. Many of his eatables had vanished, his flour sack was ripped open, and, unkindest cut of all, his beloved books lay scattered about. At the first indignant glance the captain had cried out, "Utes again!" But on looking around he saw a tell-tale trail left by floury bear paws.
Hence this bear trap.
It was but a strong log pen floored with rough-hewn slabs and fitted with a ponderous movable lid made of other slabs pinned on stout cross pieces. But, satisfied with his handiwork, the captain now arose, and, prying up one end of the lid with a lever, set the trigger and baited it with a huge piece of bacon. He then piled a great quantity of rock upon the already heavy lid to further guard against the escape of any bear so unfortunate as to enter, and shouldering his axe and rifle walked homewards.
Whatever vengeful visions of captive bears he was indulging in were, however, wholly dispelled as he drew near the cabin. Before the door stood the Ute chief accompanied by two squaws. "How!" said the chieftain, with a conciliatory smile, laying one hand on his breast of bronze and extending the other as the captain approached.
"How!" returned the captain bluffly, disdaining the hand with a recollection of sundry petty thefts.
"Has the great captain seen a pappoose about his wigwam?" asked the chief, nowise abashed, in Spanish—a language which many of the Southern Utes speak as fluently as their own.
The great captain had expected a request for a biscuit; he, therefore, was naturally surprised at being asked for a baby. With an effort he mustered together his Spanish phrases and managed to reply that he had seen no pappoose.
"Me pappoose lost," said one of the squaws brokenly. And there was so much distress in her voice that the captain, forgetting instantly all about the slight depredations of his dusky neighbors, volunteered to aid them in their search for the missing child.
All that night, for it was by this time nearly dark, the hills flared with pine torches and resounded with the shrill cries of the squaws, the whoops of the warriors, the shouts of the captain; but the search was fruitless.
This adventure drove the bear-trap from its builder's mind, and it was two days before it occurred to him to go there in quest of captive bears.
Coming in view of it he immediately saw the lid was down. Hastily he approached, bent over, and peeped in. And certainly, in the whole of his adventurous life the captain was never more taken by surprise; for there, crouched in one corner, was that precious Indian infant.
Yes, true it was, that all those massive timbers, all that ponderous mass of rock, had only availed to capture one very small Ute pappoose. At the thought of it, the builder of the trap was astounded. He laughed aloud at the absurdity. In silence he threw off the rock and lid and seated himself on the edge of the open trap. Captor and captive then gazed at each other with gravity. The errant infant's attire consisted of a calico shirt of gaudy hues, a pair of little moccasins, much frayed, and a red flannel string. This last was tied about his straggling hair, which fell over his forehead like the shaggy mane of a bronco colt and veiled, but could not obscure, the brightness of his black eyes.
He did not cry; in fact, this small stoic never even whimpered, but he held the bacon, or what remained of it, clasped tightly to his breast and gazed at his captor in silence. Glancing at the bacon, the captain saw it all. Hunger had induced this wee wanderer to enter the trap, and in detaching the bait, he had sprung the trigger and was caught.
"What are you called, little one?" asked the captain at length, in a reassuring voice, speaking Spanish very slowly and distinctly.
"Osito," replied the wanderer in a small piping voice, but with the dignity of a warrior.
"Little Bear!" the captain repeated, and burst into a hearty laugh, immediately checked, however by the thought that now he had caught him, what was he to do with him? The first thing, evidently, was to feed him.
So he conducted him to the cabin and there, observing the celerity with which the lumps of sugar vanished, he saw at once that Little Bear was most aptly named. Then, sometimes leading, and sometimes carrying him, for Osito was very small, he set out for the Ute encampment.
Their approach was the signal for a mighty shout. Warriors, squaws and the younger confrères of Osito, crowded about him. A few words from the captain explained all, and Osito himself, clinging to his mother, was borne away in triumph—the hero of the hour. Yet, no—the captain was that, I believe. For as he stood in their midst with a very pleased look on his sunburnt face, the chief quieting the hubbub with a wave of his hand, advanced and stood before him. "The great captain has a good heart," he said in tones of conviction. "What can his Ute friends do to show their gratitude?"
"Nothing," said the captain, looking more pleased than ever.
"The captain has been troubled by the bears. Would it please him if they were all driven back to their dens in the great mountains towards the setting sun?"
"It would," said the captain; "can it be done?"
"It can. It shall," said the chief with emphasis. "To-morrow let the captain keep his eyes open, and as the sun sinks behind the mountain tops he shall see the bears follow also."
The chief kept his word. The next day the uproar on the hills was terrific. Frightened out of their wits, the bears forsook the acorn field and fled ingloriously to their secret haunts in the mountains to the westward.