St. Nicholas, Vol. 5, No. 2, December, 1877 by Various

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[Illustration: THE HOLY FAMILY.]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.
DECEMBER, 1877.
No. 2.

[Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.]

THE THREE KINGS.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltazar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they traveled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And the Wise Men knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night over hills and dells,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at the way-side wells.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltazar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news,
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered: "You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain
Like riders in haste who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said: "Go down into Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn;
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,--
The child that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth,
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet;
The gold was their tribute to a king;
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled, yet comforted,
Remembering what the angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With the clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

ROWING AGAINST TIDE.

BY THEODORE WINTHROP.

[The following hitherto-unprinted fragment by Theodore Winthrop, author
of "John Brent," "The Canoe and the Saddle," "Life in the Open Air,"
and other works, was intended by him for the first chapter of a story
called "Steers Flotsam," but it has an interest of its own, and is a
complete narrative in itself.

Perhaps there are many of our young readers who do not know the history
of that brave young officer who, one of the very first to fall in the
late war, was killed at Great Bethel, Virginia, June 10, 1861. He was
born at New Haven, Connecticut, in September, 1828. He was a studious
and quiet boy, and not very robust. From early youth he had determined
to become an author worthy of fame, but he tore himself away from his
beloved work at the call of his country just as he was about to win
that fame, leaving behind him a number of finished and unfinished
writings, most of which were afterward published.

He could handle oars as well as write of them, could skate like his
hero in "Love and Skates," and was good at all manly sports. He
traveled much, visited Europe twice, lived two years at the Isthmus of
Panama, and returning from there across the plains (an adventurous trip
at that time), learned in those far western wilds to manage and
understand the half-tamed horses and untamed savages about whom he
writes so well. This varied experience gave a freedom and power to his
pen that the readers of the ST. NICHOLAS are not too young to perceive
and appreciate.]

Almost sunset. I pulled my boat's head round, and made for home.

I had been floating with the tide, drifting athwart the long shadows
under the western bank, shooting across the whirls and eddies of the
rapid strait, grappling to one and another of the good-natured sloops
and schooners that swept along the highway to the great city, near at
hand.

For an hour I had sailed over the fleet, smooth glimmering water, free
and careless as a sea-gull. Now I must 'bout ship and tussle with the
whole force of the tide at the jaws of Hellgate. I did not know that
not for that day only, but for life, my floating gayly with the stream
was done.

I pulled in under the eastern shore, and began to give way with all my
boyish force.

I was a little fellow, only ten years old, but my pretty white skiff
was little, in proportion, and so were my sculls, and we were all used
to work together.

As I faced about, a carriage came driving furiously along the turn of
the shore. The road followed the water's edge. I was pulling close to
the rocks to profit by every eddy. The carriage whirled by so near me
that I could recognize one of the two persons within. No mistaking that
pale, keen face. He evidently saw and recognized me also. He looked out
at the window and signaled the coachman to stop. But before the horses
could be pulled into a trot he gave a sign to go on again. The carriage
disappeared at a turn of the shore.

This encounter strangely dispirited me. My joy in battling with the
tide, in winning upward, foot by foot, boat's length after boat's
length, gave place to a forlorn doubt whether I could hold my
own--whether I should not presently be swept away.

The tide seemed to run more sternly than I had ever known it. It made a
plaything of my little vessel, slapping it about most uncivilly. The
black rocks, covered with clammy, unwholesome-looking sea-weed, seemed
like the mile-stones of a nightmare, steadily to move with me. The
water, bronzed by the low sun, poured mightily along, and there hung my
boat, glued to its white reflection.

As I struggled there, the great sloops and schooners rustling by with
the ebb, and eclipsing an instant the June sunset, gave me a miserable
impression of careless unfriendliness. I had made friends with them all
my life, and this evening, while I was drifting down-stream, they had
been willing enough to give me a tow, and to send bluff, good-humored
replies to my boyish hails. Now they rushed on, each chasing the golden
wake of its forerunner, and took no thought of me, straining at my oar,
apart. I grew dispirited, quite to the point of a childish despair.

Of course it was easy enough to land, leave my boat, and trudge home,
but that was a confession of defeat not to be thought of. Two things
only my father required of me--manliness and truth. My pretty little
skiff--the "Aladdin," I called it--he had given to me as a test of my
manhood. I should be ashamed of myself to go home and tell him that I
had abdicated my royal prerogative of taking care of myself, and
pulling where I would in a boat with a keel. I must take the "Aladdin"
home, or be degraded to my old punt, and confined to still water.

The alternative brought back strength to my arms. I threw off the
ominous influence. I leaned to my sculls. The clammy black rocks began
deliberately to march by me down-stream. I was making headway, and the
more way I made, the more my courage grew.

Presently, as I battled round a point, I heard a rustle and a rush of
something coming, and the bowsprit of a large sloop glided into view
close by me. She was painted in stripes of all colors above her green
bottom. The shimmer of the water shook the reflection of her hull, and
made the edges of the stripes blend together. It was as if a rainbow
had suddenly flung itself down for me to sail over.

I looked up and read the name on her headboards, "James Silt."

At the same moment a child's voice over my head cried, "Oh, brother
Charles! what a little boy! what a pretty boat!"

The gliding sloop brought the speaker into view. She was a girl both
little and pretty. A rosy, blue-eyed, golden-haired sprite, hanging
over the gunwale, and smiling pleasantly at me.

"Yes, Betty," the voice of a cheerful, honest-looking young fellow at
the tiller--evidently brother Charles--replied. "He's a little chap,
but he's got a man into him. Hurrah!"

"Give way, 'Aladdin!' Stick to it! You're sure to get there."

The sloop had slid along by me now, so that I could read her name
repeated on her stern--"James Silt, New Haven."

"Good-bye, little boy!" cried my cherubic vision to me, flitting aft,
and leaning over the port davit.

"Good-bye, sissy!" I returned, and raising my voice, I hailed,
"Good-bye, Cap'n Silt!"

Brother Charles looked puzzled an instant. Then he gave a laugh, and
shouted across the broadening interval of burnished water, "You got my
name off the stern. Well, it's right, and you're a bright one. You'll
make a sailor! Good luck to you!"

He waved his cap, and the strong tide swept his craft onward, dragging
her rainbow image with her.

As far as I could see, the fair-haired child was leaning over the stern
watching me, and brother Charles, at intervals, turned and waved his
cap encouragingly.

This little incident quite made a man of me again. I forgot the hard
face I had seen, and brother Charles's frank, merry face took its
place, while, leaning over brother Charles's shoulder, was that angelic
vision of his sister.

Under the inspiring influence of Miss Betty's smiles--a boy is never so
young as not to conduct such electricity--I pulled along at double
speed. I no longer measured my progress by the rocks in the mud, but by
the cottages and villas on the bank. Now that I had found friends on
board one of the vessels arrowing by, it seemed as if all would prove
freighted with sympathizing people if they would only come near enough
to hail. But I was content with the two pleasant faces stamped on my
memory, and only minded my business of getting home before dark.

The setting sun drew itself a crimson path across the widening strait.
The smooth water grew all deliciously rosy with twilight. The moon had
just begun to put in a faint claim to be recognized as a luminary, when
I pulled up to my father's private jetty.

Everything looked singularly sweet and quiet. June never, in all her
dreams of perfection, could have devised a fairer evening. I was a
little disappointed to miss my father from his usual station on the
wharf. He loved to be there to welcome me returning from my little
voyages, and to hail me gently: "Now then, Harry, a strong pull, and
let me see how far you can send her! Bravo, my boy! We'll soon make a
man of you. You shall not be a weakling all your life as your father
has been, mind and body, for want of good strong machinery to work
with."

He was absent that evening. I hurried to bestow my boat neatly in the
boat-house. I locked the door, pocketed the key, and ran up the lawn,
thinking how pleased my father would be to hear of my adventure with
the sloop and its crew, and how he would make me sketch the sloop for
him, which I could do very fairly, and how he would laugh at my vain
attempts to convey to him the cheeks and the curls of Miss Betty.

A CHAPTER OF BUTTS.

[Illustration: "I'LL BUTT IT," SAID THE GOAT.

"WHAT! IT BUTTS AGAIN."

"I'LL GIVE IT A GOOD ONE, THIS TIME."

"PERHAPS I'D BETTER GET OUT OF ITS WAY."

BUT HE DIDN'T.]

THE LION-KILLER.

(_From the French of Duatyeff_.)

BY MARY WAGER FISHER.

People in Tunis, Africa,--at least, some of the older people,--often
talk of the wonderful exploits of a lion-killer who was famous there
forty years ago. The story is this, and is said to be entirely true:

The lion-killer was called "The Sicilian," because his native country
was Sicily; and he was known as "The Christian" among the people in
Tunis, who were mostly Arabs, and, consequently, Mohammedans. He was
also called "Hercules," because of his strength,--that being the name
of a strong demi-god of the ancient Greeks. He was not built like
Hercules, however; he was tall, but beautifully proportioned, and there
was nothing in his form that betrayed his powerful muscles. He
performed prodigies of strength with so much gracefulness and ease as
to astonish all who saw them.

He was a member of a traveling show company that visited Tunis,--very
much as menagerie and circus troupes go about this country now from
town to town. His part of the business was, not simply to do things
that would display his great strength, but also to represent scenes by
pantomime so that they would appear to the audience exactly as if the
real scenes were being performed before their very eyes. In one of
these scenes he showed the people how he had encountered and killed a
lion with a wooden club in the country of Damascus. This is the manner
in which he did it:

After a flourish of trumpets, the Sicilian came upon the stage, which
was arranged to represent a circle, or arena, and had three palm-trees
in the middle. He was handsomely dressed in a costume of black velvet,
trimmed with silver braid, and, as he looked around upon the audience
with a grave but gentle expression, and went through with the Arabian
salutation, which was to bear his right hand to his heart, mouth and
forehead successively, there was perfect silence, so charmed were the
people with his beauty and dignity.

Then an interpreter cried:

"The Christian will show you how, with his club, he killed a lion in
the country of Damascus!"

Immediately following this came another flourish of trumpets and a
striking of cymbals, as if to announce the entrance of the lion.
Quickly the Sicilian sprang behind one of the three palms, whence to
watch his enemy. With an attentive and resolute eye, leaning his body
first to the right, and then to the left, of the tree, he kept his gaze
on the terrible beast, following all its movements with the graceful
motions of his own body, so naturally and suitably as to captivate the
attention of the spectators.

"The lion surely is there!" they whispered. "_We_ do not see him, but
_he_ sees him! How he watches his least motion! How resolute he is! He
will not allow himself to be surprised----"

Suddenly the Sicilian leaps; with a bound he has crossed from one
palm-tree to another, and, with a second spring, has climbed half-way
up the tree, still holding his massive club in one hand. One
understands by his movements that the lion has followed him, and,
crouched and angry, stops at the foot of the tree. The Sicilian,
leaning over, notes the slightest change of posture; then, like a flash
of light, he leaps to the ground behind the trunk of the tree; the
terrible club makes a whistling sound as it swings through the air, and
the lion falls to the ground.

The scene was so well played that the wildest applause came from all
parts of the audience.

Then the interpreter came in, and, throwing at the feet of the Hercules
a magnificent lion's skin, cried:

"Behold the skin of the lion that the Christian killed in the country
of Damascus."

The fame of the Sicilian reached the ears of the Bey of Tunis. But the
royal dignity of the Bey, the reigning prince of that country, would
not allow him to be present at exhibitions given to the common people.
Finally, however, having heard so much about the handsome and strong
Sicilian, he became curious to see him, and said:

"If this Christian has killed one lion with a club, he can kill
another. Tell him that if he will knock down my grand lion with it, I
will give him a thousand ducats"--quite a large sum in those days, a
ducat being about equal to the American dollar.

At this time the Bey had several young lions that ran freely about in
the court-yard or garden of his palace, and in a great pit, entirely
surrounded by a high terrace, on a level with the ground-floor of the
palace, a superb Atlas lion was kept in royal captivity. It was this
lion that the Bey wished the Sicilian to combat. The proposition was
sent to the Sicilian, who accepted it without hesitation, and without
boasting what he would do.

The combat was to take place a week from that time, and the
announcement that the handsome Sicilian was to fight a duel with the
grand lion was spread far and wide, even to the borders of the desert,
producing a profound sensation. Everybody, old and young, great and
small, desired to be present; moreover, the people would be freely
admitted to the garden of the Bey, where they could witness the combat
from the top of the terrace. The duel was to be early in the morning,
before the heat of the day.

During the week that intervened, the Sicilian performed every day in
the show, instead of two days a week, as had been his custom. Never was
he more calm, graceful and fascinating in his performances. The evening
before the eventful day, he repeated in pantomime his victory over the
lion near Damascus, with so much elegance, precision and suppleness as
to elicit round after round of enthusiastic cheers. Of course everybody
who had seen him _play_ killing a lion was wild with curiosity to see
him actually fight with a _real_ lion.

So, on the following morning, in the early dawn, the terrace around the
lion's pit was crowded with people. For three days the grand lion had
been deprived of food in order that he might be the more ferocious and
terrible. His eyes shone like two balls of fire, and he incessantly
lashed his flanks with his tail. At one moment he would madly roar,
and, in the next, rub himself against the wall, vainly trying to find a
chink between the stones in which to insert his claws.

Precisely at the appointed hour, the princely Bey and his court took
the places that had been reserved for them on one side of the terrace.
The Sicilian came a few steps behind, dressed in his costume of velvet
and silver, and holding his club in his hand. With his accustomed easy
and regular step, and a naturally elegant and dignified bearing, he
advanced in front of the royal party and made a low obeisance to the
Bey. The prince made some remark to him, to which he responded with a
fresh salute; then he withdrew, and descended the steps which led to
the lion's pit.

The crowd was silent. At the end of some seconds, the barred gate of
the pit was opened, and gave entrance, not to the brave and powerful
Hercules, but to a poor dog that was thrown toward the ferocious beast
with the intention of still more exciting its ravenous appetite. This
unexpected act of cruelty drew hisses from the spectators, but they
were soon absorbed in watching the behavior of the dog. When the lion
saw the prey that had been thrown to him, he stood motionless for a
moment, ceased to beat his flanks with his tail, growled deeply, and
crouched on the ground, with his paws extended, his neck stretched out,
and his eyes fixed upon the victim.

The dog, on being thrown into the pit, ran at once toward a corner of
the wall, as far as possible from the lion, and, trembling, yet not
overcome by fear, fixed his eyes on the huge beast, watching anxiously,
but intently, his every motion.

With apparent unconcern, the lion creepingly advanced toward the dog,
and then, with a sudden movement, he was upon his feet, and in a second
launched himself into the air! But the dog that same instant bounded in
an opposite direction, so that the lion fell in the corner, while the
dog alighted where the lion had been.

For a moment the lion seemed very much surprised at the loss of his
prey; with the dog, the instinct of self-preservation developed a
coolness that even overcame his terror. The body of the poor animal was
all in a shiver, but his head was firm, his eyes were watchful. Without
losing sight of his enemy, he slowly retreated into the corner behind
him.

Then the lion, scanning his victim from the corners of his eyes, walked
sidewise a few steps, and, turning suddenly, tried again to pounce with
one bound upon the dog; but the latter seemed to anticipate this
movement also, and, in the same second, jumped in the opposite
direction, as before, crossing the lion in the air.

At this the lion became furious, and lost the calmness that might have
insured him victory, while the courage of the unfortunate dog won for
him the sympathy of all the spectators.

As the lion, excited and terrible, was preparing a new plan of attack,
a rope ending in a loop was lowered to the dog. The brave little
animal, whose imploring looks had been pitiful to look upon, saw the
help sent to him, and, fastening his teeth and claws into the rope, was
immediately drawn up. The lion, perceiving this, made a prodigious
leap, but the dog was happily beyond his reach. The poor creature,
drawn in safety to the terrace, at once took flight, and was soon lost
to view.

At the moment when the lion threw himself on the ground of the pit,
roaring with rage at the escape of his prey, the Sicilian entered, calm
and firm, superb in his brilliant costume, and with his club in his
hand.

At his appearance in the pit, a silence like death came over the crowd
of spectators. The Hercules walked rapidly toward a corner, and,
leaning upon his club, awaited the onslaught of the lion, who, blinded
by fury, had not yet perceived his entrance.

The waiting was of short duration, for the lion, in turning, espied
him, and the fire that flashed from the eyes of the terrible beast told
of savage joy in finding another victim.

Here, however, the animal showed for a moment a feeling of anxiety;
slowly, as if conscious that he was in the presence of a powerful
adversary, he retreated some steps, keeping his fiery eyes all the time
on the man. The Sicilian also kept his keen gaze on the lion, and, with
his body slightly inclined forward, marked every alteration of
position. Between the two adversaries, it was easy to see that fear was
on the side of the beast; but, in comparing the feeble means of the
man--a rude club--with the powerful structure of the lion, whose
boundings made the very ground beneath him tremble, it was hard for the
spectators to believe that courage, and not strength, would win the
victory.

The lion was too excited and famished to remain long undecided. After
more backward steps, which he made as if gaining time for reflection,
he suddenly advanced in a sidelong direction in order to charge upon
his adversary.

[Illustration: "THE BEAST GAVE A MIGHTY SPRING."]

The Sicilian did not move, but followed with his fixed gaze the motions
of the lion. Greatly irritated, the beast gave a mighty spring,
uttering a terrible roar; the man, at the same moment, leaped aside,
and the lion had barely touched the ground, when the club came down
upon his head with a dull, shocking thud. The king of the desert rolled
heavily under the stroke, and fell headlong, stunned and senseless, but
not dead.

The spectators, overcome with admiration, and awed at the exhibition of
so much calmness, address and strength, were hushed into profound
silence. The next moment, the Bey arose, and, with a gesture of his
hand, asked mercy for his favorite lion.

"A thousand ducats the more if you will not kill him!" he cried to the
Sicilian. "Agreed!" was the instant reply.

The lion lay panting on the ground. The Hercules bowed at the word of
the Bey, and slowly withdrew, still keeping his eyes on the conquered
brute. The two thousand ducats were counted out and paid. The lion
shortly recovered.

With a universal gasp of relief, followed by deafening shouts and
cheers, the spectators withdrew from the terrace, having witnessed a
scene they could never forget, and which, as I said at the beginning,
is still talked of in Tunis.

BRUNO'S REVENGE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND."

It was a very hot afternoon,--too hot to go for a walk or do
anything,--or else it wouldn't have happened, I believe.

In the first place, I want to know why fairies should always be
teaching _us_ to do our duty, and lecturing _us_ when we go wrong, and
we should never teach _them_ anything? You can't mean to say that
fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, or deceitful, because
that would be nonsense, you know. Well, then, don't you agree with me
that they might be all the better for a little scolding and punishing
now and then?

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