St. Nicholas, Vol. 5, No. 4, February 1878 by Various

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When the profits were divided, Phips received as his share a sum that
would now be equal to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Duke
of Albemarle presented Mrs. Phips with a magnificent gold cup worth
fifteen thousand dollars, and King James expressed great pleasure at
the honesty and ability of Phips in the conduct of such a difficult
undertaking, and as a reward for bringing such a treasure into England
granted him the honor of knighthood, and offered him important
employment in the royal service. Fortune had indeed smiled on the
shepherd-boy of Maine.

But Phips was never ashamed of his humble origin, nor in all his
wanderings did he forget his native land. And now, instead of remaining
to enjoy further honors near the throne, he returned to his family,
bearing the important commission of High Sheriff of New England. He now
built the brick house on Green Lane which he had promised his wife
fifteen years before. The name of this Street was eventually changed to
Charter Street, in memory of his efforts to have the charter of the
Massachusetts colony restored.

Sir William Phips afterward engaged in the wars between the American
colonies of France and England, and at the head of an expedition of
eight ships captured Port Royal. A subsequent enterprise against Quebec
failed from a combination of causes, some of them beyond the control of
Phips. After this Sir William went again to England, where he was
appointed Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the New England
colonies; and his return home with these new honors and titles was made
the occasion of a day of solemn thanksgiving.

His governorship having ceased, Sir William Phips sailed for England,
and was meditating a fresh expedition in search of shipwrecked treasure
when he was taken suddenly ill, and died at the age of forty-five.
While his adventurous career affords us little hope that any of us will
ever, like him, discover shipwrecked wealth, it gives us a fine example
of what perseverance combined with intelligence, courage and honesty
can accomplish in the face of great difficulties; for it was a union of
all these qualities which enabled Sir William Phips to wrest fortune
and honors from the ocean depths.

[Illustration]

SOME FISHING-BIRDS OF FLORIDA.

BY MRS. MARY TREAT.

All along the St. John's River, during the winter, may be seen birds
catching fish for a living. They are more numerous here in winter than
in summer, because, upon the freezing of the waters at the North, they
flock to Florida to carry on their fishing in the St. John's, which,
never freezing, contains an abundance of fish.

The belted kingfisher comes close to the house, where I can watch him
fishing as I sit at the window. The river is five miles across here,
and for several yards from the shore it is quite shallow, so that a
wharf two hundred and fifty feet long was necessary to make it easy to
launch our small rowboats. A railing extends along the side of the
wharf, and upon this railing the kingfisher perches, watching for his
prey.

[Illustration: THE BELTED KINGFISHER.]

He understands fishing much better than most boys, for he seldom misses
his game. He takes his position on the railing, and fixes his eyes upon
the finny tribes below, and when a fish that suits him comes within his
range, he dives into the water and brings it up with his stout beak,
and then beats it upon the railing to make it limp and tender before
swallowing.

It is not so very surprising that he is such an expert fisher, for
during the winter it is his only occupation; he has no family to look
after now, and he is so very selfish and quarrelsome that he will not
allow any of his brothers to fish near him. He considers the whole
length of the wharf his fishing-post, and his brothers must not
trespass upon his grounds; if they do, he chases them away with a
rattling, clanging noise, enough to frighten any fisher not stronger
than himself.

In the spring he takes a partner in his business, for now it is time to
raise a family, and he knows he can never do this alone. He is very
good and kind to this partner, and helps her dig a hole in a clayey
bank for the nest, and then takes his turn in sitting upon the eggs.
After the eggs are hatched, they both catch fish to feed the young
until they are old enough to feed themselves.

The American flamingo, with his gorgeous scarlet feathers, is a superb
fellow. He is very shy, and peculiarly afraid of man. On account of its
fine apparel, it has been more closely pursued than almost any other
bird. It does not go north like some of the herons, but Audubon says it
has occasionally been seen in South Carolina. Its constant home,
however, is in the southern part of Florida and along the Gulf coast.

Like the herons, of which I told you in ST. NICHOLAS for May, 1877, the
flamingoes are sociable, and live in flocks. They have webbed feet,
which give them an advantage over the herons in enabling them to swim
as well as to wade. I have never been able to get near enough to these
birds to gain any personal knowledge of their habits.

The nest of the flamingo is a curious affair; usually built in a
marshy, muddy place, in the form of a mound. It is made of sticks and
grass and mud to the height of two or three feet, with a hollow in the
middle to hold the eggs. The male is said to assist in the construction
of the nest, but this is probably mere conjecture, for I think no one
living at the present time has been able to get near enough to these
birds to watch their habits, and their nests can be reached only with
great difficulty.

The female lays two white eggs about the size of those of a goose. It
is said that she sits astride the nest in an ungainly fashion, and that
the young, as soon as they are hatched, take to the water like young
ducks.

If a law only could be passed to protect these birds, what a grand
sight the waters of Florida would soon present! These great, brilliant,
scarlet birds, dallying and playing in the water, or wading near the
shore in quest of game, would be a sight never to be forgotten. Can it
be possible that Florida does not care for such glorious creatures, and
will allow, year after year, these marauders from the North to kill
them without a single protest? Unless something is done for the
protection of these splendid creatures, they must soon become extinct;
for their range is quite limited, and I fear the boy and girl readers
of ST. NICHOLAS, by the time they grow to men and women, can only read
of these as "gorgeous birds of the past."

Almost every morning, the osprey, or fish-hawk, comes in front of the
window and fishes in the shallow water near the house. He does not seem
to be as expert as the kingfisher. I have seen him dive a dozen times
or more into the water before bringing up his prey. He sails around and
around in the air; at last fixing his eyes upon a fish, he swoops down,
making the water splash around him. His feet are large and powerful,
and he arranges his long toes in the form of a scoop as he plunges into
the river; this scoop is his fishing-tackle with which he brings up his
finny food.

I think I should not like to be an osprey, for he seems to have such a
hard time to get a living, and yet he is an honest, well-disposed
laborer. After he has succeeded in catching a fish, a bald eagle often
swoops down from some tall tree, where he has been watching him, and by
main force compels this honest fisher to give up his hard-won prey. The
eagle is considerably larger than his victim, being about three feet in
length, while the osprey is only about two feet.

It is quite a grand sight to see these two large birds wheeling through
the air--the osprey trying to elude the eagle, diving first one way and
then another, until at last, when he sees the unencumbered eagle must
overpower him, in a fit of desperation he lets the fish drop, and the
eagle catches it before it reaches the water, and carries it to some
retired spot where he devours it.

And now the poor defrauded osprey must go to work and catch another
fish before he can have his dinner. Here you see the bald eagle with
his ill-gotten prey.

[Illustration: THE BALD EAGLE.]

Great flocks of ducks often come to fish in the shallow water close to
the shore. I suppose the reason that they come so near is that they
find smaller fish here than in the deep water; and another reason, they
are never shot at near the shore, for no fire-arms are allowed to be
discharged within the town limits, except under the penalty of five
dollars for each discharge.

This place, in winter, corresponds to a northern watering-place in
summer. There is a warm sulphur-spring here, and people come from all
quarters for health and for amusement. At first the great numbers of
birds all about attracted many sportsmen, but I am very glad to tell
you that the Florida people did not like this reckless shooting of
birds in their midst, so they made this beautiful little place--Green
Cove Spring--a city, and elected a mayor and a marshal, and other
officers, to keep the men straight, and to protect the birds.

So this is why the birds that live about this little city are so tame,
and why the ducks come so close to us; they have learned that they are
quite safe from guns here.

Several species of ducks may sometimes be seen in one flock, fishing
together in perfect harmony. It is quite astonishing how long they can
stay under water, and when they come up their feathers are not wet at
all.

The most beautiful of these fishing-ducks is the hooded merganser. Its
plumage is most elegant, and it has a large thick tuft or crest of
feathers covering the whole head, which gives it a sort of military
look; and, indeed, it seems to be a commander, for it leads all of its
relatives. It sometimes stays so long under the water that I begin to
fear something has happened,--that an alligator, or some other huge
beast, has got hold of it; but it always makes its appearance after a
while, often at quite a long distance from where it went under.

NAN'S PEACE-OFFERING.

BY KATE W. HAMILTON.

"Just wish I was properer, and everything--so there!" said Nannie,
sitting discontentedly down upon the green grass by the road-side, and
surveying herself with a pair of very serious brown eyes.

It was a forlorn little self, surely, with wet dress, muddy shoes, inky
apron, and crumpled sun-bonnet.

"Aunt S'mantha'll think I'm dreadful. She says I never have any
forethought; but I have lots of after-thoughts, and I s'pose folks
can't have both kinds. It don't do any good, either. Oh dear!"

There was a whistled tune coming up the road. Tommy Grey was attached
to it, but the whistle seemed much the older and more important of the
two, and was first to reach the tree where Nannie was sitting. When
Tommy caught up with it, he stopped in surprise.

"Hello, Nan Verling! Is that you?"

"I suppose so, but I wish it wasn't," answered Nannie, dolefully.

"What for?" questioned Tommy, in still further astonishment.

"'Cause I wish I was somebody else that wasn't all wrinkled and mussed
up. I don't see how folks can keep nice and have good times, anyway,"
declared Nan, in a burst of confidence. "You see, I just helped sail
boats in the brook, and I didn't know my dress was wet a bit till I
came away; and then Lizzie Sykes tagged me, and course I had to tag her
back again. I don't know what made her run right through the mud, where
I couldn't catch her without getting my shoes all muddy. Should think
she might have known better! My old ink-stand at school is always
upsetting itself, and it had to spill on my clean white apron this
afternoon. Then my sun-bonnet--"

"Looks as if you'd hung it up in your pocket," suggested Tommy.

"Well, I didn't; I only rolled it up for a rag-baby when we played keep
house at recess. I s'pose it's bad for bonnets, but it made the
beautifulest kind of a baby," said Nannie, a little ray of enthusiasm
gleaming through her despondency. "But Aunt S'mantha doesn't 'preciate
such things," she added, mournfully.

"No," answered Tommy, sympathetically. "She'll scold, may be?"

"P'r'aps so. May be she'll send me to bed without any supper."

"Whew! That a'nt any fun, I tell you!" declared Tommy. "Why, a fellow
just tumbles and tumbles, and gets hungrier and hungrier, and wonders
what the folks have got for supper, and looks at the stars, and tries
to say 'Hickory-dickory-dock' backward, and wishes it was morning. It
just feels awful!"

"I didn't ever try it, and I don't s'pose I could stand it," said
Nannie, shaking dejectedly the curly head in the flopping sun-bonnet.
"I've a good mind not to go home at all, but just run away off
somewhere, and be a foundling. Foundlings have pretty good times,
'cause I've read about 'em in books. They get adopted by some great
lady in a big house, and grow up rich, and get to be real handsome."

"I don't believe you would," declared Tommy, more honestly than
politely.

Nan meditated a minute, and then said, with a sigh:

"Well, I guess I'll have to go home, then."

"Scoldings don't last very long, anyway," urged Tommy, consolingly.

"But if you sort o' think you oughtn't to have done things, and did
ought to be more careful--and everything--it makes it seem more worse,
you know," remarked Nannie, in a hesitating, half-penitent way. "'Cause
I _do_ like Aunt S'mantha."

"Yes," admitted Tommy, knitting his brow over the complications of the
case, and searching his own experience for a suggestion of relief. "If
you only had something nice to carry home to her--something she wants.
Once I got wet as a rat playing round the pond, but I'd caught two
fish--reg'lar tip-top trout--and I took 'em home to mother; held 'em up
where they'd be seen first thing, you know. And she said, 'What nice
fish!' and didn't scold a wink."

"I couldn't catch anything if I tried a week, and Aunt S'mantha
wouldn't care, anyway. Why, she's a real grown-up woman, and could have
tea-parties and make molasses candy every day if she wanted to! I don't
believe she wants anything, unless it's ban--bananas--whatever that is.
I heard her say she'd like some, this morning."

"Bandanas?" questioned Tommy, with brightening eyes.

"Y-e-s, I guess so," answered Nannie, rather doubtfully.

"Ho! I know what they are as well as anything. Why, they're silk
handkerchiefs--red and yellow, with spots on 'em."

Nannie's hand dived into her small pocket, and re-appeared with two
nickels and a copper.

"Do you guess I could buy one at Carney's store for 'leven cents?
'Cause I haven't got any more."

"I s'pose so. Why, yes; handkerchiefs a'nt much 'count, you know. I
always lose mine--only they a'nt bandanas. I guess women-folks think
more about 'em, though," said Tommy, with the air of one superior to
such trifles.

Nannie was convinced, and started from her seat with a little sigh of
relief.

"I'll go and buy her one, then. And I think you're a pretty good boy,
Tommy Grey," she added, gratefully, as she trudged down the road,
leaving Tommy to take up his whistling and his homeward route again.

It was quite a long walk to the store--_the_ store, because the village
only boasted one. That did not matter much to the inhabitants
generally, as the town was so near. Bentleyville and Bentley were
connected by a straggling line of houses that made it hard to tell
where the village ended and the town began. Ambitious young villagers
took advantage of this to talk about "we city people," while the older
ones contentedly spoke of themselves as "plain country-folks."

Nannie did not care in the least which she was, neither did she greatly
mind the walk, though the feet that had done so much running began to
grow tired. If only she could carry a peace-offering to Aunt Samantha!
That would make all right, and her small world bright again, she was
sure.

"I can't have any candy or slate-pencils for ever so long; but I don't
care, 'cause I do like her, and she'll know it--course she will if I
buy her a handkerchief; and she wont think I got all mussed up on
purpose," she soliloquized.

It required some heroism to pass by the fresh pop-corn balls at the
store door, and to turn away from the boxes of figs without a second
glance; but Nannie did both, and, walking straight to the counter, made
known her errand.

"Bandanas? Yes, a prime lot of 'em," said bustling little Mr. Carney,
bringing out his whole stock.

His small customer, standing on tiptoe to reach the counter, gravely
examined them. Would Aunt Samantha like a red one or a yellow one best,
she wondered. It was a perplexing question to decide. If only she could
take her one of each! And that reminded her to ask the price.

"Seventy-five cents apiece," said the old gentleman briskly.

"Seventy--five--cents!" repeated Nan, faintly.

"Yes, sissy; cheap at that, too."

"I--thought--I didn't know," stammered Nannie, in a sore
disappointment. Then rallying her faltering courage, she asked: "Don't
you ever sell any for 'leven cents?"

"Eleven cents? Bless me, child! Why, they cost--Oh! may be you mean
cotton ones? Look a little like these."

Nan nodded, glad to think it even probable that she had meant anything.

"Well, I don't keep that kind, you see," explained Mr. Carney,
condescendingly.

Discouraged and forlorn, the little woman turned away. She walked until
she was quite out of sight of the store, and then paused to meditate.
What should she do? It seemed dreadfully hard to give up her plan now
when she had thought it all nicely settled. There were plenty of stores
in Bentley; some of them might sell handkerchiefs for eleven cents. She
glanced dubiously along the road leading to the town, and noticed that
the sun was nearly out of sight behind the hills.

"But it stays light ever and ever so long after the sun sets," she
murmured, "and it didn't seem a bit far when I rode to town with Aunt
S'mantha. I guess this store is most part way. Anyhow, I just must have
a bandana!" she added, as she once more caught sight of her soiled
apron and muddy shoes.

She straightened her sun-bonnet, and started resolutely forward again.
She had grown to feel that the proposed purchase was in some way a
reparation due to Aunt Samantha, and she could not give it up. On and
on trudged the tired little feet, aching wearily at last, but never
hesitating nor turning back. It seemed a long way, though.

"Wonder if I wont ever and ever come to where the houses get thicker,"
she murmured. "When I keep a store I'll build it on the edge somewhere,
so folks wont have to walk so far to get to it."

After a time, the buildings did nestle more closely together, and,
somewhat comforted, she stopped a moment to rest. But she started
suddenly to her feet as a light flashed upon her from an opposite
window. People were really beginning to light their lamps, and the
daylight was almost gone.

Weariness was forgotten in the thought that night might fall before she
could return, and she ran as fast as her light feet would carry her--so
swiftly and so far that she had nearly passed a small store without
seeing it.

She checked her steps at this discovery, and entering, asked,
breathlessly:

"Oh,--please,--have you any ban-banners?"

"What? any what?" demanded a severe-looking lady, coming forward and
eying Nan suspiciously through her spectacles.

"Bandaners,--handkerchiefs," explained Nannie, less confidently.

"Bandanas? No; I don't keep them," responded the lady, very stiffly.

"Should think she might have been more p'lite, if I didn't call it
right," commented the young traveler as she hurried along the street
once more. "Here's another." This time there was only a boy in
attendance. He was head of the establishment when the proprietor went
to supper, and he enjoyed his important position.

"Do you keep ban-ban-banners?" asked Nannie, growing confused again.

"Which? I hope you don't mean any disrespect to the flag of your
country, ma'am?"

"No sir; I mean handkerchiefs," said Nannie, innocently.

"Ah! yes, I understand. I think we have the article in question."

A number of the red and yellow silks were produced, and while the brown
eyes scanned them in some perplexity, the mischievous young clerk
surveyed the comical little figure before him, and gravely asked:

"Is that quantity sufficient for the exercise of your predilections? or
would you like an additional supply?"

"I would like 'leven cents worth," stammered Nannie.

"Eleven cents worth of silk handkerchiefs? That's a novelty now!"
laughed the boy. "Why, you see that wouldn't be a seventh part of one
of these bits of magnificence,--not a scrap large enough for a
respectable doll. We really couldn't do it, ma'am. The owner of this
establishment has a nonsensical way of always selling his handkerchiefs
whole."

[Illustration: "'SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS APIECE,' SAID THE OLD GENTLEMAN."]

Then, at sight of the disappointed little face, his fun yielded to an
impulse of kindness, and from a far-away corner he produced an old box
with the dust of disuse lying thickly upon it. It contained some small
cotton handkerchiefs, gayly printed, with border, pictures and verses,
in bright colors. Nannie's eyes brightened. They were much prettier
than the others, she thought, and they were only ten cents! She wavered
uncertainly between a pink and a blue one, and finally appealed to the
clerk for advice.

"Which is the nicest? Couldn't really say, ma'am. If you want it for
winter use, the blue would probably match best with your nose; but if
you keep it specially for fits of weeping, the red might be nearest the
proper tint."

Nannie looked at him solemnly, but not understanding him in the least:
she decided upon the blue one, and turned away with the precious
package in her hand. It was certainly growing late. The rosy glow had
all vanished from the west, and one star was peeping out dimly.

"A good deal after supper-time," murmured Nannie, anxiously. Then,
glancing down a side street, she caught sight of a baker's sign. It was
but a few steps, and she was very hungry, so she determined to invest
her remaining cent in a piece of gingerbread. Eager to be on her
homeward way she walked rapidly, and this did not suit the fancy of a
large dog in a neighboring yard. He bounded toward the fence, barking
furiously, and in a moment Nannie discovered that he had pushed open
the gate and was upon the street. She fled at full speed away beyond
the shop and down another street. At last a corner hid him from view,
and he did not follow her. She dared not retrace her steps for fear of
meeting him, and she abandoned all hope of a visit to the bakery. There
must be other ways back to the road, though, she thought, and she
wandered up one street and down another without coming to any building
that looked familiar. She had lost her way entirely, and grew more and
more bewildered as she wandered. The stars came out thickly in the sky,
and it seemed to her that she had been traveling for hours. Finally she
found herself in a quiet, unfrequented part of the town, and then the
brave little heart failed utterly, and frightened, homesick, and
terribly weary, she sank down by the road-side, sobbing bitterly. She
did not hear the sound of wheels, nor notice the horses drawn up beside
her, until some one called:

"Hello, little one! what's the matter?"

She had heard that neighborly voice too often not to recognize it now,
and she sprang up in wild delight. "Oh, Captain Hoyt! Take me home! Oh,
please sir, wont you take me home?"

"Home, chick-a-biddy? Why, who--little Nan Verling, I declare! Well,
if it isn't lucky that I didn't sell my apples till late to-day, and am
just going out! How in the world did you get there?"

"I lost my way," faltered Nannie, trying hard to conquer her tears when
she was safely in the wagon. "I came to buy a bandana handkerchief for
Aunt S'mantha."

"Bandana? Well, she'll need it, and a few cambric ones thrown in, if
she don't know where you are at this time of night," declared the
captain, whipping up his horses.

He was quite right; Miss Samantha was nearly frantic. She had sent to
every house in the village, and had learned from Tommy how her love of
neatness and carelessly expressed desire for bananas had together
worked mischief. But as a visit to the store revealed the fact that
Nannie had been there and had gone, Miss Samantha could think of
nothing but that most improbable resort,--the pond; and she had
gathered a party with ropes and lanterns, when Captain Hoyt drove up
and deposited the small maiden in their midst.

"I've got the handkerchief, Aunt S'mantha! and I'm so glad; but my
clothes are all spoiled, and I'm so sorry," began Nannie.

"Clothes, child! Do you think I care so much more for your clothes than
for you that I want to hear about them first?" exclaimed Miss Samantha,
with an embrace so long and close that Nannie was quite astonished.

"I didn't know," she answered.

And Miss Samantha said not a word, for she thought if the child really
did not know, there must have been something wrong somewhere. She
smiled a little grimly when she saw the wonderful handkerchief, but she
laid it away as if it were a treasure. Nannie had a nice supper and a
good night's sleep, and felt quite bright when Tommy looked in upon her
the next morning.

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