St. Nicholas, Vol. 5, No. 5, March, 1878 by Various

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"And where may ye be bound to, Johnny?" said Jerry.

"To the depot. I'm going to New York," said Johnny, who thought this a
mild way to tell Jerry he was running away.

"This road niver took any one to the depot, Jacky. If I hadn't come
this way, yer'd been froze stiff in the mornin'."

Here Jerry rolled his eyes in a dreadful manner, and trembled like one
terribly frightened. Johnny would have cried hard, but he remembered
how brave Jerry was when he ran away, so he winked hard to keep back
the tears, and said:

"Do you think I shall 'froze' now, Jerry?"

Jerry thought not, if he minded him. So he lifted him into the sleigh,
and they drove on.

"Is this the depot?" asked Johnny, when they stopped.

"Ye be hard on the depot. This is my house." said Jerry.

As he opened the door, his mother said, "I've looked afther yez since
the dark, and what have ye there?" as she saw Johnny.

Mike, Jerry's father, sat by the stove, and there was a baby on the
floor. Johnny thought he never had seen such a funny place.

He liked the baby best, although its yellow flannel night-dress was
dirty; but it wasn't quite his idea of a baby.

"What shall we do wid him, Mike?" said the lady of the house, as she
saw Johnny's head bobbing and his eyes closing.

"I thought ye'd kape him here till the next train for New York," said
Jerry, laughing.

Mike laid down his pipe, and began to put on his coat.

"Is it to go out again that yez will, this arful night, Mike?" said
Maggie.

"Lay him out on the bed; lave him to slape here to-night, Maggie. I'll
go and make it aisy wid the old folks," said Mike.

He found grandma sitting before the fire-place. Bottles of all sizes
stood on the table, and blankets hung on chairs by the fire. The old
lady's face was pale, and Mike afterward told Maggie, "The hands of her
shook like a lafe, and she had the same look on her that she had when
they tould her Johnny's mother was dead. And when I tould her the boy
was safe wid yez here--Ah, Maggie, she's a leddy!" said Mike, lowering
his voice.

"Well, what did she say?" said Maggie.

"She said I betther sit down an' ate some supper, to warm meself," said
Mike.

Poor grandma! She declared afterward she didn't know Mike was such a
good-looking man, and so kind-hearted, too. But she didn't keep him
long to praise him, but hurried him off to find grandpa.

Mike found the brilliant pair, going over and over the same ground. You
need not laugh, little reader; that's just what your father would do,
if you were lost.

Five minutes after they had learned where Johnny was, they were
standing over him in Mike's house--standing over him, and the baby in
the yellow flannel night-dress, for they were both in one bed, and
Johnny's father saw them about as clearly as Johnny had seen the
candle.

The family were thanked individually and collectively, from Mike down
to the baby, who, when Johnny left, was covered with sweetmeats and
toys, brought from New York to Johnny.

The next morning, at breakfast, Johnny learned many things, among them
that it was very wrong to run away, and he must be punished, and
grandma should decide how severely.

"I will punish him myself," said grandma, "by removing all temptation
to do so again."

Johnny is too young now to appreciate his pleasant sentence, but in
after years, when his sins are heavier, he will miss his gentle judge.

He was to leave Plowfield the next day for New York; but he was to come
back again with the summer, and many were the promises he made of good
behavior.

When the time came for him to go, he clung so to his grandma that his
father said:

"You need not go, Johnny, if you would rather stay."

"No," said Johnny, "I want to go; but why don't they have drandmas and
fathers live in the same house?"

At last, he was all tucked in the sleigh, and grandpa had started.

"Stop! wait!" said Johnny, "I forgot something."

He jumped out of the sleigh, ran back to grandma, clasped his arms
around her neck, and whispered in her ear:

"I'm sorry, drandma, 'cause I spilt the cream, and I'm awfil glad I
didn't smash the bowl."

A MONUMENT WITH A STORY.

BY FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

Many times have I heard English people say, as if they really pitied
us: "Your country has no monuments yet; but then she is so young--only
two hundred years old--and, of course, cannot be expected to have
either monuments or a history." Yet we have some monuments, and a
chapter or two of history, that the mother-country does not too fondly
or frequently remember. But I am not going to write now of the Bunker
Hill Monument, nor of the achievement at New Orleans, nor of the
surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown. I want to tell of another
land nearer its infancy than ours, with a history scarcely
three-quarters of a century old, but with one monument, at least, that
is well worth seeing, and that cannot be thought of without emotions of
loving admiration and reverence. The memorial is of bronze, and tells a
story of privation and suffering, but of glorious heroism, and victory
even in death.

Everybody knows something of the great island, Australia, the largest
in the world, reckoned by some geographers as the fifth continent. I
might almost have said its age is less than one-quarter of a century,
instead of three. It was visited by the great adventurer, William
Dampier, about the year 1690, and again, eighty years after, by Cook,
on his first voyage around the world. It is only within the present
generation that we have come to know it well. England's penal colony
there, and Cook's stories of the marvelous beauty and fertility of the
land, were never wholly forgotten; but almost nothing was done in the
way of exploration, especially of the interior, and the world remained
ignorant of both its extent and its resources until 1860, in August of
which year two brave-hearted young men, by name Burke and Wills,
determined to find out all that they could of the unknown central
regions. It is in memory of these men that Australia's first monument
has been erected. Let me tell you their story.

Burke was in the prime of life, a strong, brave man, who delighted in
daring and even dangerous exploits. Wills, an astronomer, was younger,
and not so ardent, but prudent, wise, sagacious, and thus well fitted
to be the companion of the adventurous Burke. Their object was to trace
a course from south to north of Australia, and explore the interior,
where hitherto no European had set foot.

Fifteen hardy adventurers were induced to form the little company;
twenty-seven camels were imported from India, for carrying the tents,
provisions and implements needed upon such a journey, a fifteen-months'
supply of provisions was laid in, and large vessels were provided for
holding ample stores of water, whenever the route should lie through
arid regions.

Thus burdened with baggage and equipments, the explorers started out.
Their progress was necessarily slow, but the greatest difficulty with
which the leaders had to contend was a spirit of envy and discontent
among their followers. This led to an entire change in Burke's plans,
and perhaps also to the sad catastrophe which ended them.

Instead of keeping his men together, as at first intended, he divided
the company into three squads. Assigning the command of two of these to
Lieutenants Wright and Brahe, and leaving them behind at an early stage
of the journey, together with most of the baggage and provisions, Burke
took Wills, with two others of the most resolute of his company, and
pushed boldly forward, determined to reach the northern coast if
possible, but, at any rate, not to return unless the want of water and
provisions should compel him.

A place called Cooper's Creek, about the center of the Australian
continent, was to serve as a rendezvous for the entire company; one of
the squads was directed to remain at this point for three months, and
longer if practicable; another squad was told to rest a while at
Menindie, and then join the first; while Burke, Wills, Gray and King
were to prosecute their journey northward, do their utmost to
accomplish the main object of the expedition, and return to Cooper's
Creek. Had this plan been faithfully executed, all might have gone
well. But hardly had Burke taken his departure when quarrels for
pre-eminence broke out among the men he had left behind; then sickness
and death thinned the ranks and disheartened the survivors, and they
failed to carry out the programme Burke had laid down. Wright stayed at
Menindie until the last of January before setting out for the
rendezvous; while Brahe, who had charge of most of the provisions,
instead of remaining for three months at Cooper's Creek, deserted that
post long before the time arranged, and left behind neither water nor
provisions.

In two months Burke and his companions reached the borders of the Gulf
of Carpentaria, at the extreme north of the continent, having solved
the problem, and found a pathway to the North Pacific. Then, worn and
weary, they set out to return. Their forward march had been
exhausting, as the frequent attacks of bands of savage natives and the
many deadly serpents had made it dangerous to halt for rest either by
day or night. The heat, too, was excessive, and sometimes for days
together the travelers were almost without water, while but sparing use
could be made of the few provisions they had been able to carry.
Feeling sure of relief at Cooper's Creek, however, and jubilant at
their success, the four almost starving men turned about and pressed
bravely on, but they arrived only to find the post deserted, and
neither water nor provisions left to fill their pressing need.

In utter dismay, they sat down to consider what could be done, when one
of the party happened to see the word "dig" cut on the bark of a tree,
and digging below it, they found a casket containing a letter from
Brahe, which showed that he had left the post that very morning, and
that our travelers had arrived just _seven hours too late_!

Imagine, if you can, how terribly tantalizing was this news, and how
hard it must have seemed to these heroic men, after having suffered so
much, braved so many dangers, and tasted the first sweets of success,
to die of starvation just at the time when they had hoped relief would
be at hand--to be so nearly saved, and to miss the certainty of rescue
by only a few hours! Eagerly they searched in every direction for some
trace of their comrades, and called loudly their names, but the echo of
their own voices was the only answer. As a last effort for relief, they
attempted to reach Mount Despair, a cattle station one hundred and
fifty leagues away, but they finally gave up in complete
discouragement, when one more day's march might have brought them to
the summit and saved their lives.

For several weeks these brave fellows fought off their terrible fate,
sometimes hoping, oftener despairing, and at last, one after another,
they lay down far apart in the dreary solitude of the wilderness, to
die of starvation.

All this and more was learned by Captain Howitt, who commanded an
expedition of search sent out from Melbourne, some nine months after
the departure of Burke and his company, not a word of news having been
received concerning them, and many fears being felt for the safety of
the little band. On Howitt's arrival at Cooper's Creek he, too, found
the word "dig," where the four despairing men had seen it; and beneath
the tree was buried, not only the paper left by Brahe, but Burke's
journal, giving the details of the journey to the coast, discoveries
made, and the terrible last scenes.

At every step of Burke's pathway new objects of interest had elicited
his surprise and admiration. Not only were there fertile plains and
beautiful, flower-dotted prairies, but lagoons of salt water, hills of
red sand, and vast mounds that seemed to tell of a time when the region
was thickly populated, though now it was all but untrod by man. A range
of lofty mountains, discovered by Burke in the north, he called the
Standish Mountains, and a lovely valley outspread at their foot he
named the Land of Promise.

But alas! Great portions of Burke's journey had to be made through
rugged and barren regions, destitute of water, and with nothing that
could serve as food for man or beast. Driven to extremities by hunger,
the pioneers devoured the venomous reptiles they killed, and on one
occasion Burke came near dying from the poison of a snake he had eaten.
All their horses were killed for food, and all their camels but two.
Perhaps these also went at a later day, for toward the last the records
in the journal became short, and were written at long intervals.

Once the party was obliged to halt with poor Gray, and wait till he had
breathed his last, when the three mourning survivors went on in silence
without their comrade.

A letter from young Wills, addressed to his father, is dated June 29th.
The words are few, but they are full of meaning.

"My death here, within a few hours, is certain, but my soul is calm,"
he wrote.

The next day he died, as was supposed by the last record; though the
precise time could not be known, as he had gone forth alone to make one
more search for relief, and had met his solitary fate calmly, as a hero
should. Howitt, after long search, found the remains of his friend
stretched on the sand, and nearly covered with leaves.

The closing sentence in Burke's journal is dated one day earlier than
young Wills's letter. It runs:

"We have gained the shores of the ocean, but we have been aband--"

It is not, of course, known why the last word was never finished. It
may have been that he felt too keenly the cruelty of his companions'
desertion of him to bring himself to write the word; or perhaps the
death agony overtook him before he could finish it. At any rate, it
speaks a whole crushing world of reproach to those whose disregard of
duty cost their noble leader's life. It has its lessons for us all.

Burke's skeleton also was found, covered with leaves and boughs that
had been placed there, it is supposed, by the pitying natives, who
found the dead hero where, in bitter loneliness, he heaved his dying
sigh, unflinching to the last.

Howitt wrapped the remains in the flag of his country, and left them in
their resting-place. Then he returned to Melbourne, and made
preparations for their removal and subsequent burial. They rest now in
that beautiful city near the sea, beneath the great bronze monument.
There are two figures, rather larger than life, Burke standing, Wills
in a sitting posture. On the pedestal are three bass-reliefs, one
showing the return to Cooper's Creek, another the death of Burke, and
the third the finding of his remains. This is a fitting tribute to the
memory of the brave explorers, but a far nobler and more enduring
memorial exists in the rapid growth and present prosperous condition of
that vast island, results that are largely the fruit of their labors
and devotion.

King survived, but he was wasted almost to a skeleton, and it was
months before he could tell the story of suffering he alone knew.

TWO WAYS.

BY MARY C. BARTLETT.

"If I had a fortune," quoth bright little Win,
"I'd spend it in Sunday-schools. Then, don't you see,
Wicked boys would be taught that to steal is a sin,
And would leave all our apples for you and for me."

"If _I_ had a fortune," quoth twin-brother Will,
"I'd spend it in fruit-orchards. Then, don't you see,
Wicked boys should all pick till they'd eaten their fill,
And they wouldn't _want_ apples from you or from me."

A HORSE AT SEA.

[SEE FRONTISPIECE.]

His name is Charley. A common name for a horse, and yet he was a most
uncommon horse, of a sweet and cheerful disposition, and celebrated for
his travels over the sea. This is his portrait, taken the day before he
left America, for the benefit of sorrowing friends. He looks as if he
thought he was going abroad. There is something in his eye and the
expressive flirt of his tail that seems to suggest strange doings.
Charley is going to Scotland, over the sea, and he is having his feet
cared for by the Doctor. He stands very steady now, even on three legs.
When he afterward went aboard the good steamship "California" it was as
much as he could do to keep steady on all four.

[Illustration]

Poor Charley! He was dreadfully sick on the voyage. He had a fine
state-room, but the motion of the ship was too much for his nerves, and
he was very ill. So they had to bring him, bed and all, on deck. The
steamer was rolling from side to side, for the waves ran high, and the
tall masts swayed this way and that with a slow and solemn motion. Poor
Charley didn't appreciate the beauty of the sea, and thought the whole
voyage a most unhappy experience. Then he had to be hoisted out of the
hatchway in a most undignified manner. The frontispiece shows you how
this was done. They put him in his box and put a rope round it and
fastened the rope to the donkey engine, a little steam-engine which is
used for hoisting and such purposes. How humiliating for a horse to be
dragged aloft by a donkey engine! The captain stood near to give the
signal when the steamer rested for a moment on a level keel. The donkey
engine puffed, and the sailors stood ready to steer the patient upward,
just as you see in the picture.

Charley grew very serious as he rose higher and higher, but a man held
him by the head and whispered comfort in his ear. At last, he reached
the deck in safety, and they gave him a place in a breezy nook beside
some other four-footed passengers, and he immediately recovered.

TIDY AND VIOLET; OR, THE TWO DONKEYS.

There was once a little boy who was not very strong, and it was thought
right that he should be a great deal in the open air, and therefore it
was also thought right that he should have a donkey.

The plan was for this little boy to take long rides, and for his mamma
to ride on another donkey, and for his papa to walk by the side of
both.

The two donkeys that were procured for this purpose had belonged to
poor people, and had lived hard lives lately, out upon the common,
because the poor people had no employment for them, and so could get no
money to give the donkeys better food. They were glad, therefore, when
the gentleman said that he wanted to buy a donkey for his little boy,
and that he would try these two for a time, and then take the one he
liked best.

So the gentleman and the lady and the boy took their excursion day
after day with the two donkeys.

Now, one of these was a thin-looking white donkey, and the other was a
stout black donkey; and one was called "Violet" and the other "Tidy."

The little boy liked the black donkey best, because he was bigger and
handsomer, "I like Tidy," he said; "dear papa, I like Tidy."

"Stop!" said his papa. "Let us wait a bit; let us try them a little
longer."

The party did not go out every day; sometimes the gentleman and lady
were engaged, and the donkeys remained idly in the gentleman's field.

And then, when they had done eating, they used sometimes to talk.

"Is not this happiness?" said the meek white donkey. "Instead of the
dry grass of the common, to have this rich, green, juicy grass, and
this clear stream of water, and these shady trees; and then, instead of
doing hard work and being beaten, to go out only now and then with a
kind lady and gentleman, and a dear little boy, for a quiet walk:--is
it not a happy change, Tidy?"

"Yes," said Tidy, flinging his hind-legs high in the air.

"Oh!" said Violet, "I hope you will not do that when the young
gentleman is on your back."

"Why not?" said Tidy.

"Because," said Violet, "you may throw him off, and perhaps kill him;
and consider how cruel that would be, after all his kindness to us."

"Oh," said Tidy, "people always call us donkeys stupid and lazy and
slow, and they praise the horse for being spirited and lively; and so
the horses get corn and hay and everything that is good, and we get
nothing but grass. But I intend to be lively and spirited and get
corn."

"Take care what you do, Tidy," said Violet. "The gentleman wishes to
buy a quiet donkey, to carry his little boy gently. If we do not behave
ourselves well, he surely will send us back to the common."

But Tidy was foolish and proud, and, the next time he went out, he
began to frisk about very gayly.

"I fear," said the gentleman, "that the good grass has spoiled Tidy."

[Illustration]

Tidy heard this, but, like other young and foolish things, he would not
learn. Soon, the little dog Grip passed by, and Tidy laid his ears back
on his neck and rushed at Grip to bite him.

"Really," said the gentleman, "Tidy is getting quite vicious. When we
get home, we will send Tidy away, and we will keep Violet."

Tidy, as you may believe, was sorry enough then. But it was too late.
He was sent away to the bare common. But Violet still lives in the
gentleman's field, eats nice grass, goes easy journeys, and is plump
and happy.

[Illustration]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Poets have a great deal to answer for, and they should be careful what
they say, for they've no idea what an influence they have. Now, I'm
told that about one hundred and fifty years ago, one by the name of
Thomson (Thomson without a _p_) sang:

"Hail, gentle Spring! Ethereal mildness, hail!"

and made no end of trouble, of course. March being the first spring
month, was the first to hear the command, and so, ever since, she has
been trying her best to hail. Failing in this, as she nearly always
does, her only recourse is to blow; and blow she does, with a will. So
don't blame her, my chicks, if she deals roughly with you this year,
blows your hair into your eyes, and nearly takes you off your feet.
It's all the fault of that poet Thomson.

I suppose if he had sung to our great American cataract, he would have
told it to trickle, or drip, or something of that sort; and then what
would have become of all the wedding tours? Mrs. Sigourney, my birds
tell me, was a poet of the right sort. She sang, "Roll on,
Niagara!"--and it has rolled on ever since.

Talking of fluids, here's a letter telling

HOW CHERRY PLAYED WITH WATER.

A good friend sends Jack this true horse-story:

At my summer home, the very coolest and pleasantest spot to be
found on a hot day is a grassy knoll, shaded by a great tree. Close
by is the horse-trough, which is supplied with water from the well
a few rods off. One sultry day, my little boy and I went to play
under the shade of this tree. The trough was full of clean,
sparkling water, and I lingered there even after the two horses,
"Cherry" and "Dash," had been brought out and tied to the tree; for
they, too, had found their house uncomfortable, and had begged with
their expressive eyes to be taken out-of-doors.

Now, the water in the trough looked very tempting, and soon my boy
Willy put his little hand in, and then rolling up his sleeve,
plunged in his arm and began to splash the water, throwing it
around, wetting us all, horses included. We left the tree, and were
going into the house, when we heard a loud thumping, and splashing;
turning round, we saw Cherry, with his fore-leg in the trough,
knocking his great iron shoe against the side of it, sending the
water flying in all directions, and making the water in the trough
all black and muddy. Now, these horses had drunk from this trough
three times a day for two months, and spent many a morning under
that very tree, and it had never occurred to either of them to play
such a trick until they had seen Willy do it.

Willy was so much pleased that he gave Cherry several lumps of
sugar to reward him for his naughtiness; but James, the coachman,
took a different view, and gave him a sound scolding, and I am
afraid whipped him; although I protested that Willy was more to
blame than poor Cherry, who had only imitated his little master.

C.C.B.

THREE SPIDERS.

Another enemy to my friends the birds! This time it's a spider. He
lives near the Amazon River, they tell me, builds a strong web across a
deep hole in a tree, and waits at the back of the hole until a bird or
a lizard is caught in the meshes. Then out he pounces, and kills his
prey by poison. And yet this dreadful creature has a body only an inch
and a half in length!

Then there's a spider named Kara-Kurt, who lives in Turkestan; and,
though he is no bigger than a finger-nail, he can jump several feet. He
hides in the grass, and his bite is poisonous; but I'm glad to say he
doesn't kill birds.

In the same country is a long-legged spider, who has long hair and a
body as big as a hen's egg. When he walks he seems as large as a man's
double fists. What a fellow to meet on a narrow pathway! I think most
people would be polite enough to let him have the whole of the walk.
Little Miss Muffett would have been scared out of her senses if such a
huge spider had "sat down beside her."

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