Harper's Young People, April 6, 1880 Part 3

An amusing story is told of a modern puss which sailed across the seas.

A Polynesian missionary took a cat with him to the island of Raratonga, but Puss, not liking her new abode, fled to the mountains. One of the new converts, a priest who had destroyed his idol, was one night, sleeping on his mat, when his wife, who sat watching beside him, was terribly alarmed by the sight of two small fires gleaming in the doorway, and by the sound of a plaintive and mysterious voice. Her blood curdling with fear, she awoke her husband, with wifely reproaches on his folly in having burned his G.o.d, who was now come to be avenged on them.

The husband, opening his eyes, saw the same glaring lamps, heard the same dismal sound, and, in an agony of fright, began to recite the alphabet, by way of an incantation against the powers of darkness. The cat on hearing the loud voices felt as much alarm as she had caused, and fled in the darkness, leaving the worthy pair much relieved.

A short while afterward Puss took up her quarters in a retired temple, where her "mews" struck terror into the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the priest and worshippers who came with offerings to the G.o.ds. They fled in all directions, shouting, "A monster from the deep! a monster from the deep!" to return with a large body of their companions in full war array, with spears, clubs, and shields, and faces blackened with charcoal. The cat, however, was too nimble for them, and escaped through the midst of their ranks, sending these brave warriors flying in every direction.

That night, however, Puss, tired of her lonely life, foolishly entered a native hut, and creeping beneath the coverlet under which the whole family were lying, fell asleep. Her purring awoke the owner of the hut, who procured the help of some other models of valor, and with their a.s.sistance murdered poor p.u.s.s.y in her tranquil and confiding slumbers.

But cats, though thus at first misunderstood, were afterward welcomed in Raratonga, which was devastated with a plague of rats. The missionaries imported a cargo consisting of pigs, cocoa-nuts, and cats.

A youthful clerk who was once appointed to make out an invoice of shipments on a Mississippi steamer, was perplexed by the item of "Four boxes of tom-cats." On inquiry, the mystery was solved. "Why," said the indignant sutler, "that means four boxes of _tomato catsup_. Don't you understand abbreviations?"

An amusing reason is given for cats washing their faces after a meal. A cat caught a sparrow, and was about to devour it, but the sparrow said,

"No gentleman eats till he has first washed his face."

The cat, struck with this remark, set the sparrow down, and began to wash his face, on which the sparrow flew away. This vexed p.u.s.s.y extremely, and he said,

"As long as I live I will eat first, and wash my face afterward."

Which all cats do even to this day.

Here is another cat and sparrow fable:

"I wonder," said a sparrow, "what the eagles are about, that they don't fly away with the cats? And now I think of it, a civil question can not give offense." So the sparrow finished her breakfast, went to the eagle, and said: "May it please your Majesty, I see you and your race fly away with the birds and the lambs, that do no harm. But there is not a creature so malignant as a cat; she prowls about our nests, eats up our young, and bites off our own heads. She feeds so daintily that she must be herself good eating. Why do you not feed upon a cat?"

"Ah!" said the eagle, "there is sense in your question. I had a worm here this morning, asking me why I did not breakfast upon sparrows. Do I see a morsel of worm's skin on your beak, my child?"

The sparrow cleaned his bill upon his bosom, and said, "I should like to see the worm that made that complaint."

"Come forward, worm," the eagle said. But when the worm appeared, the sparrow snapped him up and ate him, after which he went on with his argument against the cats.

HOW HE BROUGHT HIS ENGINE DOWN.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

It was one of the most difficult parts of the whole line. A range of high hills lay directly north and; south, and the railroad ran nearly east and west; that is, the stations on each side of the range of hills lay east and west, but to cross the range the road wound about in the most complicated and curious fashion. At the summit of the range, where the line crossed, there was a water tank, and a cross-over switch, and a house for the line-man. This place was eight miles from the station, on the east side, as the crow flies; by rail it was seventeen miles, a steady up grade all the way. All the west-bound trains had to have help in getting over this seventeen-mile grade, and for this service there were several pushing-engines kept there to go behind the trains, and help them up the grade. When the top of the grade was reached, the trains went on, for there were no pa.s.sengers to be taken or left there.

The line-man's house was the only house within five miles, and all the rugged hills round about were covered with deep woods. The pushing-engines that came up the grade usually stopped for a moment or two for water, took the cross-over switch, and ran back on the down track without using steam, as it was down grade all the way. Of course all east-bound trains, both freight and pa.s.senger, came down without help, and, in fact, without using steam, except to get a good start at the top.

One day a long freight train moving west came to the foot of the grade, and took on an extra engine to help it up the hill. This extra engine stood on a siding, and when the freight had pa.s.sed, it drew out on the main line, and took its place behind the train. It was not coupled to the train, as its duty was merely to push behind. There were about thirty-five cars in the train, chiefly empty grain cars going west, and with a "caboose" behind. There were half a dozen brakemen and the conductor scattered along the train on top of the cars. All these points you must remember, to understand what happened soon after.

The line for the seventeen miles up the grade is very crooked, with several high embankments and very sharp turns. Not a nice bit of road for a fast run with a heavy train. Nearly all the distance is through thick woods, so that the brave engineer's deeds were not seen by any one save the few men who were on the train, and in the greatest peril.

The two engines and long line of cars crept slowly up the grade, and without accident, till almost at the top. The forward engine reached the top, and kept straight on; there was no need to stop; and when the train fairly pa.s.sed the summit, and began to descend the grade on the western side of the hills, the pushing-engine merely stopped, and was left behind. Just then something very singular happened. The engineer reversed his engine, and started to run back to the cross-over switch that was just below. He intended to take the down track, and return to the station, seventeen miles below. The station-master was at the switch, and had already opened it. Suddenly the fireman gave a cry, and the engineer looked out his forward window to see what had happened. The train was still in sight up the line, but it was moving down instead of up. It had broken apart. A coupling had given way, and some of the cars were rolling down the grade right on to his engine. He could see the men on top waving their hands for him to get out of the way. The freight-cars had broken loose, and were running away. The men on top could not stop them.

Where would it end? Where would the cars go? Would they ever reach the bottom of the long grade without jumping the rails at some sharp curve, only to plunge into the woods down some lofty embankment? No time to think about that. The thing to do was to get out of the way, and prevent the runaway train from dashing into the engine. He whistled to the station-master to close the switch, and give him the clear line. He must run away from the runaway train. He put on steam, and started down the grade. The station-master seemed to understand what had happened, and promptly closed the switch. Faster and faster rolled the cars, and the engine shot ahead to keep out of the way.

Now for a race for life and death. If he kept ahead, he was safe--safe from collision, but not from running off the line at the terrible curves below. On and on the engine flew, down and down through the woods, till the trees seemed to whirl past in a dizzy dance. Faster and faster came the train gaining speed at every rail. How the woods roared with the rush of the runaway cars, and the engine flying on before! The cars swayed from side to side, and the men on top sat down, as if calmly waiting their dreadful fate. They swept round a curve, and the engineer had a chance to look back up the line, and saw to his dismay that there were more cars behind. A second and shorter train was fast following the first. The train had evidently broken into three parts, and two of the parts, one of eighteen cars, and one of nine cars, were tearing down the grade at forty miles an hour. It was a killing pace, and growing worse every second. It was sure death to all to keep it up much longer.

Something must be done to save engine, men, and cars.

The engine was using steam, and kept ahead of the cars; but it could not do so much longer. What if he let them gain on him, and then time the speed till they collided? It was a desperate experiment, but he would try it. Slowly and very carefully he took off the steam, and ran slower.

In a moment he had the speeds just alike. Then he made the pace of the engine a little less, and a little less, while the roaring and swaying train came nearer and nearer. Both were still flying down the grade at a fearful pace. The men on the cars watched the engine sharply. They saw what the engineer meant to do. If he succeeded, he would save their lives--provided he could let the cars strike the engine, could hitch on, and then pull ahead before the train behind smashed into them from the rear. On and on flew train and engine. Slowly they drew nearer, and at last they b.u.mped with a gentle jar. The fireman was on the pilot all ready to couple on. He dropped the pin in the coupling, and the men on the car gave a ringing cheer that was heard above the roar of the train; and the engineer opened the throttle wide, and away they dashed down the grade, just in time to escape the train behind.

The men wanted to climb down on the engine to shake hands with the engineer, but he motioned them back. The danger was not over. One of the men stood on top of the caboose, with his back to the engine and his arms extended. One of the others held him up, for the cars swayed frightfully in the terrible pace they were going. He watched the train following behind, and with his hands made motions to the engineer to run slower and slower, till, with a crash, the two parts of the train came together. This feat was not so successful as the first, as the engineer could not see the rear cars. The engine was reversed, and the brakes put on, and they came to a stop--not a wheel off the metals, and not a man hurt. Two of the cars badly smashed, but that was all. What had threatened to be a fearful disaster, with a loss of men, engine, and cars, was only a slight splintering of two cars that the carpenters could repair in a day. They had a general shaking of hands alone there in the woods over the engineer's splendid feat; and for months it was told to listening men in every flag station and freight-house along the line how the brave and cool engineer brought his engine down the seventeen-mile grade.

AN OFFICER'S DOG.

BY BOB THORNBURGH.

FORT OMAHA, NEBRASKA, _March 2, 1880_.

I am eight years old, and I have a Gordon setter--liver and white--just as old as I am. His name is Paul. He was born in Tennessee, and given to my papa as a puppy, and soon learned to be a good retriever, to carry newspapers and bundles, and to bring papa's slippers to him.

When I was old enough to crawl, he would watch to see that I did not get hurt, and if I got too near a flight of steps, he would stand between me and them, and pull my dress to get me away. If I went to crawl under him, he would lie down, and over him, he would stand up, and so guarded me safe till my nurse came, and she often found me asleep with my head on Paul's back, who kept still till I waked up.

At Fort Foote, Maryland, Paul became an excellent hunter, and was out with my papa nearly every day, bringing home plenty of quail and other game. He was a happy dog, taking great interest in garrison life, always attending retreat and tattoo with the officer of the day, and even going the rounds with him on his tour of inspection after midnight. No weather was too bad for Paul, who knew every note of the bugle, and was always on hand at the proper "call."

When we went to Fort Brown, Texas, Paul staid behind for cooler weather; then he was sent around by sea from New York. He landed at Point Isabel, and came over by rail to Brownsville, where my papa met him early one morning. Paul barked a welcome at once, and was wild with joy when papa released him from the box in which he had travelled, and let him run after him out to our quarters. I was still asleep, but Paul knew I must be near, so he ran all over the house till he found my bed, when he jumped in, and lay down beside me; it woke me up, and we had a fine meeting, after six months' separation.

When I went out to ride on my Mexican pony--General Robertson--with our boy Florentio, then Paul, and then Billy (my goat), we made quite a procession. Paul always looked so dignified, and never noticed one of Billy's tricks, who pranced along, b.u.t.ting him in the funniest way, and trying to attract his attention.

Poor Paul's misfortunes began in Texas, where a large black dog bit him through the shoulder, causing a lameness that has never left him, and making him hate all black dogs.

After I went North, Paul went with my papa all over Texas, from one fort to another, and always rode in his ambulance, which he would leave for no one but him. At one of the upper posts he once followed a deserter--who had fed him--and to avoid suspicion, the man put Paul down a deep hole, and left him. After searching some time, my papa at last found him; but he was almost starved, as he had had nothing to eat for several days.

Paul next went with us to Omaha, where he suffered from the great change of climate, and was too lame for much hunting. He was very jealous of our two other dogs, Tom and Bill, and would not let them come near my sister, brother, or me.

Then we went to Fort Steele, Wyoming, where he hunted a little, and played with me a great deal. The high and dry air did him good. He was very fond of my little brother George--our "Centennial baby," whose birthday was the 22d of February. When George and I got the scarlet fever, Paul would visit both our rooms, and look so sorry for us. After Georgie "fell asleep," Paul would trot off every day, alone, to the cemetery, and lie down by his "resting-place" awhile, then get up and walk home again, his mind satisfied.

Paul has always been an "officer's dog," and never visited the barracks at any post, and will not follow soldiers, except the one who feeds him.

He dislikes citizens, and any stranger _not_ in uniform arouses his suspicions at once, and he watches him closely till satisfied he is a friend of ours; but did he wear _uniform_, it would be all right at first.

Paul is now at Fort Omaha on the "retired list," and valued for "the good he has done." He is getting as fat as a seal, and has the gout--my sister says the go-out. But he's a good old fellow. My grandpa takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for me, and I like it so much I thought I would like to tell you about my dog.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HOBBY-HORSE REGIMENT ON THE MARCH.]

THE HOBBY-HORSE REGIMENT.