Harper's Young People, July 13, 1880 Part 5

They were joined by Bill's uncle, and the three pa.s.sed into the outer tent. Philemon put his eye against a hole in the canvas to watch them.

Like monkeys the two men and the child swung themselves aloft, and reached the tent roof. Here they twisted, they turned, they made fearful leaps from one trapeze to another, until Philemon trembled to see them.

At last both men hung by their knees, head downward, and Bill crept carefully to the end of a long rope, gave a spring, and caught his father's hands. There was an awful pause; then small Bill was sent spinning through the air, sixty-five feet from the ground, to be caught by his uncle, tossed back to his father, now seized by an arm, now by a leg, now almost missed, now twirled round and round like a ball.

Philemon caught his breath, and stretched out his hand in an agony of fear. His hand touched another, which was as cold as ice. Glancing up, he found Madame Lucetta Almazida close by, her eye glued to another hole in the canvas, her breath coming short and thick, her face livid and drawn. Not knowing what she did, she clutched Philemon's hand, and he heard her mutter,

"My baby! my baby!"

"Bill" was her own "Phenomenal Trapezist," and under Madame Lucetta Almazida's shabby bodice a mother's heart beat wildly.

Philemon's heart beat too. What if he had been a "Bill," and his own sweet mother had worn short skirts and ridden Pegasus? Horrible!

Poor Lucetta Almazida! Poor little Bill!

But there was time to think of them no more. The band of negro minstrels was ready to sing. A clown seized Philemon's hand, and hurried him into the ring. There was a shout from the spectators. Some one gave him a nudge.

"Pipe up, boy. We're ready for 'Ma.s.sa's in the cold, cold ground.'"

Philemon opened his mouth, but no sound came. The eyes on every side burned into him. His one desire was to rush away from those blackened men, from the choking odor of tan and kerosene, from the disgrace of standing there, like a little black fiend, to be hooted at and expected to make fun for the crowd. His brain reeled. With a cry he broke from a detaining hand, and ran headlong across the arena, his yellow coat tails flapping about his heels.

Through the back tent he sped, past Madame Lucetta Almazida, who was holding the "Phenomenal Trapezist" in her arms, past Mons. Duval, out into the night. Home--home--home--that was the place toward which, if he had had wings, he would have flown. Being neither an angel nor even a bird, only a little wretched boy, all he could do was to stumble along the dark road. Eight miles away was his home. On and on he went, and at last his weary feet began to flag.

It seemed as if the chirping crickets were hissing at him. The frogs in the ponds croaked disapprovingly. Even the stars winked reproachfully.

He was growing exhausted. He sank down by a fence, and his eyelids closed heavily.

The sun was high when he awoke, and then a colder, hungrier boy you never saw. Six miles from home was he. There was nothing for it but to plod along, for there were no houses on that road. One mile, two miles, he walked. He picked some apples by the road-side, but they were sour and hard. Sometimes he tried to run, but had to give that up.

At five o'clock that afternoon the cook at a certain farm-house was frying doughnuts in the back kitchen. She was looking very sober, and near her sat a very sober boy, who every now and then drew his hand across his eyes. At last he spoke.

"Cerinthy," said he, "do you cal'late they'll ever find him?"

Cerinthy put another doughnut into the expostulating fat. "Romeo Augustus," said she, "it's my opinion that maybe they may and maybe they mayn't; an' like as not if they do, it'll only be his body, and-- Oh!"

Cerinthy gave a great scream, and dropped her panful of doughnuts on the floor, for on the threshold of the "pump-room" stood a boy as black as the ace of spades, clad in startling yellow clothes, his neck ornamented with a huge paper collar.

This image opened his mouth and spake. "Where's my mother? Give me a doughnut."

Cerinthy shrieked louder than ever. An opposite door opened, and out rushed a lady whose eyes were swollen with crying.

"Mother!" called out the black boy, as he flew into her open arms.

"Philemon! mother's own little boy!" she sobbed; while Romeo Augustus performed a war-dance about the two.

I think Philemon's father was so relieved when he beheld his fifth-born, that he would have _whipped_ him soundly. But his mother would by no means allow that. She gave him preserved peach and cream toast instead.

"For you'll never do such a thing again, will you?" demanded she, tenderly.

Philemon gazed lovingly at her, with a mouth full of toast. "_Catch me_," said he.

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j.a.pANESE CHILDREN.

Here we have a genuine picture of j.a.panese _kodoma_. They are in every-day dress, with hair and shoes just as one sees them in their own village. There is the baby carried pickapack, and laid on the back of its sister like a slice of meat on a sandwich. Baby's head is shaved as smooth as one's palm, and kept so until it is two years old. Then the next style--a little fringe of hair above the ears and one near the neck--will be proper. The next step will be a tiny top-knot and a circle, in addition to the ear-locks.

All these children live on boiled rice, and they are as round and chubby and rosy-cheeked as it is possible to be without bursting. See their nice loose clothes, with neither a pin to stick nor a b.u.t.ton to fly off!

They do not wear socks nor stockings, for it is not very cold in j.a.pan.

One little tot has on a pair of straw sandals, and the girl and old man wear clogs, held on by a strap pa.s.sing between the "thumb of the foot,"

as the j.a.ps call the big toe, and its next-door neighbor.

It would do American boys good, and set them a good example, to notice how kind to animals j.a.panese children are. There is old daddy telling his children to treat their pet kindly, and doggy knows it will be good for him to have such playmates. See his little straw kennel made like a tent, with a crock of water in it. I'll wager that the children will feed the little _inu_ with tidbits from their own chopsticks.

A SEA-SIDE ADVENTURE.

AS RELATED IN A LETTER PROM BESSIE MAYNARD TO HER DOLL CLYTEMNESTRA, WHOM SHE LEFT AT HOME.

OLD ORCHARD BEACH, _July, 1880_.

MY DEAREST CLYTEMNESTRA,--Do you miss me? and are you wondering why I do not write? Well, my dear, writing is an impossibility when one is at the sea-sh.o.r.e. You never knew such times as we are having all day long. I must tell you, first of all, of an adventure that befell me yesterday--not _me_ exactly, either; it _most_ befell Lucille, the beautiful Paris doll that f.a.n.n.y Bell was so proud of; and well she might be, for a handsomer creature never walked. You remember her, of course; the lovely Mademoiselle Lucille, as she was called, that being the French for Miss, for it would never do to call her plain Lucille, such a fine young lady as she was, just from France, with all the airs and graces that belong to Paris, the politest city in the world. It's no great wonder she was proud--Lucille, I mean--for I'm afraid most of us would be if we looked like her. Such hair as she had, all natural curls down below her waist; and such a _nelegant_ wardrobe, or "trooso," as f.a.n.n.y calls it. Perhaps I haven't spelled trooso right, but please excuse it; indeed, _you_ wouldn't know whether it was right or wrong, you are such a poor little ignorant thing. I'm ashamed of myself for neglecting your education as I have done, when I see the dolls here, and realize how much they know. Just as soon as I get home, we'll begin with regular lessons every day. It isn't _your_ fault, you sweet lamb, that you don't know anything. _I_ am the only one to blame, and I'll try to make up for lost time when I come home.

But, dear me, how I do run on, without telling you a word of the adventure. The "sad sea waves" put all sorts of ideas into my mind, and I get terribly confused. I heard a lady sing last night about the "sad sea waves," and I think it sounds prettier than "the ocean"--don't you?

Well, to begin at the beginning: Yesterday morning f.a.n.n.y Bell, Dora Mason, and I went down to the beach as usual, Mademoiselle Lucille walking along by her mamma, just like a real live beautiful child. We scooped holes in the warm sand, and made caves, and then we built the Pyramids. _They_ are in Egypt, you know, curiosities that people go to see; but we make them of sand, so they look just exactly like the pictures, "Sfinks" and all. Perhaps you don't know what the "Sfinks" is, but I will tell you some day, when I begin your education, my poor Clytemnestra.

Well, at last we wanted to go round the point to pick some wild morning-glories, so we sat Lucille up on a kind of throne behind the Pyramids, and left her. We were only gone a little bit of a while, but what do you think? when we came back the tide was in, and the sad sea waves had washed away Pyramids, Sfinks, Lucille, and all! Oh, the despair we were in! Poor f.a.n.n.y jumped right up and down, and screeched, and then sinking down upon the sand, as the story-books say, "she buried her face in her hands, and wept as if her heart would break." All at once I saw something bobbing around, and if there wasn't Lucille about four feet from the sh.o.r.e, fastened to a rock by the flounce of her pink satin dress! f.a.n.n.y shrieked aloud, but Dora and I seized a pole, and after working a long, long time, we managed to fish her out of the water. Here is a picture that I have drawn to show you how we looked in our awful excitement.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Lucille is frightfully pale to-day, and her curls are gone forever. She is a bald-headed "faded beauty," as a gentleman truly said when he saw her this morning. When I look at her, and remember how fine she used to think herself, I can't help saying, "Well, my dear, 'pride must have a fall.'" I pity her, though, from the very bottom of my heart, for it must be dreadful to be so changed, and all of a sudden, too. I guess we sha'n't have to be so particular any more about calling her "Mademoiselle."

I can not be thankful enough that I left you at home, my sweet Clytie.

The sea-sh.o.r.e is a lovely place for children who know how to take care of themselves, but 'tis dreadful dangerous for _dolls_.

And now good-night, my pet.

Your loving mamma, BESSIE MAYNARD.

P.S.--Dora has just come in to say that f.a.n.n.y has changed Mademoiselle's name, and hereafter she is to be called "Jane." Poor thing!