Our Young Folks at Home and Abroad Part 54

As the children approached the cottage, they saw their father returning with the dog, Flora, and as the father caught sight of them he saw that something had happened. Hetty approached, and, with heart-broken sobs, told her story. The mother cried and wrung her hands.

"Husband, he's drowned! he's drowned!" she cried. The father brushed his hand roughly across his eyes, for the tears would come; and the dog staring from one to the other, looked painfully alert and interested.

"I'll go to the beach and search all night; maybe he'll be washed up at the bend," he said.

"Father," said the weeping wife, "maybe he has not been drowned; oh, let us hope he has not! Let us take Flora; perhaps she will find the baby."

The father looked at the dog, which seemed to understand every word, and went into the house and picked up a little Indian moccasin that the child had worn, and calling Flora, gave it to her. She looked at it, smelled of it, and throwing her nose into the air, rushed toward the beach.

The short, sharp barks of the dog guided them to the different spots to which the child had crept. But he was not found. The dog bounded away again, this time in the direction of some holes that had been worn in the face of the rocks by the tides. The water was fast coming up to them, and they would be entirely filled before the tide turned.

The despairing mother was about returning with her children when the father caught a distant sound, a joyful barking that Flora always made when she had been successful in a hunt. He bounded over the rocks that were bathed in the red light of the setting sun. He found Flora barking and wagging her tail, at the mouth of the first little cavern; he stooped and looked in, and there on the white sand lay the baby, asleep. Its little cap was gone, and it dress torn and soiled with seaweed.

The father reached for his little treasure, and hugged him to his heart. The baby laughed, and made most frantic efforts to talk, and immediately twisted both hands tight in his father's hair. This was the baby's way, you know, when he wanted to be carried. You would have cried for joy, to have seen the baby's mother when she s.n.a.t.c.hed him from his father and covered him with kisses, and the little girls clinging to their mother, trying to get a look at him.

They went home very happy, to find Tony with his basket full of crabs, and when he heard the story, he said,--"Flora shall have a new bra.s.s collar, if I have to earn it for her." There was one little girl that learned a serious lesson. Hetty says,--"I never will neglect my duty again."

A BED-TIME STORY.

Mamma dear, tell us a pretty story; tell us of what you and papa saw when you were traveling; and my st.u.r.dy Harold, and his wee baby sister, tired with their play, sank at my feet at the close of the long summer day. Kissing the hot up-turned faces, and lifting the little one to my lap, I began an oft repeated simple tale of how papa and I, while in Switzerland, drove, one evening, from the village where we were stopping, way out in the country, over green wooden bridges and sparkling streams, past dazzling white villas, through shady lanes bordered by high, th.o.r.n.y hedges; where it was so lifeless and still, the sound of our s.h.a.ggy pony's hoofs could hardly be heard.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A LITTLE GIRL SITTING ON THE DOORSTEP.}]

Coming to a low, brown, thatched cottage, the door stood open, and we drove slowly; inside could be seen the table, spread with its frugal repast of oaten cakes and milk; a high, old-fashioned dresser, with its curious jugs of blue delf; a distaff, with the flax still attached, and on the broad door-step sat the prettiest little blue-eyed maiden, wearing a quaint white cap over her yellow locks, a striped kirtle and black waist over a snowy blouse. Like a picture she sat, eating her oat-cake, while tame gray and white doves circled about her or lit on the stones, hoping to get a crumb. Farther on, we stopped at a more pretentious house, called a Swiss chalet, to buy a drink of goat's milk. Here they were quite well-to-do gardeners; and while the peasant wife was gone for the milk, the little daughter, who was rather sweetly dressed, and was very bright and talkative, showed us, with much pride, the heap of garden produce her father was to take to market, early the next morning. A pretty sight it was too--the great wooden table, loaded with the fresh greens and reds of the vegetables, and at one end, guarded by a tall pewter flagon, polished till it glowed like silver; an old oaken cabinet on the wall, bearing glittering decanters and bra.s.s candle sticks; the chattering little maiden, and over all, the golden rays of fading sun-light stealing through the deep tiny-paned windows. We--ah, my darlings are asleep.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A LITTLE GIRL SHOWING OFF GARDEN PRODUCE.}]

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A LITTLE BOY ASLEEP ON THE GROUND.}]

THE LESSON AFTER RECESS.

A bright little urchin out west, Thought going to school was a pest.

He said, "I don't care, I just won't stay there, I'll have a good time like the rest."

He said, "I'll run off at recess, They'll never once miss me, I guess; A fellow can't stop When he's got a new top.

There'll just be one good scholar less."

Now the "rest" was a crowd of rough boys, Who with rudeness and mischief and noise, Made one afraid To go where they played, But their riotous play he enjoys.

So away from his lessons he ran, This promising western young man.

They pushed him down flat, Tore the rim off his hat, Said, "There's nothing so healthy as tan."

And they did what was very much worse; They stole his new knife and his purse.

They gave him a shake, And they called him a "cake;"

Said, "Next time, bub, come with your nurse."

Near sundown this urchin was found Fast asleep on some very hard ground; He looked tired and grieved; He'd been so deceived, And quite ready for home, I'll be bound.

The primary teacher, Miss Small, When she heard his sad fate, forgave all, "My teacher's a daisy!

I'm through being lazy."

He said, "School's not bad after all."

THE LION AT THE "ZOO."

In the jungles, where the sun is so fierce at noonday that the black natives, themselves, cannot endure it, but hide in huts and caverns and in the shadows of rocks, dwelt this lion.

He did not mind heat, or storm, or the tireless hunters. He was braver and stronger than any other creature in that tropical wilderness, and his very appearance and the sound of his terrible roar had sent many a band of hunters flying back to their safe retreats.

He prowled about the fountains at night, and woe to any belated native or domestic animal that happened to be near; he would leap upon them, and kill them with one blow of his huge paw.

One day a bushman sighted a fine deer, and incautiously separated himself from his companions; the ardor of the pursuit led him into the pathless wilderness, and farther and farther from help, if he should need any.

Pausing a moment, he looked about him; he could not believe his eyes!

He saw, not forty rods from him, this creature, regarding him! intense excitement flashing from his eyes, his tail swaying from side to side, and striking the ground with a heavy thud.

The bushman fled in wild terror, and with a bound the lion began the chase. No match, indeed, could any one man hope to be for such an enemy--no outrunning this fleet patrol of the forest; roaring and foaming he came up with the doomed hunter and struck him down and killed him.

The roaring over his success was something too terrible to hear. The other creatures of the forest fled to their dens and coverts, and the party of hunters, dimly locating the lion's whereabouts, betook themselves to other grounds, not caring to encounter so formidable a foe. Little did they suspect the fate of their comrade, and they never knew of it until, a long time afterward, they found the remains of his hunting gear. The beast had torn him to pieces and devoured him.

The devastations of this scourge of the wilderness became so great in time, that he depopulated whole villages, and the superst.i.tious natives, believing him to be a demon, became so stricken with fear that they would not attempt to hunt him, and thus rid the forest of him.

Some agents of a business firm in Holland, who negotiate for the purchase of these ferocious wild animals for menageries, secured, by promises of great help and large reward, a band of intrepid native hunters, to procure, if it were within the range of possibility, this famed lion, alive.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A BEAUTIFUL DEER.]

White men joined in the hunt. Brave Englishmen and fearless Americans attached themselves to the party, and many were the hair-breadth escapes and critical situations that crowded upon their path.

On reaching the lion's neighborhood, they took counsel as to the best way of coming upon him, not knowing just where his lair might be; but soon they were guided to him by a distant roaring. The advance hunters caught their first glimpse of him before he was aware of their presence. He had slain his prey--the pretty creature lay near the jungle lake, the sword gra.s.s and the poisonous marsh flowers flaunting their lush growth all about. The animal's smooth coat was brown and glossy, and its black hoofs shone bright in the sunshine.

The lion repeated the same expressions of gratified savagery he had indulged in when he had devoured the native. He strode about, lashing his tail and roaring.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE WAS FINALLY CAGED.]

The fearful encounter began! Many of the natives were killed. One young English n.o.bleman was thought to have received his death wound, when they came to close quarters. The creature was overcome by numbers and heroic bravery at last. He was maimed, disabled and secured, in the deft and expeditious way they have learned in dealing with these animals. He was finally caged, and the rejoicings of the natives knew no bounds; the exploit was celebrated with feasting, dancing and wild observances, the women and the children joining in the uncouth festivities.

He was removed by his foreign purchasers, and eventually secured by a City Park Commission, and was liberated to walk about a s.p.a.cious cage, to delight the thousands who visit the menagerie, that affords so much instructive amus.e.m.e.nt. He usually lies down in one corner, and although he has lost much of his magnificent appearance, he is still worthy to be called the "Forest King."

If you happen to be in his section when he gets hungry and calls for his dinner, you will be greatly astonished, if not frightened, at the sound of his voice. It is like nothing else in nature. It vibrates to the roof of the vast structure, and the windows rattle in their frames. He tramps about and lashes his tail against the bars and stamps his feet, and his keeper hurries to throw him his ration of raw meat. When he is satisfied, he lies down and purrs as good-naturedly as a p.u.s.s.y cat, and looks you in the eyes with an unwinking stare.