Our Boys

In joy thereof the captain gave a great farewell feast to his red allies. It was spread under the pines in front of his cabin, and every delicacy of the season was there, from bear steaks to beaver tails. The banquet was drawing to a close, and complimentary speeches 'twixt host and guests were in order, when a procession of the squaws was seen approaching from the encampment. They drew near and headed for the captain in solemn silence. As they passed, each laid some gift at his feet—fringed leggings; beaded moccasins, bear skins, coyote skins, beaver pelts and soft robes of the mountain lion's hide—until the pile reached to the captain's shoulders. Last of all came Osito's mother and crowned the heap with a beautiful little brown bear skin. It was fancifully adorned with blue ribbons, and in the center of the tanned side there were drawn, in red pigment, the outlines of a very stolid and stoical-looking pappoose.

F.L. STEALEY.

THE LITTLE LION-CHARMER

Outside the little village of Katrine,Just where the country ventures into town,A circus pitched its tents, and on the greenThe canvas pyramids were fastened down.The night was clear. The moon was climbing higher.The show was over; crowds were coming out,When, through the surging mass, the cry of "fire!"Rose from a murmur to a wild, hoarse shout."Fire! fire!" The crackling flames ran up the tent,The shrieks of frightened women filled the air,The cries of prisoned beasts weird horror lentTo the wild scene of uproar and despair.A lion's roar high over all the cries!There is a crash—out into the nightThe tawny creature leaps with glowing eyes,Then stands defiant in the fierce red light."The lion's loose! The lion! Fly for your lives!"But deathlike silence falls upon them all,So paralyzed with fear that no one strivesTo make escape, to move, to call!"A weapon! Shoot him!" comes from far outside;The shout wakes men again to conscious life;But as the aim is taken, the ranks divideTo make a passage for the keeper's wife.Alone she came, a woman tall and fair,And hurried on, and near the lion stood;"Oh, do not fire!" she cried; "let no one dareTo shoot my lion—he is tame and good."My son? my son?" she called; and to her ranA little child, that scarce had seen nine years."Play! play!" she said. Quickly the boy began.His little flute was heard by awe-struck ears."Fetch me a cage," she cried. The men obeyed."Now go, my son, and bring the lion here."Slowly the child advanced, and piped, and played,While men and women held their breaths in fear.Sweetly he played, as though no horrid fateCould ever harm his sunny little head.He never paused, nor seemed to hesitate,But went to do the thing his mother said.The lion hearkened to the sweet clear sound;The anger vanished from his threatening eyes;All motionless he crouched upon the groundAnd listened to the silver melodies.The boy thus reached his side. The beast stirred not.The child then backward walked, and played again,Till, moving softly, slowly from the spot,The lion followed the familiar strain.The cage is waiting—wide its opened door—And toward it, cautiously, the child retreats.But see! The lion, restless grown once more,Is lashing with his tail in angry beats.The boy, advancing, plays again the lay.Again the beast, remembering the refrain,Follows him on, until in this dread wayThe cage is reached, and in it go the twain.At once the boy springs out, the door makes fast,Then leaps with joy to reach his mother's side;Her praise alone, of all that crowd so vast,Has power to thrill his little heart with pride.HARRIET S. FLEMING.

THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER

You've quizzed me often and puzzled me long,You've asked me to cipher and spell,You've called me a dunce if I answered wrong,Or a dolt if I failed to tellJust when to say lie and when to say lay,Or what nine sevens may make,Or the longitude of Kamschatka Bay,Or the I-forget-what's-its-name Lake,So I think it's about my turn, I do,To ask a question or so of you.The schoolmaster grim, he opened his eyes,But said not a word for sheer surprise.Can you tell what "phen-dubs" means? I can.Can you say all off by heartThe "onery twoery ickery ann,"Or tell "alleys" and "commons" apart?Can you fling a top, I would like to know,Till it hums like a bumble-bee?Can you make a kite yourself that will go'Most as high as the eye can see,Till it sails and soars like a hawk on the wing,And the little birds come and light on its string?The schoolmaster looked oh! very demure,But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost sure.Can you tell where the nest of the oriole swings,Or the color its eggs may be?Do you know the time when the squirrel bringsIts young from their nest in the tree?Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready to dropOr where the best hazel-nuts grow?Can you climb a high tree to the very tip-top,Then gaze without trembling below?Can you swim and dive, can you jump and run,Or do anything else we boys call fun?The master's voice trembled as he replied:"You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," he sighed.E.J. WHEELER.

WON'T TAKE A BAFF

To the brook in the green meadow dancing,The tree-shaded, grass-bordered brook,For a bath in its cool, limpid water,Old Dinah the baby boy took.She drew off his cunning wee stockings,Unbuttoned each dainty pink shoe,Untied the white slip and small apron,And loosened his petticoats, too.And while Master Blue Eyes undressing,She told him in quaintest of wordsOf the showers that came to the flowers,Of the rills that were baths for the birds.And she said, "Dis yere sweetest of babies,W'en he's washed, jess as hansum'll beAs any red, yaller or blue birdDat ebber singed up in a tree."An' sweeter den rosies an' lilies,Or wiolets eder, I guess—"When away flew the mischievous darling,In the scantiest kind of a dress."Don't care if the birdies an' fowers,"He shouted, with clear, ringing laugh,"Wash 'eir hands an' 'eir faces forebberAn' ebber, me won't take a baff."MARGARET EYTINGE.

ONE WAY TO BE BRAVE

(A True Story.)

"Papa," exclaimed six-year-old Marland, leaning against his father's knee after listening to a true story, "I wish I could be as brave as that!"

"Perhaps you will be when you grow up."

"But maybe I sha'n't ever be on a railroad train when there is going to be an accident!"

"Ah! but there are sure to be plenty of other ways for a brave man to show himself."

Several days after this, when Marland had quite forgotten about trying to be brave, thinking, indeed, that he would have to wait anyway until he was a man, he and his little playmate, Ada, a year younger, were playing in the dog-kennel. It was a very large kennel, so that the two children often crept into it to "play house." After awhile, Marland, who, of course, was playing the papa of the house, was to go "down town" to his business; he put his little head out of the door of the kennel, and was just about to creep out, when right in front of him in the path he saw a snake. He knew in a moment just what sort of a snake it was, and how dangerous it was; he knew it was a rattlesnake, and that if it bit Ada or him, they would probably die. For Marland had spent two summers on his papa's big ranch in Kansas, and he had been told over and over again, if he ever saw a snake to run away from it as fast as he could, and this snake just in front of him was making the queer little noise with the rattles at the end of his tail which Marland had heard enough about to be able to recognize.

Now you must know that a rattlesnake is not at all like a lion or a bear, although just as dangerous in its own way. It will not chase you; it can only spring a distance equal to its own length, and it has to wait and coil itself up in a ring, sounding its warning all the time, before it can strike at all. So if you are ever so little distance from it when you see it first, you can easily escape from it. The only danger is from stepping on it without seeing it. But Marland's snake was already coiled, and it was hardly more than a foot from the entrance to the kennel. You must know that the kennel was not out in an open field, either, but under a piazza, and a lattice work very near it left a very narrow passage for the children, even when there wasn't any snake. If they had been standing upright, they could have run, narrow as the way was; but they would have to crawl out of the kennel and find room for their entire little bodies on the ground before they could straighten themselves up and run. Fortunately, the snake's head was turned the other way.

"Ada," said Marland very quietly, so quietly that his grandpapa, raking the gravel on the walk near by, did not hear, him, "there's a snake out here, and it is a rattlesnake. Keep very still and crawl right after me."

"Yes, Ada," he whispered, as he succeeded in squirming himself out and wriggling past the snake till he could stand upright. "There's room, but you mustn't make any noise!"

Five minutes later the two children sauntered slowly down the avenue, hand in hand.

"Grandpapa," said Marland, "there's a rattlesnake in there where Ada and I were; perhaps you'd better kill him!"

And when the snake had been killed, and papa for the hundredth time had folded his little boy in his arms and murmured, "My brave boy! my dear, brave little boy!" Marland looked up in surprise.

"Why, it wasn't I that killed the snake, papa! it was grandpapa! I didn't do anything; I only kept very still and ran away!"

But you see, in that case, keeping very still and running away was just the bravest thing the little fellow could have done; and I think his mamma—for I am his mamma, and so I know just how she did feel—felt when she took him in her arms that night that in her little boy's soul there was something of the stuff of which heroes are made.

MRS. ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS.

THE MYSTERY OF SPRING

Come, come, come, little Tiny,Come, little doggie! WeWill "interview" all the blossomsDown-dropt from the apple-tree;We'll hie to the grove and questionFresh grasses under the swing,And learn if we can, dear Tiny,Just what is the joy called Spring.Come, come, come, little Tiny;Golden it is, I know:Gold is the air around us,The crocus is gold below;Red as the golden sunsetIs robin's breast, on the wing—But, come, come, come, little Tiny,This isn't the half of Spring.Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny;Fragrant it is—for, see,We catch the breath of the violetsHowever hidden they be;And buds o'erhead in the greenwoodThe sweetest of spices fling—Yet color and sweets togetherAre still but a part of Spring.Then come, come, come, little Tiny,Let's hear what you have to tellLearned of the years you've scamperedOver the hill and dell—What! Only a bark for answer?Now, Tiny, that isn't the thingWill help unravel the riddleOf wonderful, wonderful Spring.Yes, Tiny, there's something betterThan form and scent and hue,In the grass with its emerald glory;In the air's cerulean blue;In the glow of the sweet arbutus;In the daisy's perfect mould:—All these are delightful, Tiny,But the secret's still untold.Oh, Tiny, you'll never know it—For the mystery lies in this:Just the fact of such warm uprisingFrom winter's chill abyss,And the joy of our heart's upspringingWhenever the Spring is born,Because it repeats the storyOf the blessed Easter-morn!MRS. MARY B. DODGE.

MIDSUMMER WORDS

What can they want of a midsummer verse,In the flush of the midsummer splendor?For the Empress of Ind shall I pull out my purseAnd offer a penny to lend her?Who cares for a song when the birds are a-wing,Or a fancy of words when the least little thingHath message so wondrous and tender?The trees are all plumed with their leafage superb,And the rose and the lily are budding;And wild, happy life, without hindrance or curb,Through the woodland is creeping and scudding;The clover is purple, the air is like mead,With odor escaped from the opulent weedAnd over the pasture-sides flooding.Every note is a tune, every breath is a boon;'Tis poem enough to be living;Why fumble for phrase while magnificent JuneHer matchless recital is giving?Why not to the music and picturing come,And just with the manifest marvel sit dumbIn silenced delight of receiving?Ah, listen! because the great Word of the LordThat was born in the world to begin it,Makes answering word in ourselves to accord,And was put there on purpose to win it.And the fulness would smother us, only for this:We can cry to each other, "How lovely it is!And how blessed it is to be in it!"MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE

Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend—"If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-archOf the North-Church tower, as a signal-light—One if by land, and two if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country-folk to be up and to arm."Then he said good-night, and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war:A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon, like a prison-bar,And a huge, black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and streetWanders and watches with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack-door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiersMarching down to their boats on the shore.Then he climbed to the tower of the church,Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry-chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade—Up the light ladder, slender and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the quiet town,And the moonlight flowing over all.Beneath, in the church-yard lay the deadIn their night-encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and still,That he could hear, like a sentinel's treadThe watchful night-wind as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay—A line of black, that bends and floatsOn the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred with a heavy stride,On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now gazed on the landscape far and near,Then impetuous stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry-tower of the old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns.A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.It was twelve by the village-clock,When he crossed the bridge into Medford town,He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river-fog,That rises when the sun goes down.It was one by the village-clock,When he rode into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.It was two by the village-clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning-breezeBlowing over the meadows brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bed,Who at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket-ball.You know the rest. In the books you have readHow the British regulars fired and fled—How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,Chasing the red-coats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm—A cry of defiance, and not of fear—A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo for evermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

TWO PERSIAN SCHOOLBOYS

"Wake, Otanes, wake, the Magi are singing the morning hymn to Mithras. Quick, or we shall be late at the exercises, and father promised, if we did well, we should go to the chase with him to-day."

"And perhaps shoot a lion. What a feather in our caps that would be! Is it pleasant?"

Smerdis pulled open the shutters that closed the windows, and the first rays of the sun sparkled on the trees and fountains of a beautiful garden beyond whose lofty walls appeared the dwellings and towers of a mighty city. Already the low roar of its traffic reached them while hurrying on their clothes to join their companions in the spacious grounds where they were trained in wrestling, throwing blocks of wood at each other to acquire agility in dodging the missiles, the skilful use of the bow, and various other exercises for the development of bodily strength and grace.

A few minutes later the two brothers, Smerdis and Otanes, with scores of other lads, ranging in age from seven to fourteen years, were assembled in a vast playground, surrounded on all sides by a lofty wall.

The playground of a large boarding-school?

It almost might be called so, but the pupils of this boarding-school were educated free of expense to their parents, and it received only the sons of the highest nobles in the land. This playground was attached to the palace of Darius, King of Persia, who reigned twenty-four hundred years ago, and these chosen boys had been taken from their homes, as they reached the age of six years, to be reared "at his gate," as the language of the country expressed it.

Otanes and Smerdis were sons of one of the highest officers of the court, the "ear of the king," or, as he would now be called, the Minister of Police. Handsome little fellows of eleven and twelve, with blue eyes, fair complexions, and curling yellow locks, their long training in all sorts of physical exercises had made them stronger and hardier than most lads of their age in our time. Though reared in a palace, at one of the most splendid courts the world has ever seen, the boys were expected to endure the hardships of the poorest laborer's children. Instead of the gold and silver bedsteads used by the nobles, they were obliged to sleep on the floor; if the court was at Babylon, they were forced to make long marches under the burning sun of Asia, and if, to escape the intense heat, the king removed to his summer palaces at Ecbatana and Pasargadæ, situated in the mountainous regions of Persia, where it was often bitterly cold, the boys were ordered to bathe in the icy water of the rivers flowing from the heights. In place of the dainty dishes and sweetmeats for which Persian cooks were famous, they were allowed nothing but bread, water, and a little meat; sometimes to accustom them to hardships they were deprived entirely of food for a day or even longer.

On this morning the exercises seemed specially long to the two brothers, full of anticipations of pleasure; but finally the last block of wood was hurled, the last arrow shot, the last wrestling match ended, and the boys, bearing a sealed roll of papyrus, containing a leave of absence for one day, hurried off towards home.

Their father's palace stood at no great distance from the royal residence, on the long, wide street extending straight to the city gates, and like the houses of all the Persian nobles, was surrounded by a beautiful walled garden called a paradise, laid out with flower-beds of roses, poppies, oleanders, ornamental plants, adorned with fountains, and shaded by lofty trees.

The hunting party was nearly ready to start, and the courtyard was thronged. Servants rushed to and fro bearing shields, swords, lances, bows and lassos, for a hunter was always equipped with bow and arrows, two lances, a sword and a shield. Others held in leash the dogs to be used in starting the game.

The enormous preserves in the neighborhood of Babylon were well stocked with animals, including stags, wild boars, and a few lions. Several noblemen clad in the plain hunting costume always worn in the chase, were already mounted, among them the father of the two lads, who greeted them affectionately as they respectfully approached and kissed his hand.

"Make haste, boys, your horses are ready. Take only bows and shields—the swords and lances will be in your way; you must not try to deal with larger game than you can manage with your arrows."

"May we not carry daggers in our belts, too, father?" cried Otanes eagerly. "They can't be in our way, and if we should meet a lion—"

A laugh from the group of nobles interrupted him. "Your son seeks large game, Intaphernes!" exclaimed a handsome officer. "He must have better weapons than a bow and dagger, if—"

The rest of the sentence was drowned by the noise in the courtyard, but as the party rode towards the gate Intaphernes looked back: "Yes, take the daggers, it can do no harm. Keep with Candaules."

The old slave, a gray-haired, but muscular man, with several other attendants, joined the lads, and the long train passed out into the street and toward the city gates. Otanes hastily whispered to his brother: "Keep close by me, Smerdis; if only we catch sight of a lion, we'll show what we can do with bows and arrows."

The sun was now several hours high, and the streets, lined with tall brick houses, were crowded with people—artisans, slaves, soldiers, nobles and citizens, the latter clad in white linen shirts, gay woollen tunics and short cloaks. Two-wheeled wooden vehicles, drawn by horses decked with bells and tassels, litters containing veiled women borne by slaves, and now and then, the superb gilded carriage, hung with silk curtains, of some royal princess passed along. Here and there a heavily laden camel moved slowly by, and the next instant a soldier of the king's bodyguard dashed past in his superb uniform—a gold cuirass, purple surcoat, and high Persian cap, the gold scabbard of his sword and the gold apple on his lance-tip flashing in the sun.

High above the topmost roofs of even the lofty towers on the walls rose the great sanctuary of the Magi,1 the immense Temple of Bel, visible in all quarters of the city, and seen for miles from every part of the flat plain on which Babylon stood. The huge staircase wound like a serpent round and round the outside of the building to the highest story, which contained the sanctuary itself and also the observatory whence the priests studied the stars.

Otanes and Smerdis, chatting eagerly together, rode on as fast as the crowd would permit, and soon reached one of the gates in the huge walls that defended the city. These walls, seventy-five feet high, and wide enough to allow two chariots to drive abreast, were strengthened by two hundred and fifty towers, except on one side, where deep marshes extended to their base. Beyond these marshes lay the hunting-grounds, and the party, turning to the left, rode for a time over a smooth highway, between broad tracts of land sown with wheat, barley and sesame. Slender palm-trees covered with clusters of golden dates were seen in every direction, and the sunbeams shimmered on the canals and ditches which conducted water from the Euphrates to all parts of the fields.