Part 2

It must have been some time in March that he joined us, for I remember on St. Patrick's day, when the hills back of Valparaiso were echoing with the strains of "Garry-owen" and "The Connaughtman's Rambles," played by the flag-ship band, Dennis trotted aft at full speed, decked with green ribbons, and carrying a small clay pipe around his neck and the mealiest potato in the locker slung to his corkscrew of a tail. He appreciated the dignity of the time and place, for when we went to quarters he made a polite bow to the Captain, and for the first time in his life asserted and secured his rights as a quarter-deck. On occasions of special ceremony he had to be driven from the quarter-deck with contumely, but he never could be rooted from the spot, for regularly when the drum beat to quarters he came aft on a run to his station, blow high or blow low, fair weather or foul, and assumed to a mathematical nicety the spot selected on the saint's day.

He had his bath at daylight, and was washed and brushed and combed into a state of snowy whiteness which proclaimed the possibilities of piggy cleanliness, and then he feasted in dignified ease within the honored and exclusive precincts of the galley. During the day he lolled about the decks, generally in the wake of the spare spars, filled with the pride of placeship, and never awed from the career of his humor. He attended drills with praiseworthy punctuality, and was in nobody's watch and everybody's mess, which is the perfect flower of sea luxury. When night came, in his early days of leanness, he sought his hammock, and, later, his carefully prepared division tub; but after a time, when fatness clung to his bones, and no sailor's bed devices would hold him, he would airily promenade the deck, waking up a sailor here and there, until he found a shipmate fitted for his high nobility. I have frequently seen a man awake in the middle of the night, and, calling Dennis, give him half his blanket or pea-jacket, and then, with a contented grunt, Dennis would nestle snugly in his new bed, and sailor and pig sleep the sleep of the just, their mingled snores filling the still hours of the middle watch with a touching tale of boon companionship.

But an end came to all this happy time, for Dennis acquired undue fat and fell into moralizing, sedate, and dignified ways; then he lost his sense of humor, his fondness for fun, and at last he forgot the laboriously taught proprieties of ship etiquette and sea life. Could he have been dreaming of the lost wallowings of his race, the prizes of unalloyed wealth that lay in sun-bathed mires? The truth is, Dennis degenerated with his prosperity, and became touchy and captious. We would have borne with his ailments, for he had sailed thousands of miles with us, and had such a way of cocking his weather eye knowingly to wind'ard, such a rolling gait, and such a heroic fondness for 'baccy and lobscouse, that we would have cherished him to the end.

It was somewhere about the last of June, and we were at anchor off Papaete, in Tahiti, when the Captain said to me, in his quiet way, "You will have to send the pig ashore; the executive officer reports him unfit for duty."

Of course this sealed the fate of Dennis. So I sent for the man who looked out for him, and said: "Barbe, my lad, it will be the Fourth of July next week, and Dennis has to be turned ashore or eaten. If you wish, your mess may have him for dinner on that holiday."

Barbe glared at me in astonishment, almost in horror, as if I had suggested he was a steamboat sailor, and not a man-of-war's man born and bred, and then said, mournfully:

"Why, sir, I'd as soon eat my brother as that pig--as that Dennis, sir. He's weathered o' all we have, and I'd as leave stick my knife into a babby as into that animal. Of course, sir, if it's go ashore, go it is, sir. But I'd like to make terms with the man that's to have him, so Dennis will get the treatment and the kindness he larned with us, sir."

It was as I had expected, and so the arrangements for his new home ashore were made.

_Eheu, fugaces!_ Dennis went ashore the next day in the dingy--bag and hammock, ribbons, dhudeen, and potato--all the men clustering in the bridleports and gangways to see him off, and the officers waving a farewell from aft. As his pigship pulled under the bows I heard from forward a rousing cheer, which was the last ship greeting he was ever to know.

A countryman of ours had drifted into that land, and Dennis had been consigned to his care under a guarantee that his later days would be spent on a plantation inland and never killed.

I drifted ashore next day, and there, lying in the shadow of a pandanus-tree on the shore line, his nose buried in his fore-trotters, and his eyes closed in weary waiting and sorrow, was Dennis. He looked up mournfully as I entered the ship-chandlers, and gave me a grunt of sullen recognition, as if he felt I were the author of his misery, or at least an aider and abettor of those who had sent him into exile. His new owner said he had moped from the beginning, at first wistfully roaming about, and at last settling into the morbidly melancholy condition in which I found him.

It happened, fortunately, to be liberty week for the men, and whilst we were discussing his woes the voices of some of our crew came from the landing. The transition was marvellous. Dennis sprang to his feet, gazed inquiringly seaward for a moment, and then as the men's voices grew nearer and louder, he twisted his tail into the rigidity of a corkscrew and bounded beachward, where the liberty party was skylarking by the jetty under the palm-trees.

No need to describe the meeting or the subsequent festivities. Dennis followed each party that came ashore, trotting after them into the back country, sleeping in the bush, and I believe enjoying the holiday more than they did. He was the first to welcome the coming party, the last to speed the going, filling his part of host with a grace and dignity in town, and an abandon and a freedom in the country, that awoke in after-days the tender regrets of his companions.

The frolic of Dennis and his friends lasted a scant week, and when the last boat-load left the beach he turned mournfully shoreward, unheeding the re-echoing cheers they gave him, and crawled, swaying port and starboard in his grief, slowly towards the loneliness of his new home. He fell into gloomy ways; he lost his fat and dignity; he seemed on the verge of a decline; he took himself seriously as a persecuted exile in a far land. Finally it was thought best to send him afield to his new labors, and his master tried to woo him countryward, but in vain. He had won his way into this American's heart, for when force was suggested he declined to tie the pig's legs together, and throw him into a cart as he would have done with a pig of less degree. He declared that Dennis was a gentleman by instinct, a little low in his mind, but still a gentleman, and that he could wait until Dennis might, as if in the gayety of a holiday, idly stray with him on some early morning to the plantation inland. But Dennis was obdurate and unhappy; and so the day before the ship sailed for Apia his old master, the ship's cook, and the boatswain's mate were sent to him, for it was known he would follow the trill of the bosun's call. When he heard the familiar voices and saw the blue shirts of his shipmates, and caught the bird-like whistle of the mate, he jumped to his feet, gave an ecstatic grunt, and ran among the trees wildly, with the fire of youth rioting in his trotters.

A two-wheeled cart was brought to the door, the driver took the reins, the bluejackets seated themselves in the stern-sheets, and with Dennis trotting gayly at the tail-board, the merry company waved a farewell to me as they went slowly down the Purumu Road into the heart of the land.

Just beyond the last police station of the town two roads join, one curving shoreward and the other winding through a wilderness of cocoanut groves up the gentle inclines of the island. Here the cart stopped for a moment, while the men, trilling a bright ballad of the sea, dismounted to weave a chaplet of hibiscus for the decoration of the jocund pig.

Then remounting, the cart pushed forward merrily, rounded the bend where the shrubbery met the archway of the trees, and Dennis passed hillward out of my life forever.

ROSE PETALS.

BY EMMA J. GRAY.

To save your rose petals and make a rose-bag for your room would be delightful.

While the rose is still fresh tear off its petals and scatter them thinly on a large platter. In this way expose them to the light. Every few hours pick up a handful and let them shower down, so as to expose both sides of the petals. The next day put them on a different platter, or you may use the same one provided you are careful to thoroughly dry it, for the plate will be very moist. The second day sprinkle a little salt over the petals, as this helps to purify them. Keep this treatment up until they are all dry, then put them in a thin muslin bag.

Cover the bag with violet, yellow, or pink china silk as best suits the color of your room. Tie it close at the top, as you would tie any other bag, and suspend it on a rocking-chair back, gas-fixture, or any convenient place. It will prove an attractive ornament as well as convey delicious odor. Use inch-wide satin ribbon the same color as the silk to tie the bag. Make a generous bow, with ends of irregular length. Cut the ends pointed or slanting, and this prevents the ribbon fraying.

Another way to use petals after they are dried would be to lay them between two pieces of pink cheese-cloth, cut the exact size of your bureau drawer. After the petals are in place knot the cheese-cloth, about two inches apart, all the way down and across with tiny bows of baby-width pink ribbon. This will help to keep the petals even; otherwise they would lay in a heap at one end. Put such a piece under your linen, and have it perfumed with roses.

It will take a great many roses to make either a fair-sized bag or drawer pad, but the dried petals may be saved and added to until you have enough. Keep them in a tightly covered china or glass receptacle. Never dry the petals on brass or other metals; dry them on marble, china, or glassware.

In the same way that rose petals are used try sweet-marjoram, lavender, or other pleasantly scented herbs or grasses. Besides being a delight to the eye and conveying delicate perfume, they may also serve as a reminder of a pleasant gift or enjoyable entertainment.

Try also balsam, pine, and hop bags. Make small ones not over ten inches long; cover with pretty silk, knot on narrow ribbon of a shade either complementary or to match, and suspend such from a chair back, door-knob, or curtain fixture.

A delicious bag would be made of pea-green silk or the green of the pine itself, and enlivened by a net-work of gold silk, the strings for which should be gold-colored satin or bullion thread.

NURSERY BALLADS.

A PERILOUS SPOT.

It's a dangerous place sometimes for those who don't know my nursery floor, And I'd advise those who are timid at all to keep well outside the door; There are lions at large, and bears and cows, and animals wild like that Parading around most all the time, and a great big plooshy cat.

My Pa came into that room one day to see who was blowing the horn, And before he looked where he walked he stepped on top of a unicorn; And the fast express from old Bureauville--as fast as the wind it goes-- Came whistling over the carpet track, and ran right over his toes.

And when he jumped back to get out of the way a big man-of-war sailed by, And clipped the end of his heel, it did, and a cannon-ball hit his eye, A cannon-ball shot by General Zinc bombarding a Brownie band, That peeped from the edge of the old soap-dish we keep on the oak wash-stand.

And once in the dark he tripped on the ark, and fell on the Ferris wheel, And bumped his head on a wagon red, and broke off my steam-launch keel; And when he got up to leave the room, the very first thing he knew He got in the midst of some lead Arabs, and made a great hullaballoo.

And that's why I say it's a dangerous place for those who've not been there before, With lions and boats and bears and carts strewn everywhere over the floor, And unless I'm home when you visit me, there isn't a bit of a doubt, Instead of a-venturing in there alone, you'd better by far keep out.

CARLYLE SMITH.

TWO AGAINST A FLEET.

Early in September, 1814, a British fleet sailed up the Penobscot River from Belfast to Bangor, robbing and destroying the farms and villages as they went along, and after they had caused great damage in Bangor, they turned about and sailed back again to the sea. Only once in this long and, from a British point of view, successful raid, did the Yankees get the better of their enemies, and this single instance was due to the bravery of one old man and his courageous wife.

The fleet was guided up the stream by a Tory pilot, and encountered no resistance until it reached the highlands of Cape Jellison, when a volley of musketry was discharged by a little band of Maine patriots, killing a number of sailors and soldiers who had been occupying conspicuous positions on the decks. The British replied with broadsides of grape-shot, riddling every house within striking distance, and silencing the flint-locks. But the incident had maddened the commander of the English squadron, and he gave orders to his gunners to take a shot at everything on shore as they proceeded. As a result many houses were struck and one cow was killed; the inhabitants, warned of the approaching fleet, having retired inland out of range.

Thus the Britishers had it all their own way until they came to a point called the Narrows, about a mile below Bucksport. Tall bluffs rise on both sides of the river here, and on the crest of one old David Grant lived in his little house with his wife. Grant was too old to go to the war, but he was not too old to resist the invaders. As soon as he saw the masts of the hostile ships coming around the bend, he got out his muskets and took up a good position in front of his house with a firm rest to aim on. From his point of vantage he could command the decks of the ships as they passed, and as soon as they came within gunshot he began to blaze away with his old shooting-irons, aiming at the officers who were gathered on the sterns of their vessels.

His wife stood by his side and loaded the guns as fast as she could. At the third shot fired by the old man, the defenders of the hill-top saw the man at the wheel of the foremost vessel throw up his hands and fall backward. Immediately the war-ship swung its nose around to the tide, and would have run ashore if the order had not been given to drop anchor. Grant had badly wounded the Tory, and the second vessel in the line had to take the lead of the fleet with a resident of the locality who sympathized with the British for pilot. During all this manoeuvring, old David Grant was pouring buck-shot and bullets upon the ships, and both he and his wife shook their fists in defiance at the surprised Englishmen.

Presently a gun loaded with grape was run out on the deck of the flag-ship and fired at the house on the bluff, but the angle was too steep, and the charge lodged in the bank below. The British then began to clear away a boat, and a squad of marines gathered at the gangway to embark. Something went wrong with the davits, however, for the tackles did not seem to work easily, and Grant and his wife could see the officers storming about the deck, while the boat hung several feet above the river. When the old couple saw that they were about to be attacked in earnest they withdrew into their little house and closed the door. The house was built on the further side of a little field that sloped down to the edge of the bluff, and at the rear of the building and on both sides were thick clumps of trees. Shortly after Grant and his wife had retired from view, the British saw a man carrying a gun over his shoulder step out of the thicket on the north side and walk into the house through the front door. He had hardly gotten in when two more men fully armed stepped out of the trees from the other side and went into the house. After this, at intervals of a minute or less, one or two men came from the trees and went to Grant's assistance. All carried guns over their shoulders. The British officers from the ship watched the men as they came, and had counted fully fifty by the time the boat was ready to clear away. This caused them to hesitate about making an attack, for they realized that from the strong position on the bluff fifty armed patriots could hold a whole ship's crew at bay, and kill them off one by one as they struggled up the hill. The Commander, therefore, thought better of this plan, and ordered the marines aboard again, and, hoisting anchor, sailed off after the rest of the fleet up the river toward Bangor.

As the ship passed through the Narrows old David Grant and his brave wife ran along the bluff for almost a mile, shooting as fast as they could, and when they had no more gunpowder left, they shook their fists again at the invaders, and turned back toward their little home.

When the farmers gathered from all around to hear about the old couple's battle with the British, Grant told them how he went out of the house by the back door and skirted the clump of trees, and came out in front in sight of the enemy, and walked in at the front door. His wife dressed herself in some of her husband's clothes, and, taking a gun, performed the same trick, and sometimes they came separately, and sometimes they walked together; and sometimes they came from the north side, and sometimes they walked out from the trees on the south. It was this simple bit of strategy that saved the old couple and their home from the destructive attack of the British.

THE TROLLEY SWIMMING TEACHER.

BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.

Swimming on a trolley-line sounds like an impossibility. It is a very real practical feat, nevertheless, and hundreds of New-Yorkers can tell you all about it from their own experience. No other way of learning how to swim is half so pleasant as the trolley-line plan. There is no fear of bobbing under and losing your breath and swallowing a quart of water. Once you buckle on your trolley belt, there you are, and there you stay, right on the surface of the water. It is as safe as sitting in a rocking-chair, and a thousand times more fun.

Fred L. Balmes, a young swimming-teacher, invented the trolley plan. He found that the usual scheme of putting a belt around the pupil's chest, running a line from the back of it to the end of a long pole, and then towing the pupil along like landing a big fish, was not apt to encourage learners. They always feared that the teacher would stub his toe, or look around suddenly, or in some other way forget to hold up the end of the pole. That, of course, meant a ducking; and a beginner in the gentle art of swimming would rather suffer ten beatings than one ducking. Nobody ever learned well by wearing an inflated rubber life-belt. The belt has too much floating power, and boys who wear one when beginning always kick too high thereafter, and send their feet splashing above the surface, which is very bad form. When I was a boy we used to go down to the Sandy Flats, where there was a long stretch of river only three feet deep. An expert (a boy who could swim about ten yards) upheld the pupil's chin on the palm of his hand, and yelled, "Now kick like a bull-frog!" If the pupil was too embarrassed to do this immediately and successfully, the expert always popped him under, and when he came up spluttering and shrieking, sent him down again for luck. The system was perfect--all but the cruel ducking.

That sort of thing would not attract pupils to a swimming-school, so Fred Balmes tried to find the best substitute for the hand of the teacher under the chin of the taught. At last he hit upon the idea of running a wire along the pool two or three feet above the surface. Now, if there were only some way to hang the pupil to this wire so that he could move forward and backward and never be allowed to sink! A trolley was just the thing for that. Balmes bought a small metal wheel, with its rim deeply curved inward, so that it would not jump off the wire and become clogged. Hanging down from the axle of this wheel was a piece of brass that ended in a swivel. Balmes already had a broad canvas belt, with a ring at the upper part of it. He hooked the end of the swivel into the ring on the belt, and threw himself into the water. The trolley-line was a success. He splashed both hands and feet above the surface of the pool, but still he floated like thistle-down. Backward and forward he swam. The trolley rolled and creaked along the wire, and always held him up in precisely the right position. He might lie there all day if he chose without wetting his mouth. Not only can one learn to swim quickly by the trolley plan, but it is a fine way to learn how to float. Some of us are too thin ever to learn this branch of the art, but if any one possesses latent floating power, he may be sure that the trolley will develop it.

The inventor of this delightful way to learn swimming has not patented his trolley plan, so any one may use it. The wire can be rigged from side to side of any swimming-bath. It is best not to have the line more than fifty feet long, for a greater length than that will cause the wire to sag at the middle and let the pupil sink. In rigging the wire only one end should be wrapped fast around a post. The other end should be hitched to a stout rope and pulley-block. Before using the trolley the rope should be hauled as taut as possible and made fast securely. Then there will be a straight tight wire and no sagging.

If enough care is used, there is no reason why a trolley swimming line cannot be set up along a river-bank or the edge of a swimming-pond. In doing this, however, boys should not depend upon their own judgment. It is best by far to engage a competent man to set the posts and rig the wires. No matter how clever boys may be, they are not cautious enough to arrange against all the possibilities of danger. And it is necessary always to remember that in water is the most dangerous place to play.

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]

[2] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

CHAPTER V.