Part 2

"Charlie," said Tom, "I'm going to stop for a moment to speak to old Ramsay. He can tell us more about rattlesnakes than anybody in these parts."

The boys found old Ramsay very willing to talk about rattlesnakes. "If it wasn't for my rheumatism," he said, "I'd just as lief go with you as not. But if you go up to the Break-Neck Rocks, and look around in the sunny places, you'll be sure to find some. You know how to scotch 'em, don't you?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "I've done it before; but what bothers me is how to get the fangs out of the snake after we catch it. It's got to have its fangs out before it's delivered."

"Don't you try to take 'em out at all," said Ramsay. "Just you get your snake into this basket, and fasten the lid down tight, and then bring it to me. I'll take the fangs out."

The man then handed Tom a small but strong basket, made of split white oak, and thanking him for it, the boys started off again. On the way up Tom cut a pole about six feet long. He whittled off the upper branches, leaving only a small crotch at the top.

The Break-Neck Rocks were near the top of the mountain, but before they got there the boys sat down to rest.

"Tom," said Charlie, "if I'd been you, I would have put on my shoes before I came out to hunt rattlesnakes."

Tom looked at his bare feet in despair. "I never thought of it," he said. "I had so many things to do, that shoes never entered into my head."

"If your feet had entered your shoes, that would have been much better," said Charlie.

"Well, I'm not going back," said Tom, "for it's too far. I'll pick my way gingerly, and I guess I won't tread on a snake."

For some time the boys rested on the side of the mountain, looking out over the country below them, and at the river which flowed not far away. Then they started up again, and soon reached the Break-Neck Rocks.

These rocks covered several acres, and between them were clefts or openings, often a yard or more wide at the top, and extending downward for fifteen or twenty feet. In the middle of the day, when the sun shone down into these great fissures, the ground at the bottom was a favorite resort for rattlesnakes; and here it was old Ramsay had meant the boys to look for them.

Tom and Charlie now began their search, stepping from rock to rock, and carefully looking into every cleft. It was not long before they saw very plainly a large rattlesnake on the ground at the bottom of the cleft. He was coiled up, and evidently fast asleep.

"How are we going to get him?" whispered Charlie. "The pole won't reach down there."

"I think we can manage it," said Tom. "I'll get part of the way down, and then you can hand me the pole, and I'll rouse him up, and when he sticks his head out to crawl, I will clap the crotch down over his neck, and hold him fast."

"All right," said Charlie.

Tom now began to cautiously clamber down the sides of the cleft. He had often gone down into these little ravines, but the walls here were much smoother than he had generally found them, and he did not meet with many projections on which he could place his feet. He was, however, slowly working his way down, when, to his own horror, and that of Charlie, who was watching him from above, he suddenly began to slip. He vigorously thrust out his arms and legs on either side, and as the cleft gradually narrowed in a downward direction, he succeeded by a great exertion in stopping himself when about half-way down. But now his position was very critical. If he slipped to the bottom, he might not only hurt himself, but he would most likely come down with his bare feet right on the sleeping snake. In working his way down he had, without intending it, got into a position directly above the creature.

It was a situation of great peril, and Charlie, who watched the scene from above, was even more frightened than Tom. He reached down the pole to his companion, but Tom could not take either of his hands from the rocks to seize it, and even if he could have done so, it would have been of little service, for Charlie was not strong enough to pull him up.

Then another idea struck Charlie. "If I can drive away the snake," he thought, "it will not be so bad for Tom, if he must fall." He picked up some small pieces of stone, and going back a little distance, where there would be no chance of his hitting Tom, he began to hurl the stones at the sleeping snake. One of them soon struck it, and in an instant the animal was aroused; but instead of uncoiling himself and crawling away, he thrust up his head and glared around, at the same instant raising his tail and rattling violently.

"Now I have done it," thought poor Charlie. "Tom might have got away from the snake when it was asleep, but now it is all ready for him." Charlie was in despair, but stepping back to a point just above Tom, and looking down upon his friend, another idea entered his mind.

"Tom," he cried, "can you hold on for half a minute longer?"

"Yes," said Tom, rather faintly.

"All right, then," cried Charlie. "Hold on tight, and shut your eyes."

Charlie turned around, and looking about him, picked up a piece of rock as big as his head. Taking this in both hands he stepped across the chasm, and stood astride of it, not exactly over Tom, but a little in front of him. Charlie had noticed that the snake had moved a little, and its head was now so far forward that a large stone might possibly be dropped upon it without hitting Tom. To do so, however, the stone must almost graze Tom's nose. But there was no time to be lost, and this was the only plan Charlie could think of to save his friend.

"Keep your eyes shut," he cried, "and don't move."

Down dropped the stone, and the wind of it as it passed Tom's face made him jerk back his head.

"Did it touch you?" cried Charlie, excitedly.

"Nothing touched me," answered Tom.

"It's on top of the snake!" cried Charlie. "Now get down as fast as you can."

Tom gave a glance downward, and then, half-slipping, half-scrambling, he came heavily to the bottom of the ravine. Charlie now ran off some distance to a place where there was a comparatively easy descent to the paths among the rocks, and he soon reached the spot where Tom stood.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," said Tom, "only scratched a little. But there isn't a man alive who would give three cents for this snake. You've smashed its head nearly off."

"That is what I tried to do," said Charlie. "Now we will go and look for another one."

The boys moved slowly among the rocks, and it was not long before they saw another snake, coiled up and asleep. Tom roused him with the crotched end of his pole, and when the snake, after rattling and hissing, laid his head upon the ground to crawl, Tom clapped the crotch over his neck, and held him firmly down. It was of no use for the creature to squirm and wriggle; he could not get his head from under that crotch. Charlie carried the basket, and he now ran up to the snake. Taking a piece of twine from his pocket, he slipped it under the head, and tied it around the neck just in front of the crotch. It required some care to tie the cord tightly enough to prevent its slipping, but not so tight as to choke the snake. The ends of the cord were about two feet long, and each of the boys took hold of one of them. The stick was now removed, and the snake began to struggle violently, but could not get at either of his captors. He was then lifted up by the cord, and dropped, tail foremost, into the basket, when the lid was clapped down quickly upon him, and securely fastened. The ends of the twine, which hung outside, were tied together under the basket, and the boys started homeward with their prize.

When they reached the cabin of old Ramsay, the veteran snake-hunter was still sitting at his door. As soon as he heard that the boys had caught a snake, he began to make preparations to take out its fangs.

"It's too tetchy a business for young boys like you," he said.

Ramsay hobbled into the house, and brought out a strong leather strap. He then untied the ends of the twine, giving one to each of the boys to hold. The lid of the basket was removed, and the snake angrily raised its head. Ramsay then held the end of the strap toward it, when, quick as lightning, the shake struck at the leather, and fiercely bit it. The moment the creature's fangs entered the strap, Ramsay violently pulled it away.

Glancing at the end the snake had bitten, Ramsay held it out toward the boys.

"Thar's his fangs," he said, "sticking into the leather. I jerked 'em out. Now the varmint couldn't hurt a baby--that is, till his fangs grow again, which won't be for a good while."

When the snake was delivered that afternoon to Mr. Harriman, it was an object of great attention to that gentleman and many of the villagers. It was found to be forty-nine inches long, and had seven rattles.

"Why, it's a two-dollar snake!" said Tom.

"Yes," said Mr. Harriman, "it is a very fine specimen, and I gladly pay you the two dollars. To which of you must I give the money?"

"This is Tom's snake," said Charlie, quickly. "The one I got, I smashed to flinders."

And in spite of Tom's arguments, he refused to accept a cent of the reward.

"It was a plucky thing in you," said Tom to his friend as they walked away, "to drop that big stone so close to my face."

"There was nothing plucky about it," said Charlie, laughing. "It wouldn't have hurt me if it had hit you."

"I don't believe a word of that," said Tom. "I believe it would have hurt you just as much as me."

Which was exactly the truth.

THE ORCHESTRA OF YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

I suppose that every one who enjoys music likes to hear either a band or an orchestra. There is something very inspiring and fine about a performance where a great many people take part.

It is always well, even in the most delightful music, to stop and think how much you enjoy because you _understand_ it; that is, if you are a student, and I am addressing myself chiefly to young people who are studying music.

Is not an orchestra a confusing sight in one way? You look at all the violins and violoncellos, the flutes, the hautboys, the wind instruments, and finally the conductor, and even if he waves his baton ever so knowingly, you wonder _how_ he knows just what to do.

I think the conductor of an orchestra always looks like the possessor of some curious secret. His baton goes here and there; he waves it in a rhythmical or sharp fashion, and yet if you look closely you will see that not one in the orchestra but feels that he is his leader. There is a regular meaning in everything he does.

There are very few portions of musical history so interesting to me as the orchestra. To-day we have such excellent music in public orchestras that I suppose we forget there ever was a time when even musicians were not sure how orchestras ought to be arranged. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries there were flutes and many stringed instruments; but the people who played on them did not know that they might be used harmoniously together. I am sure that seems almost funny to you now, but it undoubtedly was the case.

You see, music was in just that unformed condition then that they did not know what they could do with it. Now we will try and think a little, and see when orchestras began, and how they gradually prospered.

To go very far back, I must tell you that certain instruments, like lutes and lyres, were used among the ancients. I think they played them in concert. At all events, they had a dim idea that, performed upon together, they would sound well. But it was not until the sixteenth century--in 1581--that anything like a real orchestra was known. And just here I want to tell you what the word itself means.

_Orchestra_ is a Greek word. It really means an open space where people sit, but it expresses now a place for an instrumental band and a chorus, and, properly speaking, an orchestra must sit. This is one of the chief distinctions between an _orchestra_ and a _band_. Bands must, by right, stand while they play; orchestras ought, by right, to sit, that is, unless the weight of their instruments obliges them to stand. Besides this distinction, a _band_ is composed of wind instruments; an _orchestra_ has both wind and stringed instruments.

Now, when you hear any orchestral concert, look back into olden days and see the first orchestra that we have record of. It was in the days of the sixteenth century.

In France there lived a certain famous nobleman--the Duc de Joyeuse. The splendor and beauty of his entertainments were renowned; and when, in 1581, he married the Lady Margaret of Lorraine, a very gorgeous festival was gotten up by him regardless of the expenditure of time or money or genius.

Now at this entertainment was produced a sort of dramatic performance with an instrumental band--the first on record. But it was in a very different fashion from the performance of an orchestra of to-day. They knew very few rules for harmonizing the instruments, yet, from the accounts given, the effect must have been very pleasing. Certain it is the gay audience were delighted by it.

Of course writing for orchestras was soon adopted by the various composers of the seventeenth century. Before the close of the century there were some quite well-ordered orchestras of stringed instruments, and when Bach began to write, the science of orchestration had gone very much further.

In writing for orchestras Bach used a great many times what is called the _obligato_. This word, when written over a part, means that it can not be left out--it must be played.

The other day I was listening to Beethoven's Fourth Symphony performed by some of the best players in the world, and led by a famous conductor, and I could not help thinking how very interesting it might be even to very young students to listen to any such performance, having a copy of the music with them, and then, on going home, to pick out certain parts and try to play them, reproducing some of the stringed effects. Now perhaps you will think this work for very advanced students. So it is, but little hands can try it too. Try some little chosen part of any symphony you may hear at a good concert, and see if you can remember, when you play, just what part of the expression belonged to any one particular instrument. I have heard pianists who seemed to me to almost reproduce the feeling of an entire orchestra.

Another interesting and useful study is to find out, before hearing a concert, the names of the various instruments used, and then, by means of a dictionary or encyclopædia, you can read all about them. See if it will not transform the whole concert to you.

Here is a list of the instruments of a complete orchestra: First violins 15, second violins 12, violas 10, violoncellos 10, double basses 8, flutes 2, piccolo 1, oboes, cor Anglais, clarionet, corno di bassetto, bassoon, double bassoon, trumpets, horns, trombones, timpani, cornet à piston, bass trumpet, tenor tuba, ophicleide, contra bass tuba, harp, bass drum, cymbals. The number and kind of instruments can of course be varied to a certain extent without losing the effect.

Chamber music differs from ordinary orchestras because none of the instruments are doubled; that is, only one of a kind is included in it, and it is adapted to a small number of performers on stringed instruments.

Many famous musicians have been equally famous conductors of orchestras. Mendelssohn and Moscheles, who were dear friends and great musicians, were celebrated for their conducting. Mendelssohn had a peculiar power over the musicians. They looked at his face as well as at his baton. Those sweet keen eyes seemed to tell each what to do--his whole soul was in the work. Very many stories are told of how on certain occasions parts of the score were found missing just as the men were taking their places, and yet Mendelssohn always contrived to get it together again with his marvellous faculty for rapid musical work. Once he is said to have dashed off a whole part while the audience were waiting, writing it from memory.

In an old house in London there is a book full of Mendelssohn's sketches when he and Moscheles were on their concert tours; and looking at them--some bright, some humorous, all happy and kindly--one could fancy just how much heart and soul he carried into his work; he put his fun into it as well as his sadness. Whatever he had, he gave it all to those around him when he stood in the conductor's place.

THE MAN IN THE MOON.

Who does not know the Mother Goose jingle of

"The man in the moon Came down too soon To ask his way to Norwich"?

But the question is, how did he get in the moon, and what is he doing there? Most people can see only a face in the moon, and not always that; but in old times it was firmly believed that there was an actual man in the moon, with a bundle of sticks on his back, which he had to carry always as a punishment for gathering them on Sunday.

Some of the old English poets represented the man in the moon as a thief, who had been sent there for stealing, with a thorn bush on his back. Sometimes he had a dog with him for company, and in Shakspeare's _Midsummer Night's Dream_ it is said,

"This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth moonshine."

In Sweden, the country people say that the spots on the moon are a girl and boy carrying a pail of water between them, whom the moon once kidnapped and carried up to heaven. But the Germans see a man and woman in the moon, who were put there for punishment; the man because he strewed thorns and brambles on the path to church to prevent people from going there on Sunday morning, and the woman because she did her churning on that holy day. The man has to carry a bundle of thorns, and the woman her butter tub, and to stand in the moon always as a warning to other Sabbath-breakers.

The Dutch say that the man was caught stealing vegetables. But in the island of Ceylon they speak of "the _hare_ in the moon," instead of the man, and tell this story about it:

Buddha, the god whom they worship, was once a hermit on earth, and got lost in a forest. He wandered about until he met a hare, which said to him, "I can help you out of your trouble; take the path on your left hand, and it will lead you out of the forest."

"I am very much obliged to you," replied Buddha, "but I am very poor and very hungry, and have nothing to offer you as a reward for your kindness."

"If you are hungry," returned the hare, "I am again at your service. Make a fire, kill me, roast me, and eat me."

Buddha made the fire, the hare at once jumped into it, and has been seen in the moon ever since.

There are any number of old superstitions and strange beliefs in regard to the moon. In Suffolk County, England, it is considered unlucky to kill a pig when the moon is waning. The pork, so the old wives say, will waste in the boiling. Another fancy is that to look at the moon for the first time through glass brings ill luck. According to an old rhyme,

"A Saturday's moon, If it comes once in seven years, Comes once too soon."

The application of this is that if the new moon happens on a Saturday the weather will be bad for the ensuing month.

The Chinese represent the moon by the figure of a rabbit pounding rice in a mortar, and sometimes by a beautiful young woman with a rabbit at her feet. But, after all, we have got to let most of our fancies in regard to the moon go. They will not stand for a moment after one glance through an astronomer's telescope.

HOW JUMBO CROSSED THE OCEAN.

BY W. L. ALDEN.

Jumbo has arrived. Two weeks ago there was published in YOUNG PEOPLE an account of his departure from England by a lady who knew him very well, and who was very familiar with his doings during his last days on English soil.

Now we have the great elephant with us, safe at the Hippodrome, under Mr. Barnum's care, and where thousands of American children can make his acquaintance, and find out what made him such a wonderful favorite on the other side of the ocean.

Jumbo had a great time crossing the sea. A big elephant is a very awkward passenger when he travels by water. He weighs so much that he must be kept in the centre of the ship, and he must be fastened so securely that he can not possibly break loose. Jumbo made the passage in the same box in which he was drawn eight miles from the Zoological Gardens in London to the dock where the great steamer that was to carry him to America lay.

This box was made as strong as oak and iron could make it, and was provided with openings in the front, through which Jumbo could stretch out his trunk to receive his food and drink. Jumbo's cage was only a trifle smaller than the main hatchway of the steamer, and yet it fitted him almost as closely as if it had been an Ulster overcoat. Being wedged closely into the hatchway, the box could not be moved by the rolling or pitching of the ship, and Jumbo, being packed tightly in the box, could not bruise himself. Thus he was as well situated as a sea-faring elephant could expect to be.

Jumbo did not like the sea, particularly when he was seasick. When we remember how seasick a child weighing sixty pounds often is at sea, we can understand how tremendously seasick an elephant weighing six tons can be. For the first two or three days of the passage Jumbo suffered greatly from seasickness. He lost his appetite. He frequently sighed like a small earthquake, and he tried to get rid of his headache by beating his head against the front of his box. This remedy seemed to help him, for on the third day he began to get better, and made a light breakfast of two hundred pounds of hay, two bushels of oats, a bushel of biscuits, fifteen loaves of bread, twenty buckets of water, and a few trifles, and in a few hours he felt well enough to receive visits from the passengers.

Two keepers--Mr. Scott, who has been with Jumbo seventeen years in England, and one whom Mr. Barnum had sent over from New York--were with him constantly while at sea, taking turns in sitting up with him at night, so that he need never feel lonesome. Lamps were also kept burning in front of him all night, in case he should want to read, and far more care was taken of him in every way than of any other passenger. Most of the time he was amiable, and conducted himself in a way to win the approbation of everybody. Once, however, he became very ill-tempered, and his keepers could not please him, no matter what they did. Finally they brought some little children to him. The sight of them reminded Jumbo of his happy life in the Zoological Gardens, where he was accustomed to carry children on his back. The ill-temper vanished, and he became once more the gentle beast that he had been before he was forced to go to sea.

In spite of his general amiability, Jumbo does not like to be treated with disrespect. One of the sailors of the vessel found this out. The man was washing his clothes near Jumbo's box, and he rudely slapped the elephant's trunk to make him move it out of the way. This was, in Jumbo's opinion, an outrage which no gentleman would offer to a respectable elephant, and he determined to resent it. Presently the man went away, leaving his clean clothes within Jumbo's reach. The latter instantly seized them, wiped the deck with them until they were far blacker than before they had been washed, and with a sweet smile, handed them back to the astonished sailor.