Part 1

Produced by Annie R. McGuire

* * * * *

VOL. III.--NO. 138. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR CENTS.

Tuesday, June 20, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER[1]

[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY. JAMES OTIS,

AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," "TIM AND TIP," ETC.

CHAPTER XII.

A REHEARSAL.

When Toby told Uncle Daniel that night of their intention to go on with the work of the long-delayed circus, and that Abner was to ride up to the pasture, where he could see everything that was going on, the old gentleman shook his head doubtingly; as if he feared the consequence to the invalid, who appeared very much exhausted even by the short ride he had taken.

Abner, interpreting Uncle Daniel's shake of the head the same way Toby did, pleaded hard to be allowed to go, insisting that he would be no more tired sitting in the little carriage than he would in a chair at home; and Aunt Olive joined in the boys' entreaty, promising to arrange the pillows in such a manner that Abner could lie down or sit up as best suited him.

"We'll see what the doctor has to say about it," replied Uncle Daniel, and with much anxiety the boys awaited the physician's coming.

"Go? Why, of course he can go, and it will do him good to be out-of-doors," said the medical gentleman when he made his regular afternoon visit, and Uncle Daniel laid the case before him.

Toby insisted on bringing Mr. Stubbs's brother into the invalid's room as a signal mark of rejoicing at the victory the doctor had won for them, and Abner was so delighted with the funny pranks the monkey played that it would have been difficult to tell by his face that the morning ride had tired him.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was quite as mischievous as a monkey could be; he capered around the room, picking at this thing and looking into that, until Aunt Olive laughed herself tired, and Uncle Daniel declared that if the other monkey was anything like this one, Toby was right when he named him Steve Stubbs, so much did he resemble that gentleman in inquisitiveness.

The day had been so exciting to the boy who had been confined to one room for several weeks that he was quite ready to go to bed when Aunt Olive suggested it; and Toby went about his evening's work with a lighter heart than he had had since the night he found his crippled friend lying so still and death-like in the circus wagon.

The next morning Toby was up some time before the sun peeped in through the crevices of Uncle Daniel's barn to awaken the cows, and he groomed the tiny ponies until their coats shone like satin. The carriage was washed until every portion of it reflected one's face like a mirror, and the harness, with its silver mountings, was free from the slightest suspicion of dirt.

Then, after the cows had been driven to the pasture, Mr. Stubbs's brother was treated to a bath, and was brushed and combed until, losing all patience at such foolishness, he escaped from his too cleanly disposed master, taking refuge on the top of the shed, where he chattered and scolded at a furious rate as he tried to explain that he had no idea of coming down until the curry-comb and brush had been put away.

But when the pony-team was driven up to the door, and Toby decorated the bridles of the little horses with some of Aunt Olive's roses, Mr. Stubbs's brother came down from his high perch, and picked some of the flowers for himself, putting them over his ears to imitate the ponies; then he gravely seated himself in the carriage, and Toby had no difficulty in fastening the cord to his collar again.

Aunt Olive nearly filled the little carriage with pillows so soft that a very small boy would almost have sunk out of sight in them; and in the midst of these Abner was carefully placed, looking for all the world, as Toby said, like a chicken in a nest.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was fastened in the front in such a way that his head came just above the dash-board, over which he looked in the most comical manner possible.

Then Toby squeezed in on one side, declaring he had plenty of room, although there was not more than three square inches of space left on the seat, and even a portion of that was occupied by a fan and some other things Aunt Olive had put in for Abner's use.

Both the boys were in the highest possible state of happiness, and Abner was tucked in until he could hardly have been shaken had he been in a cart instead of a carriage with springs.

"Be sure to keep Abner in the shade, and come home just as soon as he begins to grow tired," cried Aunt Olive, as Toby spoke to the ponies, and they dashed off like a couple of well-trained Newfoundland dogs.

"I'll take care of him like he was wax," cried Toby as they drove out through the gateway, and Mr. Stubbs's brother screamed and chattered with delight, while Abner lay back restful and happy.

It was just the kind of a morning for a ride, and Abner appeared to enjoy it so much that Toby turned the little steeds in the direction of the village, driving fully a mile before going to the pasture.

When they did arrive at the place where the first rehearsal was to be held, they found the partners gathered in full force; and although it was not even then nine o'clock, they had evidently been there some time.

Joe Robinson ran to let the bars down, while the ponies pranced into the field as if they knew they were the objects of admiration from all that party, and they shook their tiny heads until the petals fell from the roses in a shower upon the grass.

Mr. Stubbs's brother stood as erect as possible, and was so excited by the cheers of the boys that he seized the flowers he had tucked over his ears, and flung them at the party in great glee.

The carriage was driven into the shade cast by the alders; the ponies were unharnessed, and fastened where they could have a feast of grass; and Toby was ready for business, or thought he was. But just as he was about to consult with his partners, a scream from both Abner and the monkey caused him to quickly turn toward the carriage.

From the moment they had entered the pasture, Mr. Stubbs's brother had shown the greatest desire to be free; and when he saw his master walking away, while he was still a prisoner, he made such efforts to release himself that he got his body over the dash-board of the carriage, and when Toby looked he was hanging there by the neck as if he had just committed suicide.

Toby ran quickly to the relief of his pet; and when he had released him from his uncomfortable position, the other boys pleaded so hard that Toby gave him his freedom, which he celebrated by scampering across the pasture on all four paws, with his tail curled up over his back like a big letter O.

It seemed very much as if Mr. Stubbs's brother would break up the rehearsal, for he did look so comical as he scampered around that all the partners neglected their business to watch and laugh at him, until Toby reminded them that he could not stay there very long because of Abner's weakness.

Then Bob and Reddy straightened themselves up in a manner befitting circus proprietors, and began their work.

"Leander is goin' to commence the show by playin' 'Yankee Doodle,'" said Bob, as he consulted a few badly written words he had traced on the back of one of his father's business cards, "an' while he's doin' it Joe'll put in an' howl all he knows how, for that's the way the hyenas did at the last circus."

The entire programme was evidently to be carried out that morning, for, as Bob spoke, Leander marched with his accordion and a great deal of dignity to a rock near where a line representing the ring had been cut in the turf.

"Now you'll see how good he can do it," said Bob, with no small amount of pride; and Leander, with his head held so high that it was almost impossible to see his instrument, struck one or two notes as a prelude, while Joe took his station at a point about as far distant from the ring as the door of the tent would probably be.

Leander started with the first five or six notes all right, and Joe began some of the most wonderful howling ever heard, which appeared to disconcert the band, for he got entirely off the track of his original tune, and mixed "Yankee Doodle" with "Old Dog Tray" in the most reckless manner, Joe howling the louder at every false note.

Almost every one in that pasture, save possibly the performers themselves, was astonished at the din made by these two small boys; and Mr. Stubbs's brother, who had hung himself up on a tree by his tail, dropped to his feet in the greatest alarm, adding his chatter of fear to the general confusion.

Familiar as he was with circus life, nothing in the experience of Mr. Stubbs's brother had prepared him for a rehearsal such as he now had the honor to attend. There was an amount of noise and a peculiarity about the acrobatic feats that completely upset his nerves.

But the two performers were not to be daunted by anything that could occur; in fact, Joe felt rather proud that his howling was so savage as to frighten the monkey, and he increased his efforts until his face was as red as a nicely boiled beet.

For fully five minutes the overture was continued; then the band stopped and looked around with an air of triumph, while Joe uttered two or three more howls by way of effect, and to show that he could have kept it up longer had it been necessary.

"There! what do you think of that?" asked Reddy, in delight. "You couldn't get much more noise if you had a whole band, could you?"

"It's a good deal of noise," said Toby, not feeling quite at liberty to express exactly his views regarding the music. "But what was it Leander was playin'?"

"I played two tunes," replied Leander, proudly. "I can play 'Yankee Doodle' with the whole of one hand; but I think it sounds better to play that with my thumb an' two fingers, an' 'Old Dog Tray' with the other two fingers. You see, I can give 'em both tunes at once that way."

The monkey went back to the tree as soon as the noise had subsided; but from the way he looked over his shoulder now and then, one could fancy he was getting ready to run at the first sign that it was to commence again.

"Didn't that sound like a whole cageful of hyenas?" asked Joe, as he wiped the perspiration from his face, and came toward his partners. "I can keep that up about as long as Leander can play, only it's awful hard work."

Toby had no doubt as to the truth of that statement; but before he could make any reply, Bob said:

"Now this is where Ben comes in. He starts the show, an' he ends it, an' I sing right after he gets through turnin' hand-springs this first time. Now, Leander, you start the music jest as soon as Ben comes, an' keep it up till he gets through."

Ben was prepared for his portion of the work. His trousers were belted tightly around his waist by a very narrow leather belt, with an enormously large buckle, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up as high as he could get them, in order to give full play to his arms.

"He's been rubbin' goose-grease all over him for as much as two weeks, an' he can bend almost any way," whispered Reddy to Toby, as Ben stood swinging his arms at the entrance to the ring, as if limbering himself for the work to be done.

Leander started "Yankee Doodle" in slow and solemn strains; Ben gathered himself for a mighty effort, and began to go around the ring in a series of hand-springs in true acrobatic style.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE THIRSTY FLOWERS.

BY MRS. SOPHIE B. HERRICK.

Fill a glass with water, and let a piece of common tape or a strip of muslin hang so that its lower end shall dip into the water, and then notice it: the liquid creeps slowly but surely up the strip. If the end which you have in your hand is dropped on the table beside the glass, the goblet may be entirely emptied, the water running up over the edge of the glass before it runs down again. This behavior of water would seem very queer if we had not noticed something of the kind all our lives. It is caused by what is called capillary attraction. Whenever one part of a material full of fine openings which lead through it is dipped into a liquid, the fluid runs through the whole stuff, even if it has to run upward. Try a lump of sugar: put one corner into your cup of tea or hot milk, and watch it soak the lump through. The burning of a lamp is upon the same principle. The wick serves to carry the oil from the globe of the lamp to feed the flame. As soon as the oil gives out, the light fades and dies away.

Every part of a plant needs water: it must be close around every little cell. These cells are the tiny queer-shaped bags full of liquid that are packed close together, and make up the leaves, stems, and flowers of plants. In Fig. 1 you see the cells of a leaf of geranium flower, and one of sorrel or sour grass, which, if you are like the children I know, you have many a time eaten to get the pleasant sour taste. Well, every one of these tiny cells must be kept wet all the time, or the plant will die. The only way we can think of that water could get up into the leaves and flowers from the earth is by capillary attraction, as it runs up the slip of muslin. And if it were not for this singular behavior of water, the only plants in the world would be those that grow in the seas and rivers and lakes. The land would be as barren as the desert of Sahara.

Now try to think of some plant with all the earth away--a tree, for instance--and you will see that it is a sort of double growth; that there is an upside-down tree in the ground, with its trunk and branches and twigs, as well as one above the ground. The under-ground twigs do not bear leaves, but each one of them wears on its head a little cap or helmet to protect the tender growing part from being injured as it pushes its way through the hard earth. The most important parts of a tree are those that seem of least consequence, the rootlets and the leaves. These are to the tree what our mouths and stomachs and our lungs are to us: the roots are the feeders and the leaves the breathing apparatus of plants.

As the under-ground tree grows, the tender little roots push their way down into the darkness and cold of the deep soil; they find their way around stones and through great clods of earth, anywhere and everywhere, until they get their little noses into water or damp earth, and then they begin to suck. Sometimes it is only pure water that they take up from the earth, but generally it is a sort of broth--water with plant food dissolved in it.

The roots and stems and leaves are all full of little passageways running upward and branching and dividing until they reach the leaves. Fig. 2 shows a corn stalk cut across. You see some roundish holes, marked _a_; these are the ends of tubes that run through the stalk. When the corn begins to grow, take a stalk about two feet high, and cut it across; you will see little white spots all over the cut place. This figure is one of those white dots magnified.

When these tubes come into the leaves, they open into little spaces just under the outside skin of the leaf. These spaces are like the hollow of a mouth, and each one has generally two lips, that are sometimes open and sometimes shut. Through these tiny mouths (Fig. 3) the plant breathes. It draws in air, and it sends out, as you do, a mixture of air and water. If you want to know how much water there is in your own breath, try holding a piece of cold glass before your mouth.

Plants are not wasteful of the water so necessary to their lives. What they do not use they give back to the air from which it was received, as we make our thank-offerings to God of what He has given us. The roots suck up the water, and each little cell takes a drink as the water passes it, and hands on the rest to the cell just above it. And so the water takes its course, supplying each thirsty cell with drink as it passes, spreading through every part of the plant until it reaches the little mouths. And there all that is left is breathed out in a fine steam which you can not see until it touches some cold substances, and is turned into water again.

Some one who wanted to know exactly how much water was given back to the air by growing plants carefully examined a number of them, and found that a single sunflower gave off in twelve hours a pound and a quarter--enough to fill nearly to the brim three common table goblets. Another plant, the wild cornel, was found to breathe but more than twice its own weight of water in a day and a night.

In order to find out what parts of the flowers were the principal water-carriers, a deutzia, one of our most delicate and beautiful spring flowers, which you probably know by sight if not by name, was put into some very blue water, colored with a mixture of what is called aniline, and in a little while every vein of the flower was a beautiful dark blue. The poor little blossom was, however, poisoned with its dose, and wilted away in a few minutes (Fig. 4).

The quantity of water that plants breathe off is so great that it makes an entire change in the climate when forests are cut down. Plants, like grasses and small weeds that grow on the surface, of course do not make the same difference, for their roots only go down a little way. But trees are very important: unless the air is kept damp by the sea or some large body of water, it depends very much upon trees for its moisture. Where there are no trees, the rain that does fall sinks into the earth, and runs away in little under-ground currents, and is lost. There are no deep roots to stop this waste, to suck up the water, and restore a large part of it to the air.

In places where the rain-fall is frequent, and the air is always kept soft, plants may be as lavish of their water as we are in the great cities where the supply never fails. Plants growing in such places very often keep their mouths open all the time. If this were the habit of those which grow in very dry places, they would soon perish of thirst. On the high Western plains beyond the Mississippi only a few things are able to live. Among these are some kinds of cactus plants, which you have probably seen in greenhouses or as window plants (Fig. 5). The reason why they manage to grow such bulgy leaves and fat stems where there is so little moisture, is because this plant is so very stingy of its water. It hoards it up as the travellers over the great African deserts do, knowing how hard it will be to get more. The roots of the cactus suck up every drop of water they can find, and the leaves keep their millions of little mouths tight shut so as to hold it all. Only such plants can grow on these plains as are able to do with very little water, or else are wise enough to hoard up all they can get. This water we have been talking about is not sap--that is the blood of the plant--but it is like the water we drink, and which not only helps to make the blood, but keeps all of the parts soft and moist so that it may live. The largest part of every living thing is water. It is not without good reason that the Bible so often speaks of the _Water of Life_, for without water no life could exist for a single hour.

THESE MY LITTLE ONES.

BY MONA NOEL PATON.

I.

One very, very wet evening a forlorn little pigeon, with rumpled feathers and weary wings, came knocking at the door of a nursery in which were two children.

They heard the knock, and going to the window, saw to their astonishment, the poor unhappy bird. It was not long before the sash was thrown up, and the rain-soaked wanderer brought in, and fed and petted to its heart's content.

"I wonder what brought the darling here?" said Donald, the elder of the two children.

"It just _were_ a darlin'; 'at's why it camed," remarked Miss Baby.

"But I am sure it must have had some reason for coming. Baby," Donald insisted. "It came for something."

"For its tea," suggested Baby, doubtfully.

"Oh, Baby, Baby, you're always thinking about your tea," said Donald, with contempt.

"No, Donnie, me isn't. But you said it had camed for somesin."

"I meant, to tell us something."

"Do pigeons talk, Donnie?" Baby's eyes opened very wide.

"Yes, but we can't understand them. I feel that this pigeon wants to speak to us. I wonder where it came from? I wonder whether mother will let us keep it? Come down to the drawing-room, and we'll ask her."

Hand in hand the two proceeded to the drawing-room, Baby a little anxious lest their elder brother should wish to "'sect" the treasure. But Donald told her that only dead birds were dissected, not living ones. The grown-up members of the family were as much surprised at and pleased with the little stranger as the children had been. For the next week it was warmly loved and tenderly taken care of, and at the end of that time they found out all about it.

On Sunday, Auntie, who had been lunching with her nieces and nephews, said: "Children, I am not going to church this afternoon. I shall stay here and tell you a story I heard while visiting among my poor people yesterday. Shall you like that?"

"Oh yes!" cried the children, rapturously.

"Will it be big?" inquired Baby.

"Yes; but you may go to sleep if you get tired."

"All right," said Baby, and Auntie began:

In one of the dreariest parts of our old town there lived, not long ago, a widow with three little children, two girls and a boy. She had to work very hard to keep them in food and clothing. Every morning before it was light she had to go away to her work. She would creep softly out of bed, dress very quietly, tidy up the room, build the fire, and set out the children's breakfast, and then, with a kiss on each sleeping face, she would go away out into the cold.

By-and-by the sun would find its way into the room, and the oldest girl would open her eyes, jump briskly up like a brave little woman, light the fire, and set on the kettle. Though only nine years old, she knew how to work, and believed, as very few seem to do, that whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

When breakfast was almost ready, Nellie would call her brother, and then, stooping over the little sister, would kiss her pretty parted lips. Presently the dark lashes would rise, and a pair of deep gray eyes, very solemn for a moment, would stare into the loving face. And then the dimples would come, the dark eyes would twinkle, and the baby would be wide awake.

The great trial of the day came after breakfast, for Nellie and Bill must go to school, and for three or four hours poor Bab, barely three years old, must stay all alone. Her mother and sister were very sorry to leave her by herself, but it could not be helped. The sweet child was so good about it that it comforted them.

"What do you do when we are away?" said her mother one day.

"Me fink you is comin' back," she answered, smiling, as usual.

Before going to school Nellie always took the coals off the fire, and put them on the side to cool, set a tin cup of water and a little bit of bread on a chair for Bab, and with a final hug hurried off with her brother to the school at the bottom of the court.