Part 3

With the words he furls his umbrella, and unmindful of the scorching rays of the sun, starts in rapid pursuit of the runaway, who is now out of sight in a bend of the rising road.

Past the dirty suburbs Ned hastens, and now he is climbing the steep side of Monte Rosa. On either hand are great thickets of tree-ferns, which as he ascends give place to thickets of the wild-growing banana festooned through and through with fragrant flowering vines where humming-birds of gorgeous hue disport themselves. Across the reddish earth of the roadway dart green and gold lizards with black beady eyes, land-crabs scuttle hastily away from his hurrying footsteps, and once or twice the ugly face of a harmless iguana leers at him from a way-side stump.

Breathless, and dripping with perspiration at every pore, Ned reaches the summit, but runaway Joe is nowhere in sight. The plateau at the left is smooth and level, a crumbled stone parapet follows the edge of the cliff, and the ruins of what was once a small fortress stand further back. Perhaps Joe is hidden thereabouts.

"This is a pretty go; now isn't it?" exclaims Ned, in a disgusted tone, as, tearing off his saturated collar and tie, he throws himself at full length on the greensward under the shade of a cabbage-palm which grows close to the parapet, to cool off a bit. Yet the wonderful outlook almost repays him for the exhaustive climb. Before his gaze lies the far-reaching Caribbean Sea, not sparkling and blue as is its wont, however, but strangely calm, and of an oily smoothness, unbroken by a ruffle of wind. There is a curious yellowish haze, too, which has been creeping up from the distant horizon since morning, and is now tempering the heat of the sun, which shines through it with a singularly brassy effect.

"I think," drowsily remarked Ned, "that I'll take a bit of a nap, and hunt for Joseph the unfortunate later."

So Ned, resigning himself to slumber, dreamed that he was the admiral of a fleet manned by deserters from whaling vessels. This fleet was anchored in Queenston Harbor, and was returning the fire from the guns of the fortress above. The cannonading grew louder and louder, until Ned awoke with a start.

But what is this?

Above him is a sky blacker than the ink with which the _Calypso_'s log is written. Great sheets of rose-colored lightning shimmer continually upward from the distant horizon like the rays of aurora borealis, while rattling peals of thunder follow each other in quick succession. Then, as he starts up in a fright, the heavens directly overhead are rent asunder with one blinding flash, simultaneous with which comes a crash of thunder that seems to jar his very brain. Then, as though this were a pre-concerted signal, the sound of a mighty rushing wind, constantly increasing in intensity, is heard, before which, hurtling through the thickening gloom, come clouds of dust, branches of trees, and débris of every sort. The force of the hurricane is not only sufficient to throw Ned to the ground, but to pin him there as by giant hands, as it goes roaring seaward with an awfulness of deafening roar which can not be described in words.

"It is the Day of Judgment!" is the thought which sweeps through Ned's bewildered mind. And then as suddenly as the storm arose there is a lull, followed by an ominous silence as terrifying as the roar itself, for the darkness seems if possible to grow more intense.

"The _Calypso_," thinks Ned; "where is she?" Crawling to the edge of the parapet, he strains his eyes downward through the darkness. A momentary flash illumines the gloom, and shows a phantom sail, which he hopes may be the _Calypso_'s, scudding out of the harbor mouth.

And now the hurricane breaks forth from an almost opposite quarter, bringing with it torrent upon torrent of driving rain, drenching Ned to the skin, and fairly blinding him with its force. He is about to fly, he knows not whither, when some one, dimly seen through the darkness, clasps his hand.

"This way--quick!" exclaims the voice of Joe; and feeling himself urged rapidly forward, Ned in a moment or two finds that at last he has reached a place of shelter.

"I stop here nights," laconically observes Joe, as the two boys drop, dripping and out of breath, on a pile of dry leaves and grasses in one corner of what Ned sees by the continuous play of lightning is a low circular stone cell, and which Joe explains was probably used as a sort of powder-house before the fort was demolished.

For three long hours the hurricane swept above them, and the sea roared beneath, while the crash of thunder, almost without cessation, seemed to jar the stones about them. At last its violence subsided by degrees, and as Ned and Joe finally emerged from their refuge, it was to see the clouds rolling away in great rifted masses, through which shone the beams of sunset.

"And now, if the _Calypso_ is only safe," said Ned, as they made their way with difficulty down the mountain road, which had become the bed of a small stream, "you shall have your passage back to the States, Joe, and not work it either."

"Ah! _if_," returned Joe, soberly. He was wondering how they should live until the brig arrived, even if she was safe; and what on earth would become of them if she was lost! For the Queenston people do not take kindly to penniless wanderers, as poor Ned found to his cost before another twenty-four hours had passed over his head.

Fortunately for the companions in misfortune, fruit had been dislodged by the hurricane in such quantities that it was to be had for the taking. The boys supported life for a fortnight on oranges, ripe bread-fruit, bananas, guavas, mami apples, and soursops, which are "all very well for dessert," as Ned afterward remarked, "but for a steady diet I prefer roast beef; fruit gets monotonous after the forty-fifth or forty-sixth meal."

Thus for three weary weeks the boys wandered listlessly by day through the streets of Queenston, and by night suffered innumerable tortures from mosquitoes.

* * * * *

"Tell those two dirty-looking darkies to sheer off, Mr. Nason," sharply said Captain Hardy, as with only the stump of her foretopmast standing, and her bulwarks completely gone, the brig _Calypso_ slowly swung to her moorings.

There had been a terrible struggle with tempest and storm, and it was only after a succession of head-winds and exasperating calms of many days' duration that the _Calypso_ had finally managed to work back to the anchorage from which the hurricane had driven her so many miles out to sea.

"Be off there!" gruffly commanded Mr. Nason, in obedience to his Captain's orders, as a shore boat touched the vessel's side. "We don't want yams or fruit, and we've got nothing for you to beg or steal."

"If you've only got something to eat, that's all _we_ want," replied a familiar voice, whose owner sprang lightly over the rail, while his companion followed more slowly.

"Upon my word!" ejaculated the Captain, in amazement. "Is that you, Ned, and what do you look like?"

A white linen suit that has been soaked with rain or dew and dried in the sun several times has a tendency to cling to its possessor's figure with more closeness than ease; its hue becomes dingy by being slept in and used to wipe fruit-stained fingers on. Such was the case with Ned's once brilliant costume. He was also barefooted and nearly bare-headed, while his face was burned to the color of shoe leather.

"I used to think," said Ned, helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit, and passing the corned beef to Joe, who sat opposite him at the tea table in the _Calypso_'s cabin that evening, "that it would be rather nice to try a touch of vagabond life on some island in the tropics, but I rather think I prefer my regular meals at a table, and all night in bed--eh, Joe?"

And Joe, whose heart and mouth were too full for utterance, nodded an emphatic assent.

ADVICE TO BOYS.

BY H. C. VAN GIESON, M.D.

CUTS AND BRUISES.

The boys of America are venturesome, but I do not think, as a rule, that they rush into danger heedlessly. But in all the active pursuits of life, in play as well as in business, accidents are liable to occur, and it is well to know what to do, as thereby life may sometimes be saved.

It is my intention to tell boys what they should do under certain circumstances, when there is no help near.

Many persons are alarmed at the sight of blood. Now cuts are very common, but rarely are they very serious. If a simple cut is inflicted, if no artery is severed, it is only necessary to tie a handkerchief wet with cold water over the cut, and wait for an opportunity to get some adhesive plaster, which should be cut into strips one-eighth to one-half an inch wide, according to the size of the cut, and applied at right angles to the line of the cut, drawing it together by this means.

But when the blood flows in spurts or jets of a bright red color, it shows that an artery has been cut. An artery carries blood _from_ the heart, and consequently, to control the bleeding, if the cut or wound is on an arm or leg, pressure with the finger must be made _above_ the cut toward the body, not toward the hand or foot. If the bleeding does not stop with pressure continued a little while, then take a handkerchief, tie a knot in it, and placing the knot above the cut, tie the handkerchief firmly around the limb. Then take the injured person to the nearest physician, that the artery may be tied. Simple bleeding from the veins, which stops soon with a little pressure, needs only the application of a cool wet cloth.

When a person becomes faint from the sight of blood, or the loss of any considerable quantity, always place him flat on his back, with the head level with the body. Don't raise him up or try to stand him up. Apply cold water to the face, if available, or fan him with a hat.

Bruises are often very painful, but usually they are not dangerous. Cold water or ice applied to a bruise when first received will allay pain and prevent somewhat the swelling that follows. A bruise that is followed quickly by a soft bluish tumor or swelling indicates the rupture of a vein, and it should not be punctured or pricked, but should be allowed to disappear by absorption; a bandage making moderate pressure will hasten this process; and here let me say that any bandage should be applied from the extremity to the point where it is needed, that is, from the hand or foot to the parts on arm or leg where the bandage is needed. This is to prevent swelling of the parts below, as the circulation in the veins is impeded by any bandage between them and the heart. A bandage, then, should always commence at the toes or the ends of the fingers, and be applied smoothly and evenly up to and over the injured parts.

PADDY RYAN'S BIG FISH.

BY W. M. LAFFAN.

A few weeks ago I tried to give some good advice to young anglers in regard to trout fishing with hook and line. Now I am going to tell them of one or two curious methods of capturing trout that are practiced by fishermen on the other side of the Atlantic.

The trout in the rivers of Great Britain, as a general thing, attain a larger size than ours do. Occasionally, however, exceptions may be made to this rule, as, for instance, in the Rangeley Lakes, in the State of Maine, where trout are taken that are as large as any in the finest streams of England or Ireland.

The brook trout of the latter countries is usually from ten to fourteen inches in length, but in certain streams it is occasionally found of a much larger size, weighing in some instances seven or eight pounds. In color it is yellowish-brown above, shading off to yellow on the sides, the spots on the back being reddish-brown, while those on the sides are bright red.

In certain wild parts of Ireland there is fine trout fishing, four and five pound fish being frequently caught. There are two methods of catching them practiced by the inhabitants--tickling and snaring. The snare is a simple noose made of gray horse-hair, plaited, and of the strength of perhaps a dozen hairs. This snare is fastened to the end of a ten-foot pole, slender and springy, and the device is complete. Its use requires great training of the hand, and even more of the eye. When I was a boy I was in the County Tipperary, where so many tall Irishmen come from, where some of the people still speak Gaelic, and where the trout in the streams are free and frisky. The rivers of Tipperary flow into the Shannon and the Suir, and the Shannon is a noble river, and an immense one when you consider how small the accommodations of the country are.

To snare a trout, you pick out the clear shallows where the water flows softly over the yellow gravel. You approach the spot with great caution, and with such slow and easy movement that the fish is not alarmed, or if he does dart off to deeper water or some dark lurking-place, presently returns, revealing himself by his flickering shadow, that seems even more real than himself. Then, slow as the minute-hand of a clock, descends the rod, and the horse-hair noose sinks under the surface. The trout's nose points against the current, and down toward him drifts the unseen loop of horse-hair. Unfailing must be the judgment of the distance, and certain the estimate of the depth, and as it glides over his shoulders a swift stroke sends him flying over your head into the grass behind you. It is incredible how difficult this method of fishing is, what great craft it needs, what subtlety of approach, and what fine discernment in the execution. I have seen a Tipperary woman so skillful that she could beat all comers in the number of trout she would take in a day's fishing. It was a fine sight to see her on the bank, rigid as a statue, with uncovered head crowned with jet-black hair, her bare feet planted in the sod, and not a trace of movement to be seen until up went her rod, and a fine flashing trout, as heavy perhaps as her plaited noose would bear, went kicking through the air.

But tickling the trout is the more curious method, and is a practice that has its origin doubtless in the character of the streams, which, run for the most part by low grass-grown banks, which, being undermined, shelve over on the edge of the current, or fall into it in great _scraughs_, or sods. Beneath these lurk the trout of all sizes, sallying out every now and then like sunbeams into the amber water to catch some luckless victim passing by. On such an overhanging bank the skilled Tipperary fisher lies at full length, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and hands thrust as far beneath the bank as he can reach. If his fingers touch a fish, away it flies, but only to return shortly and sidle up against his hand, and be again alarmed. Over and over again this is repeated, until the fish seems to lose all sense of fear, when the stealthy, tickling, stroking fingers steal about the gills, and with a sudden encircling clutch and murderous thrust of the thumb in the gullet, that too confiding fish's day is ended.

The Tipperary men catch fine fish, and plenty of them in this way. It is not a lofty style of angling, but it is a curious instance of the application of means to ends, the end being the fish, the motive hunger, and the means being confined to strong hands.

Many a fine catch of fish have I seen made by the fishermen of Tipperary, but the most extraordinary was that of my friend Paddy Ryan. Paddy had a way of his own, and it was better than snaring or tickling, and it made Paddy famous as a brave and original fisher.

Up these little tributary streams that flow into the Shannon the salmon come in the spawning season, ascending until the upper shallows are reached, when they deposit their eggs, and then work their way back to the ocean. Great fun it is, too, to watch these lordly fish at some point where they must leap clear over some small water-fall or mill-dam if they would pass further up. The water breaks with a mighty swish, and out comes the salmon, his back like black velvet, and all the rest of him like a flash of burnished silver, his tail uncurving from the strong blow that he has struck in his leap, and his fine force and vigor landing him in the top water, where one great whisk and splash carries him clean over and out of all danger. Sometimes he falls short, or can not strike fast enough to overcome the current, and so tumbles back; but he goes at it again, and, making note of his experience, finally succeeds.

Paddy Ryan was nine years old, and was a spectator while I cast flies for trout; and although I was very far up the river, it was not altogether above the spawning grounds that the salmon sought. I was sitting on the parapet of an old bridge, and about one hundred feet down the stream below me there crossed a rough stone dam that diverted some part of the stream to the little mill owned by Paddy's father. Under the dam was a deep pool; above it was another, and the water fell over the dam along its whole length. But just inside the dam, and running parallel with it for a short distance, was a bank of gravel, which the last heavy freshet had thrown up. Paddy walked out on this gravel, and stretched himself on it at full length in pure idleness and lazy enjoyment of my useless fly-fishing. The trout were not in the humor to rise, and I had about made up my mind to give up and go home, when all at once I heard a splash and saw a great salmon come up with a mighty curve over the dam, overleap it completely, and land in about three inches of water on the gravel bank within a foot or two of Paddy.

The water flew in every direction, and all over Paddy, who turned with a startled yell to see what had happened. In another instant he was on top of the salmon, clutching it with arms and legs, while the powerful fish struggled and kicked, and Paddy bawled and roared at the top of his voice. Over rolled Paddy, and over rolled the fish, the water splashing and the gravel flying so that you could not tell which had the best of it. Paddy's mother, hearing the commotion, ran out of the cottage up above the mill.

"Och, murther!" she screamed. "Dinnis! Dinnis! where are ye, Dinnis? an' a fish atin' me child! Dinnis! Dinnis!"

Paddy's father heard her frantic screams, and came running up from the mill.

"D'ye see yer child et up be a dirthy fish?" she yelled.

"Begorra!" said the astonished Denis, as he seized a pitchfork, cleared the mill-race at a bound, ran along the dam, fell into the stream, scrambled out on the gravel bank, and reached the scene of the conflict.

"Let go of him till I shtick him!" said he.

"I won't," spluttered Paddy; "he'll get away."

"Let go of him, I tell ye!"

"Prod him now, daddy, where he is;" and seeing his chance, prod him Denis did, and dragged him kicking out on the gravel bank, Paddy, breathless and exhausted, still holding on to him.

It was a splendid salmon, and it weighed thirty-eight pounds, and I went home, not feeling as if I cared to pursue fly-fishing any further that day.

As we happen to know that father and mother as well as the boys and girls take a weekly peep at the contents of Our Post-office Box, we insert for their benefit a paragraph which appeared in the Boston _Journal_ of May 23. The _Journal_ has a very honorable and influential place among American newspapers, and we are glad to have it express its appreciation of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE in terms so cordial:

"When this weekly, intended specially for young readers, was first started, we were somewhat curious regarding the special field it would make for itself. It seemed as if the reading public, old and young, was supplied with literature adapted to the diversified wants of all, but we felt assured that the Messrs. Harper were too thoroughly acquainted with their business as publishers to launch a craft without a knowledge of the demand which existed for its support. Time has shown that HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE was wanted to fill a vacancy. It is already welcomed every Saturday to thousands of New England homes. Its tone is pure, its articles are always interesting, and its illustrations are superior to anything ever attempted in juvenile literature of its class. While it is intended for the perusal of Rob and Mabel, of Sam and Lucy, we venture to say that it has been the experience of others, as it has been our own, that the older heads of the family find in its pages each week matter not at all beneath their notice on the score of information and general interest."

* * * * *

ROCHESTER, NEW YORK.

I am a little boy eight years old. My papa has two hunting dogs named Steck and Rob, and I have a pet cat. The dogs are very gentle and kind, and let us tumble all over them; but when they have a bone given them, they fight terribly. Whenever Rob gets a chance he steals the cat's meat, and then she gives him a good scratch. My brother Harry is four years old. He has a little girl friend named Floy, whom he calls his little sweetheart. When I had the scarlet fever, and the doctor said my skin would peel off, Harry said, "Then, Georgie, when your skin peels off, I can see your soul, can't I?" I am sick, and mamma is writing this for me. I hope you will print it, so we can surprise papa, for we have not told him about it. He gave me HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE last Christmas, and I enjoy it more and more every week. Good-by.

GEORGE B. M.

* * * * *

FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN, GERMANY.

We have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from the beginning, and we enjoy it very much.

It is just nine years since we left America. Six of these have been spent in Paris, one in Freiburg, in Baden, and two here. We like this city exceedingly. It is very beautiful and interesting. In the "Judengasse," the principal street of the old Jewish quarter of the town, in an ancient rickety house still standing, were born the ancestors of the wealthy Von Rothschilds. Near by, in a similar house, Boerne was born. Goethe's birth-house, in another street, is more respectable, and full of souvenirs of Germany's great poet.

The opera-house here is as beautiful as the one in Paris. Other attractions are the Palmengarten, the Zoological Garden, the forest, the river, the cathedral, picture-galleries, museums, historical buildings, monuments, and the renowned and graceful sculpture of Ariadne on the lion's back, by Dannecker. The town is encircled by the "Promenade," a zigzaggy avenue of green woods, lovely lawns with flower beds, lakes, fountains, statues, etc., at the place of the old fortifications.

There are numbers of Hebrews here. They have many noble traits of character, and some we know are more Christian-like than many Christians. Besides that, they are very intelligent and quick. We have plenty of friends among them, and we like them very much.

I have two sisters and two brothers. We all go to school, except my elder sister, who studies at the Conservatory of Music, of which the great composer Joachim Raff is director, and which counts among its teachers Frau Clara Schumann and the violinist Hermann.

My baby brother, who was born in Paris, understands perfectly French and English, but will speak nothing but German. He attends the Kindergarten. I take lessons on the violin, and in drawing, elocution, Italian, and "the grand dialect the prophets spake," Hebrew.

I love Longfellow, and I feel so grieved at his death! I have a precious autograph of his, written expressly for me; it is the first verse of his beautiful poem, "Excelsior," and his name.