Part 2

Now was the time for Mr. Hammond. The forceps (ugh!) were produced, and after some quick but careful work the tooth was drawn from the unconscious sleeper's jaw, safely, and without rousing him. By-and-by its owner awoke. He seemed wonderfully relieved immediately, but also somewhat dazed and puzzled to find out what had been done to him. At length he settled down comfortably in a corner of his cage to think about it, and recover his spirits. He was quite too proud to ask questions. I doubt if he has discovered yet just what was done to him, although with that broad forehead of his he must be a monkey with a good deal of mind.

And really is he not a striking-looking stranger. Just notice his bold glance and the dignified position, which at once show him to be a monkey of great force of character, as well as easy manners. And how modest and retiring too, to judge from the graceful way in which he has tucked his handsome tail away in the straw.

Poor Peter, exiled from his hot South African jungles and woods, what strange scenes he might describe could he only succeed in acquiring a proper English accent!--of dense boundless forests, lashed into a sea of waving boughs at night by hurricanes and tornadoes; of calm moonlight evenings by blue lakes rippled with silver, where the lion comes down like a great stealthy cat to drink and meet a friend for a hunting excursion; and of Mrs. Peter (only that is not her married name), who may be wondering all this time why her husband ran away and left her. But there he is, safe in the great London Zoological Gardens, and there he is likely to remain as long as he lives, unless, as I have already suggested, Mr. Barnum buys him and brings him over to America.

THE CHILDREN'S JOURNEY.

A REMINISCENCE OF SOUTHERN AUSTRIA.

BY DAVID KER.

There are few stranger places in the world than the hilly region around the head of the Gulf of Venice, and few stranger people than the Slovaks who inhabit it. Almost within sight of busy, bustling, populous Trieste, with its bristling masts, and crowded quays, and rattling carriages, and smart modern hotels, you come suddenly upon a district dotted with quaint little antique villages that seem to have been dropped by Santa Claus out of his basket of toys--villages which might well have Rip Van Winkle for chief magistrate, and the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus for tenants.

Up here on these warm dreary hill-sides, far from the busy world below, no one ever seems to be in a hurry, to get angry, or to excite himself in any way. The heavy wagons that creep along the broad white dusty road seem to go or not as they please, their "drivers" being usually fast asleep inside them. These four or five sallow, bearded, low-browed peasants in gray frocks and high boots, who are munching their black bread and garlic in the shade of yonder tree, instead of chattering and laughing like their Italian neighbors of the valley, are silent as statues. This meek little church of crumbling stone was built before the Turks entered Constantinople, and the language of its builders is spoken here still.

So completely, indeed, does the whole of this strange region reproduce what the world was centuries ago that I feel quite out of place as I look out at it through the window of a modern railway car, and hear a call for "tickets" in the midst of the enchanted ground. But even the railway itself seems to have borrowed something of the character of its surroundings. For a whole hour we zig-zag at a creeping pace up a seemingly endless succession of terraced ridges crowned with dark clumps of thicket. Suddenly two or three beautiful little patches of green sunny vineyard peep out at us from between two huge black cliffs, down one of which, like a fly walking on a wall, comes a sturdy peasant, brown and shapely as a bronze statue, showing all his splendid teeth in a grin of indulgent contempt at sight of the crawling train. The faint tinkle of a bell makes me look up to see a herd of goats feeding high above my head, while the next moment I catch sight of a little red-tiled cottage tucked away in the cleft of a rock as if playing hide-and-seek.

At length our train struggles up to the summit of the mountain with a shrill whistle of triumph. We thrust our heads out of the window to see where we have got to, when, lo! right under our feet lie the clustering white houses, and shining church domes, and countless masts, and bright blue waters of Trieste which we left behind more than an hour ago, as if bound by the same spell which kept poor Christoval tramping round and round the church all night, thinking he was going straight home.

But at this point a new turn is given to my thoughts by the sudden entrance of a group as picturesque as any painter could wish: three children--a bright-eyed little fairy of eight, with cheeks as round and rosy as the apple which she is eating, a sturdy boy of eleven, whose sunburned face is browner than his flat leather cap, and a tall, slim, golden-haired girl about a year older, taking charge of the other two in a protecting, motherly way which is simply irresistible.

But the first glance shows me that their journey, whatever its object may be, is one of no ordinary importance to themselves. All three have a grave, preoccupied look, the elder girl especially. Instead of prattling merrily, laughing, shouting, and pointing out passing objects to each other, as children usually do on a railway journey, they sit close together in a corner, and talk in whispers.

Even the grand scenery through which we pass, new as it evidently is to them, seems quite unheeded. Frowning precipices; sombre pine woods; black, tomb-like gorges; rock ledges just wide enough for the train itself; over-hanging water-falls which go leaping and foaming from crag to crag down a seemingly endless descent; queer little painted wooden station-houses, placarded with regulations in Italian, German, and Slovak; brawny peasant women, with their hard sallow faces framed in scarlet kerchiefs, waving signal flags on the very verge of the precipice--go by without remark.

The illustrated journal which I contrive to let fall as if by accident on the seat nearest to them remains equally unnoticed for awhile. But at length I see the younger girl's eyes beginning to turn that way. Presently she slips off her seat, and sidles up to the tempting paper; and then, having satisfied herself that I was not looking at her, she seizes it in her plump little hands, and is soon deep in one of the greatest enjoyments of childhood--"looking over a whole lot of pictures."

But as we approach St. Peter's the other two children become visibly restless and excited, looking constantly out of the window as if watching for something which they are eager to see. Even the little student of my paper, with whom I have struck up a conversation in German, soon forsakes me to join the watch; and I hear the boy mutter disconsolately:

"Why _don't_ the train go quicker? We shall never get there!"

Can they be bound on a picnic? think I; but they look far too grave and troubled for that. Are they going home from school? but who would think of living in a desolate place like this? I am still puzzling over the riddle, when my little rosy-cheeked friend, after looking doubtfully at me once or twice, as if uncertain whether to speak or not, startles me with a very unexpected question:

"Please, when anybody grows blind, not from a blow or anything like that, but just with something growing over their eyes, can they be made well again?"

"Very often they can, when they have a good doctor; but why do you ask?"

And then the whole story comes out. Their father, a retired Austrian officer, has become blind from cataract; and a famous German oculist, an old friend of his, has taken him away to a country house among the hills between St. Peter's and Adelsberg, in the hope of restoring his sight by an operation.

"And it was to be done last night," says Theresa, the elder girl, "and papa was to start home this morning. But we _couldn't_ wait until he came, and he wouldn't be able to send us a message; so we got leave from aunt to come and meet him ourselves, as she wasn't well enough to go with us. He's sure to be at St. Peter's station, when we get there."

"And his eyes will be quite well again--I'm _sure_ they will!" cries little Katrina, eagerly. "Dr. Ulrich is so clever, and he's cured so many people, and papa's such a friend of his. I'm sure he'll cure him too."

"I hope he will, indeed," says her brother, earnestly. "Poor papa! it's so horrid to see a great strong man like him led about just like a baby, and not able to read any stories, or watch his flowers coming up so nicely, after taking all that trouble with them! I _will_ give a shout if he's really cured."

"There's the station!" cried Theresa, almost throwing herself through the window in her eagerness, "and there's a man standing on the platform all by himself. Can that be papa?"

A whistle, a clank, a long creaking groan, and the train comes to a stand-still. But almost before it has stopped, the door flies open, and the next moment I see the children banging in a cluster upon a tall, fine-looking man with a thick gray mustache, while three voices shout, joyfully,

"Papa! papa! you _see_?"

"Yes, dears, I see, thank God!" says the old soldier, fervently; "and when the doctor was going to begin, I laid your portraits beside my chair, that they might be the first thing I saw."

There were not four happier people, I will answer for it, in all Austria that day; and the remembrance of that meeting is still among the brightest of my travelling recollections.

THE VICTIMS OF THE ARCTIC SEAS.

BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

On the evening of the 9th of May, thirty graduates of the school-ship _St. Marys_, and one hundred of the present pupils, were gathered together on the gun-deck of that vessel. Finely built, robust-looking lads were these last, of the stuff that good sailors are made of; and as they lounged in easy and careless attitudes upon and about the guns, they made a picture that gave assurance that the rising generation of our sailors will be no disgrace to those who have gone before them. It was easy to see from the manner of the boys and their expectant looks that they had been called together for no ordinary purpose. They had met to do honor to a noble officer, who is among the latest and most lamented victims of those dread arctic seas, the mysteries of which so many gallant men have striven to solve.

During the years 1876, 1877, and 1878 Commander De Long had been executive officer of the school-ship, and his memory was revered as the memory of noble men always is. What wonder, then, that when the news, so long expected, yet so lovingly dreaded, reached them, his former pupils were anxious to do him such honor as their regard and affection suggested?

And who was this noble Commander, and what were his services?

George Washington De Long entered the navy in the year 1865, when he was twenty-one years old. In 1873 he was second in command on the _Juniata_, a ship that accompanied the _Polaris_ arctic expedition, in which he performed distinguished services. When, therefore, the liberality of a private citizen fitted out another expedition for arctic exploration, this young officer was chosen to take the command of the perilous undertaking.

The _Jeannette_--a name that will never be forgotten while history records the deeds of brave men--sailed from San Francisco on July 8, 1879, with a crew of thirty-three men all told. About the end of September the party had really entered upon the dangers and difficulties of arctic exploration. They were in the midst of great fields of ice, which drifted with the varying winds and currents, so that, although the ship was itself inactive, it was carried over great distances. On November 10, daylight disappeared, and a long night--a night that was to last for nearly three months--set in. In spite of their desolate situation, the gallant crew kept up their spirits, engaging in theatrical performances, and trying to brighten the gloom of an arctic winter by their cheerfulness.

In January, however, the ship sprang a leak, and all hands were kept busy at the pumps to keep the water down, and for eighteen months the pumps never ceased working. At last, however, the fight could be kept up no longer. On June 13, the _Jeannette_ sank, and the crew were left encamped upon the ice, with no other hope of return than that which their three boats afforded.

Thus left almost destitute, Commander De Long had no other course open to him than to retreat. And what a gallant movement that was!

The three boats were two cutters and a whale-boat. The first, commanded by De Long, was twenty feet in length, and carried fourteen persons; the second, under Lieutenant Chipp, measured sixteen feet, and carried eight persons, and the whale-boat, which was larger than either of the others, being twenty-five feet long, was accompanied by eleven persons, under command of Engineer Melville. But though they had the boats, the gallant party could not launch them. They were in the midst of a sea, indeed, but it was a sea of solid ice, and for weeks the boats did not touch water, except for a short ferriage here and there where a break in the ice left a narrow strip of open sea. The boats were placed upon rudely built sleds, and for fifty-three weary days the resolute men dragged them over the ice. Some days they would make a mile; on others scarcely more than half that distance. Great hillocks of ice were to be surmounted, and cracks to be crossed, nearly every one of these being so wide that the sleds had to be let down into them and then hauled up on the other side.

Nor were these the only hardships that the retreating band had to encounter. The cold was intense, as may be imagined. Short rations and their fearful labor had reduced the strength of the men, so that one-quarter of the whole party had to be carried helpless on sleds, while almost all were suffering either from frost-bite or from the effect of the glare of the ice upon their eyes.

At last the retreating company reached comparatively open water. The boats were launched, and the party set sail for what they hoped would be a milder climate and a more hospitable shore.

Now, however, the perils by which they had been beset were increased. The cold was still as great as that which they had previously encountered, and it made itself more intensely felt now that the men were confined within the limits of small boats, and deprived of the active exercise which alone had kept the warmth in their bodies. The food supply was running so short that but scanty fare could be allowed, and the danger of drowning was added to that of perishing by cold and hunger.

For a few days all went fairly well, but during a gale that arose in the night the boats became separated, and in the morning the company on board the whale-boat scanned the dreary waters in vain for the sails of the boats manned by the crews of Commander De Long and Lieutenant Chipp. Engineer Melville's boat touched land on the delta of the Lena--a river which, flowing northward through Siberia, discharges itself into the arctic seas. Here the boat's crew met with hospitable treatment by the natives of those bleak and barren shores, and were all saved.

Not so, however, the occupants of the two cutters. Lieutenant Chipp's boat has not since been heard of. It was a smaller boat than either of the others, and though commanded by a young officer who enjoyed in an unusual degree the confidence and love of his men, it is not probable that he was able to bring his crew to a place of safety, even though he succeeded in making the land.

The sad story of the fate of De Long and his companions was told several months later by two seamen, named Noros and Ninderman, both of whom had served on board the _St. Marys_ school-ship.

On September 13, Captain De Long's boat, although its mast had been carried away, got within two miles of the Siberian coast, when it struck ground, and the Captain ordered the men to get into the water so as to lighten the load, and tow the boat ashore. Only half of the distance, however, had been traversed when it was found to be impossible to bring the boat nearer, and so they collected the food, arms, ammunition, and papers, and waded ashore.

Having rested for two days, the party started southward, each man carrying heavy burdens, though all but the most important articles had been abandoned. In the first ten days' march the travellers made no more than twenty miles, so difficult was the country; but during those days they enjoyed the luxury of a meal of deer's flesh, which, but for the crippled condition of several of the men, would have put new life into the whole party.

Then Captain De Long determined to send Ninderman and Noros ahead, for they were in better condition than any others of the party, and when they left on their perilous mission they bade a sad farewell to a gallant yet almost hopeless band of men, whom no one ever saw again until, nearly six months later, Mr. Melville found their dead bodies.

"The Captain," says Noros, "read divine service before we left. All the men shook hands with us, and Collins, as if knowing that their doom was sealed, said, simply, 'Noros, when you get to New York, remember me.' They seemed to have lost hope, but as we left, they gave us three cheers. That was the last we saw of them."

Wholly without food, for the supply they had saved from the boat was exhausted, and the fresh meat which had been procured was soon consumed, the two brave seamen pushed on. They supported life by chewing their leather moccasins and breeches, and after a few days they came upon two deserted huts, in which they found some mouldy fish, which they ate with relish. Here in these huts they rested for three days, when a native found them; but they were unable to make him understand that they had left eleven starving comrades behind.

At length the Governor of the Province, who lived at a town called Bulun, arrived, but he did not understand their sign-language, and so he sent no aid. He cared for the two seamen, however, and sent them to Bulun, and there it was that they fell in with Engineer Melville, whose boat's crew were by this time in safety. Melville at once started out in search of the ill-fated crew, and the result of his search was told briefly in a dispatch, dated March 24, and received in New York on May 6: "I have found De Long and his party: all dead."

Thus ends the first chapter of this melancholy story of arctic peril. The last chapter may never be told, and the fate of Lieutenant Chipp and his crew never revealed.

The names of De Long and his brave associates will live in history, and generations of sailors will be incited by the memorial tablet which is to be erected on board the _St. Marys_ school-ship to follow in the path that these gallant men followed to their death; for that path, though stern and rugged, was the path of duty.

APPLE BLOSSOMS.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Out in the orchard dwell wee little fairies, Busy with bud and with blossom at last. See how they work with their palettes and brushes, Tinting the apple-trees brightly and fast.

Pink and white blossoms, so dainty and fragrant, Laden with promise of good things to come, Softly the breezes are stealing their perfume, While o'er their beauty the busy bees hum.

Fair are the treasures which come with the spring-time, Fields full of daisies, and grasses so green, Sweet are the zephyrs from rose gardens blowing, Lovely the earth in the sun's golden sheen.

But out in the orchard amid the white blossoms, The pink and white blossoms that garland the trees, We find the best charm of the beautiful spring-time, And welcome the touch of the sweet-scented breeze.

THE BOYS' TEA PARTY.

BY S. C. MORRISON.

When ten boys and girls live in one house, they can have a great deal of fun. This was the case at Mr. Stanley's, where there were six girls and four boys; only the boys sometimes felt a little injured that the girls should have the majority.

But next door, at Mr. Fleming's, there were seven boys and only one girl; so when the Stanley boys wanted a refuge from feminine oppression, they had only to climb the fence, and join forces with the Flemings, and at once they had a majority in their favor.

Not that they had any real cause of complaint. Everything that could make them comfortable and happy was provided for them by their father and Aunt Sue. Aunt Sue!--that name suggests their grievances. For two years before Aunt Sue came to take charge of the Stanley boys and girls they had had a housekeeper who let them do pretty much as they pleased. She allowed them to eat pies, puddings, cakes, and sweetmeats until they cared for nothing else.

Aunt Sue instituted a new state of affairs. They must learn to eat vegetables for the sake of their health.

Now don't suppose that they never had cake, or that Aunt Sue was at all unreasonable. But when boys make no distinction between cake and bread except to give the former the preference, it is difficult to fill their orders.

It is remarkable how boys always know when cake-baking is going on. They seem to scent it in the air. At first Aunt Sue tried to escape by springing baking day at odd times. But it was no use. One or other of them was sure to happen in, and then in some miraculous way the other boys would come trooping in like the Northern barbarians at a Roman harvest-time.

Then Aunt Sue tried a new plan. Wednesdays and Saturdays were announced as regular baking days, and each boy was to be entitled on the spot to one cake out of every pan of ginger-snaps or other small cakes that were baked. Four cakes to a panful was no light tax to levy, but the boys were rigorously exacting, and woe to the boy who failed to be present; His cake was confiscated, immediately, and gobbled up by the reigning powers, after the manner of the partition of Poland.

When a soft cake was to be cut at table it was an understood thing that those rapacious boys should have the "corner pieces." The only wonder was that no amount of cake ever seemed to make these boys sick. The fact was so amazing that Aunt Sue pronounced it "just miraculous."

It so happened that during the spring, just about house-cleaning time, the boys had been two weeks without cake. They had been out one day playing base-ball, and were coming home to supper cold and hungry. They discussed the afternoon's fun until there seemed nothing more to say about it, and after a little silence one of them revealed the subject of his thoughts by the grumbling remark:

"I hope Aunt Sue will manage to have some cake for supper. It is an age since we had any."

"She is getting awfully stingy with it, anyhow," said Bob. "The piece I had last night was hardly big enough to taste."

"I never get more than a taste except at Christmas," said John.

"See here, boys," cried Tom Fleming, "I have thought of something. Let's have a party, and bake the cake ourselves."

This brilliant idea was so new as to be somewhat startling; but after the first shock was over, most of them entered into the plan eagerly.

The older boys were dubious. "How can we? Aunt Sue would never consent, and your mother never lets us come near the kitchen."

"Have it in my room," said Tom, hospitably, "and keep dark about it."

That seemed feasible; for his out-of-the-way room in the top story had often been the scene of their revels.

"But the cooking?"

"I will make a fire in the fire-place. I have often done a little in the cooking line there; made bullets, and boiled paste, you know."