Part 2

The barn floor was most too hard to practice on, so last Saturday Tom said we'd go into the parlor, where there was a soft carpet, and we'd put some pillows on the floor besides. All Tom's folks had gone out, and there wasn't anybody in the house except the girl in the kitchen. So we went into the parlor, and put about a dozen pillows and a feather-bed on the floor. It was elegant fun turning somersaults backward from the top of the table; but I say it ought to be spelled summersets, though Sue says the other way is right.

We tried balancing things on our feet while we laid on our backs on the floor. Tom balanced the musical box for ever so long before it fell; but I don't think it was hurt much, for nothing except two or three little wheels were smashed. And I balanced the water pitcher, and I shouldn't have broken it if Tom hadn't spoken to me at the wrong minute.

We were getting tired, when I thought how nice it would be to do the trapeze performance on the chandeliers. There was one in the front parlor and one in the back parlor, and I meant to swing on one of them, and let go and catch the other. I swung beautifully on the front-parlor chandelier, when, just as I was going to let go of it, down it came with an awful crash, and that parlor was just filled with broken glass, and the gas began to smell dreadfully.

As it was about supper-time, and Tom's folks were expected home, I thought I would say good-by to Tom, and not practice any more that day. So we shut the parlor doors, and I went home, wondering what would become of Tom, and whether I had done altogether right in practicing with him in his parlor. There was an awful smell of gas in the house that night, and when Mr. McGinnis opened the parlor door he found what was the matter. He found the cat too. She was lying on the floor, just as dead as she could be.

I'm going to see Mr. McGinnis to-day and tell him I broke the chandelier. I suppose he will tell father, and then I shall wish that everybody had never been born; but I did break that chandelier, though I didn't mean to, and I've got to tell about it.

CHILDREN'S CHURCH.

BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.

The church-bells for service are ringing, The parents gone forth on their way, And here on the door-step are sitting Three golden-haired children at play.

The darlings, untiring and restless, Are still for the service too small; But yet they would fain be as pious As parents and uncles and all.

So each from a hymn-book is singing-- 'Tis held upside down, it is true; Their sweet roguish voices are ringing As if every number they knew.

But what they are singing they know not; Each sings in a different tone. Sing on, little children; your voices Will reach to the Heavenly Throne;

For yonder your angels are standing, Who sing to the Father of all; He loves best the sound of His praises From children, though ever so small.

Sing on! How the birds in the garden Are vying with you in your song, As, hopping among the young branches, They twitter on all the day long!

Sing on! For in faith ye are singing, And that is enough in God's sight: A heart like the dove's, pure and guileless, Wings early to heaven its flight.

Sing ever! We elders sing also; We read, and the words understand; Yet oft, too, alas! we are holding Our books upside down in the hand.

Sing ever! We sing, as is fitting, From notes written carefully down; But ah! from the strife of the brethren How often has harmony flown!

Sing on! From our lofty cathedrals What melodies glorious we hear! What are they?--a sweet childish lisping, A breath in the Mighty One's ear.

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

HOW TO MANAGE THE LITTLE ONES.

"I wouldn't mind being left to take care of the little ones," said Fannie the other day, "if they would only mind me. But when mamma is away they think they may do as they please, and they behave like little witches."

"Mollie manages the nursery splendidly," said Kittie; "the children are quite angelic under her, but I have not her magic. I seem to stir up the naughtiness, and the more I tell them to be good, the worse they act."

Now, Fannie and Kittie and other worried elder sisters, let me tell you the trouble with your management. When you can find the key to a problem in arithmetic, the rest is easy work.

I think I can whisper in your ear the name of a certain key to your home problem, when the small brothers and sisters say, as they sometimes do, "You are not my mamma, you are only Fannie; I want to make a noise, and you must not bother me."

The key is a word of four letters--TACT. It is a golden key, and is warranted to fit any lock. You can not get along very well in life without it. I am very sure that Mollie possesses this shining key.

You remember what a time you had with Willie, who was determined to have Rosie's French doll as the passenger in his train of cars. Those cars rush around the parlor at so rapid a rate that everything must get out of their way or be crushed. Rosie was in great distress lest her pet's head should be broken, but Willie shouted, blew his whistle, and started his train just as usual. You snatched the doll away, and put her in the closet, high out of reach of both children, saying, "When you two can play without quarrelling, you shall have the doll again, and not until then." Of course Willie stamped his feet, and Rosie screamed, and there was a tempest.

You might have managed your little folks, had you only known how, so that they would have been as obedient as well-trained soldiers, and as peaceable as two doves in a nest.

I would have said, in your place: "Oh, Willie, what a nice train of cars you have there, and what a good conductor you are! Is Cécile your passenger? Oh no, I see she is not dressed for a journey. She has on an evening dress. Here is Laura"--producing an older and less important doll--"and she really needs a change of air. I'll slip on her Ulster in a second, and she will be all ready. She's pining for the country. Here, Rosie, you may take care of Cécile."

Both children would have been satisfied had you spoken to them in this way, and the hour would not have been spoiled by crying and fretting.

In managing little ones, when you are not possessed of any real authority, you must use a great deal of judgment. Humor the children by entering into their plays. They "make believe" a great deal. You must "make believe" too.

Many wee people can be led along by gentle words and merry looks, when they can not be driven without very great trouble. If Susie has a handsome book which you fear she will spoil, do not hurt her self-respect by taking it suddenly from her, but bring a scrap-book, and divert her attention to that. Then she will resign the other very pleasantly.

Elder sisters and brothers should never be above coaxing the little ones.

THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]

[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY W. L. ALDEN,

AUTHOR OF "THE MORAL PIRATES," "THE CRUISE OF THE 'GHOST,'" ETC., ETC.

CHAPTER IX.

It was an easy matter to help Joe out of the old well. He had fallen into it while running after the wild-cat, but a heap of decayed leaves at the bottom broke the fall, and saved him from any serious injury. Nevertheless, he must have been a little stunned at first, for he made no outcry for some time, and it was his first call for help that was heard by Charley.

The boys returned to their canoes, and as it was not yet midnight, prepared to resume the sleep from which they had been so unceremoniously awakened. They had little fear that the wild-cat would pay them another visit, for it had undoubtedly been badly frightened. Still, it was not pleasant to think that there was a wild beast within a few rods of them, and the thought kept the canoeists awake for a long time.

The wild-cat did not pay them a second visit, and when they awoke the next morning they were half inclined to think that their night's adventure had been only a dream. There were, however, the marks made by its claws on the varnished deck of Joe's canoe, and Joe's clothing was torn and stained by his fall. With the daylight they became very courageous, and decided that they had never been in the least afraid of the animal. The so-called wild-cat of Canada, which is really a lynx, is, however, a fierce and vicious animal, and is sometimes more than a match for an unarmed man.

There was a strong west wind blowing when the fleet started, and Chambly Basin was covered with white-caps. As the canoes were sailing in the trough of the sea, they took in considerable water while skirting the east shore of the Basin, but once in the narrow river, they found the water perfectly smooth. This day the fleet made better progress than on any previous day. Nothing could be more delightful than the scenery, and the quaint little French towns along the river, every one of which was named after some saint, were very interesting. The boys landed at one of them, and got their dinner at a little tavern where no one spoke English, and where Charley, who had studied French at Annapolis, won the admiration of his comrades by the success with which he ordered the dinner.

With the exception of the hour spent at dinner, the canoeists sailed, from six o'clock in the morning until seven at night, at the rate of nearly six miles an hour. The clocks of Sorel, the town at the mouth of the Richelieu, were striking six as the canoes glided into the broad St. Lawrence, and steered for a group of islands distant about a mile from the south shore. It was while crossing the St. Lawrence that they first made the acquaintance of screw-steamers, and learned how dangerous they are to the careless canoeist. A big steamship, on her way to Montreal, came up the river so noiselessly that the boys did not notice her until they heard her hoarse whistle warning them to keep out of her way. A paddle-wheel steamer can be heard while she is a long way off, but screw-steamers glide along so stealthily that the English canoeists, who constantly meet them on the Mersey, the Clyde, and the lower Thames, have nicknamed them "sudden death."

Cramped and tired were the canoeists when they reached the nearest island and went ashore to prepare a camp, but they were proud of having sailed sixty miles in one day. As they sat around the fire after supper, Harry said:

"Boys, we've had experience enough by this time to test our different rigs. Let's talk about them a little."

"All right," said Joe. "I want it understood, however, that my lateen is by all odds the best rig in the fleet."

"Charley," remarked Tom, "you said the other day that you liked Joe's rig better than any other. Do you think so still?"

"Of course I do," answered Charley. "Joe's sails set flatter than any lug-sail; he can set them and take them in quicker than we can handle ours, and as they are triangular he has the most of his canvas at the foot of the sail instead of at the head. But they're going to spill him before the cruise is over, or I'm mistaken."

"In what way?" asked Joe.

"You are going to get yourself into a scrape some day by trying to take in your sail when you are running before a stiff breeze. If you try to get the sail down without coming up into the wind it will get overboard, and either you will lose it or it will capsize you; you tried it yesterday when a squall came up, and you very nearly came to grief."

"But you can say the same about any other rig," exclaimed Joe.

"Of course you can't very well get any sail down while the wind is in it; but Tom can take in his sharpie-sail without much danger even when he's running directly before the wind, and Harry and I can let go our halyards and get our lugs down, after a fashion, if it is necessary. Still, your lateen is the best cruising rig I've ever seen, though for racing Harry's big, square-headed balance-lug is better."

"You may say what you will," said Tom, "but give me my sharpie-sails. They set as flat as a board, and I can handle them easily enough to suit me."

"The trouble with your rig," said Charley, "is that you have a mast nearly fifteen feet high. Now, when Joe takes in his mainsail, he has only two feet of mast left standing."

"How do you like your own rig?" asked Harry.

"Oh, it is good enough. I'm not sure that it isn't better than either yours or Tom's; but it certainly isn't as handy as Joe's lateen."

"Now that you've settled that I've the best rig," said Joe, "you'd better admit that I've the best canoe, and then turn in for the night. After the work we've done to-day, and the fun we had last night, I'm sleepy."

"Do you call sitting still in a canoe hard work?" inquired Tom.

"Is falling down a well your idea of fun?" asked Harry.

"It's too soon," said Charley, "to decide who has the best canoe. We'll find that out by the time the cruise is over."

The island where the boys camped during their first night on the St. Lawrence was situated at the head of Lake St. Peter. This lake is simply an expansion of the St. Lawrence, and though it is thirty miles long, and about ten miles wide at its widest part, it is so shallow that steamboats can only pass through it by following an artificial channel dredged out by the government at a vast expense. Its shores are lined with a thick growth of reeds, which extend in many places fully a mile into the lake, and are absolutely impassable, except where streams flowing into the lake have kept channels open through the reeds.

On leaving the island in the morning the canoeists paddled down the lake, for there was not a breath of wind. The sun was intensely hot, and the heat reflected from the surface of the water and the varnished decks of the canoes assisted in making the boys feel as if they were roasting before a fire. Toward noon the heat became really intolerable, and the Commodore gave the order to paddle over to the north shore in search of shade.

It was disappointing to find instead of a shady shore an impenetrable barrier of reeds. After resting a little while in the canoes, the boys started to skirt the reeds, in hope of finding an opening; and the sun, apparently taking pity on them, went under a cloud, so that they paddled a mile or two in comparative comfort.

The friendly cloud was followed before long by a mass of thick black clouds coming up from the south. Soon the thunder was heard in the distance, and it dawned upon the tired boys that they were about to have a thunder-storm without any opportunity of obtaining shelter.

They paddled steadily on, looking in vain for a path through the reeds, and making up their minds to a good wetting. They found, however, that the rain did not come alone. With it came a fierce gust of wind, which quickly raised white-caps on the lake. Instead of dying out as soon as the rain fell, the wind blew harder and harder, and in the course of half an hour there was a heavy sea running.

The wind and sea coming from the south, while the canoes were steering east, placed the boys in a very dangerous position. The seas struck the canoes on the side and broke over them, and in spite of the aprons, which to some extent protected the cockpits of all except the _Twilight_, the water found its way below. It was soon no longer possible to continue in the trough of the sea, and the canoes were compelled to turn their bows to the wind and sea, the boys paddling just sufficiently to keep themselves from drifting back into the reeds.

The _Sunshine_ and the _Midnight_ behaved admirably, taking very little water over their decks. The _Twilight_ "slapped" heavily, and threw showers of spray over herself, while the _Dawn_ showed a tendency to dive bodily into the seas, and several times the whole of her forward of the cockpit was under the water.

"What had we better do?" asked Harry, who, although Commodore, had the good sense always to consult Charley in matters of seamanship.

"It's going to blow hard, and we can't sit here and paddle against it all day without getting exhausted."

"But how are we going to help ourselves?" continued Harry.

"Your canoe and mine," replied Charley, "can live out the gale well enough under sail. If we set our main-sails close-reefed, and keep the canoes close to the wind, we shall be all right. It's the two other canoes that I'm troubled about."

"My canoe suits me well enough," said Joe, "so long as she keeps on the top of the water, but she seems to have made up her mind to dive under it."

"Mine would be all right if I could stop paddling long enough to bail her out, but I can't," remarked Tom. "She's nearly half full of water now."

"We can't leave the other fellows," said Harry, "so what's the use of our talking about getting sail on our canoes?"

"It's just possible that Tom's canoe would live under sail," resumed Charley; "but it's certain that Joe's won't. What do you think about those reeds, Tom? Can you get your canoe into them?"

"Of course I can, and that's what we'd better all do," exclaimed Tom. "The reeds will break the force of the seas, and we can stay among them till the wind goes down."

"Suppose you try it," suggested Charley, "and let us see how far you can get into the reeds? I think they're going to help us out of a very bad scrape."

Tom did not dare to turn his canoe around, so he backed water, and went at the reeds stern first. They parted readily, and his canoe penetrated without much difficulty some half-dozen yards into the reeds, where the water was almost quiet. Unfortunately he shipped one heavy sea just as he entered the reeds, which filled his canoe so full that another such sea would certainly have sunk her, had she not been provided with the bladders bought at Chambly.

Joe followed Tom's example, but the _Dawn_ perversely stuck in the reeds just as she was entering them, and sea after sea broke over her before Joe could drive her far enough into the reeds to be protected by them.

Joe and Tom were now perfectly safe, though miserably wet; but as the rain had ceased, there was nothing to prevent them from getting dry clothes out of their water-proof bags, and putting them on as soon as they could bail the water out of their canoes. Harry and Charley, seeing their comrades in safety, made haste to get up sail, and to stand out into the lake, partly because they did not want to run the risk of being swamped when entering the reeds, and partly because they wanted the excitement of sailing in a gale of wind.

When the masts were stepped, the sails hoisted, and the sheets trimmed, the two canoes, sailing close to the wind, began to creep away from the reeds. They behaved wonderfully well. The boys had to watch them closely, and to lean out to windward from time to time to hold them right side up. The rudders were occasionally thrown out of the water, but the boys took the precaution to steer with their paddles. The excitement of sailing was so great that Charley and Harry forgot all about the time, and sailed on for hours. Suddenly they discovered that it was three o'clock, that they had had no lunch, and that the two canoeists who had sought refuge in the reeds had absolutely nothing to eat with them. Filled with pity, they resolved to return to them without a moment's delay. It was then that it occurred to them that in order to sail back they must turn their canoes around, bringing them while so doing in the trough of the sea. Could they possibly do this without being swamped? The question was a serious one, for they were fully four miles from the shore, and the wind and sea were as high as ever.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE STEAMBOAT.--ROBERT FULTON.

Robert Fulton, the inventor of steamboats, was born on a farm in Pennsylvania. His parents were Irish Protestants--a strong, laborious race. Robert was a delicate, handsome boy, with a fine forehead and brilliant eyes. Almost as a child he became a mechanic, inventing machines and lingering around workshops. He was thought dull at school, and made slow progress in the usual studies. But he was always inventing.

One day, when Robert was about nine years old, he came late to school, and when his teacher reproved him, produced a new lead-pencil which he had been making while playing truant. The boys were all anxious to have one of Fulton's pencils--they were better than any they had seen. In his school days he made rockets to celebrate the Fourth of July, and in 1778, in the midst of the war, set them off in his native town. About this time he made an air-gun and a boat moved by wheels. He had a strong taste for drawing. His mother, who was now a widow and poor, wanted his help.

Fulton was only seventeen, but he went up to Philadelphia, made money, became acquainted with Dr. Franklin, and when he was twenty-one came back to his mother with his earnings, and bought her a farm. Here she lived happily for some years, watching and enjoying the rising prosperity of her son. The deed by which Fulton at twenty-one gave the farm to his mother is still preserved.

There are persons living who might have seen the first steamboat that sailed on the Hudson. Many remember when the famous _De Witt Clinton_ and _North America_ were thought the wonders of navigation; when they sailed over the tranquil river at the rate of sixteen miles an hour, and left behind them thick clouds of black smoke that hung over the landscape for miles. The _North America_ was long the pride of the river navigation, the swiftest vessel in the world. The Hudson has always been the favorite scene of steam navigation and enterprise. It is the birth-place of the steamboat.

Here, in 1807, Robert Fulton, on board of the _Clermont_, his first vessel, sailed in a day and a half from New York to Albany. He stopped for a few hours at Clermont, and then in four more finished his voyage. It was the signal for an entire change in the whole art of navigation. From that time the steamboat has been slowly advancing, its size has increased to immense proportions, its engines have become animated giants, and Fulton's little vessel of one hundred and sixty tons is converted into the _Furnessia_, the _Alaska_, and the _Great Eastern_.

Fulton, a fair, delicate, thoughtful young man, had gone to England, to France, had become acquainted with many eminent inventors, and had already planned a steamboat. He was the first to make one successful. He came back to New York, and, aided by his friend Livingston, in 1806 began to build his boat. It was only a small vessel, rudely built; in it he placed an engine made by James Watt, the English inventor; the paddle-wheels he planned himself, and the imperfect machinery. It seems now a very easy thing to build a steamboat, but it was then thought impossible. Men called the boat Fulton's Folly. Hardly any one supposed that a new era in navigation was about to begin, and that Fulton's machine would at last cover the world with its discoveries. At last the boat was finished.

The fires were lighted, the boilers hissed, the crank turned, the wheels began to move, and the _Clermont_ made its way, at about five miles an hour, from Charles Brown's dock-yard on the East River to Jersey City. Once she stopped, and men cried, "There, it has failed!" But it was only because Fulton was anxious to alter some part of his machine. The great voyage was successful. The steamer reached Jersey City, and Fulton's victory was won.