Part 2

Now a temple, sacred to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, three of the divinities of the Romans, stood on the top of the hill close to the place where the Gauls were stealthily climbing. There were some geese in the temple that were supposed to belong to Juno, and although the Gauls made so little noise, that neither the Romans nor their watch-dogs heard them, the geese knew that something was wrong, and they set up a noisy cackling. This awoke Marcus Manlius, a brave Roman soldier, who seized his sword and shield, and calling to his comrades to follow him, rushed upon the Gauls, and hurling one of them backward who had just reached the top of the hill, he so alarmed the other Gauls that they hastily retreated. Some years afterward the brave Manlius was cruelly put to death by the Romans on a false charge of treason, but the Romans always professed to feel great gratitude to the geese.

There is good reason for believing that this story is not strictly true, and it is probable that it was invented in order to account for the fact that among the Romans geese were sacred to Juno. Still, it is so good a story that people will always be quite willing to believe it.

MR. THOMPSON AND THE OWLS.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

Mr. Thompson says that he was sitting under an old oak-tree, not far from the Long Island Sound; he had been watching the sunset, and was now musing, with his eyes wandering from the gold and crimson clouds to the blue water and the ground at his feet. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a globular object by his side, about the size of a small marble. He poked it attentively with his cane, and murmured: "Owls' pellets; there must be a nest in the tree. Now those owls must be strange birds; they eat a mouse or bird entire, and then spit out the bones and skin, or feathers, in a round ball like this. Let me see," he continued, turning the pellet over carefully with his knife; "this fellow has been eating a mouse, for here is the skull and skin. I wonder where the nest is? I'd get the young ones, and--and--" and Mr. Thompson began to nod--"and give 'em to--"

"To who-o?" inquired a voice just above his head.

"To--to--to Miss--" continued Mr. Thompson, drowsily.

"To who?" repeated the voice.

"Who-o-o-o?" echoed Mr. Thompson, in strong nasal tones, and his head dropped on his breast.

"Now you begin to talk," said the voice. "I have watched you for a long time, and I knew you must be a relation of ours from your looks and actions, and now it is proved by your voice, though you don't speak loud."

Mr. Thompson says that the moment he nodded he was perfectly aware of all that was going on, and looked up to see who was speaking. There on a branch just above his head sat a large white owl, with his great eyes staring directly at him.

"Come up here," said the owl.

"How?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"Fly, stupid!" replied the owl.

Mr. Thompson flapped his arms obediently, and for a moment was somewhat surprised to find that he had become transformed into an owl.

"That was done very quietly," he murmured.

"Of course; owls do everything quietly."

Mr. Thompson settled himself on the branch, and fluffed up his feathers as naturally as if he had been used to it all his life.

"So you have had field mice for dinner," he said, after a few moments' hesitation.

"Yes," answered the owl, "and very good eating they are, too. Do you know," he continued, reflectively, "I can't see why the farmers are so opposed to us. We eat up lots of mice and grubs of different kinds."

"And young chickens sometimes," ventured Mr. Thompson.

"Barely," replied the owl; "not when we can get anything else. But come down-stairs and see the family;" and leading the way into the hollow tree, the owl climbed down to the nest. It was quite at the bottom of the tree, and was made of dried grass and feathers. In it were four young owls, and comical-looking birds they were, too, with their great round eyes and fluffy gray down.

After complimenting the old owl on the beauty of his family, Mr. Thompson remarked, "I notice that your feathers are not like other birds', but a sort of soft furry down."

"That is in order that we should make as little noise as possible when flying, so that we can come upon our game unaware of our presence," said the owl, climbing out of the nest. Mr. Thompson followed, and seated again on the limb, he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.

Presently the owl remarked, reflectively: "It seems strange that every one should hate us as they do. If I fly near the house in the evening, the farmer shouts, 'Shoot the owl! he is after the chickens.' If I sit on a tree during the day, all the birds find me, and bother me half to death. And some naturalist comes along and tries to take my children away."

"I don't see how they can get them at the bottom of that hole," said Mr. Thompson.

"Well, you see, everybody don't know how," replied the owl, "but Frank Buckland, the great English naturalist, gives the best way. You see, our two weapons of defense are our beaks and our claws, so if we can't get the better of an enemy with our beaks we turn over on our backs and clutch it in our claws, and we don't let go in a hurry either. So you see this Buckland lets down a ball of worsted into the nest, and keeps it bobbing up and down till we catch hold of it; then he draws it up."

"That makes me think," said Mr. Thompson, aloud, forgetting the presence of the owl, "that I wanted one of the young ones to take to Miss--"

"To who?" interrupted the owl, angrily.

"To Miss--"

"To who-o-o-o?"

"To Miss Angelina," answered Mr. Thompson.

The owl puffed his feathers angrily, and the movement so disconcerted Mr. Thompson that he lost his balance and fell from the branch. As he picked himself up, the owl uttered a derisive "To who," and flew away. It was quite late, and as Mr. Thompson walked slowly home, he murmured, "I'll try that ball and string method of catching owls to-morrow, but if they do more good than harm it seems a shame to disturb them, though I do want to give one to--"

"To who?" came the voice of the owl from the depths of the woods.

Mr. Thompson paused. "I guess I'll leave them alone," he muttered, as he strode along again.

"Good for you-u-u," shouted the owl, which last reply settled Mr. Thompson's resolution, and Miss Angelina had no young owl.

THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[2]

[2] 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 VII.

A council was held at the hotel, and a dozen different water routes were discussed. As the boys still wanted to carry out their original design of making a voyage to Quebec, they decided to take the canoes by rail to Rouse's Point, and from thence to descend the Richelieu River to the St. Lawrence. The railway journey would take nearly a whole day, but they thought it would be a pleasant change from the close confinement of canoeing.

As it would have taken three days to send the canoes to Rouse's Point by freight, the canoeists were compelled to take them on the same train with themselves. They went to the express office on Monday morning, and tried to make a bargain with the express company. The agent astonished them by the enormous price which he demanded, and Harry, who acted as spokesman, told him that it was outrageous to ask such a price for carrying four light canoes.

The man turned to a book in which were contained the express company's rates of charges, and showed Harry that there was a fixed rate for row-boats and shells.

"But," said Harry, "a canoe is not a row-boat nor a shell. What justice is there in charging as much for a fourteen-foot canoe as for a forty-foot shell?"

"Well," said the agent, "I don't know as it would be fair. But then these canoes of yours are pretty near as big as row-boats."

"A canoe loaded as ours are don't weigh over one hundred and ten pounds. How much does a row-boat weigh?"

"Well, about two or three hundred pounds."

"Then is it fair to charge as much for a canoe as for a row-boat that weighs three times as much?"

The agent found it difficult to answer this argument, and after thinking the matter over he agreed to take the canoes at half the rate ordinarily charged for row-boats. The boys were pleased with their victory over him.

At ten o'clock the train rolled into the Sherbrooke station. To the great disappointment of the boys, no express car was attached to it, the only place for express packages being a small compartment twelve feet long at one end of the smoking-car. It was obvious that canoes fourteen feet long could not go into a space only twelve feet long, and it seemed as if it would be necessary to wait twelve hours for the night train, to which a large express car was always attached. But the conductor of the train was a man who could sympathize with boys, and who had ideas of his own. He uncoupled the engine, which was immediately in front of the smoking-car, and then had the canoes taken in through the door of the smoking-car and placed on the backs of the seats. Very little room was left for passengers who wanted to smoke; but as there were only four or five of these, they made no complaint. The canoes, with blankets under them to protect the backs of the seats, rode safely, and when, late in the afternoon, Rouse's Point was reached, they were taken out of the car without a scratch.

There was just time enough before sunset to paddle a short distance below the fort, where a camping ground was found that would have been very pleasant had there been fewer mosquitoes. They were the first Canadian mosquitoes that had made the acquaintance of the young canoeists, and they seemed to be delighted. They sung and buzzed in great excitement, and fairly drove the boys from their supper to the shelter of their canoes.

Harry had a long piece of mosquito netting, which he threw over the top of his canoe tent, and which fell over the openings on each side of the tent, thus protecting the occupant of the canoe from mosquitoes without depriving him of air. None of the other boys had taken the trouble to bring mosquito-netting with him, except Charley, who had a sort of mosquito-netting bag, which he drew over his head, and which prevented the mosquitoes from getting at his face and neck.

As for Joe and Tom, the mosquitoes fell upon them with great enthusiasm, and soon reduced them to a most miserable condition. Tom was compelled to cover his head with his India-rubber blanket, and was nearly suffocated. Joe managed to tie a handkerchief over his face in such a way as to allow himself air enough to breathe, and at the same time to keep off the mosquitoes. Instead of covering the rest of his body with his blanket, he deliberately exposed a bare arm and part of a bare leg, in hopes that he could thus satisfy the mosquitoes, and induce them to be merciful. At the end of half an hour both Tom and Joe felt that they could endure the attacks of the dreadful insects no longer. They got up, and stirring the embers of the fire, soon started a cheerful blaze. There were plenty of hemlock-trees close at hand, and the hemlock boughs when thrown on the fire gave out a great deal of smoke. The two unfortunate boys sat in the lee of the fire and nearly choked themselves with smoke; but they could endure the smoke better than the mosquitoes, and so they were left alone by the latter.

The wind died down before morning, and the mosquitoes returned. As soon as it was light the canoeists made haste to get breakfast and to paddle out into the stream. The mosquitoes let them depart without attempting to follow them; and the boys, anchoring the canoes by making the ballast bags fast to the painters, enjoyed an unmolested bath. As they were careful to anchor where the water was not four feet deep, they had no difficulty in climbing into the canoes after the bath. Joe's mishap on Lake Memphremagog had taught them that getting into a canoe in deep water was easier in theory than in practice.

Later in the morning the usual southerly breeze, which is found almost every morning on the Richelieu, gave the canoeists the opportunity of making sail. The breeze was just fresh enough to make it prudent for the canoes to carry their mainsails only, and to give the canoeists plenty of employment in watching the gusts that came through the openings in the woods that lined the western shore.

About twelve miles below Rouse's Point the fleet reached "Ile aux Noix," a beautiful island in the middle of the stream, with a somewhat dilapidated fort at its northern end. The boys landed, and examined the fort and the ruined barracks which stood near it. The ditch surrounding the fort was half filled with the wooden palisades which had rotted and fallen into it, and large trees had sprung up on the grassy slope of the outer wall. The interior was, however, in good repair, and in one of the granite casemates lived an Irishman and his wife, who were the entire garrison. In former years the "Ile aux Noix" fort was one of the most important defenses of the Canadian frontier, and even in its present forlorn condition it could be defended much longer than could the big American fort at Rouse's Point. The boys greatly enjoyed their visit to the island, and after lunch set sail, determined to make the most of the fair wind, and to reach St. John before night.

The breeze held, and in less than three hours the steeples and the railway bridge of St. John came in view. The canoeists landed at the upper end of the town, and Harry and Charley, leaving the canoes in charge of the other boys, went in search of the Custom-house officer whose duty it was to inspect all vessels passing from the United States into Canada by way of the Richelieu River. Having found the officer, who was a very pleasant man, and who gave the fleet permission to proceed on its way without searching the canoes for smuggled goods, Harry and Charley walked on to examine the rapids, which begin just below the railway bridge. From St. John to Chambly, a distance of twelve miles, the river makes a rapid descent, and is entirely unnavigable for anything except canoes.

The first rapid was a short but rough one. Still, it was no worse than the first of the Magog rapids, and Harry and Charley made up their minds that it could be safely run. The men of whom they made inquiries as to the rapids farther down said that they were impassable, and that the canoes had better pass directly into the canal, without attempting to run even the first rapid. Harry was inclined to think that this advice was good, but Charley pointed out that it would be possible to drag the canoes up the bank of the river, and launch them in the canal at any point between St. John and Chambly, and that it would be time enough to abandon the river when it should really prove to be impassable.

Returning to the canoes, the Commodore gave the order to prepare to run the rapids. In a short time the fleet, with the _Sunshine_ in advance, passed under the bridge, and narrowly escaping shipwreck on the remains of the wooden piles that once supported a bridge that had been destroyed by fire, entered the rapid. There was quite a crowd gathered to watch the canoes as they passed, but those people who wanted the excitement of seeing the canoes wrecked were disappointed. Not a drop of water found its way into the cockpit of a single canoe; and though there was an ugly rock near the end of the rapid, against which each canoeist fully expected to be driven as he approached it, the run was made without the slightest accident.

Drifting down with the current a mile or two below the town, the boys landed and encamped for the night. While waiting at St. John, Joe and Tom had provided themselves with mosquito netting, but they had little use for it, for only a few mosquitoes made the discovery that four healthy and attractive boys were within reach. The night was cool and quiet, and the canoeists, tired with their long day's work, slept until late in the morning.

Everything was prepared the next day for running the rapids, which the men at St. John had declared to be impassable. The spars and all the stores were lashed fast; the sand-bags were placed in the after-compartments; the painters were rove through the stern-posts, and the life-belts were placed where they could be buckled on at an instant's notice. After making all these preparations it was rather disappointing to find no rapids whatever between St. John and Chambly, or rather the Chambly railway bridge.

"It just proves what I said yesterday," remarked Charley, turning round in his canoe to speak to his comrades, who were a boat's-length behind him. "People who live on the banks of a river never know anything about it. Now I don't believe there is a rapid in the whole Richelieu River except at St. John. Halloo! keep back, boys--"

While he was speaking, Charley and his canoe disappeared as suddenly as if the earth, or rather the water, had opened and swallowed them. The other boys in great alarm backed water, and then paddling ashore as fast as possible, sprung out of their canoes and ran along the shore to discover what had become of Charley. They found him at the foot of a water-fall of about four feet in height, over which he had been carried. The fall was formed by a long ledge of rock running completely across the river; and had the boys been more careful, and had the wind been blowing in any other direction than directly down the river, they would have heard the sound of the falling water in time to be warned of the danger into which Charley had carelessly run.

His canoe had sustained little damage, for it had luckily fallen where the water was deep enough to keep it from striking the rocky bottom. Charley had been thrown out as the canoe went over the fall, but had merely bruised himself a little. He towed his canoe ashore, and in answer to a mischievous question from Joe, admitted that perhaps the men who had said that the Chambly rapids were impassable were right.

Below the fall and as far as the eye could reach stretched a fierce and shallow rapid. The water boiled over and among the rocks with which it was strewn, and there could not be any doubt that the rapid was one which could not be successfully run, unless, perhaps, by some one perfectly familiar with the channel. It was agreed that the canoes must be carried up to the canal, and after two hours of hard work the fleet was launched a short distance above one of the canal locks.

The lock-man did not seem disposed to let the canoes pass through the lock, but finally accepted fifty cents, and, grumbling to himself in his Canadian French, proceeded to lock the canoes through. He paid no attention to the request that he would open the sluices gradually, but opened them all at once and to their fullest extent. The result was that the water in the lock fell with great rapidity; the canoes were swung against one another and against the side of the lock, and Charley's canoe, catching against a bolt in one of the upper gates, was capsized and sunk to the bottom, leaving her captain clinging to the stern of the _Sunshine_.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WHAT THE SHOWMAN DID NOT TELL.

BY WILLIAM H. RIDEING.

When the showman came to our town, he told the audience a great many things as he passed from cage to cage in his combined circus and menagerie. He told them of the great wangdoodle, two of which were brought from South Africa in three ships, and he told them other stories, which made the very little people open their eyes and mouths wide, but which the intelligent boys and girls only smiled at.

He was a great humbug--there is no doubt about it. But one day I found him alone, and cornered him. Then he told me what he didn't tell to his audiences, and that was much more interesting than a great part of his lecture. When he found that I did not believe in the immense sums which, according to his posters, some of his articles cost, he said:

"But we _do_ pay big prices for good curiosities, and no mistake, though our posters and show-bills do tell some pretty big stories. I once paid twenty-five thousand dollars for a baby hippopotamus, and if I could get another one to-day, I'd pay just as much, or more. A full-grown hippopotamus is pretty expensive too. That one over there cost us four thousand dollars. Elephants, as a rule, are not dear, and you can usually buy a fine specimen for about two thousand dollars. A giraffe costs all the way up from one thousand to five thousand; a tiger or a lion, about five hundred; a zebra, fifteen hundred; and a polar bear, about a thousand dollars. Polar bears," he added, meditatively, "are delicate. 'Why don't you dye him black?' said a fellow in the audience to me once. 'Because,' said I, 'he'll die quick enough.' They do like a good cold snap, with the thermometer away down below zero, the polars do.

"'Is the wild-beast trade a reg'lar business?'" he said, repeating a question of mine. "I should say it was, and more than one large fortune is invested in it. Some of it is done in Hamburg, a good deal in the sea-ports of Holland, some in Falmouth, and some in London. Probably more of it is done in New York than anywhere in Europe. There's a man in Falmouth who boards every ship approaching the English coast off the Lizard, and buys most of the curiosities the sailors have brought with them from the foreign lands in which they have been. But only a very small part of the whole supply comes through sea-captains and sailors. Expeditions go out into Africa and South America to hunt and capture the wild beasts of those continents, and there is one man whose last camp included ninety-two servants, seventy-two camels, twelve mules, twenty-seven horses, and three donkeys.

"This dealer is a Maltese, who, when a boy, used to knock about the docks, and seeing the strange animals on board some of the ships, promised himself that he would make wild-beast-hunting his trade when he became a man. He has lost more than one fortune, and is probably poor now. It's a wonder that he's alive; the business is full of dangers, and there is no certainty of profit in it.

"He usually goes from Alexandria to Suez, and down the Red Sea to Khartoum. The natives expect animal buyers, and nearly always have a stock to sell. 'Buy my little lion,' they will say, 'and I will throw into the bargain a young boy or girl.' The lions are carried in cages slung between two camels, and until the camels have become used to the growling of their burden they give the greatest trouble. Sometimes the natives are not friendly, and between their attacks and the ravages of fever, the expedition loses many of its men.

"The cost of such an expedition is not less than thirty thousand dollars, and while the buyer may double this sum in selling, he may lose all. Leaving Africa with a stock worth one hundred thousand dollars, it is not likely to be worth more than half that when it reaches Malta. The risk is so great that a monkey which can be bought for five cents in Africa is worth twenty dollars in New York, and the increase in the value of large animals is proportionate. You can buy a very good lion in Africa for the price that you would give for a monkey here."

The showman gossiped on in this way for some time, and had begun to be something of a bore, when a little man entered from a side door--to speak properly from one of the canvas folds of the tent, in the middle of which the showman and I were seated before a brazier of glowing coals. He was pale-faced and delicate-looking, but his dress was striking, consisting of a jaunty little velvet jacket, yellow corduroy breeches, and Hessian boots with enamelled leather tops.