Chapter 13

At last the great day dawned--dawned upon three of the most grotesque-looking specimens of boyhood, arrayed in the oldest and worst fitting clothes they could find; for, as they said, in the most expressive boy language--"We are in for a rattlin' good time, and don't want to be togged out." They and their effects were taken by wagon over to the Lake Shore, about four miles distant, to establish their camp under the shadow of old Rumble Sides, a lofty crag or boulder.

Boys, I wish you could have seen them that night, in their little woodland home; really, it was quite attractive. They worked like beavers all day--cutting away the brush, driving stakes to tie down the little white tent, digging a trench all around in case of rain, and building a fire-place of stone, with a tall, forked stick on which to hang the kettle. A long board, under the shady trees, served as table.

Too tired to make a fire that night, they ate a cold lunch, and threw themselves on their bed--which was a blanket thrown over pine boughs--untied the tent flaps to let in air, and slept a happy, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, early, they were up, and, after taking a cold plunge in the lake, built a brisk fire, boiled coffee, and roasted potatoes for breakfast. They then bailed out the punt, which was their only sailing craft, and put off for an all-day's fishing excursion. Several days, with fine weather, passed, and the boys declared they were having a royal time, and that camping was the only life to lead.

They had much difficulty to settle upon a name, but finally decided that "Camp Trio" was most appropriate.

One night they were suddenly awakened by a deep, roaring sound; the wind blew fiercely, it rained hard, but the noise was not of thunder, it seemed almost human; nearer and nearer it came! The three lads sat up in the semi-darkness, and peered at each other with scared faces.

"It's Old Rumble broke loose and coming down on us," said Con, in a ghostly whisper. "Hush!" and the trio clutched in a cold shiver, as a crackling of twigs was heard outside, a heavy tread, a long, low moan, a horrible silence.

"It was the Leviathan, I guess," said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at smiling, as the early morning light stole through the flaps. At length they moved their stiffened limbs and peeped out. Oh, how it did pour! No fire, no fishing, no any thing to-day. Pretty soon a shout from Ned, who had been cautiously prowling around to find the cause of their late fright.

"Oh, boys, it's too rich! Why, it was Potter's old cow, down here last night, bawling for her calf that was after our towels, as usual--look here!" and he held up three or four dingy, chewed-looking articles, which had hung on a tree to dry, and might have been towels once. The boys broke into a hearty laugh at their own expense. The day was very long and dull, and the next, stories and jokes fell flat, cold victuals didn't relish, they began to feel quite blue. The third day Farmer Potter appeared upon the scene.

"What on airth ye doin' here; trespassin' on other folks' grounds? Mebby ye don't know it's agin the law!"

The boys felt a trifle uneasy, but answered him politely.

"Hevin' _fun_, be ye! Wall, I'll vow, settin' in the wet, eatin' cold rations, haint _my_ idee of _fun_." And away he stalked.

The boys looked at each other.

"I say, fellers," said Con, "a piece of pie and a hunk of fresh bread _wouldn't_ go bad--eh?"

The two answered with a hungry look.

"But let's tough it out over Sunday, or they'll all laugh at us." And so they did; but it was the longest, dreariest Sabbath they ever spent.

"I'd rather learn ten chapters in Chronicles," Tom affirmed, "than put in another such a Sunday."

They had, in the main, a jolly time, but the ending was not as brilliant as they had looked for. They never regretted going, but the next year took a larger party, and went for a shorter time.

THE SENTIMENTAL FOX.

"Oh, beautiful wild duck, it pains me to see, You flying aloft in that gone sort of way, Sweet one, fare you well. I could shed many tears, But my deepest emotions I never betray.

"I've always admired you, wonderful bird, By the light of the sun and the rays of the moon; I tell you 'tis more than a fox can endure, To know that you take your departure so soon.

"I snatched a few feathers, in memory of you; I desired a whole wing, but you baffled my plan; Oh, what a memento to hang in my den! And in very hot weather to use as a fan.

"Descend, O, thou beautiful creature, to earth! There's nothing I would not perform for your sake; If once in awhile I could see you down here, I'd never get tired of the shores of this lake!"

"Cheer up, Mr. Fox," said the duck, flying higher, "The parting of such friends is sometimes a boon; When they get far away, and have time to reflect, They see that it came not a moment too soon.

"You wanted a wild wing to fan yourself with; You see if I granted that favor to you, 'Twould have left me but one, which is hardly enough, As I find it convenient, just now, to have two."

Then she faded away, a dark speck on the sky. "That's a very shrewd bird," said the fox in dismay! "I shall have to look round for my dinner, again, And I fancy it will not be wild duck to-day."

EARTHEN VESSELS.

Spring time had come, with its blossoms and birds; and Mrs. Rossiter threw up the sash of the east window, and pushed open the blinds, and drew a long deep breath of morning air, and morning sunshine.

"I think, Bridget," she said, "that we might venture to bring the house-plants out-doors to-day. There can hardly be another frost, this year."

"Oh! may I help?" asked little Charley, "I'll be very careful."

"On that condition, that you be very careful, you may bring the little ones," answered his mother.

The work progressed safely and rapidly for awhile. Geraniums, roses, fuchsias, heliotropes, and so following, came forth in profusion, many in bloom, and were placed in rows along the garden borders, ready to be transferred to the beds, for the summer. At last the little ones were all brought by Charley, and only larger ones remained.

"I'll carry just this one big one," he said to himself: "I'm stronger than mother thinks I am." But the pot full of earth, was heavier than Charley had thought it, and before he reached the place to set it down it had grown very heavy indeed; and, glad to get it out of his aching arms as quickly as possible, he placed it on the curb so suddenly, that with a loud crash it parted in the middle and lay in pieces at his feet. Glancing quickly at his mother and seeing in her face impending reproach, he forestalled it by exclaiming:

"Well, that pot broke itself very easily. What's it made of, any how?"

The mother couldn't help but smile at this attempted shifting of the blame to the pot, but she answered, in a moment, gravely:

"The pot, Charley, was made of clay; the same weak material from which little boys are made; who, when they forget to obey their mothers, are as likely to meet disaster as the earthen pot."

Charley didn't care just then to discuss disobedient boys, so he turned at once to the subject of the pot.

"Made of clay," he exclaimed, "well, I'd like to see a man make a thing like that of clay."

"And so would I," said sister Mary, who, from an upper window, had listened to the conversation.

"And so you shall, if I have no further reminders of this sort, that my children are made of the same unreliable material."

That afternoon, the three, started for the pottery works. Mr. Sands, the proprietor, kindly received them, and fully explained all his processes. First he pointed out what seemed to Charley a heap of dry hard common dirt; taking a little piece of this he dipped it into a basin of water and then squeezing and pressing it in his hand it soon became soft, and plastic, so that it could be wrought to any shape. He then led the party to another room where a young man was engaged in thus softening large masses. He would first crumble the hard earth into fine pieces; then wet and pack it together into a "loaf," so Charley called it, and then raising it over his head throw it again with all his might upon the table before him until it became soft and smooth through all its bulk. This, Mr. Sands said, was called "wedging the clay," and that it was now ready for "throwing" into shape.

"Will it come into shape if you just throw it?" said Charley.

Mr. Sands laughed heartily at this, and answered, "come and see;" and taking up one of the softened "loaves," to use Charley's word for them, he led the way to the next room. The young man who had been "wedging" now followed and placed himself at a large wheel which was connected by a strap or belt with a table at which Mr. Sands seated himself.

Upon the table was another little table, round and low, and upon this Mr. Sands placed his "loaf." Then the young man began to turn the wheel and the loaf began to spin round very rapidly. Mr. Sands next pressed his finger right through the middle of the clay, so farming the hole which we always see at the bottom of flower-pots. Then, as it spun round, he worked the clay gradually upwards and sloped it outwards, using both hands, and holding the edges with his fingers and thumbs.

Before Charley could express his surprise, the little roll of clay was changed into a flower-pot. With a square iron tool called a _rib_ it was smoothed outside, and then the pot was lifted on a board. One after another followed till a long row was ready and they were carried off to be dried.

"How do you know when to leave off stretching it?" asked Mary of the potter.

He laughed, and pointed to a small iron gauge on the table. As soon as the pot reached this he knew he must leave off stretching it out. This iron is of course put higher or lower according to the size required.

"Now I'll make you a pitcher, missie," said the good-natured man, and with the same kind of clay, just rounding it a bit and giving a cunning little pinch to form the spout, he made quite a pretty jug.

"Where's the handle?" asked Charley.

"Oh, that can't go on yet, sir! We must wait till the jug is dry, for we could not press it tight enough to make it stick."

Bread-pans and washing-pans are made in exactly the same way as flower-pots, being moulded by the hand into different forms. When the pots and pans leave the potter's wheel they are taken, as we saw, to dry, and great care is required to keep them at a certain heat, for if the frost gets to them now they crack and are useless.

"Here's a comical little pot!" exclaimed Charley, holding up a wee one.

"We call them _long Toms_," said Mr. Sands. "They are mostly used by nursery-gardeners, because they take so little room."

"How long do they take to dry?" asked Mary, looking longingly at her little jug.

"About a day; so we will leave your jug with the others, and go to the kiln to see how they will be burnt to-morrow."

The kiln was round, with a big doorway, called a wicket.

The pots and pans are put inside, great care being taken that they should not touch each other, or they would stick like loaves of bread. Pans are first glazed with a mixture of blue or red lead. The fire is burning below, and there are holes to allow the flames to pass upwards amongst the pottery. When the kiln is full the wicket is bricked up and daubed over with road-mud.

"Fancy using such dirty stuff!" said Mary.

"The manure in it makes it stick, just as hair does in mortar. Clay would crack with the heat. So you see, dear, there's nothing so dirty or so common that it may not be of some use in the world."

"How do you know when they are cooked enough?" asked Charley.

"I'll show you," said Mr. Sands, and he immediately led us to a small door, which opened some way up the kiln.

"This is called the crown," said Mr. Sands.

It was a flat surface, with four holes which showed the red heat below, and looked like little volcanoes in a good temper.

"Do you see those iron rods hanging like walking-sticks in the furnace?" asked our guide. "Well, those are called _trials_, and at the end of each is a lump of clay and glaze. If the glaze is burnt enough we suppose that the whole batch is done, but we sometimes make a mistake and spoil a lot."

"What is done next?" asked Charley.

"If they are properly burnt, they are allowed to cool gradually, and are then ready for sale."

By this time all were pretty well tired, and so they said good morning to Mr. Sands and went home.

"Mother," said Charley, as they sat down to dinner, "I shall ask how it's done oftener than ever, now, for I like going over factories. What's to be the next one, I wonder."

"Bread," exclaimed Mary, as she cut a big slice for herself. "Shall it be bread, mother?"

"Yes, if you like, but I propose we go to see the flour made first. So the next place we explore will be a flour-mill."

E. M. W.

BIRDIE'S BREAKFAST.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

Take your breakfast, little birdie,-- Cracker-crumbs, and seeds so yellow, Bits of sponge-cake, sweet and mellow; Come quite near me; Do not fear me. I can hear your happy twitter, Although winter winds are bitter; Take your breakfast, little birdie.

Come! Oh, come and tell me birdie! All night long the snow was falling; Long ago, I heard you calling; Tell me, dearie, Are you weary? Can you sleep, when winds are blowing? Frosts are biting, clouds are snowing? Come! Oh, come and tell me, birdie!

Take your food, and trust me, birdie; Daily food the Father giveth; Bread to every thing that liveth. Come quite near me; Do not fear me. Come each day, and bring your fellow, For your bread, so sweet and mellow; Take your food, and trust me, birdie.

A BATTLE.

Do you like accounts of battles? Here is one for you. I shall have to tell of a well-disciplined army, and some hard fighting, as well as of a victory.

The scene is a quiet country district, with fields and hedge-rows, not looking a bit like war and bloodshed, and the time is a summer afternoon, hot, for it is July, and a haze is over the mountains, which rise a little way behind, as silent witnesses of the fray. The sun begins to decline, and as the air grows cooler the army has orders to start. There is a short delay of preparations, and then the warriors pour forth; not in confusion, but in a compact, unbroken column, each keeping to the ranks in perfect order, and never diverging from them. At first the army follows the high road, but ere long it passes through an opening in the hedge, and crosses the field on the other side. Still the soldiers march on, never hindered, never straggling out of place. It must have been a clever commander-in-chief to have trained them into such admirable obedience.

Presently a fortress rises before them--_that_ is the object of their expedition; rather, it is something within the citadel that they are sent to get, and have it they _will_. Not without a struggle, though, for the enemy is on guard, and when he sees the hostile army approaching, he sallies out to battle. He has no idea of surrendering without a fight for it.

The invaders gather up their forces and charge bravely up the hill, and in an instant, hand to hand, or something very like it, the foes are locked together in desperate conflict. Neither have they any guns, but they carry sharp weapons with them, and soon the field is strewn with the dead and dying.

The fight thickens--the issue is doubtful, but not long--the defenders are routed, and the assailants press forward to the citadel. Most skillful are they, for with neither cannon nor battering-rams they speedily make a breach in the walls, and in they rush, pouring through the street and lanes of the devoted city. Yet they do not destroy it--they do not kill the inhabitants--they do not even stay within the walls so hardly won. In a very short space of time they return as they came, save that each bears a portion of the spoil for which they came. They form in order once again, they march in line, they regain their own quarters, but each one carrying--would you believe it?--a _young slave_.

Yes, the army did not care to conquer the strange city; the expedition was organized solely and entirely that they might steal the young and bring them up in their own colony as slaves. For, through the long influence of evil habits, the race to which these warriors belong have lost their natural powers, and so have now to be waited on, fed, and altogether taken care of by its slaves. With food before them they would starve unless the slaves put it into their mouths.

If they want to change their abode, the slaves must make the new habitation ready, and then carry their masters on their backs to reach it. If the children have to be taken care of, the slaves must be the nurses. In fact, _fighting_ is the one single thing they _can_ do, and that, as we have seen, they do well. As the supply of slaves is necessary to their existence, every now and then they have to go and help themselves in the way we have just seen them do; and though the idea of slavery is abhorrent to every mind, we must allow that they are brave soldiers, and under excellent discipline.

Now, can you tell me who the soldiers are? Go back to your history stories and think. Some old Roman race, perhaps, or the early inhabitants of Britain, when people knew no better? Or some tribe of savages in America, or the South Sea islands at the present time? Nay, you must guess again, or shall I tell you? Yes, you give it up. Well, then, it is a people "not strong;" small and insignificant, yet wise, for this is what the Bible says, "Go to the ANT, consider her ways and be wise."--Prov. vi:10.

This race of warriors is none other than the slave-keeping ant, (_Polyergus rufescens_). I do not think you would meet with it in our woods, but in Switzerland and other countries it is common. Huber, who wrote so much about bees and ants, first witnessed an attack near Geneva. I should tell you that the young which they carry off are the larva or young grubs, which, transferred to the nests of the conquerors, soon become ants, and live the rest of their lives in serving them, and waiting on them, as slaves or servants would their masters.

How extraordinary! Do they pine for their own kind? Are they happy in their bondage? We do not know, but as far as we can judge they render a willing and cheerful service, forgetting themselves in what they do for others. Then, of course, they are happy; we need not repeat the question; we are only lost in wonder at this strange and interesting page in Nature's book.

M. K. M.

GRACE DARLING, THE HEROINE.

I presume most of you have heard of Grace Darling, the brave girl who lived with her father and mother at Longstone light-house. On the 6th of September, 1838, there was a terrible storm, and W. Darling, knowing well that there would be many wrecks, and much sorrow on the sea that dark, tempestuous night, waited for daybreak; and when at last it came, he went to look out. About a mile away he saw a ship in great distress, but the storm was so awful he had hardly courage to venture through it for their relief. His daughter Grace, who was watching the wreck through a glass, could no longer bear to see the poor fellows clinging to the piece of wreck which remained on the rocks where it had been broken, and make no effort to help them. She knew they must be lost. So she implored her father to launch the life-boat and let her go with him to the rescue. He consented, and father and daughter, she taking the oars while he steered, went pulling away for the wreck; and I can fancy how the poor fellows watched the life-boat like a speck on the waters, counting each minute as it neared them, then fearing, as it seemed to be almost lost amid the mountains of hissing and boiling waves, lest it should never come to them at all. But at last they are alongside; the sufferers hesitate not a moment, but jump for the life-boat, and so nine precious lives were saved from a watery grave.

Every one sang the praises of brave Grace Darling. A sum of $3,500 was presented to her as a testimonial, and she was invited to dine with the Duke of Northumberland. She died at the early age of twenty-seven, of consumption.

Now, my readers cannot all be Grace Darling, but they can come to the help of the perishing; those that are weary and ready to die. They can all do something, by working, by little efforts of self-denial, and by praying for those who are in danger of being lost; and then one day they will hear those wonderful words, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me." A testimonial worth having indeed!

ADAM AND EVE.

Adam and Eve are my two pet doves, They live in a cot in the maple tree, They coo and coo as other doves do, And I know they are fond of me.

Eve is a dear little milk-white dove, Her eyes and feet are of coral red. She wears a quill of gray in her wing, And a small white cap on her head.

Adam is bold, and he struts about, In coat and vest of chocolate brown; Eve is as sweet as a dove can be, And Adam will sometimes frown.

Adam and Eve are my two fond doves, Their cottage stands in the maple tree, They coo and coo, as other doves do, And often take lunch with me.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

SWINGING SONG.

Swinging! Swinging! Up where the bees and the butterflies are, Winging! Winging! Their flights 'mong the blossoms that shine near and far.

Ringing, Ringing, Song of the blue-bird and bobolink's call, Singing, Singing, Up in this beautiful world are they all!

Clinging, clinging, In this green shadow, the clematis swings. Bringing, bringing, Hints of strange odors, and dim woodland things.

Flinging, flinging, The snow-ball, its white, pretty blossoms on me, Springing, springing, The damask rose climbs to the lattice to see!

Backward my hair is floating and swaying, Here o'er the garden-walk softly I sing; Far more delightful, than wearily straying, Is it to dream here, while gently I swing.

HOW THE DAYS WENT AT SEA-GULL BEACH.

No school! And the beautiful summer days coming so early in the morning, that none of us children ever could get awake to see the sun rise, and staying so long that we grew quite tired of being happy; and some of us, Gracie and Jimmie in particular, were so little, that they couldn't stay awake through the whole of it, and went off into a nap every day after dinner.

But this was in the city, and when we arrived at the beach we didn't get tired or cross the whole day long. There were many children at the hotel, and when we came, with our dolls and toy boats, our fishing-tackle and spades, and pails, we made a host of friends immediately.

Reginald and Willie, our older brothers, did not always go with Gracie and Jimmie and me, but made the acquaintance of the men that went out to sea to fish for the great hotels; and they went oftentimes with them, and we used to enjoy seeing the little boats launched; they almost stood on end when they went over the breakers, making us scream with excitement and delight. And as the little fleet grew less and less, and at last disappeared, we girls thought it was a grand thing to have such brave brothers.

I was the elder girl, being ten, and Gracie seven. Our Gracie was a lovely little sister; she had large blue eyes, and wavy brown hair, and was very gentle and obedient, and people called her "Pet," almost as soon as they became acquainted with her.