POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLEPOPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLEEDWARD S. ELLISMARTHA FINLEY • HORATIO ALGERJR.“OLIVER OPTIC”LOUISA M. ALCOTT • SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT(‡ decoration)LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.AUTHOR OF “LITTLE WOMEN.”THE famous author of “Little Women,” “Little Men,” and “Old-Fashioned Girls,” made her beginning, as have many who have done any good or acquired fame in the world, by depending on herself. In other words, she was the architect of her own fortune, and has left behind her works that will endure to gladden the hearts of millions of boys and girls. But she has done more. She has left behind her a record of a life within itself, a benediction and inspiration to every thoughtful girl who reads it.While Miss Alcott always considered New England her home, she was actually born in Germantown, Philadelphia, November 29, 1832. Her father, Amos Bronson Alcott, after his marriage in New England, accepted a position as principal of a Germantown Academy, which he occupied from 1831 to 1834, and afterwards taught a children’s school at his own residence, but he was unsuccessful and he returned to Boston in 1835, when Louisa was two years old.From this time forward,Mr.Alcott was a close friend and associate of the poet and philosopher Emerson, sharing with him his transcendental doctrines, and joining in the Brook-Farm experiment of ideal communism at Roxbury,Mass.The Brook-Farm experiment broughtMr.Alcott to utter financial ruin, and after its failure he removed to Concord, where he continued to live until his death. It was at this time that Louisa, although a mere child, formed a noble and unselfish purpose to retrieve the family fortune. When only fifteen years of age, she turned her thoughts to teaching, her first school being in a barn and attended by the children ofMr.Emerson and other neighbors. Almost at the same time she began to compose fairy stories, which were contributed to papers; but these early productions brought her little if any compensation, and she continued to devote herself to teaching, receiving her own education privately from her father. “When I was twenty-one years of age,” she wrote many years later to a friend, “I took my little earnings ($20) and a few clothes, and went out to seek my fortune, though I might have sat still and been supported by rich friends. All those hard years were teaching me what I afterwards put into books, and so I made my fortune out of my seeming misfortune.”Two years after this brave start Miss Alcott’s earliest book, “Fairy Tales,” was published (1855). About the same time her work began to be accepted by the “Atlantic Monthly” and other magazines of reputation. During the winters of 1862 and ’63 she volunteered her services and went to Washington and served as a nurse in the government hospitals, and her experiences here were embodied in aseries of graphic letters to her mother and sisters. These letters she revised and had printed in the “Boston Commonwealth” in the summer of 1863. They were afterwards issued in a volume entitled “Hospital Sketches and Camp-Fire Stories.” This was her second book, which, together with her magazine articles, opened the way to a splendid career as an author.Being naturally fond of young people, Miss Alcott turned her attention from this time forward to writing for them. Her distinctive books for the young are entitled “Moods” (1864); “Morning Glories” (1867); “Little Women” (1868), which was her first decided success; “An Old-Fashioned Girl” (1869); “Little Men” (1871); “Work” (1873); “Eight Cousins” (1875), and its sequel, “Rose in Bloom” (1877), which perhaps ranks first among her books; “Under the Lilacs” (1878); “Jack and Jill” (1880), and “Lulu’s Library” (1885). Besides these she has put forth, at different times, several volumes of short stories, among which are “Cupid and Chow-Chow,” “Silver Pitchers” and “Aunt Joe’s Scrap-bag.”From childhood Miss Alcott was under the tutelage of the Emersonian school, and was not less than her father an admirer of the “Seer of Concord.” “Those Concord days,” she writes, “were among the happiest of my life, for we had the charming playmates in the little Emersons, Channings, and Hawthornes, with their illustrious parents, to enjoy our pranks and join our excursions.”In speaking of Emerson she also wrote to a young woman a few years before her death: “Theodore Parker and Ralph Waldo Emerson have done much to help me see that one can shape life best by trying to build up a strong and noble character, through good books, wise people’s society, and by taking an interest in all reforms that help the world, ... believing always that a loving and just Father cares for us, sees our weakness, and is near to help if we call.” Continuing she asks: “Have you read Emerson? He is called a Pantheist, or believer in nature, instead of God. He was truly a Christian and saw God in nature, finding strength and comfort in the same sweet influence of the great Mother as well as the great Father of all. I, too, believe this, and when tired, sad or tempted, find my best comfort in the woods, the sky, the healing solitude that lets my poor, weary soul find the rest, the fresh hopes, the patience which only God can give us.”The chief aim of Miss Alcott seemed to have been to make others happy. Many are the letters treasured up by young authors who often, but never in vain, sought her advice and kind assistance. To one young woman who asked her opinion on certain new books, in 1884, she wrote: “About books; yes, I’ve read ‘Mr.Isaacs’ and ‘Dr.Claudius,’¹and like them both. The other, ‘To Leeward,’ is not so good; ‘Little Pilgrim’ was pretty, but why try to paint heaven? Let it alone and prepare for it, whatever it is, sure that God knows what we need and deserve. I will send you Emerson’s ‘Essays.’ Read those marked. I hope they will be as helpful to you as they have been to me and many others. They will bear study and I think are what you need to feed upon now.” The marked essays were those on “Compensation,” “Love,” “Friendship,” “Heroism,” and “Self-Reliance.”¹These are the books that made F. Marion Crawford famous.Miss Alcott’s kindness for young people grew with her advancing years. Being a maiden lady without daughters of her own, she was looked up to and delighted in being considered as a foster-mother to aspiring girls all over the land. Howmany times she wrote similar sentences to this: “Write freely to me, dear girl, and if I can help you in any way be sure I will.” This was written to one she had never seen and only four years before her death, when she was far from well.Miss Alcott died in Boston, March 6, 1888, at the age of fifty-six years, and just two days after her aged father, who was eighty-five years old, and who had depended on her many years, passed away. Though a great advocate of work for the health, she was, no doubt, a victim of overwork; for it is said she frequently devoted from twelve to fifteen hours a day to her literary labors, ... besides looking after her business affairs and caring personally for her old father, for many years an invalid. In addition to this, she educated some of her poor relatives, and still further took the place of a mother to little Lulu, the daughter of her sister, May, who died when the child was an infant.HOW JO MADEFRIENDS.¹(FROM “LITTLE WOMEN.”)¹Copyright, RobertsBros.THAT boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His grandpa don’t know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a lot of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so.”The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of “going over” was not forgotten; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She sawMr.Laurence drive off, and then sailed out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet; curtains down to the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, at the upper window.“There he is,” thought Jo; “poor boy, all alone, and sick, this dismal day! It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.”Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened, and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, and flourished her broom, as she called out,—“How do you do? Are you sick?”Laurie opened the window and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,—“Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid cold, and have been shut up a week.”“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”“Nothing; it’s as dull as tombs up here.”“Don’t you read?”“Not much; they won’t let me.”“Can’t somebody read to you?”“Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.”“Have some one come and see you, then.”“There isn’t any one I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak.”“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.”“Don’t know any.”“You know me,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.“I’m not quiet and nice; but I’ll come, if mother will let me. I’ll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come....“Oh! that does me lots of good; tell on, please,” he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment.Much elevated with her success, Jo did “tell on,” all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo’s delight she foundthat Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the head.“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when specially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleep-Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added impressively.“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite.Before he could say any more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, “Mercy me! it’s your grandpa!”“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,” returned the boy, looking wicked.“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you are any the worse for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke.“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,” said Laurie.“Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo.Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn’t as handsome asmygrandfather, but I like him.”“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood oldMr.Laurence.(‡ decoration)
POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLEEDWARD S. ELLISMARTHA FINLEY • HORATIO ALGERJR.“OLIVER OPTIC”LOUISA M. ALCOTT • SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT
POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
EDWARD S. ELLISMARTHA FINLEY • HORATIO ALGERJR.“OLIVER OPTIC”LOUISA M. ALCOTT • SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT
(‡ decoration)
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE WOMEN.”
THE famous author of “Little Women,” “Little Men,” and “Old-Fashioned Girls,” made her beginning, as have many who have done any good or acquired fame in the world, by depending on herself. In other words, she was the architect of her own fortune, and has left behind her works that will endure to gladden the hearts of millions of boys and girls. But she has done more. She has left behind her a record of a life within itself, a benediction and inspiration to every thoughtful girl who reads it.
While Miss Alcott always considered New England her home, she was actually born in Germantown, Philadelphia, November 29, 1832. Her father, Amos Bronson Alcott, after his marriage in New England, accepted a position as principal of a Germantown Academy, which he occupied from 1831 to 1834, and afterwards taught a children’s school at his own residence, but he was unsuccessful and he returned to Boston in 1835, when Louisa was two years old.
From this time forward,Mr.Alcott was a close friend and associate of the poet and philosopher Emerson, sharing with him his transcendental doctrines, and joining in the Brook-Farm experiment of ideal communism at Roxbury,Mass.The Brook-Farm experiment broughtMr.Alcott to utter financial ruin, and after its failure he removed to Concord, where he continued to live until his death. It was at this time that Louisa, although a mere child, formed a noble and unselfish purpose to retrieve the family fortune. When only fifteen years of age, she turned her thoughts to teaching, her first school being in a barn and attended by the children ofMr.Emerson and other neighbors. Almost at the same time she began to compose fairy stories, which were contributed to papers; but these early productions brought her little if any compensation, and she continued to devote herself to teaching, receiving her own education privately from her father. “When I was twenty-one years of age,” she wrote many years later to a friend, “I took my little earnings ($20) and a few clothes, and went out to seek my fortune, though I might have sat still and been supported by rich friends. All those hard years were teaching me what I afterwards put into books, and so I made my fortune out of my seeming misfortune.”
Two years after this brave start Miss Alcott’s earliest book, “Fairy Tales,” was published (1855). About the same time her work began to be accepted by the “Atlantic Monthly” and other magazines of reputation. During the winters of 1862 and ’63 she volunteered her services and went to Washington and served as a nurse in the government hospitals, and her experiences here were embodied in aseries of graphic letters to her mother and sisters. These letters she revised and had printed in the “Boston Commonwealth” in the summer of 1863. They were afterwards issued in a volume entitled “Hospital Sketches and Camp-Fire Stories.” This was her second book, which, together with her magazine articles, opened the way to a splendid career as an author.
Being naturally fond of young people, Miss Alcott turned her attention from this time forward to writing for them. Her distinctive books for the young are entitled “Moods” (1864); “Morning Glories” (1867); “Little Women” (1868), which was her first decided success; “An Old-Fashioned Girl” (1869); “Little Men” (1871); “Work” (1873); “Eight Cousins” (1875), and its sequel, “Rose in Bloom” (1877), which perhaps ranks first among her books; “Under the Lilacs” (1878); “Jack and Jill” (1880), and “Lulu’s Library” (1885). Besides these she has put forth, at different times, several volumes of short stories, among which are “Cupid and Chow-Chow,” “Silver Pitchers” and “Aunt Joe’s Scrap-bag.”
From childhood Miss Alcott was under the tutelage of the Emersonian school, and was not less than her father an admirer of the “Seer of Concord.” “Those Concord days,” she writes, “were among the happiest of my life, for we had the charming playmates in the little Emersons, Channings, and Hawthornes, with their illustrious parents, to enjoy our pranks and join our excursions.”
In speaking of Emerson she also wrote to a young woman a few years before her death: “Theodore Parker and Ralph Waldo Emerson have done much to help me see that one can shape life best by trying to build up a strong and noble character, through good books, wise people’s society, and by taking an interest in all reforms that help the world, ... believing always that a loving and just Father cares for us, sees our weakness, and is near to help if we call.” Continuing she asks: “Have you read Emerson? He is called a Pantheist, or believer in nature, instead of God. He was truly a Christian and saw God in nature, finding strength and comfort in the same sweet influence of the great Mother as well as the great Father of all. I, too, believe this, and when tired, sad or tempted, find my best comfort in the woods, the sky, the healing solitude that lets my poor, weary soul find the rest, the fresh hopes, the patience which only God can give us.”
The chief aim of Miss Alcott seemed to have been to make others happy. Many are the letters treasured up by young authors who often, but never in vain, sought her advice and kind assistance. To one young woman who asked her opinion on certain new books, in 1884, she wrote: “About books; yes, I’ve read ‘Mr.Isaacs’ and ‘Dr.Claudius,’¹and like them both. The other, ‘To Leeward,’ is not so good; ‘Little Pilgrim’ was pretty, but why try to paint heaven? Let it alone and prepare for it, whatever it is, sure that God knows what we need and deserve. I will send you Emerson’s ‘Essays.’ Read those marked. I hope they will be as helpful to you as they have been to me and many others. They will bear study and I think are what you need to feed upon now.” The marked essays were those on “Compensation,” “Love,” “Friendship,” “Heroism,” and “Self-Reliance.”
¹These are the books that made F. Marion Crawford famous.
Miss Alcott’s kindness for young people grew with her advancing years. Being a maiden lady without daughters of her own, she was looked up to and delighted in being considered as a foster-mother to aspiring girls all over the land. Howmany times she wrote similar sentences to this: “Write freely to me, dear girl, and if I can help you in any way be sure I will.” This was written to one she had never seen and only four years before her death, when she was far from well.
Miss Alcott died in Boston, March 6, 1888, at the age of fifty-six years, and just two days after her aged father, who was eighty-five years old, and who had depended on her many years, passed away. Though a great advocate of work for the health, she was, no doubt, a victim of overwork; for it is said she frequently devoted from twelve to fifteen hours a day to her literary labors, ... besides looking after her business affairs and caring personally for her old father, for many years an invalid. In addition to this, she educated some of her poor relatives, and still further took the place of a mother to little Lulu, the daughter of her sister, May, who died when the child was an infant.
HOW JO MADEFRIENDS.¹
(FROM “LITTLE WOMEN.”)
¹Copyright, RobertsBros.
THAT boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His grandpa don’t know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a lot of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so.”The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of “going over” was not forgotten; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She sawMr.Laurence drive off, and then sailed out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet; curtains down to the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, at the upper window.“There he is,” thought Jo; “poor boy, all alone, and sick, this dismal day! It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.”Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened, and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, and flourished her broom, as she called out,—“How do you do? Are you sick?”Laurie opened the window and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,—“Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid cold, and have been shut up a week.”“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”“Nothing; it’s as dull as tombs up here.”“Don’t you read?”“Not much; they won’t let me.”“Can’t somebody read to you?”“Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.”“Have some one come and see you, then.”“There isn’t any one I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak.”“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.”“Don’t know any.”“You know me,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.“I’m not quiet and nice; but I’ll come, if mother will let me. I’ll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come....“Oh! that does me lots of good; tell on, please,” he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment.Much elevated with her success, Jo did “tell on,” all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo’s delight she foundthat Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the head.“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when specially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleep-Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added impressively.“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite.Before he could say any more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, “Mercy me! it’s your grandpa!”“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,” returned the boy, looking wicked.“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you are any the worse for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke.“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,” said Laurie.“Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo.Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn’t as handsome asmygrandfather, but I like him.”“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood oldMr.Laurence.
THAT boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His grandpa don’t know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a lot of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so.”
The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of “going over” was not forgotten; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She sawMr.Laurence drive off, and then sailed out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet; curtains down to the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, at the upper window.
“There he is,” thought Jo; “poor boy, all alone, and sick, this dismal day! It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.”
Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened, and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, and flourished her broom, as she called out,—
“How do you do? Are you sick?”
Laurie opened the window and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,—
“Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid cold, and have been shut up a week.”
“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”
“Nothing; it’s as dull as tombs up here.”
“Don’t you read?”
“Not much; they won’t let me.”
“Can’t somebody read to you?”
“Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.”
“Have some one come and see you, then.”
“There isn’t any one I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak.”
“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.”
“Don’t know any.”
“You know me,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.
“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.
“I’m not quiet and nice; but I’ll come, if mother will let me. I’ll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come....
“Oh! that does me lots of good; tell on, please,” he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment.
Much elevated with her success, Jo did “tell on,” all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo’s delight she foundthat Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.
“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the head.
“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.
The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when specially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleep-Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.
“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added impressively.
“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite.
Before he could say any more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, “Mercy me! it’s your grandpa!”
“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,” returned the boy, looking wicked.
“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you are any the worse for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.
“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.
“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke.
“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,” said Laurie.
“Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo.
Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn’t as handsome asmygrandfather, but I like him.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood oldMr.Laurence.
(‡ decoration)
(‡ decoration)WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS.THE WELL-BELOVED WRITER FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.PROBABLY no literary man in America has ministered to the pleasure of a greater number of our young people than William Taylor Adams, who is a native of Massachusetts and was born in Medway in 1822. He has devoted his life to young people; for more than twenty years as a teacher in the public schools of Boston, for many years a member of the school board of Dorchester, and since 1850 as a writer of stories. In his earlier life, he was the editor of a periodical known as “The Student and Schoolmate.” In 1881 he began the publication of “Our Little Ones,” and later “Oliver Optic’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.” His first book was published in 1853; it was entitled “Hatchie, the Guardian Slave,” and had a large sale. It was followed by a collection of stories called “In Doors and Out,” and in 1862 was completed “The Riverdale Series” of six volumes of stories for boys. Some of his other books are “The Boat Club;” “Woodville;” “Young America Abroad;” “Starry Flag;” “Onward and Upward;” “Yacht Club;” and “Great Western.” In all he has written at least a thousand stories for newspapers, and published about a hundred volumes. Among these are two novels for older readers: “The Way of the World” and “Living Too Fast.”Mr.Adams’ style is both pleasing and simple. His stories are frequently based upon scenes of history and their influence is always for good.THE SLOOP THAT WENT TO THEBOTTOM.¹(FROM “SNUG HARBOR,” 1883.)¹Copyright, Lee & Shepard.STARBOARD your helm! hard a-starboard!” shouted Dory Dornwood, as he put the helm of the “Goldwing” to port in order to avoid a collision with a steam launch which lay dead ahead of the schooner.“Keep off! you will sink me!” cried a young man in a sloop-boat, which lay exactly in the course of the steam launch. “That’s just what I mean to do, if you don’t come about,” yelled a man at the wheel of the steamer. “Why didn’t you stop when I called to you?”“Keep off, or you will be into me!” screamed the skipper of the sloop, whose tones and manner indicated that he was very much terrified at the situation.And he had reason enough to be alarmed. It was plain, from his management of his boat, that he was but an indifferent boatman; and probably he did not know what to do in the emergency. Dory had noticedthe sloop coming up the lake with the steam launch astern of her. The latter had run ahead of the sloop, and had come about, it now appeared, for the purpose of intercepting her.When the skipper of the sloop realized the intention of the helmsman of the steamer, he put his helm to port; but he was too late. The sharp bow of the launch struck the frail craft amidships, and cut through her as though she had been made of cardboard.The sloop filled instantly, and, a moment later, the young man in her was struggling on the surface of the water. The boat was heavily ballasted, and she went down like a lump of lead. It was soon clear to Dory that the skipper could not swim, for he screamed as though the end of all things had come.Very likely it would have been the end of all things to him, if Dory had not come about with the “Goldwing,” and stood over the place where the young man was vainly beating the water with his feet and hands. With no great difficulty the skipper of the “Goldwing,” who was an aquatic bird of the first water, pulled in the victim of the catastrophe, in spite of the apparent efforts of the sufferer to prevent him from doing so.“You had a narrow squeak that time,” said Dory Dornwood, as soon as he thought the victim of the disaster was in condition to do a little talking. “It is lucky you didn’t get tangled up in the rigging of your boat. She went to the bottom like a pound of carpet-tacks; and she would have carried you down in a hurry if you hadn’t let go in short metre.”“I think I am remarkably fortunate in being among the living at this moment,” replied the stranger, looking out over the stern of the “Goldwing.” “That was the most atrocious thing a fellow ever did.”“What was?” inquired Dory, who was not quite sure what the victim meant by the remark, or whether he alluded to him or to the man in the steam launch.“Why, running into me like that,” protested the passenger, with no little indignation in his tones.“I suppose you came up from Burlington?” said Dory, suggestively, as though he considered an explanation on the part of the stranger to be in order at the present time.“I have just come from Burlington,” answered the victim, who appeared to be disposed to say nothing more. “Do you suppose I can get that boat again?”“I should say that the chance of getting her again was not first-rate. She went down where the water is about two hundred and fifty feet deep; and it won’t be an easy thing to get hold of her,” replied Dory. “If you had let him run into you between Diamond Island and Porter’s Bay, where the water is not more than fifty or sixty feet deep, you could have raised her without much difficulty. I don’t believe you will ever see her again.”(‡ decoration)
(‡ decoration)
THE WELL-BELOVED WRITER FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
PROBABLY no literary man in America has ministered to the pleasure of a greater number of our young people than William Taylor Adams, who is a native of Massachusetts and was born in Medway in 1822. He has devoted his life to young people; for more than twenty years as a teacher in the public schools of Boston, for many years a member of the school board of Dorchester, and since 1850 as a writer of stories. In his earlier life, he was the editor of a periodical known as “The Student and Schoolmate.” In 1881 he began the publication of “Our Little Ones,” and later “Oliver Optic’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.” His first book was published in 1853; it was entitled “Hatchie, the Guardian Slave,” and had a large sale. It was followed by a collection of stories called “In Doors and Out,” and in 1862 was completed “The Riverdale Series” of six volumes of stories for boys. Some of his other books are “The Boat Club;” “Woodville;” “Young America Abroad;” “Starry Flag;” “Onward and Upward;” “Yacht Club;” and “Great Western.” In all he has written at least a thousand stories for newspapers, and published about a hundred volumes. Among these are two novels for older readers: “The Way of the World” and “Living Too Fast.”
Mr.Adams’ style is both pleasing and simple. His stories are frequently based upon scenes of history and their influence is always for good.
THE SLOOP THAT WENT TO THEBOTTOM.¹
(FROM “SNUG HARBOR,” 1883.)
¹Copyright, Lee & Shepard.
STARBOARD your helm! hard a-starboard!” shouted Dory Dornwood, as he put the helm of the “Goldwing” to port in order to avoid a collision with a steam launch which lay dead ahead of the schooner.“Keep off! you will sink me!” cried a young man in a sloop-boat, which lay exactly in the course of the steam launch. “That’s just what I mean to do, if you don’t come about,” yelled a man at the wheel of the steamer. “Why didn’t you stop when I called to you?”“Keep off, or you will be into me!” screamed the skipper of the sloop, whose tones and manner indicated that he was very much terrified at the situation.And he had reason enough to be alarmed. It was plain, from his management of his boat, that he was but an indifferent boatman; and probably he did not know what to do in the emergency. Dory had noticedthe sloop coming up the lake with the steam launch astern of her. The latter had run ahead of the sloop, and had come about, it now appeared, for the purpose of intercepting her.When the skipper of the sloop realized the intention of the helmsman of the steamer, he put his helm to port; but he was too late. The sharp bow of the launch struck the frail craft amidships, and cut through her as though she had been made of cardboard.The sloop filled instantly, and, a moment later, the young man in her was struggling on the surface of the water. The boat was heavily ballasted, and she went down like a lump of lead. It was soon clear to Dory that the skipper could not swim, for he screamed as though the end of all things had come.Very likely it would have been the end of all things to him, if Dory had not come about with the “Goldwing,” and stood over the place where the young man was vainly beating the water with his feet and hands. With no great difficulty the skipper of the “Goldwing,” who was an aquatic bird of the first water, pulled in the victim of the catastrophe, in spite of the apparent efforts of the sufferer to prevent him from doing so.“You had a narrow squeak that time,” said Dory Dornwood, as soon as he thought the victim of the disaster was in condition to do a little talking. “It is lucky you didn’t get tangled up in the rigging of your boat. She went to the bottom like a pound of carpet-tacks; and she would have carried you down in a hurry if you hadn’t let go in short metre.”“I think I am remarkably fortunate in being among the living at this moment,” replied the stranger, looking out over the stern of the “Goldwing.” “That was the most atrocious thing a fellow ever did.”“What was?” inquired Dory, who was not quite sure what the victim meant by the remark, or whether he alluded to him or to the man in the steam launch.“Why, running into me like that,” protested the passenger, with no little indignation in his tones.“I suppose you came up from Burlington?” said Dory, suggestively, as though he considered an explanation on the part of the stranger to be in order at the present time.“I have just come from Burlington,” answered the victim, who appeared to be disposed to say nothing more. “Do you suppose I can get that boat again?”“I should say that the chance of getting her again was not first-rate. She went down where the water is about two hundred and fifty feet deep; and it won’t be an easy thing to get hold of her,” replied Dory. “If you had let him run into you between Diamond Island and Porter’s Bay, where the water is not more than fifty or sixty feet deep, you could have raised her without much difficulty. I don’t believe you will ever see her again.”
STARBOARD your helm! hard a-starboard!” shouted Dory Dornwood, as he put the helm of the “Goldwing” to port in order to avoid a collision with a steam launch which lay dead ahead of the schooner.
“Keep off! you will sink me!” cried a young man in a sloop-boat, which lay exactly in the course of the steam launch. “That’s just what I mean to do, if you don’t come about,” yelled a man at the wheel of the steamer. “Why didn’t you stop when I called to you?”
“Keep off, or you will be into me!” screamed the skipper of the sloop, whose tones and manner indicated that he was very much terrified at the situation.
And he had reason enough to be alarmed. It was plain, from his management of his boat, that he was but an indifferent boatman; and probably he did not know what to do in the emergency. Dory had noticedthe sloop coming up the lake with the steam launch astern of her. The latter had run ahead of the sloop, and had come about, it now appeared, for the purpose of intercepting her.
When the skipper of the sloop realized the intention of the helmsman of the steamer, he put his helm to port; but he was too late. The sharp bow of the launch struck the frail craft amidships, and cut through her as though she had been made of cardboard.
The sloop filled instantly, and, a moment later, the young man in her was struggling on the surface of the water. The boat was heavily ballasted, and she went down like a lump of lead. It was soon clear to Dory that the skipper could not swim, for he screamed as though the end of all things had come.
Very likely it would have been the end of all things to him, if Dory had not come about with the “Goldwing,” and stood over the place where the young man was vainly beating the water with his feet and hands. With no great difficulty the skipper of the “Goldwing,” who was an aquatic bird of the first water, pulled in the victim of the catastrophe, in spite of the apparent efforts of the sufferer to prevent him from doing so.
“You had a narrow squeak that time,” said Dory Dornwood, as soon as he thought the victim of the disaster was in condition to do a little talking. “It is lucky you didn’t get tangled up in the rigging of your boat. She went to the bottom like a pound of carpet-tacks; and she would have carried you down in a hurry if you hadn’t let go in short metre.”
“I think I am remarkably fortunate in being among the living at this moment,” replied the stranger, looking out over the stern of the “Goldwing.” “That was the most atrocious thing a fellow ever did.”
“What was?” inquired Dory, who was not quite sure what the victim meant by the remark, or whether he alluded to him or to the man in the steam launch.
“Why, running into me like that,” protested the passenger, with no little indignation in his tones.
“I suppose you came up from Burlington?” said Dory, suggestively, as though he considered an explanation on the part of the stranger to be in order at the present time.
“I have just come from Burlington,” answered the victim, who appeared to be disposed to say nothing more. “Do you suppose I can get that boat again?”
“I should say that the chance of getting her again was not first-rate. She went down where the water is about two hundred and fifty feet deep; and it won’t be an easy thing to get hold of her,” replied Dory. “If you had let him run into you between Diamond Island and Porter’s Bay, where the water is not more than fifty or sixty feet deep, you could have raised her without much difficulty. I don’t believe you will ever see her again.”
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(‡ decoration)SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT.FAVORITE WRITER FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.ONE of the earliest papers devoted especially to young children was “The Little Pilgrim,” edited for a number of years under the name of “Grace Greenwood,” byMrs.Lippincott. It had a very wide popularity, and its little stories, poems, and page of puzzles brought pleasure into very many home circles.Mrs.Lippincott is the daughter of Doctor Thaddeus Clarke. She was born in Pompey, New York, in September, 1823, and lived during most of her childhood in Rochester. In 1842 she removed with her father to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, and in 1853 she was married to Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She had early begun to write verses, and, in 1844, contributed some prose articles to “The New York Mirror,” adopting the name “Grace Greenwood,” which she has since made famous. Besides her work upon “The Little Pilgrim,” she has contributed for many years to “The Hearth and Home,” “The Atlantic Monthly,” “Harper’s Magazine,” “The New York Independent,” “Times,” and “Tribune,” to several California journals, and to at least two English periodicals. She was one of the first women to become a newspaper correspondent, and her letters from Washington inaugurated a new feature in journalism. She has published a number of books: “Greenwood Leaves;” “History of My Pets;” “Poems;” “Recollections of My Childhood;” “Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe;” “Merrie England;” “Stories from Many Lands;” “Victoria, Queen of England,” and others.Mrs.Lippincott has lived abroad a great deal, and has been made welcome in the best literary circles in England and on the continent. During the war she devoted herself to the cause of the soldiers, read and lectured to them in camps and hospitals, and won the appreciation of President Lincoln, who used to speak of her as “Grace Greenwood, the Patriot.” Although devoted to her home in Washington, she has spent much time in New York City, and has lived a life whose activity and service to the public are almost unequalled among literary women.THE BABY IN THEBATH-TUB.¹(FROM “RECORDS OF FIVE YEARS,” 1867.)¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.ANNIE! Sophie! come up quick, and see baby in her bath-tub!” cries a charming little maiden, running down the wide stairway of an old country house, and half-way up the long hall, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her soft dimpled cheeks tinged with the same lovely morninghue. In an instant there is a stir and a gush of light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sisterly, Annie and Sophie float noiselessly through the hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne on their respective clouds of blue and white drapery, and take their way to the nursery, where a novel entertainment awaits them. It is the first morning of the eldest married sister’s first visit home, with her first baby; and the first baby, having slept late after its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old house.“Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, forgetting her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and disconsolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine-month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub! What simpletons we are!”Thus Miss Annie, theproude laydeof the family; handsome, haughty, with perilous proclivities toward grand socialistic theories, transcendentalism, and general strong-mindedness; pledged by many a saucy vow to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to studies artistic, æsthetic, philosophic and ethical; a student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an exalter of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies.“Simpletons, are we?” cries pretty Elinor Lee, aunt of the baby on the other side, and “Cousin Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneeling close by the bath-tub, and receiving on her sunny braids a liberal baptism from the pure, plashing hands of babyhood,—“simpletons, indeed! Did I not once see thee, O Pallas-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the ‘Crouching Venus?’ and this is a sight a thousand times more beautiful; for here we have color, action, radiant life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors of Greece were never able to entrance in marble. Just look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple holding a tiny, sparkling drop,—these rosy, plashing feet and hands,—this laughing, roguish face,—these eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy-land,—these ears, like dainty sea-shells,—these locks of gold, dripping diamonds,—and tell me what cherub of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so lovely. I say, too, that Raphael himself would have jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chastened dignity of young maternity,—of painting her asMadonna.”“Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for once, over a baby in a bath-tub!”“Well, Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspirerealpoets, to call out and yet humble the genius of painters and sculptors? Isn’t it an object for the reverence of ‘a glorious human creature,’—such a pure and perfect form of physical life, such a starry little soul, fresh from the hands of God? If your Plato teaches otherwise, Cousin Annie, I’m glad I’ve no acquaintance with that distinguished heathen gentleman; if your Carlyle, with his ‘soul above buttons’ and babies, would growl, and your Emerson smile icily at the sight, away with them!”“Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is ‘a man and a brother,’ in spite of his ‘Latter-day Pamphlets,’ and no ogre. I believe he is very well disposed toward babies in general; while Emerson is as tender as he is great. Have you forgotten his ‘Threnody,’ in which the sob of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells into an immortal’s pean? I see that baby is very lovely; I think that Louise may well be proud of her. It’s a pity that she must grow up into conventionalities and all that,—perhaps become some man’s plaything, or slave.”“Odon’t, sister!—‘sufficient for the day is theworrimentthereof.’ But I think you and Nellie are mistaken about thepride. I am conscious of no such feeling in regard to my little Florence, but only of joy, gratitude, infinite tenderness, and solicitude.”Thus the young mother,—for the first time speaking, but not turning her eyes from the bath-tub.“Ah, coz, it won’t go! Young mothers are the proudest of living creatures. The sweetest and saintliest among you have a sort of subdued exultation, a meek assumption, an adorable insolence, toward the whole unmarried and childless world. I have never seen anything like it elsewhere.”“Ihave, in a bantam Biddy, parading her first brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, leading her first little downy flock to the water.”“Ha, blasphemer! are you there?” cries Miss Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter blush. Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably good one,—Edward Norton,—though he is oftenest called “OurNed.” He is the sole male representative of a wealthy old New England family,—the pride and darling of four pretty sisters, “the only son of his mother, and she a widow,” who adores him,—“a likely youth, just twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, and standing six feet high in his stockings. Yet, in spite of all these unfavorable circumstances, he is a very good sort of a fellow. He is just home from the model college of the Commonwealth, where he learned to smoke, and, I blush to say, has a cigar in hand at this moment, just as he has been summoned from the garden by his pet sister, Kate, half-wild with delight and excitement. With him comes a brother, according to the law, and after the spirit,—a young, slender, fair-haired man, but with an indescribable something of paternal importance about him. He is the other proprietor of baby, and steps forward with a laugh and a “Heh, my little water-nymph, my Iris!” and by the bath-tub kneeling, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby lips, and a sudden wilting shower on shirt-front and collar, from moister baby hands.Young collegian pauses on the threshold, essaying to look lofty and sarcastic, for a moment. Then his eye rests on Nellie Lee’s blushing face, on the red, smiling lips, the braids of gold, sprinkled with shining drops,—meets those sweet, shy eyes, and a sudden, mysterious feeling, soft and vague and tender, floods his gay young heart. He looks at baby again. “’Tis a pretty sight, upon my word! Let me throw away my cigar before I come nearer; it is incense too profane for such pure rites. Now give me a peep at Dian-the less! How the little witch revels in the water! A small Undine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby? Why, Louise, I did not know that Floy was so lovely, such a perfect little creature. How fair she is? Why, her flesh, where it is not rosy, is of the pure, translucent whiteness of a water-lily.”No response to this tribute, for baby has been in the water more than long enough, and must be taken out, willy, nilly. Decidedly nilly it proves; baby proceeds to demonstrate that she is not altogether cherubic, by kicking and screaming lustily, and striking out frantically with her little, dripping hands. But Madonna wraps her in soft linen, rolls her and pats her, till she grows good and merry again, and laughs through her pretty tears.But the brief storm has been enough to clear the nursery of all save grandmamma and Auntie Kate, who draw nearer to witness the process of drying and dressing. Tenderly the mother rubs the dainty, soft skin, till every dimple gives up its last hidden droplet; then, with many a kiss, and smile, and coo, she robes the little form in fairy-like garments of cambric, lace, flannel, soft as a moth’s wing, and delicate embroidery. The small, restless feet are caught, and encased in comical little hose, and shod with Titania’s own slippers. Then the light golden locks are brushed and twined into tendril-like curls, and lo! the beautiful labor of love is finished. Baby is bathed and dressed for the day.(‡ decoration)
(‡ decoration)
FAVORITE WRITER FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.
ONE of the earliest papers devoted especially to young children was “The Little Pilgrim,” edited for a number of years under the name of “Grace Greenwood,” byMrs.Lippincott. It had a very wide popularity, and its little stories, poems, and page of puzzles brought pleasure into very many home circles.Mrs.Lippincott is the daughter of Doctor Thaddeus Clarke. She was born in Pompey, New York, in September, 1823, and lived during most of her childhood in Rochester. In 1842 she removed with her father to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, and in 1853 she was married to Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She had early begun to write verses, and, in 1844, contributed some prose articles to “The New York Mirror,” adopting the name “Grace Greenwood,” which she has since made famous. Besides her work upon “The Little Pilgrim,” she has contributed for many years to “The Hearth and Home,” “The Atlantic Monthly,” “Harper’s Magazine,” “The New York Independent,” “Times,” and “Tribune,” to several California journals, and to at least two English periodicals. She was one of the first women to become a newspaper correspondent, and her letters from Washington inaugurated a new feature in journalism. She has published a number of books: “Greenwood Leaves;” “History of My Pets;” “Poems;” “Recollections of My Childhood;” “Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe;” “Merrie England;” “Stories from Many Lands;” “Victoria, Queen of England,” and others.
Mrs.Lippincott has lived abroad a great deal, and has been made welcome in the best literary circles in England and on the continent. During the war she devoted herself to the cause of the soldiers, read and lectured to them in camps and hospitals, and won the appreciation of President Lincoln, who used to speak of her as “Grace Greenwood, the Patriot.” Although devoted to her home in Washington, she has spent much time in New York City, and has lived a life whose activity and service to the public are almost unequalled among literary women.
THE BABY IN THEBATH-TUB.¹
(FROM “RECORDS OF FIVE YEARS,” 1867.)
¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.
ANNIE! Sophie! come up quick, and see baby in her bath-tub!” cries a charming little maiden, running down the wide stairway of an old country house, and half-way up the long hall, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her soft dimpled cheeks tinged with the same lovely morninghue. In an instant there is a stir and a gush of light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sisterly, Annie and Sophie float noiselessly through the hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne on their respective clouds of blue and white drapery, and take their way to the nursery, where a novel entertainment awaits them. It is the first morning of the eldest married sister’s first visit home, with her first baby; and the first baby, having slept late after its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old house.“Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, forgetting her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and disconsolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine-month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub! What simpletons we are!”Thus Miss Annie, theproude laydeof the family; handsome, haughty, with perilous proclivities toward grand socialistic theories, transcendentalism, and general strong-mindedness; pledged by many a saucy vow to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to studies artistic, æsthetic, philosophic and ethical; a student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an exalter of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies.“Simpletons, are we?” cries pretty Elinor Lee, aunt of the baby on the other side, and “Cousin Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneeling close by the bath-tub, and receiving on her sunny braids a liberal baptism from the pure, plashing hands of babyhood,—“simpletons, indeed! Did I not once see thee, O Pallas-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the ‘Crouching Venus?’ and this is a sight a thousand times more beautiful; for here we have color, action, radiant life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors of Greece were never able to entrance in marble. Just look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple holding a tiny, sparkling drop,—these rosy, plashing feet and hands,—this laughing, roguish face,—these eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy-land,—these ears, like dainty sea-shells,—these locks of gold, dripping diamonds,—and tell me what cherub of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so lovely. I say, too, that Raphael himself would have jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chastened dignity of young maternity,—of painting her asMadonna.”“Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for once, over a baby in a bath-tub!”“Well, Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspirerealpoets, to call out and yet humble the genius of painters and sculptors? Isn’t it an object for the reverence of ‘a glorious human creature,’—such a pure and perfect form of physical life, such a starry little soul, fresh from the hands of God? If your Plato teaches otherwise, Cousin Annie, I’m glad I’ve no acquaintance with that distinguished heathen gentleman; if your Carlyle, with his ‘soul above buttons’ and babies, would growl, and your Emerson smile icily at the sight, away with them!”“Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is ‘a man and a brother,’ in spite of his ‘Latter-day Pamphlets,’ and no ogre. I believe he is very well disposed toward babies in general; while Emerson is as tender as he is great. Have you forgotten his ‘Threnody,’ in which the sob of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells into an immortal’s pean? I see that baby is very lovely; I think that Louise may well be proud of her. It’s a pity that she must grow up into conventionalities and all that,—perhaps become some man’s plaything, or slave.”“Odon’t, sister!—‘sufficient for the day is theworrimentthereof.’ But I think you and Nellie are mistaken about thepride. I am conscious of no such feeling in regard to my little Florence, but only of joy, gratitude, infinite tenderness, and solicitude.”Thus the young mother,—for the first time speaking, but not turning her eyes from the bath-tub.“Ah, coz, it won’t go! Young mothers are the proudest of living creatures. The sweetest and saintliest among you have a sort of subdued exultation, a meek assumption, an adorable insolence, toward the whole unmarried and childless world. I have never seen anything like it elsewhere.”“Ihave, in a bantam Biddy, parading her first brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, leading her first little downy flock to the water.”“Ha, blasphemer! are you there?” cries Miss Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter blush. Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably good one,—Edward Norton,—though he is oftenest called “OurNed.” He is the sole male representative of a wealthy old New England family,—the pride and darling of four pretty sisters, “the only son of his mother, and she a widow,” who adores him,—“a likely youth, just twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, and standing six feet high in his stockings. Yet, in spite of all these unfavorable circumstances, he is a very good sort of a fellow. He is just home from the model college of the Commonwealth, where he learned to smoke, and, I blush to say, has a cigar in hand at this moment, just as he has been summoned from the garden by his pet sister, Kate, half-wild with delight and excitement. With him comes a brother, according to the law, and after the spirit,—a young, slender, fair-haired man, but with an indescribable something of paternal importance about him. He is the other proprietor of baby, and steps forward with a laugh and a “Heh, my little water-nymph, my Iris!” and by the bath-tub kneeling, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby lips, and a sudden wilting shower on shirt-front and collar, from moister baby hands.Young collegian pauses on the threshold, essaying to look lofty and sarcastic, for a moment. Then his eye rests on Nellie Lee’s blushing face, on the red, smiling lips, the braids of gold, sprinkled with shining drops,—meets those sweet, shy eyes, and a sudden, mysterious feeling, soft and vague and tender, floods his gay young heart. He looks at baby again. “’Tis a pretty sight, upon my word! Let me throw away my cigar before I come nearer; it is incense too profane for such pure rites. Now give me a peep at Dian-the less! How the little witch revels in the water! A small Undine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby? Why, Louise, I did not know that Floy was so lovely, such a perfect little creature. How fair she is? Why, her flesh, where it is not rosy, is of the pure, translucent whiteness of a water-lily.”No response to this tribute, for baby has been in the water more than long enough, and must be taken out, willy, nilly. Decidedly nilly it proves; baby proceeds to demonstrate that she is not altogether cherubic, by kicking and screaming lustily, and striking out frantically with her little, dripping hands. But Madonna wraps her in soft linen, rolls her and pats her, till she grows good and merry again, and laughs through her pretty tears.But the brief storm has been enough to clear the nursery of all save grandmamma and Auntie Kate, who draw nearer to witness the process of drying and dressing. Tenderly the mother rubs the dainty, soft skin, till every dimple gives up its last hidden droplet; then, with many a kiss, and smile, and coo, she robes the little form in fairy-like garments of cambric, lace, flannel, soft as a moth’s wing, and delicate embroidery. The small, restless feet are caught, and encased in comical little hose, and shod with Titania’s own slippers. Then the light golden locks are brushed and twined into tendril-like curls, and lo! the beautiful labor of love is finished. Baby is bathed and dressed for the day.
ANNIE! Sophie! come up quick, and see baby in her bath-tub!” cries a charming little maiden, running down the wide stairway of an old country house, and half-way up the long hall, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her soft dimpled cheeks tinged with the same lovely morninghue. In an instant there is a stir and a gush of light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sisterly, Annie and Sophie float noiselessly through the hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne on their respective clouds of blue and white drapery, and take their way to the nursery, where a novel entertainment awaits them. It is the first morning of the eldest married sister’s first visit home, with her first baby; and the first baby, having slept late after its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old house.
“Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, forgetting her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and disconsolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine-month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub! What simpletons we are!”
Thus Miss Annie, theproude laydeof the family; handsome, haughty, with perilous proclivities toward grand socialistic theories, transcendentalism, and general strong-mindedness; pledged by many a saucy vow to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to studies artistic, æsthetic, philosophic and ethical; a student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an exalter of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies.
“Simpletons, are we?” cries pretty Elinor Lee, aunt of the baby on the other side, and “Cousin Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneeling close by the bath-tub, and receiving on her sunny braids a liberal baptism from the pure, plashing hands of babyhood,—“simpletons, indeed! Did I not once see thee, O Pallas-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the ‘Crouching Venus?’ and this is a sight a thousand times more beautiful; for here we have color, action, radiant life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors of Greece were never able to entrance in marble. Just look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple holding a tiny, sparkling drop,—these rosy, plashing feet and hands,—this laughing, roguish face,—these eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy-land,—these ears, like dainty sea-shells,—these locks of gold, dripping diamonds,—and tell me what cherub of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so lovely. I say, too, that Raphael himself would have jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chastened dignity of young maternity,—of painting her asMadonna.”
“Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for once, over a baby in a bath-tub!”
“Well, Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspirerealpoets, to call out and yet humble the genius of painters and sculptors? Isn’t it an object for the reverence of ‘a glorious human creature,’—such a pure and perfect form of physical life, such a starry little soul, fresh from the hands of God? If your Plato teaches otherwise, Cousin Annie, I’m glad I’ve no acquaintance with that distinguished heathen gentleman; if your Carlyle, with his ‘soul above buttons’ and babies, would growl, and your Emerson smile icily at the sight, away with them!”
“Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is ‘a man and a brother,’ in spite of his ‘Latter-day Pamphlets,’ and no ogre. I believe he is very well disposed toward babies in general; while Emerson is as tender as he is great. Have you forgotten his ‘Threnody,’ in which the sob of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells into an immortal’s pean? I see that baby is very lovely; I think that Louise may well be proud of her. It’s a pity that she must grow up into conventionalities and all that,—perhaps become some man’s plaything, or slave.”
“Odon’t, sister!—‘sufficient for the day is theworrimentthereof.’ But I think you and Nellie are mistaken about thepride. I am conscious of no such feeling in regard to my little Florence, but only of joy, gratitude, infinite tenderness, and solicitude.”
Thus the young mother,—for the first time speaking, but not turning her eyes from the bath-tub.
“Ah, coz, it won’t go! Young mothers are the proudest of living creatures. The sweetest and saintliest among you have a sort of subdued exultation, a meek assumption, an adorable insolence, toward the whole unmarried and childless world. I have never seen anything like it elsewhere.”
“Ihave, in a bantam Biddy, parading her first brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, leading her first little downy flock to the water.”
“Ha, blasphemer! are you there?” cries Miss Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter blush. Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably good one,—Edward Norton,—though he is oftenest called “OurNed.” He is the sole male representative of a wealthy old New England family,—the pride and darling of four pretty sisters, “the only son of his mother, and she a widow,” who adores him,—“a likely youth, just twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, and standing six feet high in his stockings. Yet, in spite of all these unfavorable circumstances, he is a very good sort of a fellow. He is just home from the model college of the Commonwealth, where he learned to smoke, and, I blush to say, has a cigar in hand at this moment, just as he has been summoned from the garden by his pet sister, Kate, half-wild with delight and excitement. With him comes a brother, according to the law, and after the spirit,—a young, slender, fair-haired man, but with an indescribable something of paternal importance about him. He is the other proprietor of baby, and steps forward with a laugh and a “Heh, my little water-nymph, my Iris!” and by the bath-tub kneeling, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby lips, and a sudden wilting shower on shirt-front and collar, from moister baby hands.
Young collegian pauses on the threshold, essaying to look lofty and sarcastic, for a moment. Then his eye rests on Nellie Lee’s blushing face, on the red, smiling lips, the braids of gold, sprinkled with shining drops,—meets those sweet, shy eyes, and a sudden, mysterious feeling, soft and vague and tender, floods his gay young heart. He looks at baby again. “’Tis a pretty sight, upon my word! Let me throw away my cigar before I come nearer; it is incense too profane for such pure rites. Now give me a peep at Dian-the less! How the little witch revels in the water! A small Undine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby? Why, Louise, I did not know that Floy was so lovely, such a perfect little creature. How fair she is? Why, her flesh, where it is not rosy, is of the pure, translucent whiteness of a water-lily.”
No response to this tribute, for baby has been in the water more than long enough, and must be taken out, willy, nilly. Decidedly nilly it proves; baby proceeds to demonstrate that she is not altogether cherubic, by kicking and screaming lustily, and striking out frantically with her little, dripping hands. But Madonna wraps her in soft linen, rolls her and pats her, till she grows good and merry again, and laughs through her pretty tears.
But the brief storm has been enough to clear the nursery of all save grandmamma and Auntie Kate, who draw nearer to witness the process of drying and dressing. Tenderly the mother rubs the dainty, soft skin, till every dimple gives up its last hidden droplet; then, with many a kiss, and smile, and coo, she robes the little form in fairy-like garments of cambric, lace, flannel, soft as a moth’s wing, and delicate embroidery. The small, restless feet are caught, and encased in comical little hose, and shod with Titania’s own slippers. Then the light golden locks are brushed and twined into tendril-like curls, and lo! the beautiful labor of love is finished. Baby is bathed and dressed for the day.
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(‡ decoration)HORATIO ALGER.AS a writer of books at once entertaining and at the same time of a healthy and earnest character a parent cannot recommend to his boys a more wholesome author than Horatio Alger,Jr.Mr.Alger always writes with a careful regard to truth and to the right principles. His heroes captivate the imagination, but they do not inflame it, and they are generally worthy examples for the emulation of boys. At the same time he is in no sense a preacher. His books have the true juvenile flavor and charm, and, like the sugar pills of the homœopathist, carry the good medicine of morality, bravery, industry, enterprise, honor—everything that goes to make up the true manly and noble character, so subtly woven into the thread of his interesting narrative that the writer without detecting its presence receives the wholesome benefit.Mr.Alger became famous in the publication of that undying book, “Ragged Dick; or, Street Life in New York.” It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to writing for young people, which he has since continued. It was a new field for a writer whenMr.Alger began, and his treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. “Ragged Dick” first appeared in 1868, and since then it has been selling steadily until now it is estimated that over two hundred thousand copies of the series have passed into circulation.Mr.Alger possesses in an eminent degree that sympathy with boys which a writer must have to meet with success. He is able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He knows how to look upon life as they do. He writes straight at them as one from their ranks and not down upon them as a towering fatherly adviser. A boy’s heart naturally opens to a writer who understands him and makes a companion of him. This, we believe, accounts for the enormous sale of the books of this writer. We are told that about three-quarters of a million copies of his books have been sold and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets of them, of which but few volumes are found on the shelves at one time.Horatio Alger,Jr., was born in Revere, Massachusetts, January 13, 1834. He graduated at Harvard University in 1852, after which he spent several years in teaching and newspaper work. In 1864 he was ordained as a Unitarian minister and served a Massachusetts church for two years. It was in 1866 that he took up his residence in New York and became deeply interested in the street boys and exerted what influence he could to the bettering of their condition. His experience in this work furnished him with the information out of which grew many of his later writings.To enumerate the various volumes published by this author would be tedious. They have generally been issued in series. Several volumes complete one subject or theme. His first published book was “Bertha’s Christmas Vision” (1855). Succeeding this came “Nothing to Do,” a tilt at our best society, in verse (1857); “Frank’s Campaign; or, What a Boy Can Do” (1864); “Helen Ford,” a novel, and also a volume of poems (1866). The “Ragged Dick” series began in 1868, and comprises six volumes. Succeeding this came “Tattered Tom,” first and second series, comprising eight volumes. The entire fourteen volumes above referred to are devoted to New York street life of boys. “Ragged Dick” has served as a model for many a poor boy struggling upward, while the influence of Phil the fiddler in the “Tattered Tom” series is credited with having had much to do in the abolishment of thepadronesystem. The “Campaign Series” comprised three volumes; the “Luck and Pluck Series” eight; the “Brave and Bold” four; the “Pacific Series” four; the “Atlantic Series” four; “Way to Success” four; the “New World” three; the “Victory Series” three. All of these were published prior to 1896. Since the beginning of 1896 have appeared “Frank Hunter’s Peril,” “The Young Salesman” and other later works, all of which have met with the usual cordial reception accorded by the boys and girls to the books of this favorite author. It is perhaps but just to say, now that Oliver Optic is gone, thatMr.Alger has attained distinction as the most popular writer of books for boys in America, and perhaps no other writer for the young has ever stimulated and encouraged earnest boys in their efforts to rise in the world or so strengthened their will to persevere in well-doing, and at the same time written stories so real that every one, young and old, delights to read them. He not only writes interesting and even thrilling stories, but what is of very great importance, they are always clean and healthy.HOW DICK BEGAN THEDAY.¹(FROM “RAGGED DICK; OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.”)¹Copyright, Porter & Coates.WAKE up, there, youngster,” said a rough voice.Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly and stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not offer to get up.“Wake up, you young vagabond!” said the man a little impatiently; “I suppose you’d lay there all day if I hadn’t called you.”“What time is it?” asked Dick.“Seven o’clock.”“Seven o’clock! I oughter’ve been up an hour ago. I know what ’twas made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night and didn’t turn in till past twelve.”“You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get your money?” asked the man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce Street.“Made it on shines, in course. My guardian don’t allow me no money for theatres, so I have to earn it.”“Some boys get it easier than that,” said the porter, significantly.“You don’t catch me stealing, if that’s what you mean,” said Dick.“Don’t you ever steal, then?”“No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn’t.”“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe there’s some good in you, Dick, after all.”“Oh, I’m a rough customer,” said Dick. “But I wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.”“I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice sounded gentler than at first. “Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?”“No; but I’ll soon have some.”While this conversation had been going on Dick had got up. His bed-chamber had been a wooden box, half full of straw, on which the young bootblack had reposed his weary limbs and slept as soundly as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without taking the trouble of undressing. Getting up, too, was an equally short process. He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the day.Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box, was rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.Washing the hands and face is usually considered proper in commencing the day; but Dick was above such refinement. He had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had been clean and well-dressed he would have been decidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a straightforward manner that made him a favorite.Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who passed, addressing each with, “Shine your boots, sir?”“How much?” asked a gentleman on his way to his office.“Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his profession.“Ten cents! Isn’t that a little steep?”“Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, who had already set to work. “There’s theblackingcosts something, and I have to get a new brush pretty often.”“And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentleman, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in Dick’s coat.“Yes, sir,” said Dick, always ready for a joke; “I have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on Fifth Avenue that I can’t afford to take less than ten cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.”“Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry. So your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it?”“It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke the truth there.“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s attire.“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.“Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically. “He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got tore some, ’cause he fit so hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his own: so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have it reasonable.”“Thank you, but I wouldn’t like to deprive you of it. And did your pants come from General Washington, too?”“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis had outgrown ’em and sent ’em to me; he’s bigger than me, and that’s why they don’t fit.“It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, my lad, I suppose you would like your money.”“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to my young readers, I must refer them to the next chapter for his further adventures.
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AS a writer of books at once entertaining and at the same time of a healthy and earnest character a parent cannot recommend to his boys a more wholesome author than Horatio Alger,Jr.Mr.Alger always writes with a careful regard to truth and to the right principles. His heroes captivate the imagination, but they do not inflame it, and they are generally worthy examples for the emulation of boys. At the same time he is in no sense a preacher. His books have the true juvenile flavor and charm, and, like the sugar pills of the homœopathist, carry the good medicine of morality, bravery, industry, enterprise, honor—everything that goes to make up the true manly and noble character, so subtly woven into the thread of his interesting narrative that the writer without detecting its presence receives the wholesome benefit.
Mr.Alger became famous in the publication of that undying book, “Ragged Dick; or, Street Life in New York.” It was his first book for young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to writing for young people, which he has since continued. It was a new field for a writer whenMr.Alger began, and his treatment of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. “Ragged Dick” first appeared in 1868, and since then it has been selling steadily until now it is estimated that over two hundred thousand copies of the series have passed into circulation.Mr.Alger possesses in an eminent degree that sympathy with boys which a writer must have to meet with success. He is able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He knows how to look upon life as they do. He writes straight at them as one from their ranks and not down upon them as a towering fatherly adviser. A boy’s heart naturally opens to a writer who understands him and makes a companion of him. This, we believe, accounts for the enormous sale of the books of this writer. We are told that about three-quarters of a million copies of his books have been sold and that all the large circulating libraries in the country have several complete sets of them, of which but few volumes are found on the shelves at one time.
Horatio Alger,Jr., was born in Revere, Massachusetts, January 13, 1834. He graduated at Harvard University in 1852, after which he spent several years in teaching and newspaper work. In 1864 he was ordained as a Unitarian minister and served a Massachusetts church for two years. It was in 1866 that he took up his residence in New York and became deeply interested in the street boys and exerted what influence he could to the bettering of their condition. His experience in this work furnished him with the information out of which grew many of his later writings.
To enumerate the various volumes published by this author would be tedious. They have generally been issued in series. Several volumes complete one subject or theme. His first published book was “Bertha’s Christmas Vision” (1855). Succeeding this came “Nothing to Do,” a tilt at our best society, in verse (1857); “Frank’s Campaign; or, What a Boy Can Do” (1864); “Helen Ford,” a novel, and also a volume of poems (1866). The “Ragged Dick” series began in 1868, and comprises six volumes. Succeeding this came “Tattered Tom,” first and second series, comprising eight volumes. The entire fourteen volumes above referred to are devoted to New York street life of boys. “Ragged Dick” has served as a model for many a poor boy struggling upward, while the influence of Phil the fiddler in the “Tattered Tom” series is credited with having had much to do in the abolishment of thepadronesystem. The “Campaign Series” comprised three volumes; the “Luck and Pluck Series” eight; the “Brave and Bold” four; the “Pacific Series” four; the “Atlantic Series” four; “Way to Success” four; the “New World” three; the “Victory Series” three. All of these were published prior to 1896. Since the beginning of 1896 have appeared “Frank Hunter’s Peril,” “The Young Salesman” and other later works, all of which have met with the usual cordial reception accorded by the boys and girls to the books of this favorite author. It is perhaps but just to say, now that Oliver Optic is gone, thatMr.Alger has attained distinction as the most popular writer of books for boys in America, and perhaps no other writer for the young has ever stimulated and encouraged earnest boys in their efforts to rise in the world or so strengthened their will to persevere in well-doing, and at the same time written stories so real that every one, young and old, delights to read them. He not only writes interesting and even thrilling stories, but what is of very great importance, they are always clean and healthy.
HOW DICK BEGAN THEDAY.¹
(FROM “RAGGED DICK; OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.”)
¹Copyright, Porter & Coates.
WAKE up, there, youngster,” said a rough voice.Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly and stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not offer to get up.“Wake up, you young vagabond!” said the man a little impatiently; “I suppose you’d lay there all day if I hadn’t called you.”“What time is it?” asked Dick.“Seven o’clock.”“Seven o’clock! I oughter’ve been up an hour ago. I know what ’twas made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night and didn’t turn in till past twelve.”“You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get your money?” asked the man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce Street.“Made it on shines, in course. My guardian don’t allow me no money for theatres, so I have to earn it.”“Some boys get it easier than that,” said the porter, significantly.“You don’t catch me stealing, if that’s what you mean,” said Dick.“Don’t you ever steal, then?”“No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn’t.”“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe there’s some good in you, Dick, after all.”“Oh, I’m a rough customer,” said Dick. “But I wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.”“I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice sounded gentler than at first. “Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?”“No; but I’ll soon have some.”While this conversation had been going on Dick had got up. His bed-chamber had been a wooden box, half full of straw, on which the young bootblack had reposed his weary limbs and slept as soundly as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without taking the trouble of undressing. Getting up, too, was an equally short process. He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the day.Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box, was rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.Washing the hands and face is usually considered proper in commencing the day; but Dick was above such refinement. He had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had been clean and well-dressed he would have been decidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a straightforward manner that made him a favorite.Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who passed, addressing each with, “Shine your boots, sir?”“How much?” asked a gentleman on his way to his office.“Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his profession.“Ten cents! Isn’t that a little steep?”“Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, who had already set to work. “There’s theblackingcosts something, and I have to get a new brush pretty often.”“And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentleman, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in Dick’s coat.“Yes, sir,” said Dick, always ready for a joke; “I have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on Fifth Avenue that I can’t afford to take less than ten cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.”“Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry. So your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it?”“It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke the truth there.“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s attire.“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.“Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically. “He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got tore some, ’cause he fit so hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his own: so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have it reasonable.”“Thank you, but I wouldn’t like to deprive you of it. And did your pants come from General Washington, too?”“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis had outgrown ’em and sent ’em to me; he’s bigger than me, and that’s why they don’t fit.“It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, my lad, I suppose you would like your money.”“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to my young readers, I must refer them to the next chapter for his further adventures.
WAKE up, there, youngster,” said a rough voice.
Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly and stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not offer to get up.
“Wake up, you young vagabond!” said the man a little impatiently; “I suppose you’d lay there all day if I hadn’t called you.”
“What time is it?” asked Dick.
“Seven o’clock.”
“Seven o’clock! I oughter’ve been up an hour ago. I know what ’twas made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night and didn’t turn in till past twelve.”
“You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get your money?” asked the man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce Street.
“Made it on shines, in course. My guardian don’t allow me no money for theatres, so I have to earn it.”
“Some boys get it easier than that,” said the porter, significantly.
“You don’t catch me stealing, if that’s what you mean,” said Dick.
“Don’t you ever steal, then?”
“No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn’t.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe there’s some good in you, Dick, after all.”
“Oh, I’m a rough customer,” said Dick. “But I wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.”
“I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice sounded gentler than at first. “Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?”
“No; but I’ll soon have some.”
While this conversation had been going on Dick had got up. His bed-chamber had been a wooden box, half full of straw, on which the young bootblack had reposed his weary limbs and slept as soundly as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without taking the trouble of undressing. Getting up, too, was an equally short process. He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the day.
Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box, was rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.
Washing the hands and face is usually considered proper in commencing the day; but Dick was above such refinement. He had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had been clean and well-dressed he would have been decidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a straightforward manner that made him a favorite.
Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who passed, addressing each with, “Shine your boots, sir?”
“How much?” asked a gentleman on his way to his office.
“Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his profession.
“Ten cents! Isn’t that a little steep?”
“Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, who had already set to work. “There’s theblackingcosts something, and I have to get a new brush pretty often.”
“And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentleman, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in Dick’s coat.
“Yes, sir,” said Dick, always ready for a joke; “I have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on Fifth Avenue that I can’t afford to take less than ten cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.”
“Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry. So your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it?”
“It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke the truth there.
“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s attire.
“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.
“Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”
“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically. “He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got tore some, ’cause he fit so hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his own: so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you have it reasonable.”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t like to deprive you of it. And did your pants come from General Washington, too?”
“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis had outgrown ’em and sent ’em to me; he’s bigger than me, and that’s why they don’t fit.
“It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, my lad, I suppose you would like your money.”
“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.
And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to my young readers, I must refer them to the next chapter for his further adventures.