"Wake Nicodemus to-day!"
"Wake Nicodemus to-day!"
The boys sang and chatted as they worked. They made their beds in a hollow of the windswept dunes, where there would be less annoyance from mosquitoes than in the shelter of the woods, and spread their hay and blankets upon the dry sand.
"Besides," said Perce, "the daylight will strike us here, and wake us early."
"Wake Nicodemus!" laughed Poke.
And then they all burst forth again:
"Wake Nicodemus to-day!"
"Wake Nicodemus to-day!"
The chasing clouds gathered, until the sky was almost completely overcast. The moon would not rise till late; it became dark rapidly. But as the gloom of night thickened on land and sea, a little golden flame shot up on the shore, and grew large and bright as the surrounding shadows became more dense.
It was the flame of the boys' camp-ire, which they kindled on the seaward side of the dunes, and fed with rubbish from the high-water mark of the recent storm. Later tides had not then reached it, and plenty of it was dry enough to burn.
Perce and the Twins on Their Way to the Beach.PERCE AND THE TWINS ON THEIR WAY TO THE BEACH.
Chips and old shingles, bleached sea-weed, broken planks, strips and slabs from saw-mills on some far-away river, and other refuse, littered the strand,—here, a broken lobster-pot which the rolling waves had washed ashore, and there, a ship's fender, worn smooth, with a fragment of rope still held in the auger-hole by its knotted end.
Such of this fuel as best suited their immediate purpose the boys gathered for their fire; and Olly, in his wave-tossed boat, could see their agile figures running to and fro in the light of the flames.
"There'll be heaps of flood-wood, as well as kelp, for us to gather to-morrow," said Perce. "Don't put any more on the fire, boys."
"Why not?" asked the twins.
"There's no use wasting it," answered Perce, adding, "We've fire enough. We'll roast our corn and go to bed, so as to be up early. It'll be high tide before five to-morrow."
"Then wake Nicodemus!" cried Moke in a gleeful tone.
And again the three boys raised the wild chorus of the old plantation song.
"Olly ought to be here!" said Perce. "He must have gone home by the coast; and that's the way we missed him."
Even then, but for the noise of the surf and the whistling of the wind, they might have heard Olly's last screams; and by straining their eyes they might have seen far out on the gloomy deep a dim object, now rising for a moment against the line of the evening sky, and now disappearing in a hollow of the waves.
With hay about their heads to shelter them from the wind, and the light of their camp-fire gleaming over them, the kelp-gatherers lay under their blankets, in the hollow of the dunes. They talked or sang until the flames died to a feeble glimmer, that served to bring out by contrast the surrounding gloom of sea and land and sky.
"Isn't it dark, though!" exclaimed Perce. "I had no idea it would cloud so. I believe it is going to rain. Then shan't we be in a fix?"
"It can't rain," said Moke.
"No fear of that," added Poke, in a muffled voice from under his blanket.
"What's the reason?" Perce demanded.
"Uncle Moses said so," replied both the twins together.
"Oh, then, of course it can't!" laughed Perce. "And the wind wont change, and carry the kelp all off, and land it on some other beach, as it did the last time I was coming to get sea-weed here. The wind clipped around to the nor'ard and northeast, and in the morning this beach, that had been covered with it, was as clean as a whistle; while Coombs's Cove, where there hadn't been any, was full of it."
"Who's going to wake Nicodemus in the morning?" asked Moke.
"The one who's first awake himself," said Perce. And he sang, the others joining in:
"'Wake me up,' was his charge, 'at the first break of day,Wake me up for the great jubilee!'"
"'Wake me up,' was his charge, 'at the first break of day,Wake me up for the great jubilee!'"
After that they became silent. The fire died on the beach. The breakers plunged and drew back, with incessant noise, in the darkness; the wind moaned in the woods, and whistled among the coarse sparse grass and wild peas that grew about the dunes. But notwithstanding the strangeness of their situation, the boys were soon asleep.
Uncle Moses proved a true prophet. There was no rain in the huddling clouds that at one time overspread the sky. They broke and lifted, and bright stars peeped from under their heavy lids. Then the moon rose and silvered them, and shed a strange light upon the limitless, unresting, solitary waves.
For a long time Olly could see the boys by the light of their camp-fire, excepting when the tops of the rolling billows hid them from view.
Although too far off at any time to recognize his friends, he made out snatches of the song then in vogue in his neighborhood; and he believed the camping party to be Frog-End boys who had come to the beach for kelp.
Sometimes they passed between him and the fire; and finally they stood or crouched around it, as the wavering flames died down to a bright-red glow on the shore. To see them so near and so happy—it seemed to him that everybody was happy who was not paddling desperately in a frail skiff, against a relentless wind—to hear them singing and shouting, so wholly unconscious of him in his distress, was intolerable agony.
"Oh, why can't they hear?" he exclaimed, in a voice to the last degree hoarse with calling for help. "Why couldn't they look this way once? Now it is too late!"
He was by that time greatly exhausted; for when not signaling and calling, he had been making frantic efforts to paddle the dory against the wind. At first he had used the oar-handle, but he found it wholly ineffectual. Then he had torn up one of the thwarts, but it was too short and too clumsy for his purpose; and though for a time he seemed to make headway, the distance from the shore was steadily increasing.
If he could have held the boat in its course, as with a pair of oars, he might have made progress even with that unwieldly paddle. But he lost time and strength in shifting it from side to side; and, spite of all he could do, the wind and the waves would now and then give the light, veering skiff a turn, and he would suddenly find himself paddling out to sea! However, those efforts prevented him from being blown speedily out of sight of land. And when the boys on the beach, after due preparation, stuck their ears of green corn on the sharpened ends of sticks and roasted them in the fire, he still kept the little group in view. He had no doubt that they were cooking their supper. No wonder he wept with despair at the contrast of that cheerful scene with his own terrible situation!
The fire faded to a red eye of burning coals; all other objects grew indistinct, excepting the black outline of the woods against the soft evening red of a rift in the sky, and one pure star brightening in those ethereal depths. Another starry beam, which he could plainly discern, but which was too low down for a star, Olly knew must be a light in one of the upper windows of the boarding-house.
Was it in Mr. Hatville's room? Had he returned and discovered the loss of his watch? And could poor Olly hope ever to make restitution and explanations? Suppose he should indeed be lost at sea! Would it not be believed that he had yielded to temptation and had purposely run away with the watch?
''HE MADE FRANTIC EFFORTS TO PADDLE THE DORY AGAINST THE WIND.''"HE MADE FRANTIC EFFORTS TO PADDLE THE DORY AGAINST THE WIND."
The danger his life was in was enough for the wretched boy, without this fear for his reputation. He thought of his folks at home,—his mother and sisters, for his father was dead,—and he wondered if they would believe him capable of a folly so much greater than that he had in mind when he so innocently (as it seemed to him then, but not now) borrowed the bright bauble! And what would Amy Canfield think?
All vanity had been killed in him from the moment he found himself in actual peril. It made him sick at heart to remember the satisfaction he had so lately felt in his new clothes. He no longer drew the watch proudly from his pocket; hardly once did he glance downward at the big seal and gold guard hooked in the button-hole of his vest—a hated sight to him now.
When all hope of reaching the shore against such a wind was gone, he still struggled to keep the dory within hailing distance of the yacht, when it should come beating up from the northeast. But no yacht hove in sight; and if it passed, it must have been under the shadow of the shore. Clouds closed again over the one bright star and the patch of silver light in the west. The utter desolation of night lay about him on the lonely, weltering waters. All along the coast now he could see occasional lights—the lights in happy dwellings; but on the seaward side, only a faint gleam showed the line where sky and ocean met. There were no sounds but the ceaseless turmoil of the billows, the frequent slapping of a wave under the flat-bottomed boat, and his own fitful sobs.
His last hope lay in crossing the track of some coaster or fishing-craft that might pick him up. But could that occur before morning? And could he expect that his ill-managed dory would ride safely all night on the increasing waves? The strong wind off shore, meeting the ocean swells, was blowing up a heavy chop-sea that threatened a new danger. What a night was before him, at the best!
Suddenly his hat blew off, and disappeared immediately on the black waves.
The distant sails he had seen at first had vanished as the swift night shut down; but now he discerned two dim lights in different directions, evidently far away.
He was gazing after them, and looking anxiously for nearer lights or sails, when he was aware of a low, dark object just before him, rising from the deep. What could it be?—with something white flashing upon it! And what was the sound he heard?
"The Cow and Calf!" he exclaimed, with sudden excitement, almost as if he had seen a friend.
"The Old Cow" and "The Calf" are two enormous ledges lying not far asunder, within sight from the coast in clear weather. "The Cow" is never completely submerged; her bare brown back appears above the highest tides.
"The Calf" is not so fortunate; the sea must be very calm at high water, when it is not buried in the surf.
Near one end of it, to mark the position of the dangerous reef, a pole is anchored, rising out of the water with a slant that has gained for it the name of "The Calf's Tail." Often at high tide the tail only can be seen sticking out of the sea.
What Olly saw and heard was the billows combing over the end of one of those huge rocks. He wondered why he hadn't thought of them before; for it now occurred to him that if he could land on "The Old Cow," he might safely pass the night on her back, and be seen from the shore, or from some passing craft, in the morning.
But which of the ledges was he approaching? Familiar as their forms were to him, seen from the shore, he could not in his strange position, in the night, and amid the dashing waves, decide whether he was coming upon "The Old Cow" or "The Calf."
Trembling with fresh hope and fear, and paddling cautiously, he strained his eyes in the darkness, to get the broad outline of the ledge against the faint sky-line. There was something awful in the sound of the surf on those desolate rocks. The surges leapt and fell, rushing along the reef and pouring in dimly-seen cataracts over the ledges, their loud buffets followed by mysterious gurglings and murmurings, which might well appall the heart of a wave-tossed boy.
The wind was blowing him on; but it was still in his power to pass the end of the rock, or drive his dory upon the windward side, where the ocean swells broke with least force. If he could only be sure which rock it was! But he could distinguish nothing. All was as strange to him as if he had been adrift on the lonesomest unknown sea in the world.
If it was "The Calf," then "The Tail" should be at the other end, and "The Old Cow" beyond. If "The Cow," "The Calf" must be in the other direction, and a little farther seaward; he might pass between the two.
He was getting used to his clumsy paddle; with it he kept his dory off as well as he could, but in a state of terrible anxiety, thinking his life might depend on what he should decide to do the next minute. He was still hesitating, when accident decided for him.
The skiff was headed to the wind, against which he continued to paddle, when suddenly a billow shot over a sunken projection of the ledge, smiting the end of the boat with a force that slung it half about in an instant.
Olly felt a small deluge of water dash over and drench him from behind. He was past thinking of his new clothes now; he thought of the dory. Even then it might have escaped capsizing if it had not met at the same instant a cross-wave, which tumbled aboard from the other side.
The two filled it so nearly that the water rushed cold across his knees; and he knew that nothing he could do would prevent the boat from sinking. Indeed, as the very next wave swept in, it settled on one side, and then slowly rolled over. To save himself, Olly sprang up, grasping first the uppermost rail, then clinging to the bottom of the overturned skiff, until another billow swept him off.
He was an accomplished swimmer, as I think I have said before; and now that skill stood him in good stead. In the first moment of his immersion he lost his bearings; but rising with a wave, he looked about him from its crest, and saw the little island not a hundred feet away.
He made for it at once, directing his course to a spot which the overleaping surge did not reach.
The waves were dashing all about the rock, to be sure; and to land safely upon it at any point would require not only vigilance, but good fortune.
I hardly know whether he was much frightened or not; he himself couldn't have told. He didn't stop for a moment to reason about the situation, but obeying the mere instinct of self-preservation, he swam to the ledge.
He was lucky enough to find a spot where it sloped gently into the sea. He swam in on a wave, and as it subsided, he clung to the rock.
The broken surface of the rock was covered with barnacles, which cut his hands; but he held on. They also scratched his knees through his tornclothing, as he climbed up to the smoother rocks above.
The slant to the water was such that he could not, in the darkness, judge of his elevation above the sea-level; nor could he determine, from that, whether he had been thrown upon "The Old Cow" or "The Calf."
Yet everything depended upon the answer to that question. If on the greater rock, he was comparatively safe; if on the smaller, his respite would be brief—he might expect the next tide to carry him off.
Groping about on the jagged summit, trying to identify the rock by its form, his foot plashed in a pool of water. He paused, startled by the thought that here was a means of deciding his fate.
No doubt, much sea-spray dashed upon the back even of "The Old Cow," in rough weather. But copious rains had succeeded the last gale; and so, if that little pool was on the large rock, the water it held could not be very salt. If on the back of "The Calf," it was the leavings of the last tide. He felt that his doom was in the taste of that water.
He hesitated, heaving a sigh of dread; then he stooped quickly and put his hand into the pool. He lifted the wet fingers to his lips, and immediately grew faint—the water was bitterly salt.
Still, after a little reflection, he would not give up all hope. The sea must have broken clear over "The Cow's" back, in the last storm; and the rain might have had little effect in freshening the contents of the basin. He thought of another test.
Barnacles live in the sea, or in receptacles of sea-water replenished at every tide. If he was upon the back of "The Old Cow," the pool would be free from them; if on "The Calf," there would be the usual incrustations about its edges.
Once more he put down his groping hand; and then he uttered a despairing wail.
The barnacles were there!
(To be continued.)
A Belated Fairy.A BELATED FAIRY.
T
he good lands! What's that!" excitedly cried frightened Aunt Deborah.
Aunt Deborah might well exclaim in surprise. For as she sat knitting quietly and humming a quaint old tune of long ago, one she had learned as a child——C-r-rash! bang! came a stone into the room, shivering the window-pane, just missing the swinging lamp in the hallway, making an ugly scar on the cabinet, and breaking into fragments a handsome vase. Then, as if satisfied with the mischief it had done, it rolled lazily across the floor, and finally stopped under the table, an inert, jagged bit of granite.
Aunt Deborah, as the stone pursued its reckless course, placed her hands over her head, and shrank back into her chair, a frightened and unwilling witness to the destruction of her property. It was quite distressing.
Besides the nervous shock, there was the broken window; there was the cabinet showing a great white dent that could not easily be removed; and there, too, was the vase she had kept so many long years, lying shattered and ruined before her eyes.
Aunt Deborah was one of the best and most kind-hearted of women; but—she was human, and the sudden havoc wrought by the missile exasperated as well as frightened her. She rushed to the window and opened it in time to see three or four boys scampering down the street as fast as their legs could carry them.
"Oh, you young scapegraces!" she cried. "If I could once lay hold on you, wouldn't I teach you a lesson!"
But the boys never stopped until they had disappeared around a friendly corner. Aunt Deborah was so overcome by the accident, and so intent upon watching the retreating boys to whom she desired to teach a lesson, that she did not at first notice a barefooted lad standing under the window on the pavement below, holding a battered old hat in his hand, and looking up at her with a scared face and tearful eyes.
"Please, Miss," said the boy tremulously.
"Oh! Who are you? Who threw that stone at my window?" called out Aunt Deborah, as she spied him.
"Please, Miss," pleaded the boy, fumbling nervously his torn hat, "I threw it, but I didn't mean to do it."
"Didn't mean to do it, eh?" replied Aunt Deborah, fiercely. "I suppose the stone picked itself up and pitched itself through my glass!"
"I was going to throw it down the street, but Bill Philper touched my arm, and it turned and hit your window," he explained.
There was an air of frankness and truth about the boy, and the fact that he had not run away like the others (whom, somehow, Aunt Deborah held chiefly responsible for the outrage), caused her to relent a little toward him.
"Come in here," she said, after eying him closely for a moment.
The lad hesitated; but summoning all his courage, he went up the steps, and soon stood in her presence.
"Do you see that" she said, pointing at the window—"and that"—(at the cabinet)—"and that?"—(at the broken vase)—"and that?"—(at the stone.) "Now, isn't that a fine performance?"
"I am very sorry," said the boy, the tears welling into his eyes again.
He looked ruefully about at the damaged articles, and glanced at the stone, wishing heartily that he had never seen it.
"Now, what's to be done about it?" asked she.
"I don't know, ma'am," said he, very ill at ease. "I will try to pay you for it."
"What can you pay, I should like to know?" she said, glancing at his patched coat and trousers and his torn hat.
"I sell papers," said he; "and I can pay you a little on it every week."
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Sam Wadley," answered the boy.
"Have you a father?"
"No, ma'am," replied Sam; "he's dead."
"Have you a mother?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What does she do?" continued Aunt Deborah.
"She sews, and I help her all I can, selling papers."
"How can you pay me anything then?"
There Sat Aunt Deborah Earnestly Knitting."THERE SAT AUNT DEBORAH EARNESTLY KNITTING." [SEE NEXT PAGE.]
"Please, ma'am, I'll tell Mother all about it, and she'll be willing for me to pay you all I make."
"Well, now, we'll see if you are a boy to keep his word," said Aunt Deborah.
"How much must I pay?" Sam inquired anxiously.
"Let me see." Aunt Deborah put on her spectacles and made a critical survey of the room. "Window—fifty cents; vase—one dollar—I wouldn't have had it broken for five!—That'll do—one dollar and a half. I shan't charge you for the dent in the furniture."
"I'll try to pay you something on it every week," said Sam. "There are some days when I don't make anything; but when I do, I'll save it for you."
"Very well," said Aunt Deborah; "you may go now."
He thanked her, and went slowly out, while Aunt Deborah began to pick up the fragments strewn over the floor.
"Oh, wait a moment!" she cried.
Sam came back.
"Take this stone out with you, and be careful what you do with it, next time," she said. "Bythe way, if you wish to keep out of trouble, you'd better not keep company with that Flipper boy—" Aunt Deborah had a rather poor memory for names—"if I had him, wouldn't I give him a lesson!"
She uttered the last sentence with such a relish, that Sam was glad enough to get away. He was afraid she might conclude to bestow upon him the salutary lesson which she had proposed to give "Flipper," as she called him.
Sam hurried home as fast as he could. His mother, a pale, delicate woman whose wan features and sunken eyes showed the effects of too hard work, heard his simple tale, wiped away his tears and encouraged him in his resolve to pay for the damage he had done.
From that day, Sam began to be very diligent, and to earn pennies in every honest way possible to him. And every week he carried some small amount to Aunt Deborah.
"That boy has some good in him," she said when he had brought his first installment. And though she grew more kind toward him every time he came, occasionally giving him a glass of milk, a sandwich or a cake, she rarely failed to warn him against the influence of that "Flipper" boy.
His young companions laughed at him for paying his money to Aunt Deborah, and called him a coward for not running away when they ran; but all they said did not turn him from his purpose.
One evening he went with a cheerful heart to pay his last installment.
As he passed the window of the sitting-room he glanced in. There sat Aunt Deborah, earnestly knitting. The lamplight fell upon her sober face and Sam wondered if she ever looked really smiling and pleasant. "It doesn't seem as though she would be so stiff with a fellow," he said to himself. Then, in response to her "Come in," he entered the room and handed her his money.
"I believe that is all, ma'am," said he.
"Yes, that pays the whole sum," said Aunt Deborah; "you have done well."
"I am still very sorry I have troubled you, and I hope you forgive me," he said.
"I do, with all my heart," said she earnestly.
"Thank you," said Sam, as he started out, picking his old hat from the floor, where he had placed it; on entering.
"Come back," said Aunt Deborah, "I've something more to say to you."
With a startled look he turned into the room.
Aunt Deborah went to the cabinet and unlocked it. She first took out a pair of new shoes, then half a dozen pairs of socks, some underclothing, two nice shirts, a neat woolen suit, and lastly a good felt hat.
"Sam," said she to the astonished lad, "I have taken your money, not because I wanted it, but because I wished to test you. I wished to see whether you really meant to pay me. That Flipper boy would never have done it, I am sure. You have done so well in bringing me your little savings that I have learned to like you very much. Now I wish to make you a present of these articles. In the pocket of this jacket you will find the money you have paid me. I wouldn't take a cent of it. It is yours. You must keep working and adding to it, so that you can soon help your mother more. Go to work now with a light heart, and grow up a true and an honest man. Tell your mother that I say she has a fine son."
In making this speech, Aunt Deborah's features relaxed into a pleasant smile; and Sam smiled too, and was so pleased that he could hardly utter his thanks.
"And mind you," continued she, suddenly changing the current of his thoughts, "don't associate with that Flipper boy!"
"Please, ma'am," said Sam, feeling a twinge of conscience that his former companion should bear so much of the blame, "you have been very kind to me, but Bill Philper didn't know the stone would turn as it did, and break your window."
"Then why did he run away?" inquired Aunt Deborah somewhat fiercely. "It's quite proper that you should try to excuse him, Sam; but I should like to teach him a good lesson?"
"You—you—have taught me a good lesson," said Sam, with a blushing face, "and I—I—thank you very much for it."
Aunt Deborah smiled benignly again, and warmly bidding Sam to come often to see her, she let him out at the door.
She felt very happy as Sam disappeared down the street, and he was very happy, as he hurried home with his great bundle, and told his mother all about it, which made that good woman very happy, too. So they were very happy all around.
And it all came about because Sam had stood up like a brave boy to confess his wrong, which is always manly; and had offered reparation for it, which is always right; and had gone forward, in spite of the taunts of his companions, denying himself pleasures and comforts in order to do that which he knew to be right, which is always heroic.
Timothy Timid, they say,Once traveled the loneliest way;For he traveled by nightLest he should take frightAt things he could see in the day.
Timothy Timid, they say,Once traveled the loneliest way;For he traveled by nightLest he should take frightAt things he could see in the day.
Boat-building is by no means one of the "lost arts," although in this age of steam and iron, the "good old days" of the ship-builders are a thing of the past. Of late years, however, there has been a marked increase in the trade, and although the work is confined principally to yachts and smaller craft, the steady growth of this branch of boat-building offers excellent inducements to any young man whose tastes lie in that direction.
I know of one boy at least, now sixteen years of age, who intends to fit himself during the next five or six years for the occupation; and his father, a prominent and highly successful naval architect, believes that there is a very promising future for American boat-building.
I take it for granted that the future boat-builder has, as a boy, been fond of boats. He has not only taken advantage of the rivers and ponds near his house, has navigated them in scow, in row-boat or in sail-boat, but I will suppose that, from the time he has been the owner of a jack-knife, he has been a constructor of toy boats. And, as he has grown older and become the possessor of a tool-chest, or, at least, of a gauge, a mallet, a saw, a plane, and a good knife, he has wrought out miniature cutters and schooners, possibly a square-rigged ship, all of which have been much admired by his young companions. If it has been his object in life to become a boat-builder, he could not have been better employed during the hours that have not been taken up with school duties.
In every business and profession there is some one object above all others sought after, upon which success may be said to depend. The orator endeavors to arouse our enthusiasm, the poet appeals to our sentiments, the lawyer to our reason, the clergyman to our conscience. The genius of the boat-builder lies in the one word "form." The one thing more than all others for which he aims to have a reputation is the ability to give a good shape to the mass of wood or iron coming from his hands, whether it be a man-of-war or a sail-boat. And so it was good for the boy that he made boats and models of boats. He was getting, as the naval architect would say, "form impressed upon his brain." It may have been, it probably was, a bad form, an incorrect form, but it was something from which to start. At all events, the boy has formed a speaking acquaintance with the occupation he is about to enter.
I shall assume that at the age of sixteen he has finished his school studies, has a good knowledge of arithmetic and algebra, and has gone through seven books in Euclid, with special reference to being proficient in the fourth and seventh books. Two years before this, we will suppose, he has expressed a desire to be a boat-builder. He has made a model of some kind of a boat, and he has, as occasions have permitted, visited such ship-ards as could be found in his vicinity, and carefully watched the men while they were at work. At last, at the age of sixteen, he enters the office of a thoroughly competent naval architect, who either is or has been a practical ship-builder. The naval architect stands in the same relation to ship-building that the architect of houses does to house-building, with this difference,—not only does he make the plan, but very often he executes it as well.
The beginner will find his quarters very pleasant. The room will be light, cheerful, and quiet. On the walls he will probably see pictures of famous yachts or other vessels; there will be a small library of technical books of reference, which he will have occasion to consult later on; there may be another student with whom he will chat now and then during the day; or his teacher, while they are at work, may give him some stirring bits of yachting reminiscence. I only mention this to show that there is none of that strict discipline to which theboy has been accustomed at school. The fact is, it is not needed, for, to use the language of a well-known ship-builder, "it is a fascinating occupation; it grows upon you; and the longer you are in it, the better you like it, that is, of course, if you like boats and everything pertaining to them."
The boy will at first be given the drawing of a midship, or central, section of a boat, and required to put a body to it, to give it a bow, a stern—in short, to give to the boat its form. After working in that way for a while, he will make more extended plans, until he is able to make the full design of a vessel. He will remain with this naval architect for the space of a year; and, by that time, he should have acquired a very good knowledge of form.
It is a fact that boys in England who choose this occupation for their life-work can more easily obtain a thorough education in it than can be had by youths in our country. In England, and in France, Denmark, and other European countries, there are schools where special technical instruction is given, and many of these are close to large ship-yards, where the practical work of ship-building can constantly be seen. The question now arises, therefore, shall the boy go to England and get the benefit of this instruction? It is by no means necessary that he should go there; but if he has begun to learn while young, he can spare the time, and his parents know whether they can spare the money which such a journey and residence would entail. If he decides to go, he will remain away for three or four years.
Suppose, however, it is decided that he can not go abroad. It has cost him for the year's instruction he has received from the naval architect, with whom he had been studying, about $1000; or, he has given his services as a draughtsman, paid $500, and during the twelve months has "picked up" such knowledge as he could without receiving any regular instruction. His case of drawing-instruments has cost him from $50 to $250, depending on the number of instruments, the manner in which they are finished and the style of the case in which they are kept. Let us assume that he has been a full-pay pupil. His time is, of course, his own. It would be a good plan, after he has acquired some theoretical knowledge of the business, to regularly visit a shipyard and there begin to do the practical work which falls to the lot of the boat-builder; studying in the office one-half the time and working in the yard the other half. Now you will see, as I observed before, that boat-building is a profession and a trade. It is possible to be simply a naval architect and only make designs for boats, but it is not advisable; it is better, by all means, to have the practical knowledge which is obtained working among the men in the shipyard.
They do not now apprentice boys as they did some fifty years ago. I have before me an indenture paper of a ship-builder (now alive) dated in the year 1825. In it he promises "not to waste his master's goods; not to contract matrimony within the said term; not to play at cards, dice, or any unlawful game, nor frequent ale-houses, dance-houses, or play-houses, but in all things behave himself as a faithful apprentice ought to do during the said term." There are no such rules laid down nowadays. Perhaps all the boys are so good that none are needed. All that needs to be done now is for the boy to make his verbal agreement with the owner of the shipyard, and go to work.
And now a word or two as to this practical work which will cover the second method of learning boat-building as mentioned at the beginning of my paper. The boy who has not had the benefit of any previous training with an instructor may have to commence with turning the grindstone. The tools used in boat-building are in such constant use that they grow dull very soon, and the grindstone is kept going almost the whole of the day. Besides, the work being very heavy, the men generally work in couples, so that the learner when he is not turning the grindstone is assisting in lifting the heavy timbers that have to be used. The first tool he is generally permitted to use is the saw; then he begins to use the adze; then he is trusted with the ax, and helps get out the planking and timber for the frame of the ship.
Then comes the difficult part of construction. The apprentice must have learned all this work with the tools (of which I am only able to make a passing mention), before he comes to the constructive part; that is, the part that our pupil has been studying with the naval architect.
Before the building of the ship is commenced, a small wooden model is made, to give the owner and the builder an idea of what she is going to look like.
"A little model the master wrought,Which should be to the larger planWhat the child is to the man."
"A little model the master wrought,Which should be to the larger planWhat the child is to the man."
Doubtless, you have seen such models. They are built sometimes on a scale of a quarter of an inch to a foot; they are made of pieces of cedar and pine wood, placed alternately, and show the shape and whole arrangement of one side of the vessel. This model is glued, on its flat side, to a piece of board, for greater convenience in examination.
From this model, "life-size" plans of the ship are made with chalk on the floor of a long, wide room, like a big garret, which is used especially forthis purpose. It will not be necessary to enter into a technical description of these plans. There are three of them,—the sheer plan, the half-breadth plan, and the body plan. They show the position of the different planks to be used in the construction of the ship. To gain a rough idea of these plans, take a cucumber, decide which you will call the bottom and which the top, and cut it in the middle, lengthwise, from end to end. Look into its interior and fancy that it is covered with lines, both horizontal and vertical—and that will give you a very rough idea of the sheer plan. By laying the cucumber on its side and cutting it lengthwise, you will have a notion of the half-breadth plan. A division in the middle (cutting it in two parts, so that you can see the whole circumference) may suggest to you the body plan. This can not be made very clear, not even with drawings, because it is the most technical part of the work; but its object is apparent. From these three plans, taken from different points of view, the boat-builder can locate the position of every piece of plank in his vessel. So true is this that I understand it is possible to number the planks of a ship, and send them off to some distant country, where a ship-builder can construct the vessel without ever having seen the design.
A great deal of calculation and figuring enters into this part of the work, but much of it has been made easy by the aid of a man (now dead, I believe) named Simpson, the author of what are called "Simpson's Rules." These rules are incorporated in small pocket handbooks which contain, in addition, a large number of tables, rules, and formulas pertaining to naval architecture. The most popular handbook of this character in England is said to be "Mackrow's Naval Architect and Ship-builders' Assistant," and in our country, "Haswell's Engineers' Pocket-book of Tables." These, however, are only aids in making calculations, and are very much like the interest tables you have probably seen, which save the trouble of going through the figuring in detail. There are a great many books which will be interesting and valuable to the young ship-builder. To give you some idea of their character, I copy the following from the table of contents of a recent standard work: "The displacement and buoyancy of ships;" "The oscillations of ships in still water;" "The oscillation of ships among waves;" "Methods of observing the rolling and pitching motions of ships;" "The structural strength of ships," etc.
These titles may not at present indicate a very promising literary feast, but when the young boat-builder has mastered the rudiments of the technical part of the profession, he will read and reread such productions with as much pleasure as he now peruses the stories inSt. Nicholas.
I have not entered into the details of iron ship-building, the practical part of which the boy will learn in the same yard in which he learns to work in wood; for it is presumed that he is going to some large yard to obtain his instruction. Indeed, in this occupation it is the practical part that is the easiest and the most interesting to young learners. They are apt to slight the theoretical knowledge required and to long to spend their time in the shipyard with real tools, doing real work, for a real ship. With the boy who, through force of circumstances, has to enter on the life of a journeyman and earn wages, there is more excuse for hastening to that branch of the work than for the lad who is better situated in life. The journeyman will learn construction last and from his master. Under the plan I have suggested, the other lad will learn the general principles of construction before he goes to the shipyard; at least he will not have to commence with turning the grindstone. His first few visits will be confined to watching the men at their work; then he will gradually make himself familiar with the use of the different tools.
The journeyman will receive at first $1 a day; during the second year, $1.50 a day, and be gradually advanced until he receives the regular wages, at the present time from $3 to $3.25 a day. It would not be advisable to make any estimate of the profits of boat-building as a business, for, no matter what they are now, by the time my young reader has started a shipyard, they may be entirely different, owing to the increase or decrease in the cost of material and labor.