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HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, AUGUST 2, 1881 ***




Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

* * * * *

VOL. II. - NO. 92. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, August 2, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, In Advance.

* * * * *




[Illustration: TIM SHOWS THE MARKS OF CAPTAIN BABBIGE'S WHIP.]

TIM AND TIP;

OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY AND A DOG.

BY JAMES OTIS, AUTHOR OF "TOBY TYLER," ETC.

CHAPTER I.

TIM'S FLIGHT.

"'STRAYED. - A boy from the home of the subscriber; and any one
returning him will be suitably rewarded. Said boy is about eleven
years old, has short light hair, a turned-up nose, and face very
much tanned. When last seen he had on a suit of blue clothes
considerably faded and worn, and had with him a yellow dog with a
long body, short legs, and a short tail. The boy answers to the
name of Tim, and the dog to that of Tip. Any information regarding
the runaway will be liberally paid for. Address Captain Rufus
Babbige, in care of this office.'

"There, Tim," said the man who had been reading the advertisement aloud,
from the columns of a country newspaper, to a very small boy with large
dark eyes and a very pale thin face, who was listening intently, "you
see that Rufe Babbige don't intend to let you get away as easy as you
thought, for he's willing to pay something for any news of you, though
I'll be bound he won't part with very much money."

"But he always said he wished I'd have sense enough to die," replied the
boy, trying to choke down the sob of terror which would rise in his
throat at the idea of being thus advertised for as though he were a
thief; "an' it don't seem to me that there's been a day but what he or
Aunt Betsey have given me a whippin' since my mother died. Look here."

As he spoke, the boy pushed the ragged coat sleeves up from his thin
arms, showing long discolorations which had evidently been made by a
whip-lash.

"It's all over me just like that, an' I don't see what he wants Tip an'
me back for, 'cause he's always said he wished he was rid of us."

"It's a shame to treat a boy that always behaved himself as well as you
did like that," said the proprietor of the country store into which the
runaway had entered to purchase a couple of crackers, "an' I don't see
what the folks up in Selman were thinking of to let him abuse you so. I
don't approve of boys running away, but in your case I think the only
fault is that you didn't run sooner."

"But now that he's put it in the paper, he'll be sure to catch me, for
I'm only six miles from Selman;" and the big tears began to roll down
the boy's cheeks, marking their course by the clean lines they left.

"Folks that know him wouldn't any more think of sending you back to him
than they would of cutting your hand off," said the man, as he shook his
fist savagely in the direction Captain Babbige was supposed to be.

"But what does he want us for, when he's always wanted to get rid of
us?" persisted the boy, stooping down to caress a very queer-looking
dog, whose body seemed to have been stretched out, and whose legs looked
as if they had been worn down by much running.

"I reckon I can tell you why he wants you, Tim, and when you get older
it'll do you some good to know it. He's your uncle, an' your legal
guardian, an' I've been told by them that knows that he's got quite a
sum of money belonging to you, which would all be his if you should die.
Some day, when you are of age, you come back here and claim it; but
don't you let him get hold of you again now."

"Indeed I won't," replied the boy, trembling at the thought of the fate
which would be his if he should be so unlucky as to fall into the
Captain's clutches again.

"Run away from here so far that he can't find you, and when you get a
place where you can go to work, be as good a boy as I've always known
you to be, and you'll come out of this trouble by being a good, honest
man. Here are a couple of dollars for you, and I only wish it was in my
power to take you home with me and keep you. But Rufe Babbige would soon
break that up, and the best thing you can do is to trudge off as fast as
possible."

The boy tried to thank the kind-hearted shop-keeper, but the tears were
coming so fast, and the big sob in his throat had got so far up toward
his mouth, that he could not utter a word.

Just then a customer entered the store, and he hurried away at once,
closely followed by the odd-looking dog, which displayed, in his way,
quite as much affection for the boy as the boy did for him.

Down through the one street of the little village, out on to the country
road, the two walked as if they were already foot-sore and weary; and
when at last they came to where the road wound along through the woods,
Tim sat down on a rock to rest, while Tip huddled up close beside him.

"It's kinder too bad to be called such names in the papers, ain't it,
Tip?" said the boy, speaking for the first time since they had left the
store, "an' I think he ought to be 'shamed of hisself to talk so about
you. It ain't your fault if your legs is short, an' your tail gone;
you're worth more'n all the dogs in this world, an' you're all that I've
got to love me, an' we'll never go back to let Captain Babbige beat us
any more, will we, Tip?"

Just then the dog, which had been chewing some blades of grass, got one
in his nose - a mishap which caused him to sneeze, and shake his head
vigorously, while Tim, who firmly believed that Tip understood all that
was said to him, looked upon this as a token that the dog agreed with
him, and he continued, earnestly:

"I know just as well as you do, Tip, that it wasn't right for us to run
away, but how could we help it? They kept tellin' us we was in the way,
an' they wished we'd die, an' everybody that was kind to us told us we'd
better do just what we have done. Now we're off in the big, wide world
all by ourselves, Tip, an' whether the Cap'en catches us or not, you'll
love me just as much as you always have, won't you? for you're all I've
got that cares for me."

The dog was still busy trying to settle the question about the grass in
his nose, and after that was decided in his favor, he looked up at his
young master, and barked several times, as if expressing his opinion
about something, which the boy interpreted as advice.

"Well, I s'pose you're right, Tip, we ought to go along; for if we
don't, we sha'n't even find a barn to sleep in, as we did last night."

As he spoke, Tim arose wearily from his hard seat, his legs stiff from
long walking, and trudged along, while Tip followed as closely at his
heels as it was possible for him to get.

It was nearly sunset, and as he walked on it seemed as if he was getting
farther into the woods, instead of coming out at some place where he
could find shelter for the night.

"Looks kinder lonesome, don't it, Tip?" and Tim choked back a sob as he
spoke. "I don't want to sleep out here in the woods if I can help it;
but it wouldn't be half so bad as if one of us was alone, would it?"

In this fashion, keeping up a sort of a conversation, if it could be
called such, where one did all the talking, and the other wagged his
short stump of a tail, the two journeyed on until it was almost too dark
to distinguish objects a short distance ahead.

Only once since the store-keeper had given him the two dollars had Tim
thought of what he had said regarding Captain Babbige's having money of
his, and then he put it out of his mind as an impossibility, for surely
he would not have scolded so about what the boy and his dog ate if Tim
had any property of his own.

"I guess we shall have to sleep in the woods, Tip," said Tim,
disconsolately, as the trees appeared to be less thick together, but yet
no signs of a house; "but it won't be much worse than what Aunt Betsey
calls a bed good enough for boys like me."

Just at that instant Tim was frightened out of nearly all his senses,
and Tip was started on a barking match that threatened to shake his poor
apology of a tail from his thin body, by hearing a shrill voice cry out:

"Look here, feller, where are you goin' this time of night?"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




MOTHER MICHEL AND HER CAT.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY T. B. ALDRICH. DRAMATIZED BY O. G. L.


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

The Countess.
Mother Michel, _her maid and companion_.
Father Lustucru, _steward to the Countess_.
An Apothecary, _friend of Lustucru_.
Moumouth, _the Countess's pet, and Michel's charge_.


COSTUMES.

_Countess_. - A yellow silk petticoat, with gay over-dress. Hair
high and powdered. Jewels and fan.

_Michel_. - Black silk. Long silk mittens. A cap with lace strings.
Apron, reticule, and knitting or fancy work.

_Lustucru_. - French small-clothes, dark colored. Hair in queue, and
powdered. Also a cowl for Act II.

_Apothecary_. - Dark cowl.


MUSIC.

ACT I.

_Duo_. - Countess and Michel. "For a maid there is no denying."
Cavatina (Zerlina), _Fra Diavolo_. Auber.

_Solo_. - Michel. "Vagabond." J. T. Molloy.

_Duo_. - Countess and Michel. "Silence" quartette.

ACT II.

_Duo_. - Lustucru and Michel. "A dairy-maid am I." No. 21,
_Haymakers_. George Root.

_Solo_. - Michel. "I can not dance to-night." Old ballad. Music by
Mrs. T. H. Bayly.

_Solo_. - Lustucru. "Lucy Long."

_Duo_. - Lustucru and Michel. "Lucy Long."

ACT III.

_Duo_. - Lustucru and Apothecary. Conspirators' chorus from _La
Fille de Madame Augot_.

_Duo_. - Lustucru and Michel. "A dairy-maid am I." No. 21,
_Haymakers_. George Root.

ACT IV.

_Solo_. - Lustucru. "Then you'll remember me." Balfe.

_Solo_. - Michel. "Serenade to Ida." Weingand.

_Duo_. - Michel and Lustucru. "On yonder rock reclining." _Fra
Diavolo_. Auber.

* * * * *


ACT I.

SCENE. - _Discovers_ Mother Michel _and_ Countess. Mother Michel _is
serving_ Countess, _sitting before a mirror, admiring her hair_.

_Duo_. - _Mother Michel_ and _Countess_.

Tune - "For a maid there is no denying." Cavatina (Zerlina), _Fra
Diavolo_. Auber.

_Countess_. Now, Mother Michel, how does my hair thus suit you?

_Michel_. Beautiful, beautiful, Countess. Of course just like you.

_Countess_ } _together_ { Oh no, oh no; oh no, no, _etc._

_Michel_ } _together_ { Oh yes, oh yes; oh yes, yes, yes, _etc._

_Countess_ (_at end of song_). Ah, Mother Michel, I fear you are not
sincere. To be sure, my hair is a miracle of handiwork, but
beautiful! - Ah, Michel!

_Michel_. Nay, your grace, my words are but too insignificant to express
my admiration.

_Countess_. Well, well, never mind. Listening to flattery may strengthen
my mind for hearing the truth; therefore I will let your speeches pass.
But have you seen Moumouth this morning?

_Michel_. Ah, yes, madame. Chancing but now to pass the cellar stair, I
beheld that sagacious animal watching, with intensest interest and
quivering tail, a rat hole.

_Countess_ (_rapturously_). Angelic creature!

_Michel_. And I disturbed him not, only called Father Lustucru's
attention to him.

_Countess_. Ah, Michel, that is a great grief to me. Moumouth objects to
Father Lustucru, my steward, who has always been so kind to him.

_Michel_. Yes, alas! never did I see one of your pets so prejudiced
against one of your household.

[Illustration]

_Countess_. Do not, I pray, refer to my other pets. And yet there is a
consolation in speaking of their charms. My beautiful green parrot -

_Michel_ (_sadly_). A victim to cold parsnips.

_Countess_ (_weeping_). I can never forget how in his dying agonies he
looked reproachfully in my face, and with his usual quickness at
catching up words, cried, "To the mischief with your cold parsnips!" I
can never forget. [_Overcome._]

_Michel_. Yes, yes, Pompo would always say naughty words. And then there
was Ponto, the ape -

_Countess_. Forbear! forbear! My anguish at finding him cold and drowned
overcomes my heart. [_Weeps._]

_Michel_. Cheer up, madame; Moumouth still lives, and is happy.

_Countess_. My constant fear is that he'll die or be killed.

_Michel_. Never fear. How well I remember the day we found him, and your
noble conduct at that time!

_Countess_. Flattery again, Michel.

_Michel_ (_warmly_). I can not flatter when I speak of that noble act. I
have immortalized it in verse. Will you listen if I repeat it?

_Countess_. Proceed. For Moumouth's sake I will listen.

_Solo_. - _Michel_.

Tune - "Vagabond." James T. Molloy. (From second verse.)

Dirty, ragged, forlorn,
Saucepan attached to his tail,
Driven by many a stone,
He loudly his fate did bewail.
Cruelly and roughly
The boys around him crowd,
Shouting and laughing,
With their voices loud.
Pelted with mud,
The wretched creature stood
Appealing for help
From the boys rude.
Oh, how can one,
Boasting of any heart,
In such cruel sport
Ever take a part?
But mercy kind
Moved you to cry,
"Catch me you Cat
If you can; all may try."
Oh, what a chase
Therewith begun!
Every boy broke into a run;
They chased him o'er garden-wall,
By alley, store, and stall.
They snatch him, pull him, grab him, nab him. [_Very fast._]
Oh, then to your grace
They brought him for francs five,
Bearing him proudly aloft,
A great deal more dead than alive.

_Countess_ (_who has listened eagerly_). Bravo! bravo! Michel; it is a
beautiful account of my Cat's rescue. I shall have it printed in gold
letters on glazed paper.

_Michel_. Oh, thanks. Now you flatter _me_. But that reminds me. Father
Lustucru gave me a letter for you this morning, which I forgot to
deliver. [_Presents letter on a salver._]

_Countess_. A letter? Ah! 'tis from my sister. [_She reads._] Oh,
Heaven! my sister is ill - has broken her leg - and writes to me to come
to her. Michel, I faint. [_She faints._]

[Illustration]

_Michel_ (_fanning violently_). Madame, madame, for your sister's sake,
revive. [_Applies salts._]

_Countess_ (_recovering_). Now I am better; but, oh, Michel, to be thus
torn from my home and my Cat, to rush to the suffering, is indeed sad.

_Michel_. I have no words with which to express my sympathy.

_Countess_. I must go immediately. Go, Michel, bring my bonnet and
shawl, and order the carriage. [_Exit_ Michel _and returns, bringing
shawl and bonnet_.] And now, Michel, go bring Moumouth, my Cat, my
charmer; let me once more embrace him.

_Michel_. Ah, madame, if you could spare him this sad parting! Think of
his delicate nerves, his sensitive heart, and spare him this hour of
agony. Believe me, he shall be well attended to for your sake, my loved
mistress.

[_They both weep violently._]

_Countess_. Yes, yes, I see the wisdom of this sacrifice, dear Michel.
Moumouth shall not be broken-hearted by an anguished parting. Only care
for him tenderly. And now, farewell.

_Michel_ (_overcome_). Farewell, most beloved mistress, most beautiful
Countess -

_Countess_. Hush; you will disturb Moumouth's watch of the rat hole, and
bring him to witness this sad farewell. [_Softly._]

_Duo_. - _Countess_ and _Michel_.

Tune - "Silence."

Silence, silence - softly speak and sigh.
Silence, silence - softly speak and sigh.
_There_ doth our Moumouth watching lie;
_There_ (_pointing the other way_) must we go without good-by.
Silence, silence - disturb him not, I pray.
Softly tread, softly tread, with footsteps soft and low.
[_Repeat._]
Hush! hush! [_Repeat._]

END OF ACT I.


ACT II.

SCENE. - Lustucru's _room_. Lustucru _discovered sitting at table in
a happy mood_.

_Lustucru_. At last! at last! I have not waited in vain; fortune has
smiled upon my efforts, and rewarded my patience. The Countess has gone
to her sister, and only stupid Mother Michel remains. No one saw me
seize that wretched Cat last night and put him in the basket; no one saw
my joyful dance around my treasure, and no one saw my look of bliss when
I flung the Cat from the high bridge down, down into the great river.
Mother Michel receive five hundred francs in reward for care of that
Cat! I think not. Wretched, ungrateful beast! I am at rest now, I
breathe freely: Moumouth is dead; revenge is mine. Ah! here comes
Michel, looking, no doubt, for our Cat.

[_Enter_ Michel, _hastily_.]

[Illustration]

_Michel_. Good-morning, Lustucru; but have you seen Moumouth this
morning? In vain have I searched for him.

_Lustucru_. Does your Cat ever come where I am? You know he hates me.

_Michel_. Alas! where is he? I left him last night by the parlor fire,
and now I can not find him.

_Lustucru_ (_slyly_). Can he be lost?

_Michel_. Ah, no, no! it is impossible. He is somewhere in the house.

_Lustucru_. He ought to be found. [_With feigned anxiety._] He ought to
be searched for this instant. Moumouth is a precious animal, whose value
makes it well worth the search. Let us search for him.

[_They proceed to look under furniture and in corners_, Lustucru
_chuckling and dancing whenever_ Michel's _back is turned_.]

[Illustration]

_Michel_. Alas! I left him only an instant.

_Lustucru_. I begin to believe that he is lost. It is a great misfortune
for you. The Countess - what will she say when she returns? She is
capable of turning you out of doors.

_Michel_ (_indignant_). Turn me out of doors! Father Lustucru, do you
know of whom you are speaking?

_Lustucru_ (_politely_). Certainly, madame. To Mother Michel - the Cat
lover - and loser.

_Duo_. - _Lustucru_ and _Michel_.

Tune - "A dairy-maid am I." No. 21, _Haymakers_. George Root.

_Michel_.

Mother Michel am I,
Maid to her Grace;
And I'll have you to know
I mean to keep my place.

_Lustucru_.

Father Lustucru am I,
Steward to her Grace;
And I'll have you to know
I mean to keep my place.

_Michel_.

Oh! will you be quiet,
You hateful old codger!

_Lustucru_.

Oh! will _you_ be quiet,
Cat loser, and dodger!

_Michel_. } _together_ {

_Lustucru_. } _together_ {

Oh, in my life I ne'er saw
Such a bother - oh, bother, oh, bother!

_Michel_. } _together_ { Mother Michel am I, _etc._

_Lustucru_. } _together_ { Father Lustucru am I, _etc._

_Lustucru_ (_at end of song_). Madame, do not be discouraged -

_Michel_. Oh, don't speak to me - don't, don't, I pray of you. [_Weeps
violently._]

[Illustration]

_Solo_. - _Mother Michel_.

Tune - "I can not dance to-night." Mrs. T. H. Bayly.

Oh, who will bring him back to me?
Oh, who will bring me joy once more?
Who will set my heart at rest,
And Moumouth dear restore?
It makes my tears so doleful
As I think upon his charms -
Oh, who will bring him back to me,
Restore him to these arms?
[_Repeat first verse._]

_Lustucru_ (_as her song ends, during which he has been chuckling_).
Mother Michel, I do bethink me, I dreamed of Moumouth last night.

_Michel_ (_groaning_). Alas! alas! how did he look?

_Lustucru_. In good sooth, pale and sad, as if he were not well.
[_Groans also._]

_Michel_. Oh. Lustucru, even _you_ feel his loss, although he never
loved you. I can forgive you everything, when I hear that groan of
anguish. Where did you dream Moumouth was?

_Lustucru_. He seemed to be in the garden, under the lilac bushes, his
favorite resort.

_Michel_. I will go and look there. Oh, Lustucru, this anguish!

[_Exit_ Michel. Lustucru _dances, singing_.]

_Solo_. - _Lustucru_.

Tune - "Lucy Long."

Oh, Moumouth dear, my darling,
I hope you're nicely drowned,
And never more a-kicking
By Michel will be found.
Tra la! la! la! la! _etc._
[_Repeat verse as refrain._]

[_Enter_ Michel. Lustucru _suddenly stops, and becomes doleful_.]

_Lustucru_. Was he there? Dear Mother Michel, _was_ our charming
Moumouth _there_?

_Michel_. Oh no! no! no! What shall I do!

_Lustucru_. Have you looked in the store-room? I imagined I heard a
meowing just now as I passed by the door.

_Michel_. No, but I will go look. Oh, Lustucru, I forgive you
everything, you are so kind. Oh, my Cat, Moumouth!

[_Exit, and is heard calling in the distance._ Lustucru _returns to
his dance_.]

_Solo_. - _Lustucru_.

Tune - "Lucy Long."

Call, my charming Michel,
Call till you are hoarse;
You will not find your Moumouth,
For he is dead, of course.

[_Enter_ Michel, _mournfully_. Lustucru _sober again_.]

_Lustucru_. Alas! my friend, you have not found him?

_Michel_. No, no. Moumouth, Moumouth, you break my heart. Come to my
arms.

_Lustucru_ (_with hidden malice_).

Oh, Mother Michel,
Your cat is not lost;
He's up in the garret
A-hunting the mice
With his little straw gun
And sabre of wood.

[Illustration]

_Michel_ (_eagerly_). He is in the garret? I hasten there on wings of
love. Moumouth! pussy! [_Exit, calling as before._]

_Lustucru_. What a cat-astrophe, and what fe-elin' she has! Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London, miller's son, you are all excelled by this
excellent woman, whose love for her Cat only exceeds her love for - five
hundred francs that she shall not get. Ah! I have a heart for any -

_Michel_ (_heard without, shouting_). Joy! he is found, my charming
Moumouth! my Cat! my friend! Joy!

[_Enter with_ Moumouth _in her arms_.]

_Lustucru_ (_who has stepped back, thunder-struck_). Found!

_Michel_. Yes, yes. Give me joy, Lustucru. I could dance for joy.

_Duo_. - _Lustucru_ and _Michel_.

Tune - "Lucy Long."

_Michel_ (_capering_).

Oh dear, I am so joyful,
I can not help but dance.

_Lustucru_.

I give joy, oh, Michel,
For this most happy (?) chance.

_Michel_.

I'm so glad he's living,

_Lustucru_ (_viciously_).

The darling little pet.

_Michel_.

The joy of my heart.

_Lustucru_ (_aside_).

I'll have my revenge yet.

[_Repeat together the first two verses._]

[_Curtain falls on Act II._]


ACT III.

SCENE. - Lustucru's _room. Curtains at back, parting in centre.
Table in back, on which is a large plate and spoon.
Music - Conspirators' chorus from "La Fille de Madame Augot." Enter
to the introduction, slowly_, Lustucru _and_ Apothecary, _attired
in mysterious black cowls_.

_Duo_. - _Lustucru_ and _Apothecary_.

Tune - "Conspirators' chorus." _La Fille de Madame Augot_.

When one's conspiring he must not fear
To put to death his foes so drear.
Then this little hash we will gently mix,
And put an end to Moumouth's little tricks.
Hush! ah, hush! lest Michel hear.
Hark! ah, hark! Doth a step draw near?
Then softly tread, then softly tread,
And we will gently mix
A sweet little hash, a sweet little hash,
And put an end to Moumouth's little tricks.
Then boldly rouse, and lead the way!
Then boldly rouse, and lead the way!
Oh!

[Illustration]

_Apothecary_ (_tragically_). And now, Lustucru, mix it well.

_Lustucru_ (_mixing hash in plate gloomily_). Hand me yonder phial, and
quickly too.

_Apothecary_ (_handing bottle_). 'Tis done.

_Lustucru_ (_holding up plate_). 'Tis done. Revenge is mine!

[_Both return to duo as before._]

Hush! ah, hush! a step draws near.
Hush! ah, hush! lest Michel hear, _etc._, _etc._

[_At end_ Apothecary _goes out mysteriously_.]

_Lustucru_. At last, dear Moumouth, I have you. Thou wast never known to
refuse so sweet a hash. Why, 'tis charming. [_Sniffing it
sarcastically._] But yesterday that old fool Michel didst say thou hadst
lost appetite. Blessed words! holy inspiration! from them I obtained the
idea.

[Michel _heard without_: "Moumouth! Moumouth!"]

_Michel_ (_entering_). Ah! Lustucru, what shall I do? Moumouth will not
eat his breakfast. All appetite is fled. He is breaking his heart for
the Countess. Alas! what shall I do?

_Lustucru_. I heard your complaint last night, dear Mother Michel, and I
have mixed a most appetizing hash. It is for our charming Moumouth.

[Illustration]

_Michel_ (_gratefully_). Lustucru, you are a miracle of goodness. I have
it in my heart to embrace you. I shall bless you always.


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