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HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, FEB 8, 1881 ***




Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]

* * * * *

VOL. II. - NO. 67. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, February 8, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *




[Illustration: ATTACKED IN THE PASS. - DRAWN BY FRENZENY.]

MUFFLED.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.


"Rube, me boy, what's the name of this?" exclaimed Pat Linihan, as the
last wagon of the mining outfit was hauled into position, and the
grizzled veteran he spoke to was dragging the harness from his favorite
span of mules.

"The name of it? Do you mean this hollow we've pulled up in?"

"Dade an' I do, thin. Ye've put a name of some kind to ivery rock an'
bush we've seen the day."

"Well, then, mebbe it's the Chico Valley. It's a place I'll be glad to
git out of with all the hair on my head."

"It's a swate spot, for all that. Is it near here thim Wallopy red-skins
lives that makes it a bad boordin'-house for white min?"

"Yes, this is just the place. But there isn't many of 'em, and we didn't
send 'em word we was comin'. Mebbe we'll find our way through the pass
before they scent us. They're venomous, they are. Worst kind."

The two mules had been standing as if they were listening to him, but
now, as old Rube cast them loose, the off mule suddenly threw up his
heels and set out at a sharp trot into the grass, while his mate
stretched his long neck forward in a sonorous bray.

"That'll do, Gov'nor," remarked Rube. "We all know you kin do it. You
and the Senator had better jest feed yer level best while yer chance is
good. Mebbe you'll be an Indian's mule yet, before you die."

"Saints preserve thim, thin. It's foine mules they are," said Pat, very
soberly. "Misther Adams, was ye hearin' the charakther he gave the place
we're in?"

"Is there any danger, Rube? - any real danger?"

"Not if we can find our way through the pass, Charlie. It's more like
the neck of a bottle than anything else. Hope they haven't corked it up
with rocks for us."

A tall, slightly built boy was Charlie Adams, and his bright blue eyes
were wide open, with a look in which there was more fun and love of
adventure than fear of anything - even of Hualapais[1] Indians.

He had been staring around the broad level valley while the miners were
going into camp, and it did seem as if he had never looked upon anything
more beautiful. The grass was so luxuriant and green; the scattered
groves had been set down exactly in the right places; the mountains
arose so grandly on every side; surely there could not have been
imagined a prettier picture in a more wonderful frame. He said so to
Rube Sarrow, but all the reply he got from the grim old wagon-master
was,

"Ye-es, and the red-skins mean to keep it. Thar's been more than one
outfit wiped out a-tryin' to squeeze through the Union Pass."

The wagons of the train were drawn up in two rows, about fifty yards
apart, the light "ambulance," from which Rube had unhitched the Governor
and the Senator, was pulled across one of the open spaces at the end,
and a brisk fire had been started at the other. The ground so inclosed
contained room enough to "corral" all the mules and horses of the train
in case of an attack, and the members of that exploring party were
likely to be able to defend such a fort against any ordinary band of red
men.

Not a sign of the presence of Indians in the neighborhood had yet been
discovered, and before the middle of the afternoon the scouts sent out
came in with a couple of fat deer.

"That looks well," growled old Rube. "The valley hasn't been hunted out
lately. Mebbe we'll git through all right."

The animals were watched pretty carefully, nevertheless, and they all
had a good long rest and time to feed.

"They'd betther make the best of it," said Pat Linihan to Charlie Adams.
"It's a long pull and a hard one they've got before thim. Wud thim
red-skins take the skelp of a mule, do ye s'pose?"

"They'd give more for yours, Pat. They'd risk almost anything for hair
as red as you have. Light their pipes, you know."

"That's more'n I kin do wid it mesilf. But thim ambulance mules, now.
Luk at the ears of thim. Did yez iver see the loike on any human bein'
before?"

The Governor and the Senator were mules of the largest and ungainliest
type, and they seemed to remember enough of what Rube had said about
Indians to keep them pretty close to the camp all the evening. None of
the others were permitted to stray to any great distance, and about
midnight they were all silently collected.

The men had taken the whole matter as quietly as had their four-footed
servants, eating and sleeping as if there were no Indians in the world,
or at least in the neighborhood of the Hualapais Mountains and the Union
Pass.

All the men, perhaps; but Charlie Adams was not a man yet, and the young
blood was tingling through his veins at the thought of actual danger and
an attack from Indians. There was no need to wake him up or call him
when the time came to get ready for another march. He was wide awake
from head to foot, and seemed to be everywhere at once, with his
repeating carbine in his hand.

It was a queer piece of work Rube and his teamsters were at for the next
hour or so. They began by wrapping all the old blankets they had, and
some new ones, around the circumference of the wagon wheels, and they
greased the journals of the axles until there was no chance left for a
squeak to come from them.

"They'll travel without a sound," said old Rube. "How're ye gittin' on
with the critters, boys?"

That had been a job which interested Charlie Adams exceedingly. Every
mule and horse was fitted with a pair of buffalo-skin or blanket
moccasins, so that his feet would fall silently upon the hardest ground.
Some of the men said "shoes," some "boots," and Pat Linihan called them
"stockin's, begorra"; but Rube said "moccasins," and Charlie took him at
his word.

Between one and two o'clock, the camp, with its fire piled up to a
brighter blaze than ever, was left behind them, and the long mining
train moved onward toward the dangerous pass. It was wonderful how
little noise they made, and Pat Linihan remarked to old Rube:

"Sure an' it's the first toime I iver druv a muffled mule."

"Muffle yer tongue," growled old Rube. "That's one thing I forgot."

They made good speed, and before long Charlie Adams was aware that the
narrow wagon trail they were following had led them between great walls
of rock.

"We'll do it," whispered old Rube to Charlie. "They're up there on the
cliffs, some of 'em, as a matter of course; but we're going to beat 'em
this time. They have an awful advantage over any fellows down here. All
they need do is to tumble down rocks on us in some places. There's just
one bad spot to go by now," said he, a little later, "but it's almost
daylight. I wish we were well past the neck."

Nearer and nearer drew the walls of rock, but there were no sounds made
for them to echo, until at last, as he and the Senator pulled their
ambulance over an unusually rough place, and paused for breath, the
Governor seized the opportunity to stretch out his ugly neck.

Oh! what a bray was that! It seemed to fill every cranny of the Union
Pass, and stir up the sleeping echoes, and climb up over the crags, and
old Rube instantly shouted:

"Whip up, boys! Forward now for your lives! That thar was jest one other
thing we forgot to muffle."

The whips cracked sharply enough now, and the Governor received at least
his share in payment for his music.

There was no more silence. In less than a minute the heights above them
rang with fierce whoops and yells. The savages had been taken a little
by surprise, but they were there, and they had been waiting for that
train. It had nearly passed them, but they were determined to make an
effort for its capture.

Whoop after whoop, and then the crash and thud of rocky masses tumbling
down the chasm.

It was getting lighter every minute, and Charlie Adams strained his
bright eyes up along the crags in the hope of seeing a mark for his
carbine.

Suddenly the sharp reports of rifles came from the front, and old Rube
exclaimed:

"Indians in the pass! That's bad. We were almost through."

So they were, for the ambulance Pat was driving, and that Rube and
Charlie were guarding, was the very tail of the train.

"Look out, Charlie."

"Bedad, they've done it! What'll I do now?"

A heavy bowlder had come smashing down through the tilted top of the
ambulance, making dire destruction of the closely packed stowage, and
startling Pat half out of his wits.

"Unhitch! Save your mules!"

The Governor and the Senator had something to say about that. They were
worse scared than Pat himself, and they declared it, as mules will, in
about half a bray apiece, but then they sprang wildly away up the pass,
dragging behind them the battered ambulance, Pat and all.

"Go it, Pat! Come on, Charlie! There's a fight ahead, but we're beyond
the neck."

The "fight ahead" was over quickly enough, for less than half a dozen
Indians had clambered swiftly down to hide behind logs and rocks, and
try to check the advance of the train. It was getting light enough for
them to use their rifles, but so could the miners, and that was bad for
that squad of "Wallopies," as Pat called them. Only two of them climbed
up the rocks again, and all the harm they did was to wound three of the
mules, and send a ball through the arm of a driver. Their friends on the
heights were fairly driven to cover again by the storm of rifle-bullets
sent after them, and Charlie Adams's carbine cracked as loudly as if he
had been six feet high and weighed two hundred pounds.

"I wonder if I hit any of them?" he said to Rube, after they reached an
open place and halted the train.

"Dunno 'bout that. Most likely. I kinder hope we barked some on 'em. But
that there was a leetle the tightest squeeze I ever hed in Union Pass.
All because I didn't muffle the bray of that mule."

"Did ye know," added Pat, "the big stone that kim into the ambylance
mashed in the molasses kag? It's a swate mess they've made of it."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Pronounced Walapi.




LILY'S BALL.


Lily gave a party,
And her little playmates all,
Gayly dressed, came in their best
To dance at Lily's ball.

Little Quaker Primrose
Sat and never stirred,
And, except in whispers,
Never spoke a word.

Tulip fine and Dahlia
Shone in silk and satin;
Learned old Convolvulus
Was tiresome with his Latin.

Snowdrop nearly fainted
Because the room was hot,
And went away before the rest
With sweet Forget-me-not.

Pansy danced with Daffodil,
Rose with Violet;
Silly Daisy fell in love
With pretty Mignonette.

But when they danced the country-dance,
One could scarcely tell
Which of these two danced it best -
Cowslip or Heather-bell.

Between the dances, when they all
Were seated in their places,
I thought I'd never seen before
So many pretty faces.

But of all the pretty maidens
I saw at Lily's ball,
Darling Lily was to me
The sweetest of them all.

And when the dance was over,
They went down stairs to sup,
And each had a taste of honey-cake,
With dew in a buttercup.

And all were dressed to go away
Before the set of sun;
And Lily said "Good-by!" and gave
A kiss to every one.

And before the moon or a single star
Was shining overhead,
Lily and all her little friends
Were fast asleep in bed.




THE PIRATE KIDD.


The tumult in New Amsterdam when, in August, 1664, English men-of-war
appeared in the bay was excessive. An embassy was sent to the English
commander, Nichols, at Gravesend Bay; it was composed of the Dutch
clergyman and his brother, a physician. The English refused to hear of
anything but submission, and brave Governor Stuyvesant yielded to the
storm. No blood was shed, no gun fired; the town submitted peacefully to
the invader, and its name was changed from New Amsterdam to New York.

But the Dutch longed for their natural government, and more than once it
was reported that the great Admiral De Ruyter, at the head of the fleet
with which he swept the European seas, was coming to Sandy Hook, and
would retake the city. But he never came. A few years later, in the
second Dutch war, 1673, a fleet of twenty-three ships from Holland
sailed through the Narrows, reduced the fort on Staten Island, and
recaptured New York. But in 1674 peace was made between Holland and
England, and New York was restored to the English.

From that time for many years Sandy Hook witnessed no hostile armament,
and only the white sails of the peaceful trader entered the deep channel
that opens into the Lower Bay.

New York flourished in quiet ease; its Dutch burgomasters were changed
to aldermen; its fair young maidens with their admirers made up boating
parties from the Battery, or rode in gigs up to the famous Kissing Gate.
But all the people of New York were not so respectable; it was, in fact,
the haunt of disreputable persons and marauders from all parts of the
world, and among them might be seen about this time the rough, bronzed
face, the sturdy figure, of the cruel pirate Kidd. Possessed of a
considerable fortune, which he had made in a sea-faring life, Kidd had
retired from his occupation, whatever it had been, and settled
peacefully with his wife and children in New York. He was probably
looked upon as a substantial citizen. He was thought a skillful sailor.
And when in 1695 the English government resolved to send a ship to the
East Indies to put down the pirates who swarmed in the sea between
Arabia and Bombay, the Governor of New York, Lord Bellamont, selected
Kidd to command the expedition.

Kidd went over to London, was given a fine ship, the _Adventure_ galley,
and came back to New York to gather his crew. He was sure of finding
here desperate men willing to aid him in any wicked enterprise. The ship
was soon manned, and in February, 1697, sailed out from Sandy Hook on
its dreadful voyage. Instead of putting down piracy, Kidd became the
most cruel and terrible of pirates. He haunted the Eastern seas,
plundered the rich vessels of Arabia, Armenia, or Portugal, and made
such enormous profits that even his sailors grew wealthy. But his savage
cruelty was terrible even to his own crew. He cut the throats of his
prisoners, or plunged them into the sea. The pirate ship was a scene of
demoniac wickedness. One of his crew, whom he had called a dog, cried
out, in remorse, "Yes, I am a dog; but it is you that have made me so."
Kidd, enraged, struck him dead at a blow.

Possessed of an immense fortune in gold, silver, jewels, the pirate came
back to New York in 1699, hoping, perhaps, to purchase a pardon for all
his crimes with the aid of his powerful friends. Once more the Adventure
galley, or some other vessel of his fleet, sailed by the Hook, stained
with blood and massacre, but laden with a cargo richer than any ship had
ever brought to the quiet city before. Tradition relates that Kidd had
his friends in the coves and bays of Long Island; that he deposited
$200,000 in gold dust and coin on Gardiner's Island; that he buried his
treasure on Martha's Vineyard, and lived in a cave still seen on its
lonely shore. His ship he is supposed to have sunk near Verplanck's
Point, on the Hudson, and here a party of persons may at times be seen
diligently laboring to find the sunken vessel. To Mrs. Gardiner, of
Gardiner's Island, Kidd gave a robe of cloth of gold that was long
preserved in the family. He strove to hide from the agents of the
government, who were in pursuit of him, but was decoyed to Boston,
carried to England, tried for piracy, condemned, and executed. It is
said that the first rope used to hang him broke, and he fell to the
ground; a second was brought, and the horrible monster perished at last,
March 23, 1701. From that time pirates were banished from the American
ports, although they still swarmed in the West Indian seas and all the
unfrequented parts of the ocean.




[Illustration: THE FIRST MOUSE.]




[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]

TOBY TYLER;

OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.

BY JAMES OTIS.

CHAPTER IX.

THE DINNER PARTY.


At noon Toby was thoroughly tired out, for whenever any one spoke kindly
to him, Mr. Lord seemed to take a malicious pleasure in giving him extra
tasks to do, until Toby began to hope that no one else would pay any
attention to him. On this day he was permitted to go to dinner first,
and after he returned he was left in charge of the booth. Trade being
dull, as it usually was during the dinner hour, he had very little work
to do after he had cleaned the glasses and set things to rights
generally.

Therefore when he saw the very thin form of the skeleton emerge from his
tent and come toward him, he was particularly pleased, for he had begun
to think very kindly of the thin man and his fleshy wife.

"Well, Toby," said the skeleton, as he came up to the booth, carefully
dusted Mr. Lord's private chair, and sat down very cautiously in it, as
if he had expected that it would break down under his weight, "I hear
you've been making quite a hero of yourself by capturing the monkeys
last night."

Toby's freckled face reddened with pleasure as he heard these words, and
he stammered out, with considerable difficulty, "I didn't do anything;
it was Mr. Stubbs that brought 'em back."

"Mr. Stubbs!" and here the skeleton laughed so heartily that Toby was
afraid he would dislocate some of his thinly covered joints. "When you
was tellin' about Mr. Stubbs yesterday, I thought you meant some one
belonging to the company. You ought to have seen my wife Lilly shake
with laughing when I told her who Mr. Stubbs was."

"Yes," said Toby, at a loss to know just what to say, "I should think
she would shake when she laughs."

"She does," replied the skeleton. "If you should see her when something
funny strikes her, you'd think she was one of those big plates of jelly
that they have in the bake-shop windows;" and Mr. Treat looked proudly
at the gaudy picture which represented his wife in all her monstrosity
of flesh. "She's a great woman, Toby, an' she's got a great head."

Toby nodded his head in assent. He would have liked to have said
something nice regarding Mrs. Treat, but he really did not know what to
say, and thus he simply contented himself and the fond husband by
nodding.

"She thinks a good deal of you, Toby," continued the skeleton, as he
moved his chair to a position more favorable for him to elevate his feet
on the edge of the counter, and placed his handkerchief under him as a
cushion; "she's talking of you all the time, and if you wasn't such a
little fellow, I should begin to be jealous of you - I should, upon my
word."

"You're both very good," stammered Toby, so weighted down by a sense of
the honor heaped upon him as to be at a loss for words.

"An' she wants to see more of you. She made me come out here now, when
she knew Mr. Lord would be away, to tell you that we're goin' to have a
little kind of a friendly dinner in our tent to-morrow - she's cooked it
all herself, or she's going to - and we want you to come in an' have some
with us."

Toby's eyes glistened at the thought of the unexpected pleasure, and
then his face grew sad as he replied, "I'd like to come first-rate, Mr.
Treat, but I don't s'pose Mr. Lord would let me stay away from the shop
long enough."

"Why, you won't have any work to do to-morrow, Toby - it's Sunday."

"So it is," said the boy, with a pleased smile, as he thought of the day
of rest which was so near. And then he added, quickly: "An' this is
Saturday afternoon; what fun the boys at home are havin'! You see, there
hain't any school Saturday afternoon, an' all the fellers go out in the
woods."

"And you wish you were there to go with them, don't you?" asked the
skeleton, sympathetically.

"Indeed I do!" exclaimed Toby, quickly; "it's twice as good as any
circus that ever was."

"But you didn't think so before you came with us, did you?"

"I didn't know so much about circuses then as I do now," replied the
boy, sadly.

Mr. Treat saw that he was touching on a sore subject, and one which was
arousing sad thoughts in his little companion's mind, and he hastened to
change it at once.

"Then I can tell Lilly that you'll come, can I?"

"Oh yes, I'll be sure to be there; an' I want you to know just how good
I think you both are to me."

"That's all right, Toby," said Mr. Treat, with a pleased expression on
his face; "an' you may bring Mr. Stubbs with you, if you want to."

"Thank you," said Toby, "I'm sure Mr. Stubbs will be just as glad to
come as I shall. But where will we be to-morrow?"

"Right here. We always stay over Sunday at the place where we show
Saturday. But I must be going, or Lilly will worry her life out of her
for fear I'm somewhere getting cold; she's awful careful of me, that
woman is. You'll be on hand to-morrow at one o'clock, won't you?"

"Indeed I will," said Toby, emphatically, "an' I'll bring Mr. Stubbs
with me too."

With a friendly nod of the head, the skeleton hurried away to re-assure
his wife that he was safe and well, and before he had hardly disappeared
within the tent, Toby had another caller, who was none other than his
friend old Ben, the driver.

"Well, my boy," shouted Ben, in his cheery, hearty tones, "I haven't
seen you since you left the wagon so sudden last night. Did you get
shook up much?"

"Oh no," replied Toby; "you see, I hain't very big, an' then I struck in
the mud, so I got off pretty easy."

"That's a fact, an' you can thank your lucky stars for it, too, for I've
seen grown-up men get pitched off a wagon in that way, an' break their
necks doin' it. But has Job told you where you was going to sleep
to-night? You know we stay over here till to-morrow."

"I didn't think anything about that; but I s'pose I'll sleep in the
wagon, won't I?"

"You can sleep at the hotel, if you want to; but the beds will likely be
dirty, an' if you take my advice, you'll crawl into some of the wagons
in the tent."

Ben then explained to him that after his work was done that night, he
would not be expected to report for duty until the time for starting
Sunday night, and he concluded his remarks by saying:

"Now you know what your rights are, an' don't you let Job impose on you
in any way. I'll be round here after you get through work, an' we'll
bunk in somewhere together."

The arrival of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs put a stop to the conversation,
and was the signal of Toby's time of trial. It seemed to him, and with
good reason, that the chief delight which these men had in life was to
torment him, for neither ever spoke a pleasant word to him; and when one
was not giving him some difficult work to do, or finding fault in some
way, the other would be sure to be at it, and Toby had very little
comfort from the time he began work in the morning until he stopped at
night.

It was not until after the evening performance was over that Toby had a
chance to speak with Mr. Stubbs, and then he was so tired that he simply
took the old monkey from the cage, nestled him under his jacket, and lay
down with him to sleep in the place which old Ben had selected.

When the morning came, Mr. Stubbs aroused his young master at a much
earlier hour than he would have awakened had he been left to himself,
and the two went out for a short walk before breakfast. They went
instinctively toward the woods, and when the shade of the trees was once
reached, how the two revelled in their freedom! Mr. Stubbs climbed into
the trees, swung himself from one to the other by means of his tail,
gathered half-ripe nuts, which he threw at his master, tried to catch
the birds, and had a good time generally.

Toby, stretched at full length on the mossy bank, watched the antics of
his pet, laughing boisterously at times as Mr. Stubbs would do some one
thing more comical than usual, and forgot there was in this world such a
thing as a circus, or such a man as Job Lord. It was to Toby a morning
without a flaw, and he took no heed of the time, until the sound of the
church bells warned him of the lateness of the hour, reminding him at
the same time of where he should be - where he would be if he was at home


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