Produced by Annie R. McGuire [Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.] * * * * * VOL. II.--NO. 53. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR CENTS. Tuesday, November 2, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance. * * * * * [Illustration] BITS OF ADVICE. BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT. When you receive an invitation from a friend to make a visit at a specified time, it is polite to answer it as promptly as possible, and to say distinctly whether or not you can accept the offered pleasure. Your friend may have others whom it is desirable to ask after you have been entertained. Be sure you state by what boat or train you will go, and your hour of leaving home, so that there will be no uncertainty about meeting you. When nothing is mentioned as to the duration of your visit, it is usual to assume that a week will be its sufficient period. Do not stay longer than that time, unless you are urged to do so. The most agreeable guest is the one who is regretted when he or she goes away. Always anticipate a good time, and be prepared to contribute your share to it. Be pleased with what is done for you, and express your pleasure. Do not be obtrusive in offering help to your host, but if an opportunity arises for you to give assistance, do not be afraid to embrace it. There are little helpful things which come in our way at home and abroad if we have eyes to see them. Charlie, dear boy, was at Tom's house not long ago, and happening to glance from the window, he noticed Tom's mother struggling to open the gate with her hands full of parcels. He ran out at once, and relieved her of some of her bundles, held the gate open as she passed in, and closed it behind her. Helen, who is her mother's right hand when at home, is in request in her friends' houses, for somehow she scatters sunshine wherever she goes, she is so bright, so animated and cheery. She plays beautifully, and she never has to be coaxed to sit down at the piano, but does it willingly, and plays for dancing--a thing which most girls regard as tiresome--with spirit and good-nature whenever there is need of her skill. When visiting we ought to conform to the family ways. It is ill-bred to give trouble or cause annoyance. Harry's father and mother dislike extremely to have people late for meals. When the Lesters were staying there they seldom heard the breakfast bell, and never came home from an outing until dinner was almost finished. Harry said he could not help it, but reproof nevertheless came upon him. Boys should not go tearing wildly through a friend's house, nor, for that matter, through their own. Grown-up ladies and gentlemen have nerves which should be considered. Of course well-behaved young people will put away their outside wraps when in a strange house, and not leave overshoes in full sight in the passage, nor shawls, cloaks, hats, and gloves lying loosely around the parlors. Young girls should be careful in their use of the pretty things that adorn their chambers. Do not rumple that dainty lace pillow-sham, nor strew your clothing over every chair and sofa, to the irritation of the mistress. Do not follow your friend and host everywhere, but at the busy times of the day amuse yourselves with books or work, and remember to thank them, on leaving, for what they have done for you. INDIAN TALES. TWO METHODS OF OBTAINING HORSES. Of all the long list of officers who served the East India Company there were few men whose careers were more remarkable than that of General John Jacob. Others have raised regiments, conquered provinces, and afterward administered justice therein; but John Jacob was the first man who created a nourishing town in a desert wilderness, and formed first one and then three splendid regiments out of the most sanguinary and lawless cut-throats on the face of the earth. In the athletic exercises so dear to the Beloochees he excelled them all. Among a people who may be said to be almost born on horseback, there was no rider like the commandant of the Sind Horse. His men were taken from all the most warlike races of Northwestern India. The Beloochee, the Pathan, the Mooltanee, and the semi-savage tribesmen of the hills, had alike to learn obedience when they came under his command, and his efforts to make them soldiers in the highest sense of the word never relaxed. In the year 1854 the country was full of complaints of horse-stealing on a scale that had not been heard of for many years. No steed of value was safe, and the thief or thieves must have been tolerably good judges of horse-flesh, as none but the finest were taken, and these of course belonged principally to the wealthiest inhabitants. One strange thing was that the horses were stolen in such an extraordinary manner as to leave no foot-marks behind them. Not one of the animals could be traced as ever having been offered for sale in the country. Stables are rare in Upper Sind, and it is customary to secure a horse by picketing him with head and heel ropes, the syce, or groom, usually sleeping in the open air with the animal. The curious part of the matter was that each and every syce who had had a horse stolen from under his care told exactly the same story--that it had been taken away by Sheitan himself in person, after they, the syces, had been put to sleep by his diabolical arts. To be sure, they described his personal appearance in many ways, according to the impression severally produced upon their excited imaginations, but in the main facts they were all agreed. They had been sleeping or watching, as the case might be, beside their horses, when a hideous figure suddenly and silently appeared to them, waved his right hand, muffled in a white cloth, in their faces; they lost their senses, and when they recovered, the horses were gone. In no case had the demon injured the men. Where more than one horse was picketed the fiend never appeared, which was considered to be the reason that the splendid chargers of the Sind Horse were not touched. Superstition is very prevalent in Sind, as indeed it is throughout the East, and had any native skeptic ventured to hint that alert sentries, a vigilant patrol, and a stable guard with loaded carbines had anything to do with this immunity, he would, indeed, have been looked upon as a scoffer. As to the British officers, of course, although heroes, they were infidels, and, however they might laugh at the idea of Satan roaming about the earth to deprive the sons of men of their horses, they could have no power to check the public opinion of the bazars. There was, however, an old Ressaldar, or native captain of the Sind Horse, who was very much inclined to take the Feringhee view of the matter. Ressaldar Nubbee Bux was a veteran who had served in his corps almost from its foundation, and in his younger days had fought against the flag under which he had since served so long. He, with many other brave Beloochees, had been opposed to Sir Charles Napier at Meeanee, and had a vivid recollection of the time when the inhabitants of Sind actually believed that distinguished though eccentric General to be the fiend in human form. Since then Nubbee Bux had acquired rank, honor, and a good deal of worldly wisdom. He was naturally a shrewd, hard-headed man, and contact with intelligent Europeans had, if not entirely eradicated native superstitions from his mind, at least rendered him very dubious of any stories having for their basis supernatural agency. He had heard of genii, jinns, divs, afrites, and other evil spirits, but he had never seen one; he had never known them in his own time to interfere in worldly matters, nor had he heard, even in ancient story, that they were in the habit of laying felonious hands on live stock, or earthly property of any description. That the Prince of Darkness himself should be so hard up for horses as to go about stealing them appeared to him incomprehensible. It struck him as a mystery he should like to unravel; and as he feared nothing nor nobody on the face of the earth, nor below it, save his commanding officer, he determined to try. Ascertaining the whereabouts of the last wonderful robbery, he obtained a fortnight's leave of absence, and repaired to the village, well armed, and mounted on a magnificent thorough-bred Arab horse. He did not enter it nor put up at the serai, but had a tent some little distance outside. There he was soon visited by the head men of the place, who lost no time in paying their respects, for a native officer of the Sind Horse is a great man in the country around Jacobabad. After salutations the local magnates were full of the unaccountable robberies, and earnest in their warnings to the Ressaldar to take care of his noble steed. Had he not better come into the village? The Kotwal had a stable with lock and key at his service, and would put a watchman over the door all night. Nubbee Bux civilly but firmly declined these favors. He said that if it was fated Sheitan should have his horse, neither lock, key, nor watchman could prevent it; he should stay where he was, and his syce should sleep with the animal as usual. His visitors departed, and the native officer, after a stroll about, took his supper outside the tent, smoked his hookah, and when it was dark dismissed his servants, and went to bed--or seemed to do so. When the distant hum of the village was entirely hushed, and no sound but the usual howling of the jackals met his ear, he rose, pulled aside the canvas opening of the tent, and made a curious sort of barely audible noise like the "chup, chup" of the stag-beetle. His syce, who was lying beside the horse, swathed in a huge blanket, which covered his head as well as his feet, rose, and with noiseless footfall entered his master's tent. In three minutes he re-appeared, _or seemed to do so_, and again wrapping himself in his great blanket, lay down to sleep by the horse's side, _or seemed to do so_. In about two hours from that time a hideous form appeared to rise from the earth. Its figure was human, but the dark brown flesh glistened as no human flesh ever glistened naturally, while the head was indeed fearsome to behold. It was surmounted by an enormous pair of horns, had two glaring eyes, and a mouth full of frightful teeth, from which protruded a tongue forked like a barbed arrow. The weird figure stooped and advanced its right hand, wrapped in a white cloth, toward the head of the prostrate syce. Like a flash of lightning that prostrate form sprang up. Ressaldar Nubbee Bux (for he was his own syce on this occasion) dealt his assailant such a slash with his tulwar as would have cleft the head of any mortal man in halves, and which, as it was, stretched the horse-thief senseless on the ground. As Nubbee Bux, bare blade in hand, bent over his foe, a strange sight met his view. The blow had split a head-covering composed of buffalo-skin with the hair on, stretched over an iron mask, something like a diver's helmet, with eyes of transparent horn ingeniously illuminated by means of minute lamps concealed in the balls, the real eyes of the wearer having sight beneath. The false teeth and forked tongue were knocked out, and lay on the ground with the horns. The Ressaldar summoned his syce, who had remained in the tent, and a light being brought, found that the prisoner who had fallen into his hands was a fine athletic young Beloochee, about twenty-two years of age. He was quickly bound, and by direction of his captor carried into the tent. He was only stunned, and soon recovered to find himself helpless, and the first words that fell upon his ear were spoken in his own language, by a stern-looking man of some five-and-forty years, whose right hand coquetted with the hilt of a tulwar, while his left hand ominously handled a pistol. They were few but expressive: "Rascal! can you give me any reason that I should not blow your brains out?" The prisoner remained silent. Nubbee Bux continued: "If I took you to yonder village you would, as you know, be torn to pieces. If I give you up to justice you will certainly be hanged. If, however, you obey my orders implicitly, I may deal with you myself. Tell me instantly how you managed all these robberies, and how you became possessed of that ugly mask you frightened all the poor fools with." Then raising the pistol, he added, "I give you one minute to commence speaking, or I fire--and, mind, no lies, or it will be worse for you!" The prisoner inclined his head, and said, in a firm voice, and with no sign of trepidation, "Sirdar, I will speak the truth." "You had better," replied Nubbee Bux, grimly, toying with his weapons. "My name is Jumal. I come from Mittree, a small village about fifty miles from here, on the banks of the Indus. My father is a very poor man; but some two years ago he and I hid and sheltered an English deserter from one of the European regiments at Kurrachee. He was much inquired after by the police, but no one suspected us of harboring him. He had rupees, and gave some to my father; but had it not been so, the Sirdar is aware that the Beloochees, whatever else we may do, would never turn from our door a hunted fugitive in distress." Nubbee Bux nodded. "We finally got him away up the river to Mooltan, where he said he would be safe, as no one thereabouts knew him, and he had grown a long black beard since his desertion, which, together with his hair, my father dyed red for him. He was a clever fellow; he and I became friends, and he made the mask which you destroyed to-night, to assist me in horse-stealing, which I had already practiced on a small scale. He also showed me the use of chloroform--an English medicine--and instructed me how to procure it from Kurrachee. I used to pour some of it on the cloth you saw on my hand, and used it to stupefy the syce after I had frightened him. I then let the horse smell it sufficiently to render him quiet. Before making my appearances I always dropped, a few yards off, a small sack containing four little bags of moist sand, one of which I tied round each foot of the horse, so that on leading him away his feet, thus incased, hardly made any track, and the little impression there was upon the dry loose sand far more resembled the footprint of a camel than that of a horse, and even this was generally obliterated by the first drifting of the sand in the morning breeze. The peculiar appearance of my skin is due to the profuse application of cocoa-nut oil and sulphur. When I had got the horse to a convenient distance I uncased his feet, and stowing the coverings and my disguise in the sack, I mounted and rode him straight across country, avoiding all roads, to a hiding-place we had in the thick jungle. There my father and some friends who were used to the business soon so altered his appearance by well-known means that his late owner would hardly have known him. I never stole but one horse at a time, and they were all sent up the river to Mooltan, thence to be sold at various places remote from this." After this Jumal, the young horse-thief, gave up his evil ways, and enlisted in the Sind Horse, becoming in a short time one of the most valued members of the company commanded by his captor, old Nubbee Bux. This is one method of obtaining horses. Among certain tribes of Indians in this country another method is practiced that is equally curious, but far more honest. It is the custom called by the Indians of the plains "smoking horses." If a tribe, or a band belonging to that tribe, decides to send out a war party, one of the first and most important things to be thought of is whether there are enough horses on hand to mount the warriors. If, as is often the case, the horses of the tribe have been stolen by other Indians, they decide to "smoke" enough horses for present needs, and to steal a supply from their enemies at the first opportunity. [Illustration: SMOKING HORSES.] In order to "smoke horses" a runner is dispatched to the nearest friendly tribe with the message that on a certain day they will be visited by a number of young men, forming a war party from his tribe, who require horses. On the appointed day the young warriors appear stripped to the waist, march silently to the village of their friends, seat themselves in a circle, light their pipes, and begin to smoke, at the same time making their wishes known in a sort of droning chant. Presently there is seen far out on the plain a band of horsemen, riding gayly caparisoned steeds fully equipped for war. These horsemen dash up to the village, and wheel about the band of beggars sitting on the ground, in circles that constantly grow smaller, until at last they are as close as they can get to the smokers without riding over them. Then each rider selects the man to whom he intends to present his pony, and as he circles around, singing and yelling, he lashes the bare back of his victim with his heavy rawhide whip, repeating the stroke each time he passes, until the blood is seen to trickle down. During this performance the smokers take no notice of what is going on, but sit immovable, calmly smoking and singing. If one of them flinched under the cruel blows, he would not get his horse, but would be sent home on foot and in disgrace. At last, when the horsemen think their friends have been made to pay enough in suffering for their ponies, each dismounts, places the bridle of his pony in the hand of the smoker whom he has selected, and at the same time handing him the whip, says, "Here, beggar, is a pony for you to ride, for which I have left my mark." After all the ponies have been presented, the "beggars" are invited to a grand feast, during which they are treated with every consideration by their hosts, who also load them with food sufficient to last them on their homeward journey. At last the "beggars" depart with full stomachs and smarting backs, but happy in the possession of their ponies and in anticipation of the time when their friends shall be in distress, and shall come to "smoke horses" with them. [Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.] WHO WAS PAUL GRAYSON? BY JOHN HABBERTON, AUTHOR OF "HELEN'S BABIES." CHAPTER VIII. DARED. For a day or two after the terrible collapse of the Indian theory Paul Grayson kept himself aloof from the other boys to such an extent that he made them feel very uncomfortable. Benny, in particular, was made most miserable by such treatment from Paul, for Benny was not happy unless he could talk a great deal, and as he could not even be near the other boys without being reproached for his untruthful Indian story, the coolness of Paul reduced him to the necessity of doing all his talking at home, where he really could not spend time enough to tell all that was on his mind. Besides, there were several darling topics on which Benny's mother and sister, although they loved the boy dearly, never would exhibit any interest. Benny had lately learned, after months of wearisome practice in Sam Wardwell's barn, that peculiar gymnastic somersault known and highly esteemed among boys of a certain age as "skinning the cat," and he was dying to have some one see him do it, and praise him for his skill. But when he proposed to do it in the house, from the top of one of the door frames, his mother called him inhuman, and his sister said he was disgusting, the instant they heard the name of the trick; and although Benny finally made them understand that cats had really nothing to do with the trick, and that if he should ever want the skin taken off a real cat he would not do the work himself, not even for the best fishing-rod in town, he was still as far from succeeding as ever, for when he afterward explained just what the trick consisted in, his mother told him that he was her only boy, and while she liked to see him amuse himself, she never would consent to stand still, and look at him while he was attempting to break his blessed little neck. And how unsatisfactory his sister was when consulted about fish bait! In marbles she had been known to exhibit some interest, but a boy could not always talk about marbles. When Benny explained how different kinds of live bait kicked while on the hook, and asked her to think of some new kind of bug or insect that he could try on the big trout that had learned to escape trouble by letting alone the insects already used to hide hooks with, she told him that she didn't know anything about it, and, what was more, she didn't care to, and she didn't think her brother was a very nice boy to care for such dirty things himself. The change in the relations of the boys with Paul did not escape Mr. Morton's eyes; and when he questioned his newest pupil, and learned the cause, he made an excuse to send Paul home for something, and then told the boys that to pry into the affairs of other people was most unmannerly, and that he thought Paul had been too good a fellow to deserve such treatment at the hands of his companions. The boys admitted to themselves that they thought so too; and when next they were out-of-doors together most of them agreed with each other that there should be no more questioning of Paul Grayson about himself. Still, Sam Wardwell correctly expressed the sentiment of the entire school when he said he hoped that Paul would soon think to tell without being asked, because it was certain that there was something wonderful about him; boys were not usually as cool, strong, good-natured, fearless, and sensible as he. Pleasant relations were soon restored between the boys, but there was not as much playing in the school-yard as before, for the weather had become very hot; so the usual diversion of the boys was to sit in a row on the lower rail of the shady side of the school-yard fence, and tell stories, or agree upon what to do when the evening became cooler. Paul Grayson occasionally begged for a game of ball; he could not bear to be so lazy, he said, even if the sun did shine hotly. But the boys could seldom agree with him to the extent of playing on the shadeless ball-ground; so after dismissal in the afternoon Paul used to go alone to the ball-ground behind the court-house, and practice running, hopping, jumping, and tossing a heavy stone, until some of the boys, not having promised to abstain from talking with each other about Paul, wondered if their mysterious friend might not be the son of some great clown, or circus rider, or trapeze performer, or something of the sort. Paul's exercises seemed to give a great deal of entertainment to the prisoners in the jail, for some of them were always at the large barred window, and the counterfeiter was sure to be at the small one the moment he heard Paul come whistling by; and well he might, for that cell, lighted only by a single very small window, must have been a dismal place to spend whole days in. From occasionally looking at the prisoners from the play-ground Paul finally came to stare at them for several minutes at a time. The other boys could not see what there could be about such a lot of bad men to interest a fine fellow like Paul; but Canning Forbes explained that perhaps the spectacle would be interesting to them too if they were strangers, and had not seen the prisoners in every-day life, and known what a common, stupid, uninteresting set they were. All of the boys, Canning reminded them, had been full of curiosity about the counterfeiter when he had first been put into the jail; that, he explained, was because the man was a stranger, and no one of them knew a thing about him. Paul was in exactly the same condition about the other prisoners, and the counterfeiter too. The explanation was satisfactory, but Paul's interest in the prisoners was not, for all the time he spent staring at the side of the jail might otherwise have been spent with them, all of whom, excepting perhaps Joe Appleby, felt that they never could see enough of Paul. Some of them were shrewd enough to reason that if Paul could be made to understand what a miserable set those jail-birds really were, he would soon cease to have any interest in them; so they made various excuses to talk about the prisoners by name, and tell what mean and dishonest and disgraceful things they did. But somehow the scheme did not work; Paul himself talked about the prisoners, and he reminded the boys that some of those men had wives who were being unhappy about them; and others, particularly the younger ones, were keeping loving mothers in misery; and perhaps some of them had children that were suffering, even starving, because their fathers were in jail. How could any fellow help being curious about men, asked Paul, whose condition put such stories into a man's mind? "Perhaps, too," Paul argued, "some of those men are not as bad as they seem. Every man has a little good of some sort in him; and although he is to blame for not letting it, instead of his wrong thoughts, manage him, perhaps some day he may change. I can't help wishing so about all of those fellows in the jail, and, what is more, I wouldn't help it if I could--would you?" No, they wouldn't, the boys thought; still, they thought also, although no one felt exactly like saying it aloud, that boys at Mr. Morton's school had some good in them, and were a great deal surer to appreciate the thoughtful tendencies of a good fellow than a lot of worthless town loafers were, to say nothing of a dreadful counterfeiter. "If you feel that way," said Joe Appleby, somewhat sneeringly, after the crowd had been silent for two or three moments, "why don't you go with Mr. Morton when he visits the prisoners? I would do it if I felt as you do; I would think it very wrong to stay away." Joe's tone, as he said this, was so absolutely taunting that most of the boys expected to see Paul spring at him and strike him; they certainly would do so themselves, if big enough, and talked to in that way. But Paul merely replied, "I don't go, because he never asked me to." "Oh, don't let that stand in your way," said Joe, quickly; "you can easily do the asking yourself. I'll ask for you, if you feel delicate about putting in your own word." At this the boys felt sure there would be a fight, but to their great surprise Paul sat quietly on the rail, and replied, "I should be much obliged if you would; that is, if you're man enough to own that you first taunted me about it." Joe arose, and looked as proud as if he were about to lead a whole army to certain victory. "I'll do it," said he, "and right away, too." "And I," said Canning Forbes, "will go along to see that you tell the story correctly, and do full justice to Grayson." Joe scowled terribly at this, but Canning, although a very quiet fellow, had such a determined way in everything he undertook, that Joe knew it was useless to remonstrate, so he strode sullenly along, with Canning at his side. The other boys looked for a moment in utter astonishment; then, as with one accord, all but Paul sprang to their feet and followed. Mr. Morton was astonished at the irruption, as his bell had not been sounded; but he listened to Joe's request and to Canning's statement, which was supported by fragments volunteered by other boys, then he replied, "I will gladly take Paul with me, but am sorry that the newest pupil in the school should be the first to express a kind thought about the unfortunates in the jail." Then Joe Appleby hung his head, and Canning Forbes did likewise, and most of the other boys followed their example; but Benny rushed to the side window, thrust his head out, and shouted, "It's all right, Paul; he says you can go." Then all the boys laughed at Benny, at which Benny blushed, and the teacher rang his bell, which called in no one but Paul. Then the school came to order, but most of the boys blundered over their lessons that afternoon, for their minds were full of what they had to tell to boys that attended other schools, or did not go to school at all. The visit of Paul to the prison was made that very afternoon, and before night nearly every family in the town had heard of how it had come to pass, and determined that Paul Grayson was a noble fellow, no matter how much mystery there might be about him. Benny Mallow, having learned in advance that the visit was contemplated--for Paul could not get rid of him after school except by telling him--Benny waited on a corner near the jail until Paul and the teacher came out. He hid himself for a moment or two, so that Paul would not think he had been watching him; then he hurried around a block, intercepted the couple, and made some excuse to stop Paul for a moment. As soon as Mr. Morton had gone ahead a little way, Benny, with his great blue eyes wider open than ever, asked, "How was it?" [Illustration: PAUL GRAYSON AND BENNY MALLOW.] "It was dreadful," said Paul, whose eyes were red, as if he had been crying. "Then you won't ever go again, will you?" said Benny, giving his friend's hand a sympathetic squeeze. "Yes, I will," exclaimed Paul, so sharply that Benny was frightened. He looked up inquiringly, and saw Paul's eyes filled with tears. "I'll go again, and often, now that I've been teased into doing it; but, Benny Mallow, if you tell a single boy that I cried, I'll never speak to you again in this world." "I won't--oh, I won't," said Benny, and he kept his word--for weeks. [TO BE CONTINUED.] THE BOY-GENERAL. BY EDWARD CARY. CHAPTER I. If any of my readers who live in the city of New York happen to be passing the lower end of Union Square some day, they will see, standing among the trees of the little park, a bronze statue. It is nearly opposite the corner of Broadway and Fourteenth Street, and is turned a little to one side, toward the noble statue of Washington on horseback, which is in the centre of the three-cornered space between the park, Fourteenth Street, and Union Square East. It represents a tall young man, in the close-fitting uniform of an American General of the time of the Revolution. With his right hand he clasps a sword against his breast. His left hand is stretched out toward Washington; his figure is erect, and inclined forward, as if about to spring from the prow of a boat, which the base of the statue is made to represent. This is a statue of the beloved and gallant Frenchman whom we commonly call Lafayette, whom the people of the Revolutionary days delighted to name "the young Marquis," and whose real name was Marie Jean Paul Roch Yves Gilbert Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. The story of his whole life is one of the most interesting and pleasing that has ever been written; but for the present I am to give you only the story of his services to America, and of his life during the few years in which those services were rendered. The statue that I have spoken of was set up in honor of these great services, in order that the young Americans who live in the full enjoyment of the blessings of freedom and order for which he fought may not forget him. Lafayette was born in the province of Auvergne, France, on the 6th of September, 1757, shortly after the death of his father, who was an officer in the French army, and was killed at Minden. His own family was poor, but the death of his mother's father made him, while yet a child, very rich. As the custom was in those days in France, he entered the army while scarcely in his teens, and before he had left the Academy of Versailles, where he was educated. As was also the custom, he was married very young--while only sixteen--to a daughter of the house of Ayen and Noailles, who herself was only thirteen; but children though they were, they were possessed of strong natures, and their union was a very loving and happy one. Lafayette describes himself in boyhood as "silent because he neither thought nor heard much which seemed worth saying," and as having "awkwardness of manner, which did not trouble him on important occasions, but made him ill at ease among the graces of the court or the pleasures of a Paris supper." He was an ardent lover of freedom in the midst of an aristocratic society, and when his family wanted to attach him to the court he managed by a witty but offensive remark about the royal family to break up the arrangement. "Republican stories," he says, "charmed me," and he heard of the Declaration of American Independence with "a thrill of sympathy and joy." He was just nineteen when, over a dinner given by an English Duke to the French officers of the garrison of Metz, he first learned of the Declaration. "My heart was instantly enlisted," he wrote, "and I thought of nothing but joining _my flag_." From that moment he regarded himself as a soldier in the army of American freedom. He knew his family would oppose him. "I counted, therefore, only on myself, and ventured to take for my motto _cur non?_" (why not?). He had great trouble in getting away. Going to Paris, he first obtained from the American agent there, Silas Deane, a promise of a commission as Major-General; but he had to keep everything very secret, to blind his family, his friends, the government--to avoid French and English spies. Only his girl-wife and two of his cousins knew what he was doing. Just as he had completed his plans, news came of the terrible defeats which Washington had suffered on Long Island and in the neighborhood of New York. The "arch-rebel," as the English called General Washington, was fleeing across the New Jersey plains, with only a handful of men, and the insurrection was believed to be nearly over. The American agent in Paris was dismayed and cast down. He told Lafayette that he could furnish him no vessel to go to America, and tried to persuade him to give up his project. Thanking Mr. Deane for his frankness, the brave young fellow answered, "Until now, sir, you have seen only my zeal; perhaps I may now be useful. I shall buy a ship which will carry your officers. We must show our confidence in the cause; and it is in danger that I shall be glad to share your fortunes." To cover his designs, he joined his uncle, the Prince of Paix, on a visit to London, where he was much courted. "At nineteen," he wrote, "I liked perhaps a little too well to trifle with the King I was about to fight, to dance at the house of the English Colonial Minister, in the company of Lord Rawdon, just arrived from New York, and to meet at the opera the General Clinton whom I was to meet the next time at the battle of Monmouth." Finally his arrangements were all made, and he came back to France to join his vessel. To his dismay, he was met by an order from the King to report, under arrest, at Marseilles. He pretended to start for that city, but on the way, disguised as a postilion, he turned aside, and after nearly being caught while sleeping on some straw in the stable of a post inn, he finally boarded his ship, with Baron De Kalb and others, and set sail for America. It was the 26th of April, 1777, "six months, filled with labor and impatience," since he had formed his plan. He was seven weeks on the sea. His ship was clumsy, and, armed with "only two bad cannon and a few muskets, could not have escaped the smallest English cruiser." Of these he encountered several, but lucky winds bore them away from him. He slipped between the ships guarding the coast, and landed in the night near the city of Charleston, South Carolina. "At last," he says, "I felt American soil beneath my feet, and my first words were a vow to conquer or perish in the cause." He straightway set out for Philadelphia, where Congress was in session, and near which the army of Washington was encamped. The journey was long and fatiguing. From Petersburg, Virginia, he wrote to his wife: "I set out grandly in a carriage; at present we are on horseback, having broken my carriage, according to my admirable habit; I hope to write you in a few days that we have arrived safely on foot." The fatigue of the journey could not repress his constant gayety. When he reached Philadelphia, Congress was greatly bothered with foreign adventurers more anxious for rank and pay than to fight for America. Lafayette perceived the coolness of his reception, but far from being discouraged, he wrote to the President of Congress, "By the sacrifices that I have made I have a right to demand two favors: one, to serve without pay; the other, to begin my service in the ranks." Carried away by such generous devotion, Congress immediately gave Lafayette a commission as Major-General, and Washington placed him on his own staff. [TO BE CONTINUED.] O'ER THE HILLS O' ARGYLE. BY LILLIE E. BARR. I said, when a laddie o' ten, as I gaed o'er the hills o' Argyle, "The way is sae rocky and steep, I am weary this many a mile; Just leave me, and gang on yoursel'; the road I'm no likely to miss." Then my feyther stooped down, wi' a laugh, and gied me a tender bit kiss. "Why, Donald," he said, "be a man, and keep mind o' the words that I say, A strong, stout heart and a sturdy step gang o'er the steepest brae." "It, isna the steepness," I said, "but the way is sae wearifu' lang." "Tut! tut! if your heart gies the order, your body will just hae to gang. Think, Donald, o' mither and hame, and dinna give up for your life; Step out to the sang you like best--'Here's to the bonnets o' Fife!' Sing, lad, though you sing through your tears, and keep mind o' the words that I say, A strong, stout heart and a sturdy step win o'er the langest way." Then I said to my heart, "Gie the order." Singing, I walked or I ran; My feyther stepped, laughing, beside me, and called me "his bonnie brave man." And sae, ere the storm-clouds had gathered, we were safe at our ain fireside, And feyther sat watching the snaw-drifts, wi' me cuddled close to his side. "Donald," he said, "my dear laddie, no matter wherever you stray, Keep mind--a strong heart and a sturdy step gang o'er the steepest brae." Now far from the bonnie Scotch Highlands I've travelled full many a mile, Yet always, in trouble or sorrow, I think o' the hills o' Argyle, Say, "Heart, gie the order for marching!" strike up the auld "Bonnets o' Fife," And then I set dourly and bravely my face to the mountains o' life, For the thought o' my feyther is wi' me: and, "Donald," I hear him say, "Keep mind--a strong heart and a sturdy step gang o'er the steepest brae." THROUGH THE RAPIDS WITH INDIANS. MOOSE LAKE, _August 16_. MY DEAR CHARLEY,--I've had at last the experience of a real Indian canoe voyage, of which we used to dream when we read _The Young Voyageurs_ on the sly behind our desk at school. To begin at the beginning (which modern stories seldom do), imagine me starting from Bear Creek to descend the river in a canoe with two "real live Indians." If you want to know what Indians are like, just fancy two overfried sausages wrapped in dirty brown paper, and you'll have a perfect picture of my "noble red men," whose names sounded to me exactly like "Cock-a-doodle-doo" and "Very-like-a-whale." But you soon get used to such things in a country where names like Nomjamsquilligook and Kashagawigamog are quite every-day matters. [Illustration: 1. Beaver-Hunting. 2. A Poacher. 3. His first Rapid. 4. Over the Beaver Dam. 5. The Drift Pile. THROUGH THE RAPIDS WITH INDIANS.] Now, Charley, if you value my blessing and your own welfare, never get into an Indian canoe. I ought to know something of uncomfortable conveyances, having crossed Central Asia with camels, gone a hundred miles into the Sahara in an Arab wagon, drifted over the Volga on a block of ice, and shot an Icelandic torrent in a leaky boat. But all these fall far, far short of the glorious uncomfortableness of my canoe. Louis XI. would have given any money for such an invention when he wanted to torture Cardinal Balue. I sat, and forthwith fell down on my back; I knelt, and promptly fell forward on my nose. I even tried to squat cross-legged, forgetting that Achmet Bey had spent three days in vainly showing me how _not_ to do it when I was with him in Arabia; and how I _did_ finally manage to stow myself I haven't found out yet. If the Indians had scolded or laughed at my mishaps, or even noticed them at all, it would not have been so bad, but their calm, silent, statuesque disapproval of everything I did made me feel as small as the first boy who breaks down at a spelling bee. My first night was a very queer experience. Beyond the circle of light cast by our camp fire the great black shadow of the forest looked blacker and vaster than ever, and in its gloomy depths no sound was heard but the ghostly rustle of the leaves, which seemed to be whispering to each other some horrible secret. Then up rose the cold moon, glinting spectrally through the trees upon the swirling foam, and giving strange and goblin shapes to the huge trunks all around. In that dreary silence the hoarse sough of the river sounded unnaturally loud, and the wild faces of the Indians, seen and gone again by turns as the fire-glow waxed and waned, looked quite unearthly. But the mosquitoes soon gave me something else to think about, I can promise you. For the next two days I enjoyed camp life in all its fullness--a buffalo-robe for bedding, a jackknife for dinner service, a camp fire for kitchen range, a freshly caught fish for breakfast, a water-fall for shower-bath. The very sense of existence seemed a pleasure in that glorious atmosphere, which made one feel always hungry, but never tired; and to jump into a swollen river, clothes and all, to carry the canoe a mile or more over broken ground, to start splitting wood at night-fall after voyaging all day, to get out on a wet rock at midnight and begin fishing, came quite natural. Once or twice I felt as if I must really give vent to my superfluous vitality by shouting or singing at the top of my voice, and was only deterred from striking up "I paddle my own canoe" by the reflection that I hadn't paddled it a foot since we started. On the second day we passed several water-falls, and it was a rare sight to see the floating trees plunge over them. Sometimes a big trunk would stop short on the very brink, as if shrinking back, and then it would give a kind of leap forward, and over it would go--a regular suicide in dumb-show. A little below one of the falls the floating timber had drifted together into such a mass that it fairly blocked the channel, forming a barricade several hundred feet broad, and we had to get out and drag the canoe bodily over it as best we might. If you've ever walked over an acre of harrows piled on an acre of trucks, you'll know what kind of footing we had, and it's a marvel to me that I've got a leg left to stand on. A little farther I espied a great shaggy beast, not unlike a bear, coming out of the river with a big fish in his mouth. I fired at him, but the bullet probably hit him too obliquely to pierce his thick hide. That's _my_ theory at least; the Indians were mean enough to suggest that I never hit him at all. On the third morning we came to a huge beaver dam, bigger than any I'd seen in Canada, and as neatly put together as any dike in Holland. The fur-coated gentlemen were hard at work when we appeared, some gnawing at the trees, while others plastered the dam with mud, using their broad tails for trowels. But at our coming they all went splash, splash into the water, which was all alive for a moment with dancing ripples and flapping tails--a regular fac-simile of that scene in _The Last of the Mohicans_ over which we used to laugh so. Of course we had to make another "portage" with the canoe; and while we were dragging it along, up jumped a barefooted boy from among the bushes, and lent us a hand with it. A splendid young savage he was, who would have quite delighted my old friend Tom Hughes of Rugby. Straight as a pine, keen-eyed as an eagle, so supple and sinewy that one might almost have rolled him up and pocketed him like a ball of twine. He told me he was "after beaver," and had done pretty well this season, trapping and what not. I gave him some tobacco, which seemed to please him mightily, and he repaid me with what my New York friends would call "a tall yarn": "Time when beaver hats was all the go (which don't I just wish they was _now_!) a feller went for a swim in a river one day, leavin' his hat and things on the bank. It happened to be pretty close to a beaver dam; and when he cum out agin, fust thing he seed was two young beavers a-weepin' over his hat, 'cause they knowed it for the skin o' their father." Toward four that afternoon we began to hear a dull booming roar far away ahead. You should have seen the Indians' eyes flash when they heard it! _They_ knew the sound of the rapids well enough. All at once the sloping banks seemed to grow high and steep, and the overhanging pines to go far away up into the air, and the channel to get dark and narrow, and the
{'title': "Harper's Young People, November 2, 1880 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}