CHAPTER XVIII.

We are told that the wandering Arabs, after the day’s march over the desert which they love to inhabit, gather in groups at night and amuse each other by telling tales. It always seemed to me that a story under these circumstances would be more interesting than if told in the house, by the quiet fireside; for the feelings and fancy are apt to be excited when there is nothing but the heavens above us and the wide landscape around us. Certain I am that Mat Olmsted’s story of the Chippewa Chief and his bride Meena, seemed far more interesting from the fact that it was related in the woods, by the side of a watch-fire. It must be understood that my friend was no scholar; and, though I have mended his language as to the grammar, I have not added to its point or significance. His Yankee phrases and tone gave additional force to his narrative; and, owing to this and the circumstances under which he told his tale, it made such an impression on my mind, that I remember it better than anything else which has lain so long in memory.

I slept pretty well during the night, though I waked up several times, and saw Mat with one eye open, at my side. Feeling that I had a faithful sentinel to keep guard, I fell back into my repose. The sun rose at last. It was a beautiful frosty morning, and the black and gray squirrels were enlivening the woods with their merry gambols. I should gladly have stayed in the place for a long time, and really began to feel that I should like to turn Indian and make the forest my dwelling-place. But this was momentary: we soon began our march, and entering the high road, proceeded on our way to Albany.

I have not time or space to tell all the little adventures we met with--all the good jokes Mat uttered, or the smart speeches he made. I must hurry on in my story, for I am afraid that, if I do not, my readers will think it like the old woman’s stocking--the more she knit, the further she got from the end of it.

We reached Albany in a few days, and finding a sloop about departing for New York, we concluded to take passage in her and go to that city. This was a little out of our way, but we did not mind that. The captain of the vessel was a Dutchman, and his name was Dyke. He was a short, stout, broad-shouldered man, and his pantaloons were made somewhat like petticoats hitched up between his legs. He had a pipe in his mouth nearly the whole time; and such clouds of smoke as he did send forth! Puff, puff, puff! Mat Olmsted called him Captain Volcano, more than half the time. However, he was a good sailor, and he managed the sloop very well.

Beside Mat and myself, there was a young man on board, who had been collecting furs from the Indians, and was now proceeding to sell them at New York. He was a pleasant fellow, and such lots of stories as he and Mat and the Dutch captain told, I never heard before. I could fill a book with them; but I shall only give a sample from each of the narrators.

One moonlight evening, as we were gliding down the Hudson river, its broad bosom seeming like a sea of silver, we were all seated on the deck of the vessel, the captain, as usual, puffing at his pipe as if he was carrying on a manufactory of clouds, and was paid by the hogshead. For some time there was a dead silence; when at last the captain took his pipe from his mouth, and gravely remarked that his father was the bravest man that ever lived.

“How so?” says Matthew.

“Look there,” said Captain Dyke, pointing to a little island in the river, which we were then passing. “That island,” he continued, “was once the resort of Captain Kid, the famous pirate, who had a fine ship in which he sailed over the world, and, robbing every vessel he met of its money, collected a vast deal of gold and silver. After a long voyage, he used to sail up this river and bury his money on this island. When I was a boy, there was a hut still standing there, which was said to have been built by Kid himself.

“There were a great many wild stories told about this hut; for it was said that the captain and his crew used to hold their revels there. Long after the famous freebooter was hung, and his companions were dead, it was maintained that strange noises were heard in the hut, and several persons who had peeped in at night declared that they had seen Kid there in the midst of his jolly sailors, all of them drinking, singing, and telling wild tales of the sea.

“Now my father, as I said, was a brave man, and he offered to sleep in the hut one night for a bottle of brandy. This banter was accepted, and my father was put over to the island in a boat and left to himself. He had taken care to have the bottle of brandy with him. He repaired to the hut, and sat himself down upon a sailor’s chest which chanced to be there.

“There was no furniture in the room, save a rough table which stood in the centre, and an old-fashioned high-backed chair. My father placed the bottle on the table, and which, by the way, was one of your deep craft, with a long neck, and holding somewhere about half a gallon.

“After sitting nearly an hour upon the chest, all the while looking at the bottle, which glimmered in the moonlight that stole between the rafters of the hut, my father laid himself down on the floor and tried to go to sleep. He had not lain long, however, before the bottle slid gently off the table, and then began to lengthen, till it grew up as tall as a woman. Pretty soon it assumed the shape of one of my father’s sweethearts, and beckoned to him to come and kiss her! With this request he complied, of course, and then they fell to dancing in a very merry style. As they were whirling round and round, the old chair began to bob about, and at the same moment the rickety table rocked to and fro, then whirled round and performed a pirouette upon one of its legs. A moment after, these two joined hand in hand with my father and his sweetheart, and round and round they flew. Everything went on like a regular cotillon. It was back to back, cross over, right and left, chassez, and balance to partners! My father was in great spirits, and he performed the double shuffle to admiration. The old table did the same, the high-backed chair followed, and Miss Bottle beat them all. Such pigeon-wings as she executed never were seen before! The whole party caught the spirit of the moment, and it now seemed to be a strife to see which would surpass the rest in feats of grace and agility.

“My father had seen many a frolic, but never such a one as that; and, what was remarkable, the dance seemed constantly to increase in quickness and merriment. The top of the table looked like the jolly face of a Dutchman, the mouth stretched wide, and the eyes goggling with laughter. The old chair seemed to nod and wink with elvish mirth; and the maiden, who all the time appeared to have a queer resemblance to a bottle, frisked and flirted the gayest of the party. On went the dance, until my father was entirely out of breath; but there was no cessation to the sport. There seemed to be an old fiddler standing in one corner, but nothing save two eyes and his elbow were distinctly visible. The latter flew more rapidly every moment, the music quickened; and the dancers kept time. For seven hours my father performed his part in the dance, until, at last, he reeled, and, falling forward, knocked the table, the chair, and the bottle all into a heap. The vision immediately vanished, and soon after there was a rapping at the door. The people had come over to the island, for it was now morning. They found my father in a swoon, lying across the table, the chair crushed, and the bottle broken in a hundred fragments, which lay scattered on the floor.”

“A strange story that,” says Matthew, as the Dutchman paused; “but I wish to ask one question. Was there any liquor upon the floor where the bottle was broken?”

“Not a drop,” said the Dutchman; “and that’s a good proof that old Nick himself was there to drink the liquor.”

“No, no,” said Matthew, significantly; “it only proves that your father kissed Miss Bottle a little too often; so he got drunk and had the nightmare, and all this scene was a vision of his brain! This proves that your father could drink two quarts of brandy in a single night. I had an uncle who performed a greater feat than that in the revolutionary war, for he captured a British officer with a sausage!”

“Indeed!” said the captain and the fur-trader both at once; “let us hear the story.”

“Well,” said Matthew; “it happened thus. At one time during the war, as you all know, Washington was situated with his little army at Tappan, near the North river, while Sir Harry Clinton, the British commander, with his troops, were at New York. The space between the two armies was called the Neutral Ground, and it was chiefly occupied by a set of people called Cow-boys. These fellows went back and forth, trading with both parties, and cheating everybody, as they could get a chance.

“Now my uncle, whose name was Darby, was a Cow-boy by profession, but he was a patriot in disguise, as you shall hear. One cold winter’s night he was trudging along over the road with a bag of sausages on his back, going to sell them to General Putnam, whose quarters were at the distance of three or four miles. As he was walking along over a lonely part of the road, it being a little after sunset and already growing dark, he heard a horse’s gallop at no great distance. He was at the bottom of a hill, and in the midst of a thick wood. Looking to the top of the hill, he saw a man on horseback, who now began gently to come down the descent. My uncle was not only made for a patriot, but also for a great general. Believing that the man on horseback was a British officer, the idea suddenly entered his head that he would capture him, if it should appear that he was unarmed. Accordingly, he thrust his hand hastily into his wallet, took out one of the frozen sausages, crooked it in the shape of a pistol, and stood still in the middle of the road. The stranger soon approached, and my uncle Darby called out, ‘Who goes there?’ ‘You must first tell me who you are!’ said the person on horseback. ‘That’s as we can agree,’ said my uncle; ‘for it takes two to make a bargain in these parts.’ All this time, he was looking very sharp to see if the man had any weapons about him, and perceiving that he was unarmed, he sprang upon him like a tiger, seized the horse by the bridle, and thrust the muzzle of the seeming pistol in the face of the rider.

“‘Dismount, or I’ll blow your brains out!’ said Darby. My uncle had a voice of thunder, and the astonished traveller expected every moment to be shot through the body. It was no time for parley; so the man dismounted, and my uncle, putting his foot in the stirrup, sprung to the saddle in an instant. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘my pretty fellow, you must go and see old Put. To the right about face, forward, march!’ The man hesitated, but my uncle pretended to cock his pistol, and pointed it at the man’s breast. This settled the question, and the poor fellow began doggedly to ascend the hill. Following him close behind, and keeping his weapon in a threatening attitude, he conducted the man along the road, and in the space of about an hour ushered him into the presence of General Putnam. On examination, he proved to be a British sergeant, who was out upon a frolic, and, wishing to pass as an American, had left his weapons behind. The story made a vast deal of fun in the camp, and my uncle acquired great renown for his exploit. But patriotism is often rewarded with ingratitude. My uncle received the sergeant’s horse, it is true, as a recompense, but he was called ‘_Sassage Darby_’ during the remainder of his life.”

When Matthew had done, the captain turned to the fur-trader, and said, “We have each of us told our story; it is now your turn to tell one.” “Well,” said the young man in reply; “you have related an adventure of your father; our friend Matthew has told one of his uncle; I will now relate one of myself.”

“When I was a boy, I read Robinson Crusoe, and so I had a great fancy for going to sea. Nothing would do, but I must be a sailor. My father and mother were both opposed to it; and, finding it impossible to obtain their consent, I resolved to run away. Getting together a little money, I packed up my clothes, and one night set off for New London in Connecticut, a distance of about twenty miles from where I lived. I there entered on board a schooner bound for Boston, which sailed the next day. There were but five persons on board,--the captain, his two sons, one sixteen and the other seventeen years old,--an old sailor, and myself.

“It was the beginning of winter, but the weather was uncommonly fine, and in a short time we were out upon the sea. We scudded along with a light wind for a couple of days, when there was a sudden change of weather. It first blew from the southeast, and rained smartly. I was a little sea-sick, but still able to keep upon the deck. The storm increased, and the wind shifting to the northeast, it began to snow. At the same time it grew cold, and in a very short space everything about the vessel was sheeted with ice and snow. She became perfectly unmanageable, and was now drifting before the gale towards the island of Nantucket, which was at our lee. We put out our anchor, but it was not of sufficient length to reach the bottom.

“Believing that she must inevitably go ashore, the captain loosed his boat, and getting into it himself, directed us to follow him. His two sons obeyed; but the old sailor, conceiving that the boat must be swamped in the raging sea, chose to continue in the vessel and persuaded me to remain with him. The captain departed, and proceeded toward the shore. But it was now evening, and we soon lost sight of him.

“We continued to drift along for a couple of hours, when the anchor suddenly took effect, and we rode out the night in safety. In the morning, the storm had abated, but everything was so covered with ice that it was impossible for us to get up a sail. In this condition we remained for four days, when a spell of milder weather set in, and we were able to get the little schooner under way. In about a week we reached Boston, where we learned the fate of the captain and his two sons. He reached the shore in safety, but at the distance of nearly three miles from any house. Both of his sons were chilled with the intense cold, and the younger was in a short time unable to walk. Yielding to his fate, the poor fellow lay down upon the beach and begged his father to leave him to die, as the only means of saving his own life and that of his brother. The father would not listen to this. So he took the young man upon his back, and proceeded on his way. He had not gone more than half a mile, when the elder son sunk to the earth, incapable of proceeding farther.

“The storm still continued to rage, and for a moment the old man gave way to despair; but soon recovering, he set forward, with the younger son upon his back. Having proceeded a quarter of a mile, he laid him down upon the beach, and returned to the elder boy, whom he found almost in a state of insensibility. Taking him upon his shoulders, he carried him to the spot where he had left his younger son. What was his agony to discover that the boy was cold and lifeless! He now proceeded with the one upon his back, but in a short time his foot faltered, and he fell to the earth. There was no way, but to leave his children, and reach the house, if possible, for aid. Faint and exhausted, he proceeded with a staggering step, and when at last he reached the house, his mind was so bewildered, that he could scarcely tell his piteous tale. He said enough, however, to give the people some intimation of the truth, and two men immediately set out to scour the beach. They were not long in discovering the bodies of the two boys, who were covered with the spray of the sea, thickly frozen to their garments. Everything was done for them that kindness could suggest, and all had the happiness of soon discovering signs of life. Gradually, both recovered, and the anguish of the father gave way to joy. In four days they were all able to leave the place, and soon after our arrival with the little schooner they came on board. I had, however, seen enough of the sea, and resolved in my heart never to trust myself upon its treacherous bosom again. I made my way back to my home; and, thoroughly penitent for my disobedience, resolved never again to disobey my parents; for during the storm, and especially that fearful night when the old sailor and myself were alone in the vessel, the thought of my misconduct weighed heavily upon my heart, and took away from me the power of providing against the danger that beset me.”

As the young man finished his story, the captain puffed forth an enormous quantity of smoke, and the rest of our party retired to bed!

[Illustration]

Misitra and the Ancient Sparta.

Misitra is a considerable town in Greece, and situated in the province of Laconia. It occupies the slope of a hill, and, as you approach it, has an imposing aspect. You would think it a very large and splendid capital; but as you enter it, the illusion vanishes, and you find yourself in narrow, winding, and dirty streets, where no fine buildings, ancient or modern, meet the eye.

At the distance of a few miles are the ruins of ancient Sparta, the capital of the Lacedemonians, a brave, stern, warlike people, who adopted the laws of Lycurgus, and formed a great contrast to the gay, polished, fickle Athenians. But, alas! no monuments of the Spartans remain on the site of their ancient capital, and the place is only marked by the remains of Roman edifices, erected after the Spartans were subjected to the Roman yoke!

Absence of Mind.

The following cases of absence of mind are furnished by the newspapers:

A short time since, a person engaged a butcher to come the next morning and kill a hog for him. The butcher told him to have the water boiled early, and he would attend. In the morning he came, asked if the water was boiled, and being answered affirmatively, killed the hog, and brought him to his scalding position. He then ordered the good man of the house to bring out the water, which he did by bringing out cold water. This surprised the butcher.

“Where,” said he, “is your boiling water?”

“Why, here!--Molly and I _boiled it last night_! Oh, now I know!--you can’t scald hogs without the water is hot!”

Exit the man of the knife, in a rage!--_N. O. Pic._

* * * * *

On Sunday morning, between the hours of one and two o’clock, as Inspector Donnigan, of the police, was going his rounds, he observed a man, stripped to his shirt, standing in a short, narrow, and uncovered passage in Denmark street, London. On approaching him, and asking what he was doing there, the man replied that he was getting into bed; and at the time he shook from head to foot with the cold, which was very intense.

Donnigan asked him if he was aware he was in the street. He replied he was not, and that he fancied he was by his bed-side, and said his clothes were somewhere about. The officer, after searching for some time, discovered an excellent suit of clothes and a silk cravat on the sill of a window about thirty yards off, with shoes and stockings underneath, and a hat close by.

The cold had by this time brought the man to his perfect senses, and, by the advice of the inspector, he put on his clothes, and, thanking him for his attention, proceeded homewards!

A few years ago, Inspector Norman, belonging to the same division, while going his rounds, had his attention directed to some wagons which were placed in Black Lion-yard, Whitechapel, by a loud snoring.

He procured a light, and on proceeding to the spot, he found an Irish gentleman fast asleep between the shafts of a wagon, with his clothes off to his shirt, and apparently as comfortable as if reposing on a bed of down. His clothes were carefully placed over one of the shafts, and on the top of them rested his pocket-book, containing nearly £800 in bank notes, and in his trowsers pockets a quantity of gold and silver, beside a valuable gold watch, &c. He was at once aroused and taken care of, and the preservation of his property was considered almost miraculous, as, in the immediate neighborhood in which he was found, were located some of the most expert thieves in Europe.--_London paper._

The Star Fish.

Did you ever stand on the rocky shore of the sea and notice the star fishes that come floating along? Many of them appear like pieces of jelly, drifting with the tide, without life, and without the power of motion. But they are all capable of moving from place to place, and shoot out their arms in every direction. Some of them have five rays, as in the picture; this kind are called _five-fingered Jack_. These star fishes have very ravenous appetites, and are very expert in gratifying them. They grasp prawns, shrimps, worms, and insects that come in their way; and, soft and pulpy as they seem, woe to the poor creature that they get hold of! One thing is very curious, and that is that they devour shells of considerable size, which are crushed to pieces in their stomachs!

[Illustration]

Not only are the star fishes of different forms, but they are of different hues also: some are striped, some are red, and some green. In fine weather, they are seen in the water, spread out, fishing for their meal. Some have long, fibrous arms, which stretch forth to a distance, and with them they pull in their prey. If you take one of those creatures and put him on the shore, he becomes a mass of offensive liquid, like water, in about twenty-four hours.

[Illustration]

This picture represents one of these curious creatures, called _Medusa_. The kinds, as I have said, are numerous, and in some seas they are found in myriads. The most curious property of these strange fishes is, that they give out a light at night, which often makes the waves very brilliant. If you ever go to sea, you will notice this light in the track of the vessel, almost seeming as if the water were on fire.

WHERE IS THY HOME?

“Where is thy home, thou lonely man?” I asked a pilgrim gray, Who came, with furrowed brow, and wan, Slow musing on his way. He paused, and with a solemn mien, Upturned his holy eyes,-- “The land I seek thou ne’er hast seen,-- _My_ home is in the skies!” O! blest--thrice blest! the heart must be To whom such thoughts are given, That walks from worldly fetters free,-- Its only home in heaven!

[Illustration]

Sea-Weed.

Every portion of the earth seems covered with vegetation, except now and then some sandy desert. Even the rocks are covered with mosses; and we have heard of little red plants, that take root so thickly in snow-flakes, as to make a fall of snow seem like a shower of blood.

The bottom of the sea, too, is sown with myriads of plants. These are of many forms and many hues, but mostly of a green color: it is owing to the plants beneath the surface that the sea has such a verdant tinge. In some tropical portions of the sea, the marine plants are so thick as to obstruct the passage of ships; and some species are said to grow seven hundred feet in length!

Inquisitive Jack and his Aunt Piper.

There was once a little boy who had neither father nor mother, but he had an excellent aunt, and she supplied the place of parents. Her name was Piper, and a very good woman she was. The boy’s name was John; but, as he was always asking questions, he at length got the name of Inquisitive Jack.

He was perpetually teasing his aunt to tell him about the sun, or the moon,--to explain to him why the fire burned, or where the rain came from, or something else of the kind. His aunt, being unmarried, and having little else to do, used to sit down for hours together, and answer little Jack’s inquiries.

One winter’s day, they were sitting by a pleasant fire, and Jack had been reading in a book of poetry. After a while, he laid down the book, and asked his aunt why some things were told in poetry and some in prose. To this the good lady replied as follows.

“I must tell you, in the first place, my boy, that prose is the language of common speech, such as I am now talking to you. But there are certain thoughts and feelings that are too fine and beautiful for prose. If these were expressed in a common way, their beauty would be lost. I will try to make you understand this by a story.

“There were once some flowers growing in a garden, but they were mixed with other plants, such as peas, beans, potatoes, beets, and other things. These had, therefore, a common appearance, and no one noticed their beauty.

“At length, the gardener took up these flowers, and set them out in a nice bed of earth, which he had prepared for them. This situation permitted their bright colors and fair forms to be seen, and they therefore attracted the attention of every person who passed by.

“Everybody admired them; and those who overlooked them as common things when planted in a kitchen garden, were ready to acknowledge their beauty, and praise their fragrance, when they were flourishing in a flower-garden.

“Thus you perceive that I compare fine thoughts to flowers; however beautiful they may be, they would strike us less, and please us less, if they were presented in a common way. They want a situation appropriate to them, and then we shall perceive and feel their full beauty.

“Poetry, then, consists of beautiful thoughts in beautiful language, and may be compared to a bed of flowers, with graceful forms, bright colors, and sweet fragrance. Prose consists of common thoughts, expressed in common language, and may be compared to a garden filled with things that are useful rather than beautiful, such as beets, potatoes, and cabbages.”--_Second Reader._

A word to my Correspondents.

I beg my young friends who favor me with their letters to understand that I receive them with great pleasure, even though I do not find an opportunity to put them all in print. I give my thanks to Christopher Columbus; to J. A. H----, of Medford, and others, who have taken into their heads to send me puzzles; but as I have given a great supply of these the last month, I must pass them by, at least for the present.

The following letter contains a suggestion that I shall certainly comply with. The idea is a very good one.

MR. ROBERT MERRY:

I have just learned to read, and I wish you would put some little stories in your Museum, such as I can understand. My sister Jane reads it, and she likes it very much, but it has too many long words for me. Won’t you put in two or three pages for me, every month? I shall then like you very much. LUCY A----.

_Washington, March 23, 1842._ DEAR MR. MERRY:

My mother has just commenced taking your Magazine for me, and I like it _very much_. The March number was very long in coming, but when it did come it was very interesting. Every number that I get, I always look for Philip Brusque and the Siberian Sable-Hunter. I was glad to find them both in this number. I hope that the story of Philip Brusque will not long be discontinued, it is so interesting. The puzzles, with some help, I found out; and I set my wits to work and made one. Perhaps you will think it worth putting in the Museum; so here it is. I am composed of 14 letters. My 4th, 5th, 1st, 2d, is an article much used in winter. My 11th, 1st, 13th, 14th, 8th, an ancient poet. My 6th, 7th, 10th, 11th, 8th, the worst of passions. My 3d, 6th, 10th, 12th, a celebrated authoress. My 9th, 3d, 1st, 6th, a purifier. My whole, our nation’s scourge.

ANOTHER BLACK-EYED FRIEND.

MR. ROBERT MERRY:

The following puzzle is from three subscribers for Merry’s Museum for 1842, and it will oblige them to see it in the May number. H. T. C. E. J. S. J. W. C.

I am a word of 13 letters.

My 3d, 12th, 13th, 5th, 12th, and 9th, is the name of one of the ex-presidents of the United States. My 1st, 8th, 13th, and 9th, is a name common with the female sex. My 4th, 5th, 12th, and 13th, is the name of a metal. My 7th, 9th, 6th, and 2d, is the name of another. My 11th, 10th, 9th, and 2d, is a common thing with boys in winter. My 6th, 4th, and 5th, is one of the elements. My whole is the name of a great warrior.

I am quite pleased with the following, and should be happy to hear from Bertha very often.

CHARADE.

My first’s the end of him whose wife Was turned one day to salt; And doubtless, if the truth must out, My fourth’s the end of malt. My second, if you will believe it, Essential is to rest; My third,--and you can well conceive it,-- Is that which you love best. My fifth--my last--’tis found in heaven-- ’Tis found, alas! in hell; And though not in an oyster met, It lives in every shell. Already hath my humble name In these brief lines been set; But modest merit’s overlooked, And you don’t see me yet! I am the greatest earthly good,-- The only path to glory,-- Come, gentle reader, guess my name, And keep me e’er before thee!--BERTHA.

The letter from J. A. is very gratifying, so I give it an insertion.

_Petersburgh, Va., March 2, 1842._ MR. MERRY:

I have just begun to take your Museum, and I like it very much. I think you tell stories very much as Peter Parley did. I like Parley’s books so much that I called my little dog Peter Parley. He died some time ago, and now I am going to get another, and I intend to call it Robert Merry. I hope you won’t be offended at this, for we always call dogs after famous people. I think the best of your stories is the Sable-Hunter, but I really wish you would go on with it a little faster. JAMES A----.

The following is inserted, not because it is a very famous specimen of poetry but because it is written by quite a young person, and shows a very tender feeling

ON A DEAD RABBIT.

Once upon a time, When I was in my prime, I had a rabbit white as milk, And its hair was soft as silk.

One morn I went to feed it,-- There was no rabbit there-- And long I hunted after it, Looking everywhere.

One day, when I was wandering, Something met my eye, It was my little rabbit, Hung on a tree close by.

But oh! I can’t relate it-- That pretty one was dead; And sadly did I bury it, In a lonely, narrow bed!

“FAR AWAY”--THE BLUEBIRD’S SONG.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

[Illustration: Music]

I dwelt in climes where flowers bloom, And know no chill, no wintry tomb; A joyous land, where one might stay; But home, sweet home was far away-- But home, sweet home, was far a-way.

I sat upon the topmost bough At peep of dawn, as I do now, And tried to sing a cheerful lay-- But no--’twas ever “far away!”

I loved that land of fruits and flowers, Where spring and summer twine their bowers, And gentle zephyrs round them play-- But my birth-tree was far away!

Far north, where I was born and bred, My winged thoughts were ever fled; And, spurning joys that round me lay, I sighed for pleasures far away!

Gay birds around sang many a song, And cheerful notes rang loud and long-- But oh, my heart tuned every lay To plaintive airs of “far away!”

The brook came laughing down the dell, Yet sad to me its joyous swell; And though its chime made others gay, I only thought of “far away!”

And now, returned, how dear the hours, Though chill the wind and bare the bowers; Yet this is home; and that sad lay I sing no more of--“far away!”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME III.--No. 6.

[Illustration: _A lady listening to the notes of a harp._]

The sense of Hearing.

The sense of hearing lies in the ear, the organs of which are contrived with admirable skill and ingenuity. The air is capable of being moved so as to produce a rapid shaking or vibration. Such a movement of the air is made by the explosion of a gun, by the human voice, &c. Thus vibration of the air with the perception of it, is what we call sound.

Now at the bottom of a winding cavity in the ear is a delicate organ called the drum, which is affected by every motion of the air, however slight; and which, by means of nerves, conveys to the brain the perception of such motion. It is by this means that we hear distant as well as near sounds, and often know what is going on even beyond the reach of sight. Hearing, then, is only perceiving vibrations or quick motions of the air, and sound is only such vibration, with the perception of it.

The delicacy and perfection of the mechanism of the ear are so great, that by its power we not only are able to distinguish the vibrations of the air, caused by the voice of one person, from those produced by that of another, but even to distinguish the vibrations, produced by one string of a musical instrument from those of another. It is owing to the perfection of this mechanism that we are able to distinguish musical notes, to judge of the distance of sounds, to discriminate between the several songs of the orchard and the grove.

Most quadrupeds have long ears, which they can move forward and back with great ease, so as to distinguish with quickness and accuracy the species of sounds, and the nature and situation of the animals or objects which produce them. If you notice a cat or dog, or even a horse, you will observe that the ear is very active, seeking to gather information as to what is going on around. The ears of the hare and rabbit are peculiarly fitted to the use of such timid creatures.

We observe that children seem often inattentive to sounds, and that they are very fond of noise. The reason is this: the bones of their ears are soft, and therefore not sonorous; accordingly, their sense of hearing is dull. When they appear inattentive, they do not hear; yet the exercise of the sense is pleasant, and therefore loud noises delight them. For this reason it is that they usually speak loud, and, when several of them are together, they seem to be much gratified with making an uproar.

The sense of hearing is not only of the greatest use to us in the serious business or life, but it is the source of an infinite number of pleasures. What gratification we sometimes enjoy at hearing the voice of a dear friend! What enjoyment we derive from music! Beside all this, language, which is the great vehicle of thought, is communicated by the ear. It is true that after they are formed we commit words to paper; but these are only signs of sounds previously formed. Without hearing we could have no speech, and all would be dumb; without speech there could be no writing, no books. How vastly, then, is the circle of our knowledge and our pleasures enlarged by this sense, and how does the goodness and the wisdom of the Creator appear in bestowing upon his creatures such a wonderful and beneficent gift!

“Fresh Flowers.”

This is the pleasant title of a pleasant book, which a kind friend has sent me. There is a resemblance between bright thoughts and bright blossoms, between the world of poetry and the world of roses, and honeysuckles, and lilacs, and lilies: and therefore the title of this book is not only pretty, but appropriate. Let any one read the following, and he will see that such a book may well bear the title of “Fresh Flowers.”

A TALK AMONG THE FLOWERS.

“Do flowers talk?” said Caroline; “I never hear Voices from mine. Mamma, you said the flowers told Wondrous things, both new and old.”

“Sweet voices come from every flower, That blooms in garden, Wood or bower; Sweet, silent voices, Caroline: Come then and listen, daughter mine.”

“I will to you a story tell, And you must mind The moral well; ’T will teach you a bright lesson, child, From garden flowers, and blossoms wild.”

Not far from the borders of a dark wood, was a bright and cheerful-looking garden. Flowers were there, of every hue and form, growing and rejoicing beneath the beams of the summer’s sun.

“Ah, how happy we are!” said the marigold to the larkspur.

“Here we bloom and soar upward almost to the very sun,” said a family of sun-flowers.

“Yes, and climb as high as the sky,” cried a convolvolus and jasmine, who had wound themselves round a tall princess-feather.

“How brilliant and stately we are,” said the proud dahlia. “We are admired far more than those pale flowers that grow in yonder wood.”

“I pity the poor faded things,” whispered a bright coreopsis.

“I look down upon them,” said a fierce tiger-lily.

“The sun loves the garden flowers best,” said a pansy of great beauty, to some sweet mignionette; “let us be glad that our home is in this bright place.”

“I will ring a peal for very happiness,” replied a gay Canterbury bell; “for how could we exist in the gloom of that forest?”

“Let us be merry and glad that we are not wood flowers,” shouted they all, with a musical laugh that rung through the wood and made the wild-flowers, wonder.

A bright golden-rod, that grew on the edge of the forest, with his friend the aster, heard this conversation, and felt the injustice of it. Gracefully bowing his yellow plumes, he exclaimed, “Indeed, you do not know us; our life is the happiest in the world. In the deep woods, sheltered from the storm and heat, by the towering trees that soar above us like guardian angels, we live in peace and beauty. The sun does not always bathe us in a flood of light as he does the garden flowers, but he darts his beams through green boughs, and they come to us in tenfold beauty, scattered in a golden shower; and in the still night, the stars look down between the tops of the tall trees, and gaze silently and lovingly upon us.”

The wood flowers heard the silvery tones of the golden-rod with glee, as he recounted their blessed sources of delight.

“We have music too,” said he, “such as never floats through garden airs. We listen to the wind, as it sighs through the pines, and waves the bowery branches of the oak and maple; for each tree is a separate harp, that gives forth its own sweet melodies.”

Then all the flowers that grew by the brook said, “Hear the music of the waters, as they dash along over the rocks, and look on them as they reflect the sunlight upon us, and make us bright and beautiful.”

And the little mosses called out from the shades, “O let us always grow in the greenwood, and live in its shadows, and delight in its sweet voices.”

Then the ferns waved joyfully, and the clematis clung round the elder in a close embrace; and they blessed themselves that they lived amid the lights and shades of the forest.

Then spoke the “lilies of the field” to the little blue-eyed grass, that was looking up into the sky: “How merry are we in the meadows, where grows all that is greenest and freshest. Happiness pervades and fills the universe. It is above us with the birds and the clouds, around us with every flower and green leaf and blade of grass. Let man take a lesson from our kingdom and be wise; for all here are _happiest_ in the place allotted to them by their Creator.”

* * * * *

The following contains a very beautiful thought, and it is expressed with a simplicity that reminds us of Dr. Watts’ songs for children.

GOOD NIGHT, LITTLE STAR.

Good night, little star; I will go to my bed, And leave you to burn, While I lay down my head On my pillow to sleep, Till the morning light; Then you will be fading, And I shall be bright.

We make one more quotation, and take leave of this little book, recommending it to all our young readers, who will find it at all the bookstores.

WHAT IS IT MAKES ME HAPPIEST?

What is it makes me happiest? Is it my last new play? Is it my bounding ball, or hoop I follow every day?

Is it my puzzles or my blocks? My pleasant _solitaire_? My dolls, my kitten, or my books, My flowers fresh and fair?

What is it makes me happiest? It is not one of these; Yet they are treasures dear to me, And never fail to please.

O, it is looks and tones of love, From those I love the best, That follow me _when I do right_; These make me happiest!

[Illustration]

June.

June is the first of the summer months, and it is, in our climate, the brightest and pleasantest of the year. The poet Thomson describes it as the season when

------------------Heaven descends In universal bounty, shedding herbs, And fruits, and flowers in Nature’s ample lap.

It is said that Juno, the goddess, who was wife of Jupiter, in the fantastic religion of the ancients, claimed June as her month, and it is said, therefore, to have been named after her. Now, though the story of Jupiter and Juno is mainly a fiction, there is perhaps some truth in it. Very likely some old king had a headstrong wife, who tormented him very much. After many years, the poets began to write verses about them, and called one a god and the other a goddess. Thus, no doubt, it was, that the people learnt to believe in them as divine beings. Still, according to all accounts, Juno was a pretty selfish kind of a person, and it is very likely that, if she took a notion to have a month, or a year, to herself, she would have teased Jupiter till he had given it to her. Thus it may seem very likely that June is named after Juno, as being her month.

But there is another story about the name of this favorite month. Some writers say that it comes from a Latin word, _junioribus_, as if it was the month of the young. Whether this was the origin of the name or not, we believe it is the favorite season of children. The two girls, and even the little dog, at the beginning of this article, seem to think that everything is made for them--the sunshine, the green grass, the blushing flowers. How happy is that period of life, when everything gives pleasure! How happy is childhood, the June of life, when the heart is as bright as the season, and the mind as full of flowers as the meadow. Sweet June--blest childhood--farewell!

[Illustration: _Mexicans of the present day._]

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, &c., of the Indians of America.