



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

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VOL. III.--NO. 143. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, July 25, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: ST. ELIZABETH OF THURINGIA.]

ST. ELIZABETH OF THURINGIA.

BY HELEN S. CONANT.


On a beautiful hill near the town of Eisenach, Germany, there stands an
ancient castle, famous in history for the many remarkable events which
have taken place within its walls.

It is called the Wartburg, and it was here, in 1521, that Martin Luther
found shelter and protection after his return from the Diet of Worms.
Within the secure walls of the old castle he spent a peaceful year,
laboring on the translation of the Bible, which has brought light and
joy to so many hearts. The room where he worked, with the table,
book-case, and other furniture, is still carefully preserved.

The Wartburg is one of the oldest castles in North Germany. It was built
about the middle of the eleventh century, by Count Lewis, a very
powerful lord in Thuringia. It is said that one day the Count was out
hunting, when a deer that he was pursuing led him to the foot of a steep
rocky hill, where it plunged up the cliffs, and disappeared in the thick
forest. The Count stopped, surrounded by his followers, and declared
that although the hill had robbed him of the desired game, it should, in
its turn, become his fortress and stronghold. This was a bold
declaration, for the hill was the property of another Count, and it was
against the laws of the great German empire that a man should build on
soil which was not his. But Count Lewis had thought of this. He had
twelve trusty knights, and at his command they worked many hours in the
darkness, carrying soil in baskets from the lands of their master to the
top of the hill, until enough was collected upon which to build a
castle. Then Count Lewis went boldly to work, and erected the fortress
which still crowns the heights above Eisenach.

The counts of Thuringia after this made the Wartburg their home, and it
was here that St. Elizabeth passed her life in holy deeds. Her true
history is that she was a daughter of a King of Hungary, and was born at
Pressburg in 1207. When very young she was betrothed to Lewis, son of
Count Hermann of Thuringia, and brought to the Wartburg to be educated.
As she grew to womanhood she became remarkable for her charitable deeds,
and the family of her young husband complained bitterly that she was
wasting his property. Not long after her marriage her husband died while
absent in the great army of the Crusaders, and Elizabeth with her three
little children was driven away from the Wartburg, and compelled to beg
for bread in the neighboring villages. But the people loved her so much
that her husband's family were soon forced to restore her rights. The
hardships she suffered, and the sacrifices she made, were too heavy for
her to bear, and in 1231 she died, when only twenty-four years old. Four
years after her death she was made a saint by Pope Gregory IX., and a
multitude of beautiful legends were wreathed about her memory. Poets
sung her praises, and the poor who had received food and clothing from
her gentle hands remembered her loveliness and kindness through many
generations.

A German poet of the thirteenth century wrote a life of St. Elizabeth in
verse, which contains some pretty legends about her birth and life. In
1207 Count Hermann of Thuringia called a grand meeting of poets and
minstrels at the Wartburg, and offered a prize to him who should compose
the best poem. From far and near came poets to the competition, and a
vast assemblage of noble lords and ladies were gathered to hear them
sing the quaint ballads of that olden time. One evening the company were
all in the great balcony of the castle, when, a poet, pointing with
prophetic finger to the setting sun, declared that a daughter was at
that moment born to the King of Hungary, who would become the wife of
the son of Count Hermann, and whose wondrous virtue and charity would be
remembered through all coming ages. Count Hermann at once dispatched
messengers to the court of Hungary asking for the hand of the baby
princess for his son, and the betrothal at once took place.

Another beautiful legend is about St. Elizabeth and the roses. Soon
after Elizabeth's marriage to Lewis, the son of Count Hermann, a
terrible famine came upon Thuringia. There was no bread, and the poor
people of the country were compelled to eat roots and wild herbs to keep
from starving. Their sufferings touched the tender heart of Elizabeth,
and she commanded that bread should be baked in the great kitchens of
her castle, which she daily distributed to the poor with her own hands.
It is said that the lives of many hundreds of people were saved by her
bounty. Her husband's family begged him to put a stop to this waste, as
they called it, and to forbid his wife from any longer feeding the poor.
It is said that he yielded to the wishes of his mother and sisters, and
declared that no more bread should be sent out from the castle. So far
the story is true. Now comes the pretty legend which has ever since
caused St. Elizabeth to be pictured with roses in her hands.

Her kind heart could not rest while the poor people around her were
dying of hunger. With a basket filled with bread she would go from the
castle and distribute her bounty among the poor who crowded around her.
One day when starting on this mission of charity, her basket on her arm,
she met her husband, who stopped her, and sternly demanding what she
carried in the basket, tore off the mantle which covered it. To the
astonishment of both the basket appeared filled with fragrant roses, and
on the forehead of Elizabeth, shone a glittering cross. Her husband was
so overcome by what he recognized as a miracle that he gave orders that
in future her noble charities should be done with perfect liberty, and
he himself did all in his power to aid her in the generous task.




UP THE CREEK.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.


"It's a mighty good thing for us, Mort Hopkins, we took such an early
start."

"Say, Quill, what do we want of those rollers?"

"Guess you'll find out 'fore we get the _Ark_ around the dam."

"That's so. All ready? Shove her, now. Here we go. Don't she travel!"

"Mort, what was that long word you went to the foot on yesterday?"

"Me-an-der-ing."

"And you called it'mean-drying,' and spelled it wrong. Tell you what,
we're just going to meandrew now 'fore we get back."

"Guess Taponican Creek'll give us all the twists we want. It's as
crooked as a ram's horn."

"Tisn't much wider some places, but the _Ark_ will squeeze through'most
anywhere."

It would not, indeed, have required much of a flood to float a skiff of
that size; but she was a pretty one, and it was no work at all for two
stout boys of from twelve to thirteen years of age to "pole her along."
There was not enough water where they now were to encourage the use of
oars, but a pair of them lay in the stern, beside the fishing-poles and
the bait and luncheon.

The day was one of those truly wonderful Saturdays that come to country
boys in summer, and Mort Hopkins and Quill Sanders had all but slighted
their breakfasts to get the early start they were now so pleased with.

"Mort, if Taponican Creek runs out of Pawg Lake, we'll find the place
where it does."

"Guess we will. It's there, somewhere."

"We won't stop to fish along."

"No, sir! Not one of the boys knows where we're going."

"If they'd ha' known, they'd all have come, and chucked the _Ark_
jam-full."

Mere passengers were not wanted on board of a ship that was clearly
bound on a voyage of discovery. Extra cargo of any kind would have been
bad for the fortunes of such a vessel.

The boys did not pole their boat up stream for more than twenty minutes
before they came to a place where the banks gave the Taponican room to
spread itself. Of course the wider it spread what water it had, the
thinner the water became.

Right in the middle of a sparkling field of gurgling ripples the _Ark_
ran suddenly aground.

"Overboard, Quill!" shouted Mort. "Guess Columbus had to wade before he
found much."

"Noah didn't."

"His ark had a roof on it."

"Shove her, now. There she goes."

Their trousers were rolled up about as high as they would go, and the
water was not very cold. The _Ark_ drew less when its entire crew was
out of it.

"Ah! ugh! Crab."

"Nipped you, did he? Oh, phew! what a clam shell! Stepped right down on
it. Catch your crab?"

"He let go. Can't see him. Didn't he give my heel a dig, though! They're
the ugliest, sassiest--"

"Jump in. She'll float now."

"Shove, or she'll go back, and get aground again."

"There's the dam. Now we've got a job on hand."

The dam was not a high one, but no two boys of their size could have
lifted the _Ark_ over it. Quill Sanders had thought of that, and the
little craft was pulled ashore at a spot where farmers coming to the
mill drove down to water their horses.

"There's just a good road all around from here to the pond. Now for the
rollers, Mort."

Two bits of round poles, about three inches thick and four feet long,
were a great help in getting the _Ark_ up the <DW72>, but it was slow
work for all that. No man in Corry Centre could have hired any two small
boys to undertake it. Quill and Mort did it all the more eagerly because
no living being would have given them a cent for doing it.

The miller came out, indeed, to shout after them:

"Hullo, boys, what're ye up to?"

"Going to Pawg Lake," said Quill, proudly. "Your old dam's in the way,
and we're a-dodgin' 'round it."

"Pawg Lake! I declare! Do ye spect to ever git back agin?"

"Guess we do," said Mort. "Bring you anything when we come?"

"Ye-es. Fetch the lake right along. Bring me the upper eend of the
creek. You'll find it lyin' right there."

"Guess we will," said Mort. "Now, Quill, h'ist her. Shove!"

How they did shove! But the old miller came out into the road and took
the _Ark_ by the head, and after that about all the boys had to do was
to change the rollers forward as the strong-armed fat old fellow dragged
the light skiff along.

"There, boys. You're a plucky brace of spring chickens. In with her,
now. She's afloat agin."

"Thank you, Mr. Getty."

"Don't forget to fetch me back Pawg Lake, when you find it. An' the
crooked eend of the creek."

"Crooked?" said Quill. "Tell you what, I guess we'll have to meandrew
pretty much all the way."

"Andrew what? Oh yes. Guess you will. Go it! Good-by."

Off they went, and now their time had come for actual rowing. The upper
pond of Corry Centre was well known to be a deep one. It was
wonderfully, perilously far from its smooth surface to the home of the
eels on its weedy bottom in some places. It lay in a narrow valley,
however, between the <DW72>s of steep hills, and it was long rather than
wide.

"Isn't this a big thing, Mort? I was never out on any such voyage as
this before. Were you?"

"Don't believe anybody else ever was. Not around here. It's a new
thing."

"Wonder what the boys'll say? Mort, we might hold on here long enough to
catch a fish or two."

"No, sir-ree! We'll just meandrew till we get to Pawg Lake."

They were pulling nicely along just then, quite a distance above the
mill and near the eastern shore of the pond, when a clear, pleasant
voice sang out to them:

"Hey, boys! Put me across the pond, please?"

The manner and the accent of that hail were offensively correct and
polite, and there at the edge of the woody bank stood a young man of
middle size. He carried a joint rod instead of a fish-pole; he had a
sort of butterfly net on a stick, and everything about him was nice and
expensive to that degree which always arouses the hostility of country
village boys. Still, these two were on their good behavior that morning,
and their hearts were a little warm over the conduct of Mr. Getty. The
_Ark_ was pulled ashore and the stranger was taken on board.

"Straight across, please. Nice boat you have. Capital fun for bright
young fellows like you. Spending your day out of school on the water?
Good idea."

"Course it is," said Mort, but Quill Sanders added:

"I say, mister, got any fish in your basket yet?"

"Not one, my boy. No luck at all this morning."

"Guess you won't catch any 'round here, with all that there fancy
rigging."

"Think not? Ah, here we are. Put me ashore. Will a dime apiece do?"

He held out a couple of bits of shining silver as he spoke, but he had
already stirred the pride of the crew of the _Ark_.

"No, thank you," said Quill Sanders. "We're on a voyage of discovery. We
won't take pay for any kindnesses we do to the natives we meet."

"You don't say! Voyage of discovery. New World. All that sort of thing.
Arctic circle. North Pole. Sandwich Islands."

"No, sir-ree!" exclaimed Mort. "We're bound for Pawg Lake. All the way
up the Taponican."

"That's this mighty stream, I suppose, and Pawg Lake is at the
mysterious end of it. Boys, it isn't of any manner of use. I'm not a
native. Only stopping in the village for a week. You've got to take me
on board the--the what's her name?"

"The _Ark_," said Mort, with much dignity, "and we're not calling for
passengers."

"Passengers? Oh no, I'm one of the crew. I'd ship before the mast if
there was one. Just let me take those oars and work my watch on deck.
Then I'll go below while you take yours."

He had again seated himself, even while he was speaking, and Mort
Hopkins hardly knew why he didn't resist the sudden seizure of those
oars.

Then there came a surprise to both of them, for the stranger made the
_Ark_ spin around, and get her head up stream, and glide away over the
water, after a fashion to which she was entirely unaccustomed.

"Quill," said Mort, "he can row."

"Mister," said Quill, "did you bring any lunch with you?"

"I did, my young friend. I am provisioned for the voyage. Is it a long
one?"

"All the way up Taponican Creek, and it just meandrews."

"You don't say! Have to tack around the short corners, and all that
sort of thing. Are the natives at all dangerous?"

"Never been there," said Mort, "'cept once, when father and Uncle Hiram
and the Dutch house-painter went to Pawg a-fishin', and took me along."

"Did they catch anything?"

"Guess they did; but they had things to catch 'em with. Something better
than that there whip-stalk and a spool o' thread."

"They were wise men. We will see what we can do when we get there. Nice
boat this is. I can make her meandrew all the way. If we don't discover
something, it won't be our fault."

"He just can row," began Quill to Mort, but at that moment the stranger
began to pull a little more slowly, and they could hardly believe their
ears. He struck into a ringing, musical song that kept time with the
oars. That was surprise enough, but what made it bad was that they could
not understand one word he was singing.

"Quill," whispered Mort, "I was pop sure he wasn't born in this country.
He's a foreigner."

They were out of the pond now, and there was no question whatever of the
crookedness with which the creek wound its way in and out among the
pastures and meadows. There was nowhere a very strong current, and the
boys were a little surprised to find their favorite stream at once so
deep and so narrow. Its character was very different from any it was
able to earn below the pond and down through the village.

"It's awful clean, though," said Quill, "and there's any amount of trees
and bushes along the banks."

"Boys," exclaimed the stranger at last, "I'm going to try one of these
shady hollows for a trout. Quill, you take an oar, and paddle me along
slowly into that black-looking cove up yonder. I'll show you something
new. Mort, you get back into the stern."

"He knows our names," muttered Mort.

But it was no fault of theirs if he did not. He gave Quill a few more
directions, and then he stood well forward, with the light graceful rod
they had called a "whip-stalk" poised in his right hand. The wind was
gently blowing up stream, and the stranger said, very quietly:

"That'll do. Steady, now."

And then they heard the faint hum of the reel on his rod, and a gossamer
flight of fine line, with three little bits of fuzzy things at the end
of it, each about the size of a small gray moth, dropped on the water as
light as thistle-down.

It was a beautiful cast, if the boys had but known it, and the flies
alighted in a spot of dark water almost under the bank, where a little
eddy made a faint ripple on the surface.

[Illustration: "SOMETHING BRIGHT AND VIGOROUS SPRANG CLEAR OUT OF THE
WATER."]

Splash! Something bright and vigorous sprang clear out of the water!

"Struck! I'll get him. Steady, Quill; don't pull a stroke. He's a heavy
one this time. I must give him all the line he wants. He's off up
stream."

How that reel did buzz, and how the excited boys did watch the motions
of their new acquaintance!

"He'll run all the way to Pawg," said Mort.

"Not with that hook in him," said Quill. "See! he's a-winding him up
again."

The reel was a "multiplier," and the line came in swiftly enough, for
the fisherman had "snubbed" his victim, and turned him toward the boat.
Out and in, again and again, went the line, but at last the boys had
seen the prize, and knew it was a bigger speckled trout than they
supposed Taponican contained.

"Here he comes! Now for the net!"

Both his young friends had long since decided that that machine was
