



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








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

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. II.--NO. 73. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, March 22, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration: THE LUCK OF THE HORSESHOE.--DRAWN BY W. R. YEAGER.]

TOMMY TUCKER'S HORSESHOE.

BY MRS. FRANK McCARTHY.


Tommy Tucker lives on a "farm" in the city of New York, near the Central
Park. Some people make fun of Tommy's way of living, and call his place
the "sunken lots," and say his family are squatters; but it makes very
little difference to Tommy what remarks were made about his home or his
people, so long as they were happy. And they were happy for a very long
time, so happy that they didn't know what it was to be miserable, and it
makes a wonderful difference to be able to tell one from the other. Up
to the beginning of this winter they had the longest run of luck on
record in any family in that neighborhood. A long while since, a horse
had been turned out to die in a lot near the Tucker's. It wasn't such a
very old horse, but it was dreadfully sick, and something was the
matter with its windpipe, so that Mr. Tucker heard it wheezing away
while he was at work on the farm. He had a very kind heart, and always
did what he could for poor dumb creatures, as well as those that could
tell what was the matter with them; and what with kind treatment and a
wonderful skill Mr. Tucker had with animals, that horse came around so
that you'd hardly know it from a spirited charger of Mr. Croesus--a
gentleman who lives up in that neighborhood. It grew so strong that it
was able to drag a cart-load of vegetables down town to Mr. Tucker's
customers, and Mr. Tucker was able to put another lot or two under
cultivation. And if the lots were a little rough and sunken, it was very
pretty to see them full of "green things a-growing." Up to this last
winter there was almost always something to sell, and pretty soon after
Mr. Tucker cured his horse he got a cow. She wasn't a first-class cow
when Mr. Tucker first traded off some pigs for her, and gave some silver
to boot out of Mother Tucker's stocking. What little milk she had seemed
to be turned to gall, and even that couldn't be got from her until she
was tied to the side of the house; then she would have kicked the whole
mansion down if it hadn't been founded on a rock, like the wise man's
house Mr. Tucker read about in the Bible. Mr. Tucker and Tommy think
there are only two books worth reading in the whole world: one is the
Bible, and the other is _Robinson Crusoe_. Tommy hadn't minded depending
on his goats for milk, because it seemed so much like Crusoe's way of
living; but Mrs. Tucker and Tommy's three little brothers liked cow's
milk the best; for one thing, there was so much more of it, and Tommy's
three little brothers had such excellent appetites. For Mr. Tucker's
wisdom extended to the udders of the cow, and pretty soon she was almost
as good as an Alderney cow around the corner, so called, Mr. Tucker
said, because she belonged to an Alderman.

Tommy Tucker's family prospered exceedingly. The horse drew more and
more vegetables to market, the cow gave more and more milk, the hens
laid more and more eggs, and the cheery chink in Mother Tucker's
stocking became more and more musical to the ear, until the last winter
set in. Then the Tucker luck, which was proverbial in that neighborhood,
suddenly took an evil turn.

First, and worst, Mr. Tucker fell on the ice and broke his leg. You may
know it was a particular kind of ice that could bring Mr. Tucker down.
It was about a dozen layers thick, and very treacherous. The winter had
closed in some time before in a very unusual way. It was bitter cold,
day in and day out; the heavens opened, and the snow fell, and opened
again, and more snow came down, and kept on opening, and more snow kept
falling, until the familiar gullies were all filled up, and the country
around there grew white and level and changed, so that Tommy wondered
sometimes if the world had lost its reckoning, and stopped turning when
it reached the north pole.

And it gave Tommy a dreadful sickly feeling to know that his father's
leg _could_ break. It wasn't natural to see him lying on the bed in the
corner, when he had always been up and doing. Nothing ever seemed so far
gone that his father couldn't fetch it around, and it shook Tommy's
confidence considerably to see the obstinacy of that leg. Tommy had
always gone to bed before his father, and his father had always got up
before Tommy, so that it was a new experience to Tommy to see his father
down.

It took the heart out of all of them, and everything went wrong. It went
on freezing, snowing, and blowing outside; and do what Tommy could, the
live stock began to give out. That charity waif of a horse yielded to
the weakness in his windpipe again, and sprawled his legs and hung his
head in the most ungrateful way; the cow went dry; two of the best pigs
got frost-bitten, so that their squeal mingled with the melancholy
soughing of the north wind around the Tucker mansion; and the hens
wouldn't lay an egg for Mr. Tucker, though the doctor had particularly
ordered it.

And about that doctor: Tommy used to dread to see him come, for instead
of brightening things up, he made them gloomier. He took some of the
cheery chink out of Mother Tucker's stocking every time he came, and Mr.
Tucker seemed none the better for it, but lay with his face to the wall
for hours together, and wouldn't read any book in the Bible but Job; and
Tommy's three little brothers went on eating just the same as when milk
was plenty and times were good.

The music in Mother Tucker's stocking got away down to the toe; and one
morning, when Mr. Tucker had no appetite for anything, and Tommy's three
little brothers had an appetite for everything, even their mother's poor
share of what was left, Tommy saw the shadow of a big wolf called Hunger
prowling around the door-sill, and out he ran and down the road,
frightened, and sobbing as if his heart would break. He thought nothing
of the poor shivering brutes that were left to his care, or thought they
might as well all starve together. Luck was against them; there was no
use trying any more; when all at once, over in the middle of the road,
he saw through his blinding tears something round and shining. It wasn't
a gold piece, nor one of silver, but he plunged through a snow-bank and
over a ditch to get it. He dug it out of a chunk of ice, and cut his
hands and tore his finger-nails; and his honest little face took the
keen and hungry exultation of a miner's just then, though it was neither
silver nor gold, but an old battered-out horseshoe.

For all the music in Mother Tucker's stocking hadn't helped his father's
leg, but Tommy had heard say that a horseshoe honestly found was the
best bit of luck to stumble on in the world.

He warmed the cold bit of metal against his heart, and ran home with it
as fast as he could, never stopping until he reached his father's bed.

"Cheer up, Pop!" he cried. "See! Everything'll come right now. I've
found a horseshoe."

Poor Mr. Tucker turned to look at it with a sickly sort of smile, but
the hope that illumined his boy's face lent a feeble glow to his own.

"Heaven bless the boy!" he said. "I'm very weak, I suppose. But hang it
up where I can see it."

Mother Tucker fastened it to a beam over the foot of the bed, having the
good cry over it she'd been longing for, and out Tommy ran to see to the
live stock.

He rubbed that horse into such a glow that before he left him the wheeze
in his windpipe wasn't worth mentioning, and he held his head and legs
up in the style of Mr. Croesus' steed; then he fed the cow, and drove
the hens around to the manure heap, where they could keep warm in the
steaming side next the sun; and while he was hard at work he heard a
terrible racket up the road, and he thought it must be Mr. Croesus
himself shouting and screaming for dear life, while his charger was
flying along on the wings of the wind. Tommy dropped his pitchfork, and
got there just in time to feel the hot breath from the runaway's
nostrils, and make a spring for the bridle. They all went plunging along
together a bit, then came to a stand-still, trembling all over, all of
them. What was Tommy's delight to find that instead of Mr. Croesus, it
was only their old doctor! He trembled more than his horse, and puffed
like a grampus.

"Well done, sonny," he said. "I might have been in a worse plight than
your father, if it hadn't been for you. My horse never cut up such a
tantrum before."

Tommy knew what it was; it was the horseshoe. Something had to be done
to soften that doctor's heart. Tommy plucked up courage to beg of him to
take no more music from his mother's stocking, seeing it was away down
to the toe.

"Why, no, sonny," said the doctor; "I'll take none out, but I'll put
some in."

After that scare with the horse, nothing would do but Tommy must go
around with the doctor to take care of it, and the doctor made a bargain
with Tommy that paid him handsomely for three or four hours every day.

When Tommy reached home that night he found his father propped up in bed
making a supper off of new-laid eggs. His father said it was driving the
hens round on the sunny side of the farm, but Tommy stuck to it that it
was the horseshoe. After that it was like the house that Jack built. The
hens began to lay; Pop began to eat and get well, and read the Psalms
instead of Job; the cow had a pretty calf, and began to give lots of
milk; the winter began to break; and the doctor began telling the Tucker
family of a noble way of squatting out West that beat their way all to
nothing, and how there was lots of land out there considerably better
than the sunken lots, and how, instead of watching one lazy horse, that
wouldn't run away without there was a providence in it, Tommy might have
a whole drove of chargers like Mr. Croesus', and Mr. Tucker might
raise millions of bushels of golden grain, and he shouldn't wonder if
Tommy would be President yet, and his three little brothers feeding away
at a public crib that never gives out.

Tommy says it's all the horseshoe, but the doctor's made a sum of it in
this way:

  PXP=P.

Pluck multiplied by Perseverance equals Prosperity. The doctor says the
example is to be followed in a general sort of way, but principally by
stopping a runaway horse when there's an old coward of a doctor behind
him.




SOMETHING ABOUT SHIPS.

BY LIEUTENANT J. A. LOCKWOOD.


After the hull of a ship is built, she is launched before her spars are
put in. This launching is usually done stern foremost; sometimes bow
foremost, and, in very narrow rivers, side foremost. The _Great Eastern_
was launched side foremost in the river Thames.

Under the general name of spars are included the masts, bowsprit, yards,
booms, and gaffs of a ship. It will not be necessary to inform the boys
who live near our seaports what masts and yards are; but perhaps some of
America's future admirals, who have yet to see their first ship, will be
interested in knowing that a mast is a stick perpendicular to the deck,
and yards are sticks to which sails are bent, and are at right angles
with the masts; the bowsprit is a stick projecting over the bow to carry
sail forward.

Each of the three masts of all but very small vessels consists of a
number of sticks one above another. The "heel" of the topmast comes a
little below the "head" of the lower mast, and is secured by a "cap," a
sort of iron band, and a bar, called a "fid." Above the topmast comes
the top-gallant-mast, and above that the royal-mast.

At the head of the lower mast of a ship is a platform called the "top."
Tops have usually holes in them, called the "lubbers' hole," large
enough to permit a man to crawl through. Jack, however, scorns to make
use of this hole, preferring to climb over outside by the
futtock-shrouds.

Vessels derive their names from the number of their masts and their rig.
While all vessels are often included under the general term _ships_,
more properly a ship has always three masts, and is square-rigged; that
is, she has tops and yards on all three of her masts. The three masts
are designated by the names fore, main, and mizzen.

A bark is square-rigged at her fore and main masts, but, unlike a ship,
at her mizzenmast has no top, and only fore-and-aft sails.

A brig has but two masts, both of which are square-rigged.

A schooner may have either two or three masts, but carries fore-and-aft
sails only.

A sloop has one mast, fore-and-aft rigged.

A vessel's masts are "stepped"--_i. e._, put in--by means of shears.
Shears consist of a couple of spars lashed together at one end and
spread apart at the other. They are raised to a nearly upright position,
and furnished with tackle for lifting masts in and out of ships.

After the masts are stepped and the bowsprit put in, the standing
rigging is "set up." The standing rigging consists of strong ropes,
called stays, to support the masts fore and aft, and other ropes, called
back-stays and shrouds, to lend support sideways. The shrouds on each
mast are connected by little ropes placed crosswise, called ratlines,
which the sailors use when ordered to "lay aloft." A good sailor is as
nimble as a cat on these ratlines.

The running rigging consists of the ropes used in handling the yards and
sails, and every rope has a distinguishing name. Halyards are ropes used
to hoist yards and sails. Braces are ropes used to swing the yards round
by.

To the beginner the names of ropes are apt to be very confusing. Old
salts are fond of spinning a yarn about a lad who wanted to go to sea,
until he heard that the fore-top-gallant-studding-sail-boom-tricing-line-
thimble-block-mousing was the name of about the smallest bit of rope on
board ship, when he at once concluded that, such being the case, he
could never expect to master the name of the largest rope, and
consequently decided to become a farmer.




A SONG OF APOLLO.

A LEGEND OF ANCIENT GREECE.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.


  After the burning of Troy, to Argos there came
    A soldier aged and weary:
  Naught had he gained in the contest, treasure nor fame,
  So now he lifted his lyre, and day after day
  Stood in the streets or the market, and strove to play.

  No one gave him a lepton, no one waited to hear
    A song so ancient and simple;
  Hungry and hopeless, he ceased: then a youth drew near--
  A youth with a beautiful face--and he said, "Old man,
  Now strike on thy lyre and sing, for I know thou can."

  "O Greek," said old Akeratos, "I have lost the power,
    With handling of swords and lances."
  "Then here's a didrachmon--lend me thy lyre an hour;
  Thou hold out the cap in thine hand, and I will play:
  Surely these men that are deaf shall listen to-day."

  Then, with a mighty hand sweeping the trembling strings,
    Over the tumult and chatting,
  Like the call of a clear sweet trumpet, the young voice rings;
  For he sings of the taking of Troy, and the chords
  Sound like the tramping of hoofs, and clashing of swords.

  There, in the market of Argos, is Hector slain,
    There, in their midst, is Achilles.
  Breathless, they listen again and again,
  Fill up the cap with coins, and shout in the crowded street,
  "Strike up thy lyre once more, O Singer strange and sweet!"

  Ah! then came magical notes, soft melodies low;
    The air grew purple and amber,
  Scented with honey, and spices, and roses a-blow:
  And there in the glory sat Love--Mother and Queen--
  And eyes grew misty with tears for days that had been.

  Eyes grew misty, hearts grew tender, tender and free:
    Every one gave to the soldier
  Bracelets, and ring, and perfumes from over the sea.
  Then said the Singer, "Now, soldier, gather thy store,
  The hands that have fought for Greece need never beg more.

  "Greeks, dwelling in Argos, this is a shameful sight--
    A soldier wounded and begging."
  The Singer grew splendid and godlike, and rose in unbearable light:
  Then they knew it was Phoebus Apollo, and said,
  "Never again in Argos shall the brave beg bread."




[Illustration: ACCIDENT ON A MOUNTAIN ROAD, INDIA.]

AN INCIDENT OF INDIAN TRAVEL.


Although there are about ten thousand miles of railroad in Hindostan,
the country is so vast, and in many portions of it so mountainous, that
much of the travelling is yet performed by old-fashioned methods. We see
one of them in the accompanying sketch, and perhaps our young readers
will think that there is sometimes as much danger attaching to the "old
slow coach" as to the swift-rushing iron horse. The conveyance in our
sketch is what is known as a "hill cart," a curious kind of vehicle,
with a seat before and behind covered with a leathern hood, hung very
low, and possessing two strong wheels. It is drawn by two ponies, whose
general pace is a hand-gallop.

The hill roads are narrow and uneven, with sharp curves bordering
unpleasantly close to the edge of the "khuds," or precipices, over one
of which the ponies in the sketch have taken a flying leap, having been
frightened into shying at the remnants of a previous accident on the
same spot.

At the best, the occupants of these hill carts have but a sorry time of
it. The cart having only two wheels, the pole is supported by a chain
fastened to a longitudinal bar across the backs of the animals, after
the manner of an old-fashioned curricle, this method of harnessing
causing a lurching, bumping motion, sometimes amounting to a perfect
series of jumps when passing over a rough bit of ground, the occupants
of the vehicle holding on by the rails to maintain their seats, from
which, however, they are perpetually being jerked.

There is sometimes a good deal of fun in getting these hill carts set in
motion for a start, the ponies generally having a will of their own, and
sometimes not agreeing; one is prepared to start, the other objects, so
he is thrashed by the driver; but to make things equal, so is the
willing fellow. This unjust infliction causes him to make such a sudden
and violent plunge that a trace breaks, which begets much hard language
and delay. However, the trace gets mended somehow, and then there is
another attempt to start. The cart is pushed on to the heels of the
ponies, of which proceeding they show their disapproval by a series of
most vigorous kicks. After an interval varying from five to fifteen
minutes, the driver, with assistance from behind, finally triumphs, and
the start is made, the balky animal having entirely altered his previous
views of resistance, and taken it into his head to run madly away with
himself, his quieter fellow, the cart, and its contents.

This scene is generally repeated at every stage with each fresh pair of
ponies, so the fun of the thing becomes before long rather tiresome.




[Illustration: GIVING THANKS.]




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

TOBY TYLER;

OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.

BY JAMES OTIS.

CHAPTER XV.

TOBY'S FRIENDS PRESENT HIM WITH A COSTUME.


During this time Toby's funds had accumulated rather slower than on the
first few days he was in the business, but he had saved eleven dollars,
and Mr. Lord had paid him five dollars of his salary, so that he had the
to him enormous sum of sixteen dollars, and he had about made up his
mind to make one effort for liberty, when the news came that he was to
ride in public.

He had, in fact, been ready to run away any time within the past week;
but, as if they had divined his intentions, both Mr. Castle and Mr. Lord
had kept a very strict watch over him, one or the other keeping him in
sight from the time he got through with his labors at night until they
saw him on the cart with old Ben.

[Illustration: ELLA AND TOBY.]

"I was just gettin' ready to run away," said Toby to Ella, on the day
Mr. Castle gave his decision as to their taking part in the performance,
and while they were walking out of the tent, "an' I shouldn't wonder now
if I got away to-night."

"Oh, Toby!" exclaimed the girl, as she looked reproachfully at him,
"after all the work we've had to get ready, you won't go off and leave
me before we've had a chance to see what the folks will say when they
see us together."

It was impossible for Toby to feel any delight at the idea of riding in
public, and he would have been willing to have taken one of Mr. Lord's
most severe whippings if he could have escaped from it; but he and Ella
had become such firm friends, and he had conceived such a boyish
admiration for her, that he felt as if he were willing to bear almost
anything for the sake of giving her pleasure. Therefore he said, after a
few moments' reflection: "Well, I won't go to-night, anyway, even if I
have the best chance that ever was. I'll stay one day more, anyhow, an'
perhaps I'll have to stay a good many."

"That's a nice boy," said Ella, positively, as Toby thus gave his
decision, "and I'll kiss you for it."

Before Toby fully realized what she was about, almost before he had
understood what she said, she had put her arms around his neck, and
given him a good sound kiss right on his freckled face.

Toby was surprised, astonished, and just a little bit ashamed. He had
never been kissed by a girl before, very seldom by any one, save the fat
lady, and he hardly knew what to do or say. He blushed until his face
was almost as red as his hair, and this color had the effect of making
his freckles stand out with startling distinctness. Then he looked
carefully around to see if any one had seen them.

"I never had a girl kiss me before," said Toby, hesitatingly, "an' you
see it made me feel kinder queer to have you do it out here where
everybody could see."

"Well, I kissed you because I like you very much, and because you are
going to