Read Ebook: Hidden Symbolism of Alchemy and the Occult Arts by Silberer Herbert Jelliffe Smith Ely Translator

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Besides these branching corals which resemble trees and shrubs, some grow in solid masses without sending off branches. Others assume the shape of graceful vases; all of these are gayly decked with star-like polyps of varied colors. Does it not seem to you as if the ocean was one vast store-house of beautiful things?

The mushroom coral looks indeed like a large mushroom, although you will notice that the leaflets are on the upper surface instead of being underneath, as they are in the vegetable mushroom. This coral is the skeleton of one huge polyp, and we see the depression in the centre corresponding to the little cups on most other corals.

The organ-pipe coral consists of lovely crimson tubes standing upright, and connected at short distances by thin flat plates, which give it the appearance of being several stories in height. These plates may be distinctly seen in Fig. 3. When alive, a little polyp protrudes from the top of each tube, and being of a bright purple color, it makes a striking contrast with the crimson tube.

Red coral, which is used for jewelry, grows in a bushy form on rocks at the bottom of the Mediterranean and Red Seas. The fleshy mass of this coral is colored red by the numerous red spicules it contains, while the polyps are pure white. The whole resembles a pretty red shrub spotted over with sparkling white flowers. The spicules in the centre of the branches form a solid stem, which takes a fine polish. Underneath the flesh the surface of the coral is marked with deep grooves, which are canals for the circulation of water. These grooves are shown at both ends of the branch in Fig. 4. They are always removed in polishing.

Red coral is generally obtained by fishermen, who drop into the water heavy wooden crosses to which strong nets are attached. As the boat moves slowly forward, the crosses are raised and lowered to break off the coral branches. The apparatus is then lifted from the water, and the fragments of coral which have become entangled in the net are carefully removed. There are many shops in Italy where the coral is polished and cut into various ornaments. Delicate rose-colored corals are considered very choice and elegant, but the natives of India prefer blood-red ones, which contrast finely with their dark rich complexions. Corals are their favorite ornaments, and large quantities are imported every year.

DOWN CELLAR.

BY JIMMY BROWN.

We have had a dreadful time at our house, and I have done very wrong. Oh, I always admit it when I've done wrong. There's nothing meaner than to pretend that you haven't done wrong when everybody knows you have. I didn't mean anything by it, though, and Sue ought to have stood by me, when I did it all on her account, and just because I pitied her, if she was my own sister, and it was more her fault, I really think, than it was mine.

Mr. Withers is Sue's new young man, as I have told you already. He comes to see her every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening, and Mr. Travers comes all the other evenings, and Mr. Martin is liable to come any time, and generally does--that is, if he doesn't have the rheumatism. Though he hasn't but one real leg, he has twice as much rheumatism as father, with all his legs, and there is something very queer about it; and if I was he, I'd get a leg of something better than cork, and perhaps he'd have less pain in it.

It all happened last Tuesday night. Just as it was getting dark, and Sue was expecting Mr. Travers every minute, who should come in but Mr. Martin! Now Mr. Martin is such an old acquaintance, and father thinks so much of him, that Sue had to ask him in, though she didn't want him to meet Mr. Travers. So when she heard somebody open the front gate, she said, "Oh, Mr. Martin I'm so thirsty and the servant has gone out, and you know just where the milk is for you went down cellar to get some the last time you were here do you think you would mind getting some for me?" Mr. Martin had often gone down cellar to help himself to milk, and I don't see what makes him so fond of it, so he said, "Certainly with great pleasure," and started down the cellar stairs.

It wasn't Mr. Travers, but Mr. Withers, who had come on the wrong night. He had not much more than got into the parlor when Sue came rushing out to me, for I was swinging in the hammock on the front piazza, and said, "My goodness gracious Jimmy what shall I do here's Mr. Withers and Mr. Travers will be here in a few minutes and there's Mr. Martin down cellar and I feel as if I should fly what shall I do?"

I was real sorry for her, and thought I'd help her, for girls are not like us. They never know what to do when they are in a scrape, and they are full of absence of mind when they ought to have lots of presence of mind. So I said: "I'll fix it for you, Sue. Just leave it all to me. You stay here and meet Mr. Travers, who is just coming around the corner, and I'll manage Mr. Withers." Sue said, "You darling little fellow there don't muss my hair"; and I went in, and said to Mr. Withers, in an awfully mysterious way, "Mr. Withers, I hear a noise in the cellar. Don't tell Sue, for she's dreadfully nervous. Won't you go down and see what it is?" Of course I knew it was Mr. Martin who was making the noise, though I didn't say so.

"Oh, it's nothing but rats, Jimmy," said he, "or else the cat, or maybe it's the cook."

Well, after a little more talk, Mr. Withers said he'd go, and I showed him the cellar door, and got him started down the stairs, and then I locked the door, and went back to the hammock, and Sue and Mr. Travers they sat in the front parlor.

Pretty soon I heard a heavy crash down cellar, as if something heavy had dropped, and then there was such a yelling and howling, just as if the cellar was full of murderers. Mr. Travers jumped up, and was starting for the cellar, when Sue fainted away, and hung tight to him, and wouldn't let him go.

I staid in the hammock, and wouldn't have left it if father hadn't come down-stairs, but when I saw him going down cellar, I went after him to see what could possibly be the matter.

Father had a candle in one hand and a big club in another. You ought to have been there to see Mr. Martin and Mr. Withers. One of them had run against the other in the dark, and they thought they were both burglars. So they got hold of each other, and fell over the milk pans and upset the soap barrel, and then rolled round the cellar floor, holding on to each other, and yelling help murder thieves, and when we found them, they were both in the ash bin, and the ashes were choking them.

Father would have pounded them with the club if I hadn't told him who they were. He was awfully astonished, and though he wouldn't say anything to hurt Mr. Martin's feelings, he didn't seem to care much for mine or Mr. Withers's, and when Mr. Travers finally came down, father told him that he was a nice young man, and that the whole house might have been murdered by burglars while he was enjoying himself in the front parlor.

Mr. Martin went home after he got a little of the milk and soap and ashes and things off of him, but he was too angry to speak. Mr. Withers said he would never enter the house again, and Mr. Travers didn't even wait to speak to Sue, he was in such a rage with Mr. Withers. After they were all gone, Sue told father that it was all my fault, and father said he would attend to my case in the morning; only, when the morning came, he told me not to do it again, and that was all.

I admit that I did do wrong, but I didn't mean it, and my only desire was to help my dear sister. You won't catch me helping her again very soon.

THE LONG STRIKE.

BY JULIA K. HILDRETH.

All along the banks of the Connecticut River are little towns consisting almost wholly of great cotton factories run by water power or steam, and the cottages of those who labor in them. Windham is one of these towns, and though perhaps you might not find it on the map, for it is a very small place, it turns out thousands of yards of muslin and cotton every year. All around the tall factory buildings are grouped the little red and white dwellings of the weavers, like chickens around their mother hen.

Usually these small houses are empty during working hours. All day long the hum and clatter of machinery shake the walls, and dense volumes of smoke pour from the tall chimneys.

But one morning everything was changed. The doors of the factories were closed; no smoke came from the chimneys, and no sound of machinery from the buildings. Around the cottages men stood in groups, with angry faces, scowling and talking in low tones. Presently the sound of a drum was heard. At this the men separated, and forming themselves into a line, marched off.

About a quarter of a mile from the village was an open field, where a tent had been erected for the accommodation of travelling lecturers, who were in the habit of stopping at Windham in the summer-time.

To this tent the men were going when Nelly Austin first saw them. Nelly lived all alone with her mother in a small house near the tent. She knew very little of factories or factory life, for she seldom went to the village, and had no companions living there. So when this crowd of men, with a boy beating a drum before them, came marching along the road, Nelly was astonished, and ran in the house to tell her mother.

Mrs. Austin was sitting by the window sewing, and grew very white when Nelly spoke.

"Mamma," cried Nelly, "look out of the window at that big army of men! They are going into the tent." As Nelly approached her mother she saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Are you frightened, mamma?" she inquired. "Do you think they will hurt us?"

"No, Nelly," answered Mrs. Austin; "they are only men from Windham. They are dissatisfied with something the owners of the factories have done, and so have come to the tent to talk it over. They do not want to work until they have their own way. That is what is called 'striking.'"

"Well, then, mamma," inquired Nelly, "if they only mean to talk, why do you feel so badly and cry?"

"Because, dear, years ago, when you were a baby, there was a strike at Windham that ended in a terrible fight, and your papa, who owned one of the factories, was killed and our house burned."

"How dreadful!" said Nelly. "I am so sorry!" Then she kissed her mother softly, and with a very sober face went to the door and peeped out.

The orchard wall ran across one side of the inclosure where the tent was placed. She ran to the wall, and climbing up on top, peeped down upon the assembled workmen. They did not look at all blood-thirsty. Some were even laughing; most of them had their pipes in their mouths, smoking. At a desk on one side of the room stood a man who was talking loudly to those around him. Every now and then Nelly heard the words "injustice," "never give up," "masters and men," but she could make nothing of them.

Week after week the workmen came to the tent, until Nelly grew so accustomed to their meetings that she scarcely noticed them. But one day, about ten weeks after their first meeting, when the strikers were assembled under the tent, they talked so loudly and made so much noise that Nelly clambered upon the orchard wall again, wondering what was going to happen. She noticed that there was no pleasant laughing and talking, as there had been at first; instead of which, the men seemed to Nelly to be scolding and shaking their fists at one another. She tried very hard to make out what they were saying, but as they all spoke at once, she soon found that impossible. But still she sat perched under the apple-tree, until at last all but two of their number got up and went away. These two kept their seats until the rest had disappeared down the road. Then they came just outside of the tent and stood close to Nelly without observing her.

"I will not bear it another day," said one, looking very miserable and angry. "My wife and young ones are starving. Can I stand by and see that? And yet you tell me to have patience!"

"It's all Mr. Willard's fault, Bill," said the other, more quietly. "If he would give in, all the other owners would follow his example. They always do."

"Go home, Bill," said the other, in a warning voice, "and don't talk nonsense. It will all come right in time."

Then he turned away, and left Bill alone, scowling and muttering, while Nelly sat on the wall trembling with fear lest she might be discovered.

When Bill thought himself alone, he drew out a heavy pistol from his pocket, and Nelly saw him load it and thrust it into the breast of his red shirt. He then went back to the tent, and throwing himself upon one of the benches, appeared to fall asleep.

Nelly's fright increased. "I wonder," she said to herself, "if he really means to kill old Mr. Willard?" Then she determined to be very brave. What was best to do she could not tell. Finally she said to herself, "I'll just stay where I am and watch."

Nelly sat with her eyes fixed on Bill for a long time, but he did not stir until the clock in the Windham church struck six; then he stood up, and after looking all around, crossed the road and climbed the wall that inclosed Mr. Willard's wood.

Nelly and every one living near knew that Mr. Willard, the richest factory owner in Windham, walked through these woods alone every evening, about half past six, to the post-office. Mr. Willard chose this way to the village, because it was the shortest and pleasantest.

When Nelly saw Bill climb the wall, she knew it must be for the purpose of meeting Mr. Willard, as the man's home was quite in an opposite direction; so she jumped down and followed him quickly. As she reached the upper stone of the wall inclosing the wood, she caught a glimpse of him hurrying toward the road that led to the post-office. But by the time she had reached the ground he was gone. So Nelly flew along without even glancing at the pretty golden-rod and squawberries that gleamed yellow and red between the trees.

At last Nelly gained the wide road, and looked around. Something red lying upon the ground attracted her attention. After a moment she perceived that it was Bill's red shirt, and that Bill himself was stretched upon the ground behind a large sycamore-tree, and he was almost hidden in the long grass and weeds.

Nelly stood in the path some time, fearing to pass him, he looked so angry and wicked. But she had determined to try and see Mr. Willard before Bill, and so perhaps save his life. At last she heard something that sounded like a footstep. This made her forget her dread of Bill, and she sprang past his hiding-place like a frightened hare, and never stopped until she reached a small rustic gate that separated the woods from the smooth green lawn surrounding Mr. Willard's home.

From where she stood Nelly could see the wide porch of the brown-stone house, and presently Mr. Willard himself appeared hurrying across the grass. When his hand was on the gate, Nelly drew back, for she felt very timid at what she was about to do.

When Mr. Willard saw Nelly, he put on his gold-rimmed eyeglass and examined her closely, as though astonished at seeing such a small girl all alone in the woods, with a very worried expression in her eyes.

"Well," said he, "who are you, little girl?"

"Nelly Austin," she answered, without moving.

"Austin! Austin!" repeated Mr. Willard. "Are you the daughter of Mr. James Austin that was killed by the mob at Windham some years ago?"

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