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MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.

Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

BY JAMES OTIS,

THE BREAKING UP OF THE SHOW.

Now that the boys had found cages ready-made, and needing only some bars or slats across the front, they did not think it necessary to hurry. They staid for some time to talk of Abner, and to test some doughnuts Aunt Olive was frying. It is very likely that they would have remained even longer if the doughnut-frying had not been completed, and the tempting dainties placed upon a high shelf beyond their reach, as a gentle intimation that they had had about as many as they would get that afternoon.

After leaving the house they walked leisurely toward the barn, little dreaming what a state of confusion their property was in, until Reddy rushed out of the tent, his jacket torn, his face bleeding, and his general appearance that of a boy who had been having rather a hard time of it.

"Why, what's the matter? Why don't you stay an' watch the animals?" asked Bob, in a tone intended to convey reproach and surprise that one of the projectors of the enterprise should desert his post.

"Watch the animals?" screamed Reddy, in a rage. "You go an' watch 'em awhile instead of eatin' doughnuts, an' see how you like it. Mr. Stubbs's brother picked a hole in the bag so my cat got out, an' she jumped on the calf, an' he tore 'round awful till he let the hen an' Mrs. Simpson's cat loose, an' I got knocked down an' scratched, an' the whole show's broke up."

Reddy sat down on the ground, and wiped the blood from his face after he had imparted the painful news; and all the party started for the tent as rapidly as possible.

It was a scene of utter ruin which they looked in upon after they had pulled aside Mr. Mansfield's flag, and one which was well calculated to discourage amateur circus proprietors.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was seated amid Reddy's paper and paint, holding the crowing hen by the head while he picked her wing feathers out one by one. Mrs. Simpson's cat and kittens each had one of Bob's mice in its mouth, while Reddy's cat was chasing one of the squirrels with a murderous purpose. The calf was no longer an inmate of the tent; but a large rent in the canvas showed that he had opened a door for himself when the cat scratched him; and afar in the distance he could be seen, head down and tail up, as if fleeing from everything that looked like a circus.

The destruction was as complete as it could well have been made in so short a time, and the partners were, quite naturally, discouraged. Toby retained sufficient presence of mind, amid the trouble, to rescue the crowing hen from the murderous clutches of Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the monkey scampered up the tent-pole, brandishing two or three of the poor creature's best and longest wing feathers, while he screamed with satisfaction that he had accomplished at least a portion of the work of stripping the fowl.

"The show's broke up, an' that's all there's to it," said Bob, sorrowfully, as he gazed alternately at the hole in the canvas and his rapidly vanishing calf.

"Are the squirrels all gone?" asked Joe, driving the cat from her intended prey long enough to allow Master Bushy-tail to gain a refuge under the barn.

"Every one," replied Reddy. "The calf kicked the box over when he come toward me, an' it looked as if there was as many as a hundred come out jest as soon as the cover was off. I could have caught one or two; but somehow Mrs. Simpson's cat got out of the basket jest then,' an' she flew right into my face."

The marks on Reddy's cheeks and nose told most eloquently with what force the cat "flew," and search was at once made for that pet of the Simpson family. She, with her kittens, had taken refuge under the barn as soon as the boys entered, and thus another trouble was added to the load the circus managers had to bear, for that cat must be returned to her mistress by night, or trouble might come of it.

The mice were entirely consumed, two tails alone remaining of what would have been shown to the good people of Guilford as strange animals from some far-off country.

The squirrels were gone, the calf had fled, the hen was in a thoroughly battered condition, and nothing remained of all that vast and wonderful collection of animals except Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the rabbits, protected by the cage which their master's thoughtfulness had provided.

"I guess I'll take the rabbits home," said Leander, as he lifted the box to his shoulder. "It wouldn't do to have only them for animals, an' it ain't very certain how long they'll stay alive while that monkey's 'round."

"He's broke up the whole show, that's what he's done," and Ben shook his fist at Mr. Stubbs's brother, while he tried to soothe his half-plucked hen.

"I know what I'm goin' to do," said Ben, as he again placed the hen under the basket; "I'm goin' to crawl under the barn an' try to catch that cat, an' then I'm goin' home with my hen."

It seemed to be the desire of all the partners to get home with what remained of their pets, and as Ben went under the barn on his hands and knees, Leander started off with his rabbits, Bob went to look for his calf, Reddy gathered up his bundle of paper, and Joe seized his pasteboard box, all going away where they could think over the ruin in solitude.

But high up on the post the cause of all this trouble chattered and scolded, while his master sat on the ground, looking at him as if he wondered whether or not it would ever be possible to reform such a monkey.

A TIGRESS HUNT.

On a dark evening in December the little village of Sundapoor, Northern India, presented a picturesque appearance. Each bamboo hut whose inmate could afford it had hung out a red or yellow paper lantern; fire-works exploded gayly amongst the banyans and tamarind-trees; the whole population of the place was gathered around three large bonfires at the east end of the single street. This demonstration was all in honor of the arrival an hour before, of Sir Dyce Hanchett--of whom so many boys and girls have read--the famous young English sportsman from Madras. Sir Dyce Hanchett had come full twenty miles out of his route expressly to attempt ridding Sundapoor and its neighborhood of its dreaded curse for so many long months, the detested man-eater Kali.

No single tiger had ever wrought such destruction within a little district. The herds had been thinned beast by beast. In August the old Buddhist priest Padar? had been seized in the moon-lit street before his door, and borne away, crying out feebly, into the jungle before help was at hand; two women, one at the well in the afternoon, and the other a few days later while returning from her milking at twilight, were no more heard of until their bones were found whitening in a dry ravine. But the dry ravine was not the home of Kali--for so they called her, after the Hindoo goddess of murder--nor could they find it. The timid villagers' hunting parties had been to no purpose. Their second one indeed was overtaken by night, and before Sundapoor was reached a roar was heard in the midst of the group; a terrible creature leaped across their smouldering camp fire, and disappeared with one of their number. In the morning, a mile away, the half-devoured body of the man was found and buried. Kali had not carried it to her lair. No wonder that the unhappy people of Sundapoor began to believe that the tigress was some evil spirit in quadruped form that no eye should trace nor bullet kill.

Sir Dyce, however, only laughed at the superstition of the group, as he sat, surrounded with his men, in the largest bungalow of the little place, organizing his party for the morning. Even Ram Banee, the greatest coward of all, exclaimed: "I have comfort when I behold this stately Englishman, his guns, his bullets. And hearken to his elephant eating behind the bungalow!"

At dawn he and his party were off. Out through the village street with horns and tam-tams the procession moved. The preceding afternoon a bullock had been seized. The crushed twigs and jungle grass, often spotted with gore, were now traced for a mile by the trackers. Suddenly a shout went up from these. "The bullock! the bullock!" Sure enough, when Sir Dyce had forced his way with two others into the open, there on the jungle's edge lay what was left of the unlucky animal. "Hurrah!" cried the enthusiastic Englishman; "she can not be far away. Get together, all of you, quickly. Beat the bush on the other side of us--yonder, across the clearing."

Sir Dyce left his elephant, and joined on foot the excited natives. The open was crossed. Wild cries and shouts, the clanging of the cymbals and tam-tams, filled the morning air. The bush was thoroughly beat, every eye and ear on the alert.

Sir Dyce and his party located themselves carefully in the underbrush within easy shot of the carcass. It was their best chance. The afternoon passed slowly. Each member of the little ambuscade had become a sentinel. But no tigress came slinking into sight. The shadows grew purple. Sir Dyce began to doubt the wisdom of further remaining in so exposed a spot without a regular camping out. Or had not they best return to Sundapoor? The elephant had been stationed some hundred yards to the rear. Suddenly an old native laid his hand warningly upon Sir Dyce's sleeve. The English hunter started, and looked out from behind their screen toward the little clearing. Full in face of them, every line and curve of her beautiful form brought into relief by the distance and the green shade behind her, was seated at last a tigress on the opposite side of the open. The great beast was indeed returning from her lair, either to finish her supper here and now, or else to forage for another one.

She sat there upon her haunches very composedly, looking over at the bullock. Perhaps she suspected something. At all events, she seemed reluctant to stir just yet. She remained well out of range, licking her paws, and preening herself precisely like pussy before the fire.

The natives with Sir Dyce in his lurking-place would have risked a shot already had he not checked them. After a moment, however, the great cat raised her head, then lowered it, smelling the ground, and finally advanced slowly toward the dead bullock. The excitement of the natives upon actually beholding before them the dreaded marauder and murderess of their district was evinced by their breathless watchfulness of every motion she made.

The tigress gained the side of the bullock. Thereupon she stooped, and, much to Sir Dyce's discomfiture, instead of beginning her supper then and there, began easily and rapidly to drag the bullock back toward the opposite thicket.

There was no time in such an event to be wasted. The elephant was not available. Sir Dyce stepped quickly from cover and fired. Two of his native companions followed his example. The tigress started, uninjured, dropped the carcass, and turned. Perceiving the hunters, she stood for an instant in a dignified attitude, then roared, lashed her tail furiously, and charged down upon them. The natives shrieked, and rushed pell-mell back. Sir Dyce fired, and pierced the brute's shoulder. She now charged furiously upon him as he stood alone just forward of the edge of the jungle. His last bullet met her. She leaped into the air, rolled over and over in her death-agony, and then lay rigid and motionless. No more cattle or priests or women would Kali bear away from Sundapoor or any other village.

The natives approached the dead beast tremblingly, and offered prayers to the great goddess whose name they had given it, before they ventured to take the creature home in triumph. Sir Dyce had a rude ovation in Sundapoor that evening that he often smiled over afterward. He cared less for the songs sung in his honor, less for the fire-works and drumming and the procession around his camp-stool, than he did for the noble skin that afterward he took to his English home for his little sons to roll upon. But then only an Indian village that has been long in terror from a man-eater can appreciate what a relief he and a good English gun had given it.

BY HELEN S. CONANT.

Certain species of trees live to a very great age. There are trees in existence which are supposed to be more than a thousand years old, and many of them are intimately connected with historical events of the past. In Morat, a town in Switzerland, where in 1476 a great victory was won by the Swiss over Charles the Bold, is a famous lime-tree under which Charles and his Generals sat down to rest before the battle; and in another Swiss village a lime-tree is still standing, flourishing and green in its old age, upon whose trunk in 1530 was pasted the proclamation of the Reformation.

Many of our youthful readers will remember the account of some historical trees of the United States given in the second volume of YOUNG PEOPLE, and the interest it awakened for collecting and exchanging leaves and twigs from these noble old landmarks, and we think they will be interested to hear about two magnificent cypress-trees near the city of Mexico. The oldest trees in the world are supposed to exist in the cypress forests of Mexico. These cypresses grow to an immense height, and the trunk which supports the great crown of feathery foliage is sometimes more than one hundred feet in circumference.

After a long and weary march, Cortez and his men arrived at the city of Mexico, where the beautiful sight that appeared before their astonished eyes made them feel as if they had reached the gates of an enchanted realm. This capital of the great Aztec nation was built in the centre of a large lake, and was connected with the surrounding country by broad causeways. The surface of the lake was dotted with floating gardens, and in the city great towers and temples and palaces of solid masonry rose above the trees. Many of the streets were broad and well paved, others were waterways like those of Venice, and crowded with canoes that went back and forth loaded with fruit, flowers, and all kinds of merchandise.

But in the midst of this fair city was a terrible spot, where dreadful deeds were done, for which the people well deserved the punishment which soon fell upon them. It was the great Temple of the Sun, and upon its summit stood a huge hideous idol of stone, which the people worshipped, and before which they sacrificed many thousands of poor men, women, and children.

Montezuma, the great Aztec King, thought himself a very wise ruler. He had magnificent palaces and pleasure-gardens filled with flowers and noble trees. One of his favorite palaces was situated several miles from the city. It was built on a hill, and from its windows the King could overlook the beautiful valley in the centre of which stood the city, and watch the great volcano of Popocatepetl, which at that time often threw forth smoke and burning lava. At the foot of the hill, all around the palace, was a great park, in which grew many large cypress-trees. One was Montezuma's favorite tree. He had a seat built under it, and was accustomed to meet his warriors there and confer with them. That was more than three hundred and sixty years ago, but the tree still stands, strong and flourishing, and showing no signs of decay. It is thought to be one of the oldest trees in the world. On sunny afternoons little Indian boys and girls play around its enormous trunk in the shade of its broad-spreading foliage, and they will all tell you that it is Montezuma's tree under which they are playing, for it still is remembered in connection with its ancient owner. This wonderful tree has witnessed many strange events. It saw the downfall of Montezuma, and the end of the terrible human sacrifices; it was a silent witness while the Spaniards held rule over New Spain, as Mexico was for a time called; it stood safely through the great revolution of sixty years ago, when the Mexicans fought for liberty, and throwing off the Spanish yoke, founded a republic of their own. In 1847, the bullets of American soldiers whizzed through its branches, as our army, led by General Scott, stormed under it and up the hill to take the Mexican fortress built on the heights where centuries ago stood the pleasure-palace of Montezuma. During the three years' rule of the French in Mexico, from 1864 to 1867, when the republic was crushed, and Maximilian of Austria was Emperor, this old tree shadowed the pathway where Maximilian and his Empress passed on their way to their beautiful pleasure-palace, which crowned the height above as in the days of Montezuma. This hill was called Chapultepec by the ancient Aztecs, which signifies the hill of grasshoppers, and it bears the same name still.

Montezuma, although very suspicious of these white-faced strangers who came riding on horses, which were animals unknown to the Aztecs, and bringing with them great cannon which made a noise like thunder, received them kindly, and gave splendid banquets in their honor.

But Cortez had not come to Mexico to live in luxury, but to gain possession of the country, and the horrible human sacrifices which he daily witnessed strengthened his resolution to break down the Aztec power at any cost, and to establish the government and religion of Spain. The task was difficult, for he was alone in a strange land, with only a handful of men at his command. His first attempt ended in disaster. He succeeded in seizing the person of Montezuma, the King, but the Mexicans rebelled against the rule of the Spanish soldiery. In one of the battles Montezuma was killed, which only increased the fury of the Mexicans against the strangers with white faces. After losing many of his men, Cortez finally decided to retreat from the city. It was a dark rainy night in the summer of 1520 when with the remnant of his army he passed out over one of the great causeways, closely pursued by the furious Mexicans, who fired showers of sharply pointed arrows after him. When at last he found himself in the open country, free from his enemies, who had returned to their strongholds, Cortez sat down under the great cypress-tree to rest. For the first time his heart failed him, and all alone, in the dark stormy night, the stern warrior shed bitter tears. And to this day the tree preserves the memory of that sad hour in the name by which it is known.

The determination of Cortez to conquer Mexico became stronger than ever after this bitter defeat. He immediately set to work to re-enforce his army by making friends with tribes who had suffered oppression from the powerful Aztecs. Fresh troops also arrived from Spain, and in a year after the sad night, Cortez saw conquered Mexico at his feet, and its great cities in the hands of Spanish soldiers. The temples stained with the blood of so many unfortunate victims were overthrown, and in their places churches were built, with towers bearing the sign of the cross. Idolatry and human sacrifice on Mexican soil were ended forever.

RUTH'S OPPORTUNITY.

BY BELLE WILLIAMS.

A brighter morning never dawned on the little township of Greenville than that of a certain day in the summer of '81. The sun rose with a fierce glare, boding intense heat before night-fall. Every ray seemed like a fiery dart sent down to destroy the few lingering traces of verdure, for rain had not fallen in weeks, and plants and animals were alike consumed with thirst.

The sun had wide range for havoc on Mr. Leonard's farm, and it blazed relentlessly down upon his well-tilled acres, upon his roomy barns and stables, which sheltered the panting cattle, and upon a little "root-house," used as a storage for winter vegetables, that stood half underground and covered with earth. But on this retreat the tyrant cast his beams in vain. The shadowy room within was delightfully cool, and there in the doorway lay little Scott, the five-year-old baby of the household, with his chin resting on two chubby palms, his elbows planted in the damp earth, and heels beating the air, intently watching a swarm of ants. The old root-house had been a favorite haunt of the little fellow during the hot, sultry days of summer, for it was so near the kitchen that he never felt lonely there.

"Breakfast 'most ready, Ruthie?" he called out, still surveying the interesting ant colony.

"Almost, little man," said sister Ruth, appearing at the porch door to see what the small lord was about.

Ruth Leonard made a charming picture as she stood there shading her eyes with her hand, framed in by a clustering mass of honeysuckle vines. Yet no one called her a pretty girl. Though only sixteen, she was very tall and strong for her age; every well-formed limb indicated the possession of muscular strength, and her broad shoulders seemed just fitted to bear burdens. Her thick brown hair was brushed plainly back from a low forehead and braided, but the braid was oftener coiled up in a loose knot to "get it out of the way." Not a suspicion of a curl was to be seen, for Ruth always forgot to "put up her hair," and Nature had evidently intended it to hang straight. A pair of keen gray eyes that often grew dark with unsatisfied longing, yet hid in their depths a world of conscious power, a straight nose, and full red lips, complete the picture--a picture which had become to father and mother as their daily bread.

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