Harper's Young People, April 20, 1880 Part 5

But the little pigs slept in the hen-house for the rest of the night, and the next day they had a stout log roof built over their heads.

PROFESSIONAL DIVERS.

One of the diver's earliest experiences is a disagreeable "roaring"

sensation in the ears for some time after his first descent; but this is little felt after he becomes accustomed to his work. It is caused by the air pressure, which increases with depth. From the same cause the diver often experiences a sensation amounting to earache, which any one may test for himself by descending in a diving-bell. With regard to the mode of working, it is noteworthy that, instead of moving gradually outward after reaching the bottom, the diver usually gropes at once to the full length of his tether in the required direction, and then works slowly back to the starting-point. He considers this the safer method, partly because it leaves him at the finish directly at the place whence he has to rise.

The length of time during which a diver can remain under water depends very much upon his own strength and experience, the steady care with which the air-pump is managed, and other circ.u.mstances. M. Frendenberg states that in the repair of the well in the Scharley zinc mines, in Silesia, two divers descended to a depth of eighty-five feet, remaining down for periods varying from fifteen minutes to two hours. Siebe, another authority on the subject, relates that in removing the cargo of the s.h.i.+p _Cape Horn_, wrecked off the coast of South America, a diver named Hooper made seven descents to a depth of no less than two hundred and one feet, and at one time remained down forty-two minutes--supposed to be the greatest diving feat ever achieved.

JOE.

BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Bright brown eyes and tangled hair, Rosy cheek beneath the tan, Fearless head on shoulders square-- That is Joe, the little man, Helping mother all he can.

Father is away at sea (Oh, the vessel tarries long!): Lonely would the cottage be, Many a weary day go wrong, But for Joe, with shout and song.

Rough the weather, fierce the gales, Wild the nights upon the sh.o.r.e: Oft the dear wife's courage fails, When she hears the breakers roar, Lest her sailor come no more.

Joe, with lion heart and leal, Tells her it is safe outside; That the deep sea does not feel All the troubles of the tide; That the good s.h.i.+p safe will ride.

Mother heeds her comforter: He is only eight years old, But his earnest words to her Are as rubies set in gold-- Precious with a worth untold.

MR. THOMPSON AND THE b.u.mBLE-BEE.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

"Buzz, buzz-z, buzz-z-z," scolded old Mr. b.u.mble-Bee, flying around Mr.

Thompson's head. Mr. Thompson didn't understand him, however, and only brushed at him impatiently, and said, "Get out!" in a tone anything but sociable; but the old bee kept flying around just the same, and complained in his drowsy voice: "Buzz, buzz-z, buzz-z-z. I wish you would go away. I want to get into my house, and I don't want you to see me. My family are in there, and we are making bread to-day, and unless I get home with the flour, my wife will scold awfully. Buzz, buzz-z, buzz-z-z."

But in the mean time Mr. Thompson had fallen asleep, and the old bee sat down on the fence rail and watched him. "Hum, hum, hum," he murmured. "I guess that he has gone to sleep. I don't see what men want to stay awake for, anyway; they are not half so much trouble when they are asleep. And only listen how nicely he can buzz through his nose!--he really seems to be quite like a sensible bee."

Now Mr. Thompson says he did not go to sleep at all; he says that he only closed his eyes, and in a few minutes he could understand every word that the old bee said.

"He's a pleasant-looking man," buzzed the bee. "I wonder if he likes honey?"

Mr. Thompson answered through his nose that he was very fond of it.

"Sensible, too," said the bee, who thought (all b.u.mble-bees do) that anybody who agreed with him must be sensible. Then, turning to Mr.

Thompson, the bee murmured, in a more pleasant hum, "If you like honey, try some of this." As he said it he alit on Mr. Thompson's lips, and pressed some of the honey he had with him into his mouth.

Mr. Thompson began to grow smaller, and as he shrunk in size, his light alpaca duster became gauzy, and formed itself into wings. Just as he had begun to wonder how long it would take him to shrink into nothing, the bee said, "There, I guess that will do."

Mr. Thompson stretched himself, and found to his surprise that he was in reality nothing more than a large black b.u.mble-bee. He shook his wings, arose, and, flying around for a few moments, settled on the fence rail.

He has since told me that if it is true, as Mr. Darwin says, that men were evolved from the lower orders of animals, they made the greatest mistake of their lives when they left off their wings.

"Well," remarked the old bee, "you look quite presentable. Won't you drop in and take dinner with me? My wife would be delighted to see you."

Mr. Thompson thought how much he resembled a certain highly respectable old gentleman who was wont to invite his friends to his humdrum dinners, and buzz them unmercifully in the same drowsy way. But as he did not like to offend his new friend, he answered, politely, that he would be most happy, and followed him under the rail into a round hole that was the door of the b.u.mble-bee's house.

They entered a long cylindrical corridor, or, as the old bee expressed it, "arched at the top, sides, and floor." It was lined with the fibres of the wood, and was as soft as velvet. After walking some distance along the hall, they reached a part where it widened into a sort of parlor. Here Mrs. b.u.mble-Bee was seated, resting from the labor of bread-making.

"Well, you are home at last," she buzzed, angrily. "I'll be bound you forgot the flour."

"Why, my dear, don't you see it? I have it here," answered Mr. Bee, soothingly, pointing to two little yellow bundles on his legs.

After greeting her guest, Mrs. Bee excused herself on the score of domestic duties, and busied herself in carrying the flour, or pollen, into the corridor above. Soon she returned, and after they had made a meal of bee-bread and honey, Mr. b.u.mble-Bee proposed to show his guest through his mansion. They pa.s.sed through several long corridors, so constructed that the rain could not beat into the living-rooms, as Mr.

Bee explained. One end of one of the upper galleries was securely walled up, and in another compartment lay three or four worm-like insects almost covered with bee-bread.

"What is this room used for?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"This is the nursery," answered Mr. Bee, proudly.

"Ah, indeed! And what are those white, ugly-looking grubs?"

Mr. Bee looked aghast for a moment, but his surprise quickly turned into indignation, as he buzzed, angrily: "Grubs! grubs! ugly-looking grubs!

Those, sir, are my children, sir, and I flatter myself that a more charming family does not exist. Grubs, forsooth! Out of my house, base insulter!" And before Mr. Thompson could apologize, Mr. Bee had pushed him out, and stung him on the end of his nose.

He fell, and as he dropped from the rail he began to grow larger, and when he reached the ground he had a.s.sumed his natural proportions. He found himself lying in the same place beside the fence that he had occupied when the bee first spoke to him.

When he related the story to his friends, some one suggested that he had dreamed the whole adventure. He gently touched his inflamed and swelled nose, and answered, in a grieved tone, "I suppose I dreamed this too."

This argument was unanswerable, and Mr. Thompson is now engaged in writing a lecture on the habits and customs of the b.u.mble-bee. Among other things he says, "b.u.mble-bees only consider those people sensible who agree with them"; and again, "b.u.mble-bees invariably think their own children the most beautiful and interesting creatures in existence."

Which facts, if they are true, show the great superiority of men over b.u.mble-bees.

THE STORY OF GEORGE WAs.h.i.+NGTON.

BY EDWARD CARY.

CHAPTER II.

After the close of the French and Indian war, Was.h.i.+ngton, then in his twenty-seventh year, married Mrs. Martha Custis, and settled down to a Virginia planter's life at Mount Vernon. His neighbors elected him again and again to the House of Burgesses of the colony--a body much like one of our State Legislatures. Here he did not talk much, but he kept close watch of matters, and knew, as nearly as he could, all the facts that were needed to make up his mind, so that he had a good deal of weight with other members, and yet was very modest. When he first took his seat in the House, the Speaker was directed to thank him, in the name of the people, for his great services as an officer. This the Speaker did in glowing terms, quite unexpectedly to Was.h.i.+ngton. Was.h.i.+ngton rose to reply. His face flushed; he struggled to speak; but could only stammer, and stood speechless and trembling. "Sit down, Mr. Was.h.i.+ngton," said the Speaker, with a smile. "Your modesty equals your valor, and that surpa.s.ses the power of any language that I possess."