Harper's Young People, January 11, 1881

"I'm sure you did give me the money," said Toby, as he took the extended coin, "an' I'm much obliged to you for takin' it back. I didn't want to tell you before, 'cause you'd thought I was beggin'; but if you hadn't given me this, I 'xpect I'd have got an awful whippin', for Mr. Jacobs said he'd fix me if I didn't get the money for it."

The man looked sheepish enough as he put the bad money in his pocket, and Toby's innocently told story caused such a feeling in his behalf among those who sat near that he not only disposed of his entire stock then and there, but received from one gentleman twenty-five cents for himself. He was both proud and happy as he returned to Mr. Jacobs with empty glasses, and with the money to refund the amount of loss which would have been caused by the counterfeit.

But the worthy partner of Mr. Lord's candy business had no words of encouragement for the boy who was trying so hard to please.

"Let that make you keep your eyes open," he growled out, sulkily; "an' if you get caught in that trap again, you won't be let off so easy."

Poor little Toby! his heart seemed ready to break; but his few hours' previous experience had taught him that there was but one thing to do, and that was to work just as hard as possible, trusting to some good fortune to enable him to get out of the very disagreeable position in which he had voluntarily placed himself.

He took the basket of candy which Mr. Jacobs handed him, and trudged around the circle of seats, selling far more because of the pitifulness of his face than because of the excellence of his goods; and even this worked to his disadvantage. Mr. Jacobs was keen enough to see why his little clerk sold so many goods, and each time that he returned to the stand he said something to him in an angry tone, which had the effect of deepening the shadow on the boy's face, and at the same time increasing trade.

By the time the performance was over Toby had in his pocket a dollar and twenty-five cents which had been given him for himself by some of the kind-hearted in the audience, and he kept his hand almost constantly upon it, for the money seemed to him like some kind friend who would help him out of his present difficulties.

After the audience had dispersed, Mr. Jacobs set Toby at work washing the glasses, and clearing up generally, and then the boy started toward the other portion of the store – that watched over by Mr. Lord. Not a person save the watchmen was in the tent, and as Toby went toward the door he saw his friend the monkey sitting in one corner of the cage, and apparently watching his every movement.

It was as if he had suddenly seen one of the boys from home, and Toby, uttering an exclamation of delight, ran up to the cage, and put his hand through the wires.

The monkey, in the gravest possible manner, took one of the fingers in his paw, and Toby shook hands with him very earnestly.

"I was sorry that I couldn't speak to you when I went in this noon," said Toby, as if making an apology; "but, you see, there were so many around here to see you that I couldn't get the chance. Did you see me wink at you?"

The monkey made no reply, but he twisted his face up in such a funny little grimace that Toby was quite as well satisfied as if he had spoken.

"I wonder if you hain't some relation to Steve Stubbs," Toby continued, earnestly, "for you look just like him, only he don't have quite so many whiskers. What I wanted to say was that I'm awful sorry I run away. I used to think that Uncle Dan'l was bad enough; but he was just a perfect good Samarathon to what Mr. Lord an' Mr. Jacobs are; an' when Mr. Lord looks at me with that crooked eye of his, I feel it 'way down in my boots. Do you know" – and here Toby put his mouth nearer to the monkey's head, and whispered – "I'd run away from this circus if I could get the chance; wouldn't you?"

Just at this point, as if in answer to the question, the monkey stood up on his hind-paws, and reached out his hand to the boy, who seemed to think this was his way of being more emphatic in saying "Yes."

Toby took the paw in his hand, shook it again earnestly, and said, as he released it: "I was pretty sure you felt just about the same way I did, Mr. Stubbs, when I passed you this noon. Look here" – and Toby took the money from his pocket which had been given him – "I got all that this afternoon, an' I'll try an' stick it out somehow till I get as much as ten dollars, an' then we'll run away some night, an' go 'way off as far as – as – as out West, an' we'll stay there, too."

The monkey, probably tired with remaining in one position so long, started toward the top of the cage, chattering and screaming, joining the other monkeys, who had gathered in a little group in one of the swings.

"Now see here, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, in alarm, "you mustn't go to telling everybody about it, or Mr. Lord will know, an' then we'll be dished, sure."

The monkey squatted down in one of the swings, as if he was reproved by what the boy had said, and Toby, considerably relieved by his silence, said, as he started toward the door, "That's right – mum's the word; you keep quiet, an' so will I, an' pretty soon we'll get away from the whole crowd."

All the monkeys chattered, and Toby, believing that everything which he had said had been understood by the animals, went out of the door to meet his other task-master.

[to be continued.]

THE YOUNG TIN-TYPERS

PART I

The recitation in Natural Philosophy was just over, and as the class was leaving the room, Fred Ward whispered to his most particular chum, Jim Davis: "I say, Jim, I've hit on an immense idea. Suppose that we set up a photographic gallery. It will be splendid fun."

"That's so," answered Jim. "Let's talk it over."

By this time the French class room was reached, and conversation was for the time suspended; but two o'clock found the boys leaving the school-grounds, engaged in a grand confab about their new plan.

"Now those old fellows that invented all this," said Fred, "had to work hard, because they had nothing to begin with; but as all that we want to know is down in the books, I don't see why we can't take as good a picture as the next one, as soon as we can get a camera and some chemicals. Why, Jim, you can buy the whole rig for five dollars – yes, you can – camera and all, with a stand to set it on."

"Oh, nonsense!" answered Jim; "I wouldn't give a cent to work in that way. Why can't we make the box and mix the baths ourselves? Anybody could buy the machine and take a picture, but it isn't every fellow can make his own apparatus. Now in my Philosophy there are some pictures that show how to put the box together, and we can save money to buy the lenses, and it will be twice as much fun to do everything ourselves."

Jim was very handy with tools, and in a few days he constructed as neat a camera as could be desired for a beginner. It consisted of two boxes, one of which fitted into the other. The interior of the boxes was painted black, so that the light through the lenses would be all the plate could receive. In the front of the larger box, and directly in the centre, a round hole was cut to receive the tube containing the lenses, and at the back of the small box were grooves to receive the plate slide. The making of that slide was the first serious stumbling-block in the path of these young photographers.

They searched through their books, and at last found a good diagram which gave Jim the hints he needed for his work. He first built a frame which fitted to the slide in the back of his camera box. This frame was provided with a hinged door at the back, and a sliding door in front. In order to receive plates of different sizes, Jim also made several plate frames with larger or smaller openings. The plate frame fitted tightly inside the slide frame, and was held firm by a spring fastened in the centre of the hinged door, which pressed against the plate when the door was shut. Another frame, exactly the same size as the plate frame, had to be made to hold the ground glass upon which to obtain the focus for the pictures. When the focus was regulated, the ground glass was to be carefully withdrawn, and the sensitive plate placed in exactly the same position.

Perseverance and school-boy grit having conquered the slide difficulty, the perplexing question of the lenses came up. Fred's father, who was watching the boys' undertaking with considerable interest, now came to the rescue, and presented the young photographers with a fine set of mounted Dallemeyer lenses with diaphragms, which he bought of a dealer in photographic apparatus.

The camera being in readiness, Fred and Jim now went to work to mix their baths. They began with the sensitive bath, but to their astonishment, when they placed nitrate of silver in ordinary water, a white cloud instantly formed. The text-book was at once consulted, and Fred discovered that distilled water must be used. As the boys had no long-necked retort with which to distill the water, they agreed to suspend all operations until they could see their teacher on the following day, and ask his advice.

The next afternoon, when school was over, the boys marched up to the door of Professor Drood's class-room, and timidly knocked. "Come in," said a hearty, kindly voice. Fred, who was the most courageous, went in first, and clearly stated the case, while Jim stood hesitating in the doorway. "If you take rain-water, and filter it to remove the dust," said the Professor, "it will answer your purpose as well as distilled water."

The boys thanked him, and were going away, when he called them back. "I like to see you taking interest in things of this kind," said he, "and if you will stop, I will give you the whole story as clearly as I can." Fred and Jim were delighted to listen, and when the Professor told them to take a pencil and note-book, and write down the proportions in which the different baths were to be mixed, they were eagerly attentive at once.

"The sensitive bath," said the Professor, "is prepared in this manner: dissolve in two ounces of rain-water one ounce of nitrate of silver in crystals. Then add two to five grains of iodide of potassium. You must now add eight ounces of rain-water, and let the mixture stand two hours to saturate. It must be kept in a dark chamber, where no rays of sunlight can penetrate. You must always work by the light of a candle, and it is a good plan to have a screen of yellow paper around the flame, so that no direct light may fall on your sensitized plate.

"Before beginning to work, be sure that your plate is clean. Tin plates, with which you would better work until you become skillful in handling the baths, are sold in sheets by any dealer in photographic goods, and when you buy them are often covered with fine dust. Polish them well with a pad of soft chamois-skin before you proceed farther. Next pour the collodion on the centre, and cause it to flow evenly by gently tipping the plate from side to side. Allow the surplus to drip off into a flask; and as collodion is an expensive article, you would better mix some gum-arabic and water to about the required thickness, and practice with that first, that you may not waste the more costly fluid by failures to spread it evenly on the plate – a very difficult matter for beginners to accomplish. This collodion is made of alcohol, ether, and gun-cotton, and sensitized with certain iodides and bromides. It evaporates if exposed to the air, and must be well corked, and kept in a cool, dark place, as both lights and heat are injurious to it. A positive collodion is often sold for ferrotypes, but the negative fluid gives better results.

"When the film of collodion has become set, the plate is ready for the sensitive bath. Place it on a strip of glass bent at the lower end, which you will buy with your bath dish, and lower it into the bath quickly; otherwise a line may be noticed on the finished picture, due to the uneven deposit of silver. The deposit may be hastened by gently moving the plate in the liquid. After a few seconds lift it out and examine it. If it is streaked and greasy, it must be put back; but when it is of a fine opaline tint, free from streaks and flaws, it is ready to be placed in the camera, which should be already properly focussed and in position.

"Now, boys, comes the great trouble – to correctly time the exposure. It varies from five to forty-five or sixty seconds, according to the light, the arrangement of your screens, and the condition of the silver bath.

"When you think, from the nature of the case, that your plate has been exposed long enough, close your slide, and return to the dark room, where you now proceed to develop your picture. You must have already mixed this developing solution: one fluid part of sulphate of iron, one and a half fluid parts of acetic acid, and sixteen parts of rain-water. Do not make too much of this at once, as it quickly becomes spoiled. When you take the plate from the slide, you will see no alteration in it, but when you pour on some of your developer, 'as if by magic a picture appears.' See that the developer flows all over the plate, and do not allow it to settle on any one place, as this would make a stain which can not be removed.

"As soon as the development is complete, wash the plate well with pure water, using for the purpose a wash bottle, which is simply a large glass flask having a cork perforated by two tubes, one of which reaches into the body of the liquid, while the other only passes through the cork. The short tube is bent over at an angle so that the mouth may be conveniently placed against it, while the long tube is bent, and drawn out to a fine jet. On blowing through the short tube, the air in the bottle becomes compressed, and in expanding drives the liquid through the jet in a fine steady stream. When the plate has been well washed, it must be treated with another solution, as this picture is one that would soon fade, just as you no doubt have seen proofs of photographs do. To remove the unaltered silver a solution of hyposulphite of soda in water is used. Cyanide of potassium is also used, because it is much cleaner.

"But there is no rose without its thorns, and the cyanide makes up for its cleanliness by being one of the most deadly poisons, and I would advise boys who are not posted on the fine points of chemical manipulation to have nothing to do with it. This fixing solution is made of eight ounces of the hyposulphite and forty of water. Now if this is made too strong, it will spoil the picture, so it is well to be careful to have the exact proportions.

"By-the-way," added the Professor, "if you do use cyanide of potassium, be very careful not to get any of it into what cuts or bruises you may have on your hands. Boys always have such ornaments, and if the cyanide touches a place where the skin is broken, it is liable to mix with the blood, and make trouble.

"After your picture is fixed, wash it well and varnish it. Ten parts of gum-arabic to one hundred parts of water will make a very fair varnish; but as this has to be dried over a spirit-lamp, it is better to buy the self-drying varnish which is sold for this purpose.

"All this sounds very easy and pleasant, but there are more disappointments in store for you than can be imagined, for in this, as in many other things, practice is as essential as rules and regulations. I can only say to you, what should be the motto of every scientific student, 'Make haste slowly.'"

The boys thanked the good-natured Professor, who told them, in any serious difficulty, to come to him again. Then with eager steps they hastened homeward.

[to be continued.]

WILD BIRDS IN THE COUNTRY

When Aunt Bertha was younger than she is now she was a little English girl, and her American nephews and nieces are never tired of hearing about her English pets. Of her bird pets she tells the young listeners as follows:

"When I was alone at home with my parents, I used to amuse myself during my play-time, which I always spent out-of-doors, by trying to tame the wild birds. I nailed a little wooden tray against an oak that had twigs growing out of its trunk for the birds to perch on. It stood just inside a wood on one side of the drive, but not too much exposed to the view of the passers-by. Every morning regularly I filled the tray with bread-crumbs and bird-seed, with a little piece of raw meat now and then for a great treat. I watched anxiously to see what birds would come first, and in a few days had the pleasure of finding three tomtits hopping about my tree, and carrying off the crumbs and seeds. It was delightful to have these pretty, sprightly little fellows, with their bright yellow and black breasts and white cheeks, for my visitors, instead of the rather vulgar-looking sparrows, that are generally only too eager to secure any food that may be awaiting hungry mouths. The next birds that came were a pair of chaffinches: the cock never became very tame, but his little mate was soon a great pet with every one. After a time I had twelve birds that fed regularly at my box; they were a pair of tomtits, the chaffinches, a pair of nut-hatches, a pair of coal-tits, a pair of marsh-titmice, a robin, and a hedge-sparrow. In the cold weather my birds used to meet me as I came out of the house, and fly after me to the wood. They were not at all afraid of Carlo, my large dog, who generally accompanied me, and sat by the tree quite quietly, expecting his little share of the feast. In the spring the chaffinches built their nest in an oak-tree within sight of the box, and when their young ones were hatched, they carried off nice large crumbs to them.

"A robin that fed at the box used also to keep us company when we were out, and hop about on our feet as we sat on the lawn. The dear little thing came in-doors whenever he found a window open. He was particularly fond of flying into my mother's bedroom, in which he thought he had discovered a rival favorite. Day after day he attacked it most fiercely, but as the rival was his own reflection in the mirror, the poor bird only got a great many hard knocks against the glass in his efforts to revenge himself on his fancied enemy. The mirror was sometimes smeared with his blood."

[Begun in Young People No. 58, December 7.]

MILDRED'S BARGAIN

A Story for GirlsBY MRS. JOHN LILLIEChapter V

"Milly," said little Kate, greeting her elder sister one evening about a week after Miss Jenner's party, "there's a woman waiting to see you in the parlor."

Mildred instinctively kept the child back as she made her way into the room, shutting the door after her with a firm hand. There sat the peddler, or "Widow Robbins," as she called herself; and, oh! how she seemed to Milly to take the warmth and life out of the pretty little room with her air of vulgar obtrusiveness! Milly stood still in the middle of the room a moment, while Mrs. Robbins spoke. "Called for the first payment, my dear," she said, jocularly.

"Certainly," answered Milly, drawing her purse from her pocket; "and," she continued, "I thought I might as well pay you four weeks in advance. I have that much to spare."

She came forward, holding out two crisp bills; but, to her surprise, "Widow Robbins" motioned her back. "Ah, no, my dear," she said, gravely; "that wasn't in our agreement. I can't take more'n the fifty cents. Now give me just that, and I'll sign my name to your paper."

Milly remonstrated, all in vain, and then, completely disgusted by the coarse vulgarity of the woman, her loud tone and half-sarcastic laugh, she produced her "agreement," allowing Mrs. Robbins to sign a receipt for fifty cents, and take her leave. Poor Milly, though vexed and puzzled, did not see into the deeper motive of the peddler in this transaction. By only receiving the half-dollar weekly, Mrs. Robbins prolonged her power over Milly, well knowing a day might come when even that sum would not be in Milly's possession to give her. If such a remote chance ever occurred to Mildred, she dismissed it as too absurd to contemplate for an instant. The next week passed by quickly enough, for in her mother's absence Mildred had many home cares added to her usual ones and the work at the store. One fact relieved her greatly. "Mr. Tom's" attentions had nearly ceased, and she was allowed to come and go to her daily work without subjecting herself to any special insolence from him. Widow Robbins appeared again on the following Monday, and was promptly paid and dismissed. The same evening Mrs. Lee returned from her visit, full of exhilaration from the change, and ready to hear Milly's account of Miss Jenner's party. It cost the girl an effort not to tell of her new dress; but Mrs. Lee did not observe the slight confusion in her daughter's manner, being fully entertained by hearing an account of the fine house.

Early the next evening Mildred paid a call at the brick house, and renewed her sociable intercourse with Alice and Roger, who welcomed her so cordially that Miss Jenner, though in a rather stiff way, asked Mildred to spend an evening with them once a week. It was a new era in Milly's life. How she looked forward to those Wednesday evenings, when, leaving the store at the earliest moment possible, she would hasten home, make a quick toilette, chatting with her mother the while, and then go out into the dusky streets, threading her way eagerly to Lane Street, where lights twinkled in the old-fashioned windows of Miss Jenner's house, and where she was sure to find a kindly welcome!

Sometimes the three young people sat in Alice's pretty sitting-room up stairs, which to Milly's eyes was like an enchanted palace. Although blind, Alice delighted in feeling soft hangings, luxurious coverings to her chairs and sofas, and the consciousness that her walls were hung with pretty pictures. Mildred had inherited from her father an exquisitely fine taste, and Alice Jenner's surroundings seemed to fill her with a sense of refinement which made her own dull life easier to bear when she went away. Gradually Miss Jenner's manner thawed to Mildred, and before Christmas came around, the young girl had been half a dozen times invited to the cozy supper table of the good lady, who on these occasions strove to make Milly feel perfectly at home, while she contrived to learn all the story of her life from the young girl's lips. Milly's one penance was Mrs. Robbins's weekly visit, and the consciousness that up in her bureau drawer, carefully locked and guarded, was the gray silk dress. By Christmas-time only six dollars had been paid on it, yet a certain security of the future made Milly feel sure no disaster could occur. Mrs. Robbins's calls were now all made at the store, and about the Christmas season "Mr. Tom" inquired, rather sneeringly, whether "Miss Lee's great-aunt" meant to give them her custom. Milly answered nothing, yet it aroused her fears, and on one Tuesday, after the peddler's customary call, she left the store determined to appoint some different place of meeting. There was something unusual, Milly thought, about the look of the cottage as she entered; first a rush, then a confusion of smothered voices. Mildred ran into the parlor, thence to the kitchen, where she found the children gathered mysteriously together.

"Willy's got the bronchitis," exclaimed Kate. "He must have caught it down at the marshes."

Mildred asked no further questions, but ran up stairs, tossing aside her hat, and going cautiously into her mother's room, where Willy lay suffering intensely. Mrs. Lee was glad to put all the responsible care into Mildred's hands, and so she devoted nearly all the night to the care of her little brother, appearing the next day haggard and heavy-eyed at Mr. Hardman's store. Days passed in hard work at the store, and nights of broken rest; and then came an evening when, on Mildred's return home, she was met with the news of her mother's illness. Poor Mrs. Lee, at no time strong, had succumbed to her anxiety and hard work, and Milly found her utterly prostrated, the doctor standing beside her, not able to pronounce on her disease, but looking so anxious that Milly had difficulty in hiding her tears. Willy was better, but the new trouble was terrible to contemplate. That night she wrote hurriedly to her mother's pupils, and the next morning she arose after a wakeful night with the consciousness that she had six people to support on five dollars a week.

Mildred felt too proud to tell Miss Jenner of her troubles. She dreaded a rebuff besides. Roger was not well, and she knew the brick house was in some confusion over his illness. It had been a trying season at Milltown, and few families had escaped; but Mildred thought her visitation hardest to bear.