Harper's Young People, August 8, 1882 An Illustrated Weekly

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.

"What are we goin' to do?" asked Toby, almost in despair.

"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.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

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 Padará 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.