HOW JAMIE SAILED IN THE "SCUD."

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

The Scud was a cat-rigged, clipper-built pleasure-yacht, belonging to Mr. Trenwick, and now for sale. It had never been used very much, and now that Jamie was almost old enough to want to sail himself, and still sufficiently young to run a good chance of being drowned in the attempt, Mrs. Trenwick declared that she would sleep much easier at night if "that boat" were owned by somebody else.

Jamie was nearly eleven, and both he and his twin sister Marian knew how to row, and, in their pretty little boat would paddle about for hours in shallow water, so that it was considered perfectly safe to allow Jamie to pump out the Scud after a rain.

But as time went on and no purchaser appeared, the yacht seemed to feel the neglect with which it was being treated, and by way of attracting more attention to itself, suddenly began to leak.

"Well, pump her out every day if necessary, my son," said Mr. Trenwick, when informed of the fact, for he was very busy at his office in the city just then, and was never at home during the day except on Sundays.

The Scud was moored on the edge of the channel, only a few yards from the outer end of the Trenwicks' dock, and formerly a pretty blue and white buoy had floated above the spot where the anchor lay; but this had been lost by some means, and now the cable was fastened directly to the bow of the boat.

In the course of a week or so the pump, too, gave out, so that the water had to be patiently taken out by means of pail, bailer, and sponge, which Jamie found to be not nearly as interesting an occupation as pumping, which was certainly more "ship-shape."

"I don't wonder that nobody wants to buy her," he remarked to Marian one very hot afternoon, as she rowed him out to the scene of his daily task. "Look out, now, and don't let her bunk," he added, as his sister brought the boat up alongside the Scud with a swoop that threatened to considerably damage the paint of both, had not Jamie skillfully warded off the blow.

At the same moment there was a sound of wheels on the gravelled driveway leading to the house, and a handsome village cart was seen to stop at the front door.

"Oh, it's Mamie Henley!" cried Marian, clapping her hands. "Hurry out, Jamie; here's your pail and things;" and quickly catching up her oars again, the little girl shoved off, and was nearly back at the dock before her brother could shout after her:

"But how am I going to get ashore? Come on out here again and take me in; then I can leave you and keep the boat;" and Jamie beckoned violently with the pail, as if to add emphasis to his words.

"Oh, I can't stop now," Marian screamed in reply, as she nimbly slipped the painter over a post, and scrambled out on the dock. "There's Mamie beckoning to me now. I'll run up and see her first, and when I come back you'll be all through;" and throwing out the last sentence as she ran, Jamie's twin flew on her way to the house. Jamie himself took up his bailer and went to work, hoping that Mamie Henley's call would be a very formal and consequently short one.

As it happened, it was not a call at all, for she had simply come to take Marian out riding with her old pony in his new cart.

"But there's Jamie out there in the Scud," began Marian, when she had been hugged and told that if she could not go at once she couldn't go at all, as the coachman must be at home in time to meet the train.

"Oh, I'll see to your brother," returned Mamie, "and I know your mother will let you go, for we met her on the road, and I asked her if you might. Now hurry and put on your other hat," and as Marian vanished on the instant, her friend walked to the bank and called to Jamie to know how long it would take him to finish his work.

"About ten minutes," he shouted back.

"Well, I'm going to take Marian for a quarter of an hour's drive," screamed Mamie; "so you needn't hurry. I can't wait until she rows the boat out to you. Good-by;" and before Jamie could make her understand that it would be possible for them to let the boat drift out to him on the ebb-tide, Marian appeared in her best hat, both girls hurried into the cart, and with a cry of farewell went rattling off down the avenue.

"Well, this is a pretty fix to be left in!" thought Jamie, as he stood up on the deck of the Scud and looked out over the river in search of a crab boy, or any other sort of boy with a boat.

But as it was quite early in the afternoon, there was not a single one visible. Then, as it was so very warm, Jamie decided to rest awhile before going on with his work, so he crawled in under the forward deck, where there was shade and a strong smell of damp wood, and pillowing his head on a sand-bag, lay there listening contentedly to the regular lap, lap of the river against the Scud, wondering if each little ripple wasn't a sort of water-sprite in disguise.

Of course it was but a wave's-breadth from thinking about water-sprites to dreaming about them, and as the weather was extremely sultry, and the slight motion of the boat very soothing, Jamie was soon seeing strange sights.

First there were only the tiny water-sprites that seemed to flit before him; then these gradually grew into dwarfs with large heads, which they took off and tossed back and forth like foot-balls, until finally they themselves changed into giants, while the heads were transformed into immense cannon-balls, which crashed into one another, as they whizzed through the air, with a terrible report.

Boom! bang! b-o-o-m! The noise was so loud that it woke Jamie with a start, and even then he heard it, for in truth it was not all a dream, but a fierce thunder-storm which had suddenly swooped down upon the calm afternoon, and churned the peaceful river into a raging sea.

Jamie quickly turned over, and backed out of his retreat, to be at once soaked through by the driving rain.

The Scud was rising and falling on the waves with mighty thuds, tugging at the cable like a spirited horse eager to be off, and even as the boy stood there, transfixed with amazement, the rope parted, and the liberated boat shot swiftly down the river with the wind and tide.

Then Jamie rushed to the stern, thinking he might be able to steer the yacht in such a way that she would speedily be blown ashore; but with a thrill of terror he discovered that there was no tiller on board, nor even an oar or boat-hook to take its place, and thus, the rudder was rendered practically useless. The next instant a zigzag flame lit up the darkened heavens with its awful light, followed by a succession of thunder-claps, which sent Jamie back under the deck with a heart that nearly failed him as he realized how helpless he was.

The river was a broad one, and not particularly deep, except in the channel, although now that the tide had only been falling for about an hour there was not much hope of the Scud running aground anywhere near home. Faster and faster she drifted, or rather sailed along, until Jamie, unable to longer lie there in suspense, came out from his refuge, and, prepared to face the worst, gazed out upon the wild scene about him.

There was not a boat to be seen, with the exception of a schooner running down the river before the gale in the direction of the sea. The sea! Yes, it was only five miles off; and as Jamie recollected the fact, it seemed as if there must be something he could do to check his swift, dashing course toward it.

But he was quite powerless, and the Scud went whirling on, now bow first, now sidewise, yet ever moving on toward the ocean, between which and it there now loomed up the draw-bridge.

With wide-open, anxious eyes Jamie gazed at the latter as the schooner passed safely through, wondering in a dazed sort of way if the keeper would see him before he closed the draw.

"But how can I be sure of not missing it, even if it is open?"

The question was a momentous one, and, alas! how difficult to answer! And still onward sped the Scud, swiftly nearing the spot that now seemed more terrible to Jamie than the ocean itself.

The man had evidently seen him, for the draw remained wide open, but already the course of the boat was tending in such a way that a collision with the bridge appeared to be almost inevitable. Jamie sprang to the stern, and made a desperate effort to turn the rudder-post with his hands, but all in vain.

The bridge-keeper had by this time perceived the full extent of the lad's peril, but he could do nothing to help him—could only stand there on the draw with straining eyes fixed on the Scud.

Yet would the shock really be great enough to harm him? Jamie wondered; and for an instant or two he thought that the bridge might be the means of saving him from a worse fate, for perhaps the boat would remain unhurt, and he could manage to clamber up by the spiles. Then he noticed how rapidly he was passing each landmark on shore, and felt the full force of the gale as he turned to face it.

"The Scud can never stand it," he cried aloud in his excitement. "She's so old and leaky that at the first jar her timbers will give way, and I—"

But he was almost there now, and Jamie closed his eyes for an instant, as he fell to wondering vaguely whether the bridge-keeper would ever find him, or if he would be swept out to sea with the wreck. Then there came a sudden shock, which threw him from his feet, and caused him to put up his hands as if to ward off the mast, which he felt must now crash down upon him.

But nothing of the kind occurred, and venturing to raise his head, Jamie saw that the boat had not yet reached the bridge, and what was stranger still, remained stationary, with the spray dashing over its decks in great sheets. And now he understood it all: the Scud had run aground, and just in time too, for the bridge was less than ten feet distant.

All was safe, then, for as the tide was falling, the boat would undoubtedly remain where it was until the gale should subside, and Jamie could be taken off. Meantime, after shouting to the bridge-keeper to send some one out to him as soon as it was possible to do so, he crept under the deck and awaited the end of the storm. This was not long in coming, and soon the stout arms of a hardy fisherman lifted Jamie's chilled and dripping form from the Scud, in which he had sailed in spite of all, and he was rowed over to the beach in time to take the same train back in which his father was returning from the city.

"An' am dat you or yer ghost, Mas'r Jamie?" exclaimed the colored coachman, as they got into the carriage at the station. "There's yer pore ma at home lookin' up an' down de ribber as white as yerself, an' Miss Marian, she am dat scared 'bout yer dat—"

"But where was she all the time?" eagerly interrupted the boy, as his father took the reins from Pomp, and started the horses at their liveliest pace. "Why didn't she or somebody come out after me?"

"Why," replied Pomp, as he feasted his eyes on Jamie, sitting there in flesh and blood between himself and Mr. Trenwick, "yer see she went on dat ride wid Miss Mamie, an' dey was jist goin' to turn roun' an' come home, when de storm broke ober 'em. An' Miss Mamie's pony he am powerful 'fraid o' thunder, so dey couldn't jist do nothin' at all wid him,' cept drive into a barn 'long de road an' wait for clar weather. An' Miss Marian, she say she wur a-frettin' 'bout yer all de time, although she tink of course you had seen de storm a-comin' an' hollered to de gardener or somebody roun' dar (yer ma an' me bein' out wid de kerridge). An' when she come home an' find dat de Scud wur gone an' you in it, yer should hab seen her an' yer ma take on, like— But yer can see 'em now, tank de Lord!" added the good soul, as the team dashed up to the piazza, and Jamie sprang into his mother's arms, with Marian sobbing for joy on his damp jacket.

THE FINE ART OF COOKING.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

A fine art, like painting, music, embroidery or sculpture? Yes, my dears, and an art which involves as much industry, skill, and taste as any of the others. Good cooking is an important element in home life and happiness. Health depends upon it, for nobody can be well and strong who suffers from indigestion, and nothing causes indigestion sooner than ill-cooked food.

Many people think that while a girl must go to school for years to acquire a knowledge of her own and foreign languages, and must have masters for this and that accomplishment, she may be safely left to pick up an acquaintance with cooking after she has a household of her own. This is a great mistake, as hundreds of ladies who remember the trouble they have had through want of experience can tell you. I myself once had a dreadful time trying to prepare a dinner, in the absence of my faithful Bridget, and I would have given up Latin, Greek, and French that day to have known when the potatoes were done, and to have discovered how to get the pease and beans out of the water in which they were floating.

To be a good cook, girls, one needs a light, firm hand, an accurate eye, and a patient temper. One needs, too, a few rules and a trustworthy receipt-book. We have all seen the easy way in which a good cook makes a cake. She tosses three or four things together, gives a flirt of the spice box, and a feathery touch or two to her foamy eggs, pops the pan into the oven, and presto! there appears the perfect loaf. And if you ask her why and how she did this or the other part of her work, she will very likely smile and say, "Oh, I used my judgment."

This judgment is the quality which no novice in cooking can expect to possess, just as no novice on the piano can perform the "Moonlight Sonata" after learning two or three scales, and no beginner with the pencil can paint such sea-pieces as those of De Haas.

But if you are watchful and persevering, the judgment will surely come, and by-and-by you will be as independent as a dear old colored aunty who once cooked for me. One day when I had asked some friends, and wanted a very nice dinner indeed, I asked Aunt Hannah how she intended to prepare the turkey. She raised herself to her full height, and looking like a queen, said, "Now, honey, you jest go 'long and sit by de fire. It's my business to cook de dinner, an' it'll be yours to eat it, chile."

Have your receipt-books, at least until you know certain rules by heart, and minutely follow their directions. Still, as no receipt-book can tell you just when bread is light or precisely when meat is done, you must watch whatever you are cooking very carefully, and you will gradually acquire a sort of sense which will not fail you.

One of the things you must learn if you wish to cook successfully is the management of your fire. A range is a splendid servant if under proper control; but unless you understand dampers and draughts, you will probably have no end of trouble with your ovens. The skillful cook keeps her fire raked clear of ashes from beneath. She never heaps coals up so high that they over-brim the fire-chamber and rattle against the lids, and she does not let her heat go up the chimney when it ought to be baking her biscuits.

Try your oven with the thermometer. Miss Juliet Corson says that a good temperature for baking meat is from 320° to 400° Fahr. Beef and mutton require about twenty minutes to the pound, and you may tell when they are done, and how much, by pressing the surface with the finger. Rare or little-cooked meat will spring back from the touch. There will be little resistance if it is quite well done, and none at all if it is baked thoroughly.

In baking bread, which is, I think, the real test of a cook's merits, a great deal depends on the kneading. You can not knead bread too long or too often, and the more it is kneaded, by which I mean rolled over and pounded with the clinched fist, the finer and closer-grained it will be.

If you have never made bread, ask mamma to let you try, and then, if once or twice she will stand by, and show you how to sift the flour, how to heap the right quantity into a deep pan, and make a hollow in the middle, into which you shall pour your lukewarm water, your yeast, your wee bit of sugar, and your spoonful of salt, following this by enough tepid water to make a soft dough, you will not require her instructions often. The art of making bread once learned is never forgotten. And how proud papa will be the first time he eats a slice of his daughter's home-made bread!

Whatever else you omit, girls, do not omit to learn to prepare food properly; for

"You may live without friends, you may live without books, But civilized man can not live without cooks."

THE SPRING CONCERT.