OUR BOYS GIRLS THE OLIVER OPTIC, Editor. THE ARCTIC OCEAN. HE Arctic Ocean is an immense circular basin surrounding the North Pole, and enclosed between the northern shores of Asia, Europe, and America, communicating with the Pacific and Atlantic by two channels, one of which separates America from Europe, the other America from Asia. Its area is about four and a half millions of square miles, and mean diameter about twenty-four hundred miles. The name Arctic is derived from the constellation of the Little Bear, called, in Greek, Agztos, of which the last star of the tail points nearly to the North Pole, it being supposed that his ursine majesty did not dare to face the cold climate, and, turning about, stretches his star-lit tail towards the frozen regions. It is a mysterious ocean, and for centuries has successfully defied the attempts of navigators to penetrate its recesses, or make known its wonders. Natural causes render it a forbidding field for explorations, and amid its cold and ice human energies seem well nigh paralyzed. Its broad bosom covered for the greater part of the year with its icy robes, and in its summer months the masses of ice that float about like mountains, and in their crashings and breakings seem destined to consummate the wreck of all things; the scarcity of food, the season of total night, the intensity of the atmosphere, all conspire to make the prospect of useful discoveries dreary indeed. But in all its dreariness, the Arctic Ocean is not without its beauties and attractions. We admire, and well we may, the glittering splendor of our forests, as the sun or full moon lights up their diamond-studded dresses, and dazzles our eyes with the icy glories; we admire the frozen waterfall and the ice-bound lake, and love to see our rivers "break up" in the spring, bearing to the ocean their burdens of ice; we look with wonder, almost mingled with superstition, at the northern heavens, lighted with a many-colored flame; but into what insignificance does all this sink when we compare it with the phenomena of the Polar Seas! Look upon a field of ice, stretching to the horizon on every side, silent and awful, while the sun, as if afraid to remain, slowly departs and leaves in darkness the dreary spot. Look upon the Aurora, rising up in a flood of brilliant colors, with a light sometimes equal to the full moon; upon the icebergs, rising heavenward in their crystal beauty and lofty magnificence; glorious temples of Nature's own architecture; solid castles, with massive pillars and huge arches; fairy grottos, shining in precious gems; Gothic cathedrals, pointing to the sky with their thousand glittering spires, hoary habitations of the Ice King; moving, changing monuments of splendor and magnificence, ever wonderful, ever new, ever awful in their majesty. The sun crowns them in light and beauty, and under the quiet moon they are resplendent in their cold grandeur. See the streams of water leaping from their sides, sometimes reaching the ocean beneath, sometimes frozen in their fall. See the glaciers, more than Alpine, and the frozen rivers piled up in masses of ice upon the shore. What Coleridge said to Mont Blanc, he could have said, with even more truth, of the Arctic scenery: : "Ye ice-falls! ye that, from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain; Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven And who commanded (and the silence came), BEAR AND FORBEAR, OR THE YOUNG SKIPPER OF LAKE UCAYGA, the sixth and concluding volume of the Lake Shore Series, is finished in this number of the Magazine, and may now be had in a handsomely illustrated volume, uniform with the rest of the series; price, $1.25. This series has proved among the most popular of Oliver Optic's writings. In the next number, 170, will commence the Onward and Upward Series, to comprise six stories by Oliver Optic, relating the experiences of a boy in six different occupations. The first story is entitled FIELD and Forest, OR THE FORTUNES OF A FARMER. It will have a pictorial illustration in each number of the Magazine, and will interest the readers from the opening chapter onward. The beginning of one of Oliver Optic's stories is always a good time for new subscribers. L VOL. VII. SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1870. No. 170. FIELD AND FOREST; OR, THE FORTUNES OF A FARMER. BY OLIVER OPTIC. CHAPTER I. I was I had been a-fishing in a stream which flowed into the Missouri about a mile above my home. I had been very successful, and had as many fish as I could carry. gathering them up, after I had fastened my bateau to the stake, and intended to convey them to the castle, as our log hut was rather IN WHICH PHIL COMES HOME WITH PLENTY facetiously called by its owner. OF FISH. OLLO, Phil!" "HOL "Phil! Phil!" repeated the voice above the bluff of the river. That was the name to which I an- It was Matt Rockwood who called; and, as swered, especially when it was spoken as de- he was the only master and guardian I had cidedly as on the present occasion. ever known, I always obeyed him when I "I'm coming," I replied, at the top of my could not help doing so. His tones were lungs. more imperative than before, and I proceeded Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by LEE & SHEPARD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court with greater haste to gather up my fish, stringing them upon some willow twigs I had just cut for the purpose. Crack went a rifle. The sound startled me, and dropping my fish, I ran up the steep bank of the river to the summit of the bluff on which the castle was located. "What's the matter?" I asked, when I reached the spot by the side of the house where Matt stood. "We can't do a thing in the field without them hosses, Phil; and tain't no use to try. We can't plough the ground, and we can't haul no wood. We must hev them hosses back agin, if I hev to hobble arter 'em myself." "What can I do?" I asked, willing to fight the Indians if necessary; and I was rather impatient over the amount of talk the old man bestowed upon the subject. "I'll tell you what to do, Phil. Hosses is "Don't you see?" he replied, raising his skuss with them varmints. It's been a hard 'rifle again, and taking aim. I looked in the direction towards which his weapon was directed, and saw two Indians, mounted, each of whom had a led horse. "Them pesky Injuns hes stole our hosses," added old Matt, as he fired his rifle the second time. "Tain't no use; I might as well shoot at the north star." winter for vagabonds as don't lay up nothin' for cold weather, and they lost half their hosses - starved 'em to death. Them critters they rid on wan't nothin' but frames, and you could hear their bones rattle when they trotted. They won't go far on them hosses to-day, for it's most night now.” "But if I'm going to do anything, it's time to be doing it," I suggested, impatiently. them Injuns will camp for the night, and that'll be the time to take 'em." The two Indians, with their animals, disappeared in the forest beyond the clearing, and "Keep cool, boy; 'tain't time to go yet,” Matt's last chance was gone. A few years added the old man, lifting one leg painfully earlier in the life experience of the old squat-over the other with his hands. "About dark, ter, the thieves would not have escaped so easily, for Matt was a dead shot before the rheumatism took hold of him. Now he hobbled about a little on a pair of rude crutches I had made for him; but his eyes were rather weak, and his arm was unsteady. His rifle was no longer unerring, and the thieving sav-matter over." ages could plunder him with impunity. There was an Indian village about ten miles from the castle, and from the known character of its inhabitants, and the direction the marauders had taken, we concluded they had come from there. I went into the house, and procured my rifle a light affair, which old Matt had purchased on board a trading steamer for my use. ""Tain't no use, Phil. You needn't run arter 'em," said the old man, shaking his head. "You don't expect to run fast enough to ketch Injuns on hossback do you?" "Very well; then I will go down and bring up my fish. I'm hungry, Matt," I added. "So am I." "While they are cooking, we will talk the "Stop a minute, Phil," said Matt, as I started for the river. "There was a jug of fire-water in the barn. I left it there this arternoon. I used some on't to wash Firefly's leg where 'twas swelled up. Go into the barn, and see if it's there now.” I knew what the old man was thinking about, and I went in search of the jug. I could not find it, and so reported to him. "I didn't think o' that jug before. The Injuns came into the castle, and asked for firewater. I never gin 'em none, and shan't begin now. They were lookin' for hosses, and went On second thought I concluded to take his to the barn. They took that jug of whiskey, view of the matter. "But we can't afford to lose them hosses, Phil," continued old Matt, as he hobbled to a seat. "And if we can, them Injuns shan't hev 'em. I ain't a-goin' to hev old Firefly rid by them critters, and starved, and abused-I ain't a-goin' to do it! Them hosses must be got back. You're gittin' old enough to do sunthin' with Injuns now, Phil, and you must git them hosses back agin." "I'm ready to do anything I can; but, if I can't catch the Indians, what shall I do?" I replied. but it's jest like camphene. 'Tain't fit to drink no more'n pizen." 86 They will get drunk on it," I added. They kin git drunk very quick on such stuff as that; and they won't go fur afore they do it, nuther." "Then I can very easily get the horses." "If you work it right, you kin, Phil; but if they are crazy drunk, you musn't go to showin' yourself to 'em. Wait till they go to sleep, as they will when they git drunk enough. Then take your hosses and come home." "I will go down and get the fish, Matt." |