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€Mt nf €nlnt*. 

JANUARY, 1855. 

Sports on the Ice, W. C. Richards. 

The Woodpecker, " Nuncle." 

Sedgemoor, Chapters 24 and 25, . . . . Mrs. Manners. 

Charlie's Dollar, . Mrs. Bradley. 

Blind-man's Buff in the Country, .... Mrs. Richards. 
The Baby Correspondence. — Sam Lively to Edith 

Newcome, " Cousin Alice." 

Leaves from Kitty's Journal, Sue Leslie. 

Conversations on New Books, .... The Editor. 

The Riddler's Corner. — Five Prize Enigmas, . . Various Contributors. 

"A Happy New Year," The Editor. 


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Sprts an tyt §n. 

[a chapter from " harry's vacation."] 

The Pond— Skating— A Collision— Harry's Mysterious Departure— Sledding on 
the Pond— An Upset— Inertia— Dr. Sinclair on the Ice— A Surprise at Home 
—More Sport on the Ice— The Skating Trio— A Novel Sleigh-ride. 

OME, Herbert," said Harry, as they arose from 
the breakfast-table on Monday morning, " we must 
have some sport on the pond to-day. Here have 
we been at home more than a week, and I have not 
had my skates on yet ; it is positively too bad. 

Herbert was willing enough, and especially as 
Mrs. Sinclair told Alice that she and her sisters 
might go down and witness the amusement, which 
they were much inclined to do. Alice entreated 
her father to accompany them, but he excused him- 
self upon the plea of business of immediate import- 

As soon, therefore, as the young people had taken care of their pets 
and dependants, and protected themselves thoroughly against the cold, 
which was not severe in the pleasant brightness of the sunshine, the} 7 
all set out for the pond. This was a natural lakelet of more than a 
mile in length, and of a variable width, reaching in the centre about 



a quarter of a mile. It was beautifully situated — skirted upon one 
side by the beach forest, which stretched beyond the Hall, and upon 
the opposite shore by a belt of meadow-ground. In summer it was a 
favourite haunt of the family. A boat and bathing-house, over which 
was a sitting-chamber, haa been erected by Dr. Sinclair, at the western 
end of the pond. 

Very different was the winter aspect of this scene from that which 
it exhibited in the radiant summer-time. But the'hearts of the boys 
exulted in the wide expanse of ice which stretched out before them ; 
and while Alice and her sisters took temporary possession of the boat- 
house, Harry and Herbert buckled on their skates, and the former 
was very soon swiftly gliding over the ice. Herbert was less accus- 
tomed to the sport than his schoolfellow, and he moved cautiously, 
especially fearing to catch a fall — not so much for the personal discom- 
fort of it, as for the observation of Alice and Mary. 

He soon gathered courage, however, and followed Harry in his 
rapid flight. The ice was in good condition, the wind having first 
nearly cleared its surface of the light snow, and the warmth of the 
sun melted that which remained. Now they glided hither and thither, 
and once they started upon a race across the pond, in which, however, 
Harry gained so much upon Herbert that he generously cut it short, 
and satisfied himself by describing curves and figures upon the ice, 
where his sisters could see the sport. While he was thus occupied, 
it happened that he and Herbert came unexpectedly into collision, 
and the result was that both of them fell backwards with an uncom- 
fortable force upon the ice, greatly to the amusement of the group 
who stood upon the margin of the pond, and made no attempt to re- 
strain their merriment; especially as the boys picked themselves up 
with loud bursts of laughter. Harry now whispered something to 
Herbert, and immediately took off his skates and. started eagerly 
homeward, leaving his young friend to explain his purpose to Alice 
and her sisters. 

" He is gone," said Herbert, to fetch the sleds, so that we may give 
you all a good ride upon the ice." 

" Oh, that will be charming !" said Alice ; " won't it, Mary !" 


Mary assented with a quickened colour in her faoe, and Fanny's 
bright eyes danced with her pleasurable emotion. 

"How would you like to live in Holland, Herbert?" asked Alice. 

"Why do you ask me that, Alice V he replied. 

" Because there, during the winter, they skate more than in any 
other country, we are told." 

"I did not know that," was Herbert's ingenuous reply. 

" The canals are covered with people upon skates. The women 
skate to market with heavy baskets upon their heads, and nearly all 
the population move about in this way." 

" I think I should like to live in Holland, then," said Herbert, " and 
I should become very expert in skating." 

" It requires practice, I suppose," said Alice. 

" Indeed it does ; it was some time before I could even stand up on 
my skates, and I got many a fall before I learned to move upon them." 

Harry was not long absent, and he reappeared, drawing after him, 
at a swift pace, the two sleds which they had used in the coasting 
frolic. Giving one of them to Herbert, and again buckling on his 
skates, he directed Mary to seat herself upon his sleigh, and to take 
her youngest sister in her lap. This arrangement left Alice to Her- 
bert, who was delighted enough when she said, — 

"You have Hobson's choice, Herbert — in me or none." 

" I am perfectly satisfied, Alice, though Harry has taken the lion's 

" I will change with you, Herbert, if you please," said Harry ; 
but without waiting for the answer, he seized the rope of the sled and 
started off so suddenly that both Mary and Fanny were immediately 
upset upon the ice, and a very amusing screaming and scrambling 

" So, so, Master Harry, you are giving your sisters a practical les- 
son upon inertia, eh 7 ?" said Dr. Sinclair, who had this moment arrived 
at the edge of the pond quite unperceived by any of the group there. 

" I should call it a lesson in holding on, papa," said Harry. "Mary 
should have held on." 

" She did hold on, Harry, and that was the reason she fell off." 


" Now, papa,'' said Alice, " that is a paradox which I must ask you 
to explain." 

"I will try and do so to your satisfaction, my daughter. Mary 
and Fanny were in a state of rest, together with the sleigh, when 
Harry so rudely disturbed that state by his sudden start.. If the rope 
had been fastened to them, as well as to the sleigh, they would not 
have fallen off; but they held on to the state they were in, and 
the sleigh, alone obeying the impulse of Harry's pull, moved from 
beneath them. This is what philosophers mean by the inertia of 
bodies. If Mary and Fanny trust their brother after this, to draw 
them upon the ice, they must look out both for his starts and bis 
stops ; for if he were to bring up his sled suddenly, they would hold 
on to their motion and continue to move, if they did not meet with 
opposition from the ground, or rather from the ice." 

" Mary and Fanny, and indeed Herbert and Alice, too, ought to be 
very much obliged to me for giving papa an opportunity to teach us 
the philosophy of tumbling off a sled," said Harry, with a laugh, in 
which all the rest joined. 

" It's a useful lesson, Master Magpie," said his father, " and I recol- 
lect another occasion when you afforded us the opportunity of learn- 
ing it, though I did not express the philosophy of it at that time." 

" When was that, papa ?" asked Alice. 

" Surely you remember to what I allude, Alice V 

" Oh ! yes, I'm sure I do, papa. You mean the time when Harry 
tumbled out of the boat into the pond. He was standing up in the 
boat, Herbert, just as it came to the steps, and it struck so hard 
against them, that he was plunged head first into the water." 

" That lesson was at his own expense," said his father, " but this 
time he made his sisters pay for it." 

" Mine cost the most, any how," said Harry, " though I did not 
mind it at all." 

"After the fright was over, yo\i mean, my boy, for you made a ter- 
rible ado when it happened." 

The laugh was decidedly against Harry, and he bore it with the 
grace of a generous boy. He now persuaded Mary and Alice to try 


again, and they showed no reluctance, notwithstanding their first fall. 
The sleds were freighted with their burdens, and a safe start was 
made. The boys exerted themselves bravely, and the light vehicles 
fairly flew over the smooth surface of the pond. Dr. Sinclair was 
soon behind them, also upon skates, and he afforded the young people 
much amusement by his superior skill in the art. He would rush 
past them with the speed of the wind, and suddenly doubling on his 
track, describe a path completely around them. Bidding Herbert to 
throw the rope to Alice, he laid his hand lightly upon her shoulders, and 
while the sled still glided along with its previous impulse, he urged it 
forward with increased speed, and left Harry and his sleigh far behind. 

Then rejoining the group, he resigned Alice again to the care of their 
young guest, and proposed to Fanny to exchange her seat in Mary's 
lap for his arms. To this proposal the little girl joyfully consented, 
and her papa, apparently quite unconscious of his assumed burden, 
glided away again while she clung to his neck with one arm, and waved 
the other, over his shoulder, to the party they were leaving behind. 

It was a morning of rare enjoyment to all, and not one of them 
failed to express regret that Mr. Oldbuckle and William were not 
there to. share in it. The latter had returned to Viviandale after the 
morning service of the previous clay, and had found so much to 
interest him, either in Edward or in Gertrude — no matter which — 
that he had not yet arrived at home when the young people started 
for the poncl. 

When they reached the Hall, however, about the dinner hour, they 
were exceedingly delighted to find, in the library, not only their 
truant brother, but both the objects of his attraction to Viviandale, 
whose presence saved him a little scolding, perhaps, from Alice's lips, 
and a gleam of reproach from the sweet, soft eyes of his darling sister 
Mary. As it was, he was greeted with cordial, if not clamorous delight, 
and Edward and Gertrude Vivian had no reason to doubt that they 
had come where a welcome awaited them. 

" O ! brother Willie !" said Alice after the salutations had ceased, 
" we did miss you so much upon the pond !" 

"We would all have come clown and joined you there," was his 


reply, "but your mamma was inexorable in her plea that there was 
not time before dinner." 

"Weil then," said Harry, "let's make a day of it, by going back 
after dinner. Don't you vote yes, Herbert ?" 

Herbert certainly voted yes, and so did Gertrude Vivian, with so 
much earnestness in her declaration that she enjoyed sports on the 
ice with a keen delight, that it was immediately agreed to pass the 
rest of the day at the pond. 

Dinner was no sooner over than all were busy in putting on their 
wrappers. Dr. Sinclair left a note to be handed to Mr. Oldbuckle, in 
case he arrived at the Hall, inviting him to come down to the scene 
of amusement. William Sinclair informed the ladies that to him was 
delegated the honour of driving them in the cutter to the pond. 

" Why, surely, brother Willie, you don't intend that we shall ride 
that little way, do you V said Alice. 

" No, Alice, don't you hear that he intends to ' drive 1 us 1 I hope he 
won't use the whip very freely," said Gertrude Vivian, playfully. 

" Pardon me, Miss Gertrude," said William Sinclair, " but how 
shall I better express my intention of being your coachman — " 

" Sleigh-m&n, ," suggested Edward Vivian. 

" Than by the words I used ?" he continued, smiling at the paren- 
thesis of his friend. 

" I'm sure I don't know," she replied archly, " but one thing is cer- 
tain, ladies don't like to be driven." 

" I am at a loss for a happy substitute for the obnoxious word, 
unless I say, escort or conduct you," was the rejoinder. 

" Either of the latter you may do," she said, with a heightening 
flush upon her cheek, and amid this badinage the ladies all stepped into 
the light cutter, in which the party from Viviandale had arrived. 
When they reached the pond, the horse was taken out, tied to a post, 
and a warm blanket thrown over him. Harry and Herbert insisted 
upon resigning their skates to William Sinclair and Edward Vivian, 
who were both well skilled in their use, and quite equalled, if they 
did not surpass, the morning performances of Dr. Sinclair, which had 
elicited the admiration of our young friends. It was a noble and 


exhilarating sight, as Gertrude Vivian justly remarked to Mrs. Sin- 
clair, to see the three gentlemen striving in a race the whole length of 
the pond, their figures first receding swiftly into the distance, and then 
returning like a flight of arrows, while the sound of the steel upon 
the clear ice bore some resemblance to the rushing of the wind. 

Harry and Herbert had brought their sleds with them, and Mary and 
Fanny readily consented to let them run with them on the ice, which 
they could do without peril in their India-rubber boots. But the 
young men had nobler sport than this in view, and just as the boys 
were about to put their plan into execution, Dr. Sinclair called to them 
to bring the cutter upon the pond. 

Alice divined, at once, the reason why they rode instead of walked 
to the pond, and indeed none were so dull as not to discover it. 

Fanny clapped her hands with great glee, and exclaimed, "A ride, 
a ride, and skaters for ponies !" 

The boys launched the cutter with great alacrity, and if it did not 
glide gi'acefully into the water, as another kind of cutter might have 
done upon the same pond, in the summer-time, it certainly did move 
with great ease upon the icy bosom of the lakelet. 

The ladies needed no urging to enter the sleigh, and when they were 
all comfortably seated, Dr. Sinclair placed himself between the light 
shafts, while William Sinclair and Edward Vivian stood each in advance 
of him upon the outside, and laid one hand upon the nearest shaft. 

Henry and Herbert elected themselves footmen extraordinary to 
this novel cortege, which now started and soon attained such a sur- 
prising speed that the boys were compelled to relinquish their feet 
and cling to the back part of the cutter. It required less than five 
minutes to traverse the extreme length of the pond, and all the fair 
riders declared that never before had they enjoyed so exciting and 
charming an adventure in a sleigh. The return flight was even more 
rapid, for the skaters were inspired by the unstinted praises bestowed 
upon them. Merrily rang the laughter and the light shouts of the 
happy revellers upon the still, cold air ; and the first shadows of the 
brief winter twilight fell, before they left the scene of their innocent 
and inspiriting frolic. 

%\t Wl&Qtyttktt. 

HE peculiar habit of this well-known bird is indicated 
in its name. It is so called because it obtains its sub- 
sistence by digging insects out of partially-decayed 
trees. This it is enabled to do with great facility by 
the peculiar construction of its head and beak. The 
latter is long, sharp, and of great strength ; and when the bird has 
perforated the bark of an unsound tree, it thrusts out a slender and 
slightly barbed tongue, with which it seizes and devours the insects 
that are found there. The Woodpecker is provided with long and 

powerful claws to enable it to hold firmly to a limb or branch of a 
tree, while it swings its beak with all the weight of its body against 
the limb where it looks for its prey. 



It is not probable that these birds injure sound trees, as many peo- 
ple suppose ; for they are taught by instinct to look for food only 
where it is usually to be found; and wood that is perfectly sound 
does not harbour insects. The strength of the bird, it is true, is suffi- 
cient to enable it to perforate the hardest wood ; for the celebrated 
ornithologist, Wilson, had one of the ivory-billed variety, which, in 
its efforts to escape from the room where it was confined, pecked 
large holes in the lath and plaster of the wall, and completely riddled 
a mahogany table to which it was confined. 

The red and green crested woodpeckers are both beautiful varieties 
of this bird, and are more common than the great spotted woodpecker 
which is represented in the picture. They are found in every quarter 
of the globe (except Australia), and love the depths of the woods 
better than the haunts of men. 

In Mary Howitt's charming book, entitled " Birds and Flowers, 
and other Country Things," there is a very delightful description of 
the green woodpecker, which is a variety abounding in the beautiful 
woods of England. The musical lines will no doubt recall to the 
minds of our young readers some of their own observations of this 

" Hark ! heard ye that laughter so loud and so long? 
Again, now, it drowneth the wood-linnet's song ! 
"Tis the woodpecker laughing ! the comical elf; 
His soul must be merry to laugh to himself. 
And now we are nearer ; speak low — be not heard, — 
Though he 's merry at heart, he 's a shy, timid bird. 
Hark ! now he is tapping the old hollow tree. 
One step further on — now look upward — that 's he. 
Oh, the exquisite bird ! with his downward-hung head ; 
With his richly dyed green, his pale yellow and red ! 
On the gnarled tree-truDk, with its sober-toned gray ; 
What a beautiful mingling of colours are they ! 
Ah ! the words you have spoken have frightened the bird ! 
For by him the lowest of whispers is heard ; 
Or a foot-fall as light as the breezes that pass, 
Scarcely bending the flowers, he perceives on the grass." 



adapter XXffl. 

R. AUSTEN received at Harleyville Mr. Clayton's 
letter, containing the surprising and agreeable intelli- 
gence that his cousin Emily was domesticated at Sedge- 
moor, and that he would be able, by visiting that place, 
to renew his acquaintance and friendship with Philip 
Clayton. Tuesday morning found him at Lowton, 
eagerly awaiting the carriage from Sedgemoor. He 
did not wait long. Two faces peered from the carriage as it drove 
up to the small " hotel," as the station-house was ambitiously called. 
One countenance was not familiar to Mr. Austen, so much had Philip 
Clayton changed from the rosy-cheeked lad he had known at school ; 
but the other, the bright, lovely face of Emily Donne, he was not so 
long in recognizing. 

Greetings were soon exchanged, and our new friend was seated 
beside Miss Emily in the carriage, with his quondam schoolmate 
opposite to him, as they whirled back to Sedgemoor, a distance of 
eight miles. A thousand disconnected things were uttered in this 
joyous hour of meeting. Both Mr. Clayton and the new-comer ran 
rapidly over the prominent events in their individual lives, till they 
reached the present moment, while Miss Donne listened delightedly 
to the magic bridging over of time which brought together again two 
persons whom she so truly esteemed. 

While they are thus opening their hearts to each other, we will 
more fairly introduce Mr. Austen. First, as to his personnel. He 
was not, as the children had pictured him, large or old ; evidently not 
even as old as Mr. Clayton. He was of medium height, of very 



elegant carriage, and had a very handsome face. In spite of his fine 
appearance — a gift of nature which does more than any thing else 
towards spoiling a man — he at once impressed you with the idea of 
power, more strongly even than of perfection. There was a calm, 
deep repose in his brown eyes, there were lines of decision about the 
well cut chin and curved lips, which combined rarely with the fervour 
of his words in this warm meeting, and gave indeed great impressive- 
ness to all he uttered. You saw power, refined by a rich cultivation 
of the heart and intellect into something more than brute force, and 
you were constrained to admiring respect. 

His life had been a checkered one. Born to great wealth, but left 
fatherless, and almost a pauper, in early life, he had given himself up 
to an intense struggle with adversity, and he had conquered before a 
hair had silvered with age, or Time had drawn a line upon his brow. 
He had done a brother's part by his cousin Emily, for whom he felt 
a brother's love, which she reciprocated with such a blending of grati- 
tude as only a refined spirit can truly feel. The last three years he 
had passed at Rio Janeiro, establishing on a firm basis the affairs of 
the commercial house with which he was connected. Of late he had 
coined wealth, and he felt now that the period for such devoted self- 
sacrificing exertion was passed. He had time now to live, to cultivate 
those fine tastes for arts and letters which were always stirring within 
him, prompting him to hours of study which he stole from his sleep, 
and to a munificent patronage of artists which astonished those who 
witnessed his frugal life. He had not yet reached the prime of his 
manhood, and yet he had worked out the problem of his life ! 

The family were waiting breakfast for them when they reached the 
house, and after a hurried presentation of Mr. Austen, they all found 
themselves at the table. 

" So, while I am, comparatively speaking, alone in the world, I find 
you in this patriarchal position," said Mr. Austen to his host. 

" Yes," said his friend ; " and when I regard this dear family group, 
who each minister to my wants and my every social and intellectual 
demand, I feel reproached for those regrets which I cannot restrain, that 
she who would have so much enjoyed it is not with us. It is an 


unwise as well as sinful emotion, this longing to bring her back, l 
can see it and feel it wrong now, to wish to recall a beloved one from 
heaven's joys to earth's pains and pangs. My chief solace is in 
knowing that she would approve all that is done — that she knows our 
hearts, it may be, and feels with and for us still." 

" However that may be," said Mr. Austen, K God's providence has 
directed each event, and surely He has not left you comfortless. To 
me, after my weary days and lonely nights in a strange land, this 
looks like a paradise." 

" It would be so with its Eve," said Mr. Clayton, in a low voice. 

"And were it so, what would remind you that you were not ' to set 
your affections' entirely here 1 It is very truly said that God loosens 
our bonds to earth that he may win us to heaven," replied Mr. 

" 1 do not suffer myself to go back into the past often," said Mr. 
Clayton. • " I live in the present with, great intensity, and try to 
make earnest preparation for the future. Sometimes even when, in 
the midst of this active actuality, I do look back, I find my heart only 
full of thankfulness at the bright vision of loveliness which then held 
me in bliss ; I do not repine ; I only wonder at God's goodness in 
giving so much, and in leaving me still so much to live for." 

'• There spoke a wiser than Solomon," answered Mr. Austen ; 
" such is the genuine influence God's gift of the Comforter is to exer- 
cise. I, too, have found compensation, in a rare measure, in the 
ordering of my life. I recognize it here unquestionably," he said, in 
a low, tender voice. 

And how was he received into the hearts of the anxious expectants 
of Sedgemoor — this formidable rival, this " thunder-stealer," the 
" wise old man?" Very differently from the predetermined manner. 
So calmly affectionate was he in his intercourse with Miss Donne, 
that Mr. Carey forgot all his unacknowledged jealousy, and beheld 
him, as did the rest, with unaffected admiration and respect. The 
children were fascinated, one and all ; they looked and listened, and 
listened and looked again, and seemed never weary of the enjoyment 
they thus derived. 


(Eijaptec XXV. 

1UESDAY was a holiday, of course, and the juveniles 
assembled in one end of the playroom to discuss the 

" He is a Solon," said Arthur. 
"An Apollo, rather," said Herbert. 
" I don't believe George Washington was any hand- 
somer," said Alice ; but Maude had no comparison to 
make — she only said, as though thinking aloud, — 
" He looks just as I have imagined a man might look who had not 
a fault of any sort." 

They did not see much of him during the day, and they were very 
much pleased at dinner-time to hear him say, " You have given me 
no opportunity yet, Philip, to make acquaintance with these young 
people. Shall I not be allowed to see something of them after 
dinner V 

Mr. Clayton explained to him that they were in the habit of pass- 
ing the evening with the older members of the family in the library. 
" What do you do there — study 1 Oh, no, of course you do not 
study all day and at night too ; read and talk, I suppose," he said. 

" We do a great deal there, answered Herbert," his father looking 
his permission for him to speak; " we have been playing a game for 
a month, every other night." 

" Playing a game for a month ! why, that equals Franklin's game 
of chess in length ; what is it % pray tell me." 

Herbert proceeded to explain the game. Mr. Austen expressed 
much pleasure at the nature of it, and the mode of playing, saying he 
approved of this way of combining study and play. He hoped they 
would allow him to join the circle and take part in it while he stayed. 
Of course all received the proposition eagerly, informing him, how- 
ever, that the next night was the one in regular order for their game. 
" I am Well versed in parlour games," Mr. Austen said to Miss 
Emily, " for you know I have been noted for my social disposition, 
though not often able to indulge it. I became acquainted in Rio with 
an English family, where I frequently passed an evening. There 


were a number of intelligent young people in the family, and we 
wiled away many an hour with our merry plays. Perhaps I can 
teach you some new ones on the spare evenings. However," said he, 
laughing, " I must not lay out too much to do in ' the point of time' 
I shall be with you." 

"Please don't talk of going, Mr. Austen," said Alice, impetuously; 
" we have not begun yet to be glad enough to have you here." 

" Thank you, my little girl. That sounded very genuine, Philip," 
he said to Mr. Clayton. 

" Every thing is genuine here, Mr. Austen," said Arthur. 

" 1 doubt it not. You seem to comprise a great deal in your 
small world." 

" This small world holds some large hearts," replied Arthur. 

" That I know," said the guest. " They have hedged me in, even 
now. It is well," he added, turning to Miss Donne, " that I paid my 
respects to Eleanor and Carrie, and to their husbands and families, 
before I came here." 

"And you did not find out from Cousin Carrie or Cousin Eleanor, 
where I was to be found V she inquired. 

" I never asked," he said. " I said I was going to see you, and very 
likely they thought I knew where you were. You know we had a 
thousand things to talk about, Emily, and nothing was really brought 
to a comfortable conclusion." 

" I seldom hear from your sisters," Miss Emily said, sadly. 

" They have become worldly, Emily. Worldliness has overgrown 
their affections. They even seek to rival each other in their appear- 
ance in society. It pained me much to see how they were changed 
by conventionalisms ; it chilled me to miss my loved home-atmos- 
phere where I left them, and the precious mother whose care of us all 
gave us no chance to grow estranged and chill." Mr. Austen, for the 
first time, spoke sorrowfully, but he brightened in a few moments, as 
Alice, leaving her seat, came around by him, and laying her hand in 
his, said, — 

" There is plenty of room in our house for you, sir ; we all want 
you ; didn't you say so yourself, Maude V 


Maude coloured as the large, penetrating eyes of the stranger fell 
upon her, and she said timidly, — 

"All will be glad to have Mr. Austen here ; I am sure he cannot 
need my word for my agreement with the mind of each one here." 

Mr. Austen thought as he watched Maude, and heard her speak, 
that he had never seen or heard any thing so truly lovely, and he 
looked at her so long that the poor child grew still more embarrassed, 
and blushed still more rosily. 

The family then went to the library, Mr. Clayton saying, as they 
entered it, — 

" We have no drawing-room at Sedgemoor, Hench ; a library, a 
music-room, a dining-room, a study for these lads, and the same for 
the girls, a small room where Mrs. Clayton used to sit with her work, 
and a room opening from it which has been a kind of laboratory or 
office for me, are all the rooms my house can boast, besides our 
sleeping apartments. This is emphatically a home ; we have no 
room for a visitor, though our family might reach a score in number 
with perfect ease." 

" Alice's invitation appealed to me in an unexpected manner," said 
the guest. " I may avail myself of it, with the sanction of the others, 
far more than she imagined. I long for a home. I could not find it 
in the superb houses of Eleanor and Carrie ; here I fear I might be a 
supernumerary you would gladly dispense with." 

" You wrong us, Austen," said his friend. " The time you spend 
in this country shall be passed here, where you are welcomed, where 
you will be loved; I insist upon it; have no hesitation about it." 

" I will see," replied Mr. Austen. " You are very tempting ; your 
home seems like an Eden to me, and your proximity to the railroad, 
which would so soon take me to town, renders Sedgemoor sufficiently 
accessible to allow me to use it as a resting-place. Business has still 
some demands to make upon me, but I need only be within reach, as 
I am here." 

And so, in short, it was settled, to the glad satisfaction of all. To 
the satisfaction of none more completely than Mr. Carey, who, taking 
the earliest opportunity, informed Mr. Austen of the mutual attach- 


ment of his cousin and himself, and assured himself of that gentle- 
man's hearty approval of it. It was understood that Miss Emily- 
Donne was to become Mrs. Carey in the course of a few months, and 
remain at Sedgemoor with Mr. Carey, each continuing for the present, 
and as long a future time as it might be desirable, their pleasant 
positions as teachers of the interesting young people around them. ■ 

Mr. Austen could hardly believe his senses when he recognized the 
truth of his adoption into the charming home-life of Sedgemoor. Eye 
and ear, and the cravings of his loving nature even, seemed satisfied, 
and he entered into a participation of their interests with an earnest- 
ness which proved how much to heart he had taken the great kindness 
shown him. 

When the children knew of his consent to spend most of his time 
with them, as they did know it on the following morning, they were 
radiant with pleasure. 

" Just to think," said Herbert, " that we are to have here a ' Solon,' 
' an Apollo,' a greater than George Washington — in fact, Maude's 
beau ideal of a man — under the same roof with us all the time, 
nearly !" 

The seniors laughed heartily when Herbert's speech was explained, 
and Mr. Austen ventured to hope that " too much familiarity would 
not induce contempt, though he was quite willing to descend from the 
pedestals upon which they had elevated him, if he might consult his 
own liking, as he was not prepared yet for an apotheosis.'" 

" For a what ?" said Alice. 

" To be made a god of, Alice," said Mr. Carey, " which would be 
the next step in your esteem, if you rank him before Washington 

This turned a laugh upon Alice, who having inquired once which 
was the wiser man, Solomon or Washington, had settled it that 
Washington was indeed the greatest man that ever lived, and the one 
referred to in the Bible as having been " made a little lower than the 

Cjrarlu's jfjdlar* 

HAELIE PARKER had one little sister, and he loved 
her better than any thing in the world. She was a 
k bonnie blue-eyed baby, not quite two years old, but full 
f of merry frolic and mischief; and Charlie thought she 
was surely the sweetest baby under the sun. Milly was 
very fond of her brother, too, and that was one reason, 
may be, why Charlie loved her so dearly. It was very sweet to 
hear her little feet running eagerly to meet him whenever he came 
into the house-, and to kiss the rosy little mouth uplifted to his for the 
first greeting. It seemed to take away at once all the trouble of 
every thing that had gone wrong at school or at play all day. 

It was just before the Christmas holidays, that something happened 
to Charlie, which I am going to tell you about now. He had been 
saving his pocket-money to buy a Christmas-gift for Milly ; and as 
his father was not a rich man, and pennies and sixpences didn't come 
every day to Charlie, it had taken him a good many months to save a 
dollar, and that was just what a crying baby would cost — one of those 
funny, baby-like dolls, with their round faces, and white caps and long 
white dresses, which make such a curious noise, almost like a real 
baby. He knew Milly would be quite enchanted with one, and he 
was determined she should have it ; so no temptation of top or 
ball or molasses candy could coax a penny from his little tin savings' 

The day before Christmas, Charlie was in the nursery playing with 
Milly, when he heard some one knocking at the street-door ; and pre- 
sently after he heard Tom and George Allen, two of his schoolmates, 
asking for him. Charlie ran down directly, and found that the boys 
wanted him to go out to play with them. It was a shame to stay in the 
house such a fine day, they said ; they were going into the woods to 
h ve a nice time. Charlie grew suddenly very anxious to go too, 
tr jugh he had found Milly very good company a little while ago ; 



Charlie's dollar. 

and putting on his hat, he ran to tell his mother that he was going out 
with Tom Allen— never dreaming that she would have a word to say 
against it. But she did, and to his very great surprise, she said quite 
decidedly, — 

" No, Charlie, I can't let you go; I shall be very busy in the kitchen 
to-day-, and I want you to take care of Milly for me. Besides, I had 
rather you wouldn't play so much with those Allen boys — they are 
not the bast boys in the world, I think." 

Poor Charlie ! he was astonished and angry, but it was no use to 
expostulate, and very reluctantly he had to tell the boys that he 
couldn't go with them. They said, "it was a shame" — "too mean of 
his mother to keep him in the house to take care of that brat" — "if 
they were Charlie, they wouldn't stand such an imposition !" and a 
great many more such wicked things ; — until at last Charlie — I am 
ashamed to tell it of him, but it is the truth — took his hat, and went 
off with those bad boys, because he was more afraid of their ridicule, 
than of disobeying his mother. 

The boys praised his "spunk," as they called it, and Charlie tried to 
make himself believe that he had done a very manly and independ- 
ent thing ; but with all his bravado, and all the boys' loud talking and 
laughing, he could not be happy. The fear of his parents' displeasure 
when he should return home continually ivkp up before him, and ho. 

Charlie's dollar. 21 

could not drive it from his mind ; and besides that, the thought of his 
mother hard at work, and little Milly left with no one to play with 
or amuse her, haunted him with a strange remorse. Poor Charlie, he 
had already begun to find that " the way of the transgressor is hard." 

They stayed in the woods a long time ; Charlie was afraid to go 
home ; and when at last it was late in the afternoon, and the other 
boys were tired, and wanted to go back to the village, he was still 
reluctant to go. " Don't let's go home yet, let's stop and have a game 
of ball," he said, as they came near the first houses of the village. 

" Very well, Fm agreeable !" said Tom Allen, " here's a good place, 
along-side of Granny Jones' house, and here goes for the first throw !" 
He threw the ball against the wall of the cottage ; it bounded back, 
and Charlie caught it. It was his turn, and he threw it up again, but 
someway, how he never could tell, the ball glanced aside, struck a 
corner-window, and crashed through lattice-work and panes. The boy 
stood in dumb consternation. " Eun, Charlie !" Tom Allen exclaimed; 
but it was too late to run, for in a moment Granny Jones popped out 
of the cottage in a fury, and pounced upon the luckless boys. 

"Who broke my window, you little wretches'?" were the first 
angry words ; and Tom and George, no friends *o him in his misfor- 
tune, were quick to point to Charlie and tell his name. 

" Outrageous little scamp ! I'll teach you to play ball against my 
windows," the old woman scolded. " It '11 cost me a dollar to get 
that sash mended, so pay it down right away, sir, or I'll have you put 
in jail in two minutes !" 

Poor Charlie ! what could he say % what could he do but put his 
hand in his pocket and draw out the precious silver dollar so long 
hoarded. Into Granny Jones' great pocket it slipped, and Milly's 
crying-baby was hopelessly gone ! 

Granny Jones went back into her house, still scolding and mutter- 
ing to herself, and George and Tom slunk away without a word of 
sympathy for their unhappy companion. Charlie threw himself down 
upon the ground, and covered his face with his hands in bitterest re- 
morse and despair. How terrible his punishment was, I do not need 
to tell you. 

iitft-mait's §uff in lf| Coitutrg. 

HAT kind of a Christmas did you have at Hillsdale?'' 
asked James Herndpn of his cousin Robert Yeadon, 
when they met after the holidays. " Didn't you have 
a stupid day of it, with grandma and grandpa, sitting 
still in the chimney-corner and looking too solemn for any sport, 
Bob f . 

" Not a bit of it, Jem — you reckoned without your host that time ; 
why, it was the merriest Christmas I ever had in my life. I only 
wished papa and mamma would stay abroad another winter, and give 
us the same chance. Ellie laughed till she was almost sick." 

"Laughed at what? What ever did you find to laugh at it in that 
old farm-house, and in that stiftest of stiff old-fashioned parlours, with 
its yellow-papered walls and its peacock- festooned looking-glass. 1 
never dared to do any thing but yawn there, and wish I was away." 

" Why, James Herndon, what are you talking about ! I assure you 
we didn't stay in the stiff parlour unless we chose, when grandpa and 
grandma were there, and then the way the old hickory logs blazed 
and roared in the fire-place — and the way Ellie and I rolled and tum- 
bled over the carpet, and ate comfits and big red apples, and listened 
to capital old stories, or read aloud to the dear old people, or told 
them stories about our city life, made it any thing but still and stiff". 
I tell you, Jem, we had a 'John time,' as you would say." 

" What did you do on Christmas-eve — have a Christmas-tree 1 We 
had a splendid one, I assure you: the people never tired of looking at 

"A Christmas-tree would have been mightily in our way, at grand- 
pa's ; we went into the kitchen on Christmas-eve, Master James Hern- 


blindman's buff. 


don, and we had a molasses candy -pulling, and while the candy was 
boiling we had a grand game of Blind-man's Buff." 

"Ha! ha! Blind-man's Buff ! You, and Ellie, and grandpa, and 
grandma, and Susan the maid, and John Bell the man, and old Tawny 
the dog, and young Milly the kitten ! — it must have been spoi't ! Ha ! 
ha ! " 

" Well, now, keep on laughing till you are tired, Jem. Our Irish Mar- 
garet would say, if she saw you, 'How much you would laugh for a 
sixpence, if you laugh as much as this for nothing !' Belle and Will . 
Henderson, and Lottie Graham spent the evening : with us. and played 
the game with us. We ran at will ; no great mirrors to smash, no 
statuettes to knock down, no gini-crack what-nots to overturn, no cur- 
tains to tear, no fine dresses to ruin, no tight shoes to pinch your feet, 
and no fine ladies and gentlemen to be shocked. That's a Blind'man's 
Buff worth playing, and the way the rafters rung, and .the latticed win- 
dows shook, and grandpa and grandma laughed, and we enjoyed our- 
selves, couldn't be equalled by any sport that Christmas-eve in New- 
York ever knew. Just confess, Jem, that it was great." 

" Yes, it must have been, Bob. I really envy you. I've a plan — 
let's get all our people to go out and spend next Christmas at the 
Hillsdale farm-house. I'm tired of Christmas-trees and stiff dancing- 



Y Dear Edie : — I find that almost every body 
who writes, begins with a verse of poetry. Of 
course, I wish to do so, too. Mamma said that 
the song she sings to trot me into good hu- 
mour would be the most appropriate, when I 
51 made her understand. So here it is — we sing 
it every night. 

" Baby shall ride — 

Baby shall ride — 
With a white pussy-cat tied to his side. 

Little cousin Edie 

Tied to the other, 
And ride away to see their grandmother." 

I know 7 you like poetry — all our family do. Isn't this a lovely piece? 
I prefer it to " Little Jack Horner," or " Madame McShuttle," or 
even my old favourite, "Had a little dog, Sir!" One's tastes change 
so ! I used to prefer sugar to any thing. Now r I like chicken-bones, 
with salt on them ; apples, Vanilla cream candy, and something 1 tried 
to-day for the first time. It was round, and looked something like an 
apple. It was smooth and yellow on the outside. Mamma cut it, and 
sugar and water ran out. She called it an orange, I think. Oranges 
make very pretty balls. I thought that was what they were for last 
night ; and but for my ever-faithful friend papa, should continue to 
do so. He told mamma to cut one for me. She thinks I taste more 
things than are good for me. 

She won't let me eat my top, though I try very hard ; nor the han- 



die of the feather duster. I'm sure there must be something very- 
good in them, if I could only get at it. O dear Edie ! I'm so tired 
of " no !" — " no !" I think I shall try it some day and see how mam- 
-ma likes it. I think she will feel very bad, when I shake my head at 
her, as she does at me ! 

But I have not thanked you yet for your letter. It was very long 
and interesting. Papa says it was not a real girl's letter, though, be- 
cause there was no postscript. I dont know what that long word 
means. They have not tried to make me say it yet. I suppose when 
you get older, you will know how to make one. 

I knew what you meant by the " box-book" as soon as mamma read 
it. Of course I have got one. I supposed all babies had. I keep 
my toys in mine. It lies under the little table, so I can get at 
it myself; for I pass a great deal of time on the floor, now. It 
had things in it, like yours ; but mamma took them away because I 
tried to taste them. She said I should choke myself — what an ugly 
word ! 

Dear Edie. — I will now try to finish my letter. You know what 
interrupted it. Papa came home one night and said we were all to 
go to grandpapa's for Thanksgiving ! There is another long word. 
I will explain it to you. It means a great long table, full of all kinds 
of pretty dishes, and good things to eat, and a great many people, all 
uncles and aunts, and cousins, sitting round it. 

You know I told you about grandpapa, who rode me on his foot. 
He is a delightful old gentleman, every one says that knows him. I 
heard some one say so while we were gone. 

There was such a time to get to his house ! It is hundreds — I don't 
know but thousands of miles from here, at Philadelphia. It seems I 
was born there, so I am a Philadelphian. I did not know before I 
was any thing so grand ! Isn't it a splendid hard word % 

Well, mamma packed up my pretty red plaid dress, and quantities 
of clean aprons and stockings, and things. The nurse took me up and 
dressed me, in the middle of the night I suppose it was, for there were 
candles all over the house. It was just as well. I could not sleep for 
thinking about it. We started off just as it was beginning to come 


day. The rain poured down ; Charlie buckled a leather curtain all over 
the carriage, and made a little house of it, as I sat in mamma's lap. 
I could hear papa jerk the reins over my head, and " Old Harry," the 
horse, plash through the mud. I thought it was delightful. I believe 
mamma did not agree with me ; particularly when we got into the 
cars, and the cars stood still three hours, because the great horse that 
draws them was tired, I suppose ; and I wanted something to eat, and 
nurse had put my milk into the yeast-bottle by mistake, so it was all 
bitter ; and papa said we should not get to the boat in time, nor to 
grandpapa's until after it was dark again ! 

I wanted to be amused a great deal ; and they thought I was cross ! 

I liked the boat the best. It was the handsomest carriage I ever 
saw — so big ! and went on the water, instead of a great rough road. 

I guess every body was glad when we got there. We went into a 
great big room, where the light came out of the wall, just as it does 
at your house. I knew my grandpapa the minute I saw him, and 
wanted to go right to him, but there were a great many aunts, and 
they kissed me so hard it took my breath away. So I cried, and 
then they let me sit on grandpapa's knee at the great round table, 
and he showed me his watch again. 

I saw my other grandmother there. She is taller than our grand- 
mother, and her spectacles hang on a chain, and haven't got those long 
sharp ends to them. They just stay on her nose. She wears the most 
lovely caps ! I should like to have one to play with. 

You can imagine what an agreeable surprise I had when I found we 
were to stop and pay you a visit on our way home. 

I need not describe our meeting; you must remember that mo- 
ment as well as I do. If there had not been so many by, I should 
have kissed you on the spot. I think you can kiss very nicely, and 
quite agree with mamma, who says you are very good-natured and 
affectionate ; though don't you think you squeezed me rather too hard 
sometimes ? I am not accustomed to it. 

I agree with mamma in another thing. She says you ought to 
have " Lively" for a name instead of me. I am generally considered 
very thoughtful and quiet, I admired you very much. I am glad they 



do not cover up your neck and arms with these dreadful sleeve 
aprons. It would be a shame. 

I was quite mortified to see you get over the carpet so fast, and 
climb up by chairs. I do not mean to be afraid any longer. You 
see I am frank and generous ; all boys are ; or else I should not own 
this. I wish to thank you for lending me your playthings, and your 
other kind attentions while at your house. I hope some day to do as 
much, or more, for you. 

Please give my love to your brother Bertie. He was very good 
to play with us, for we are only babies, aud he is such a big boy. 

But mamma says my letter is too long now, so I will only send 
my love to your mamma, papa, and my uncle and aunt, Tom. Write 
soon, for I have a great deal more to tell you. Affectionately yours, 


tsjr*s fifiM Jiittg's fortiaL 


No. 14, Hero town Seminary. 

HERE goes that bell again ! I shall go dis- 
tracted if they don't quit ringing ! One might us 
well live in a steeple at once ; every three quar- 
ters of an hour, all day long (except when it's 
every quarter of an hour), that big black-eyed 
girl rings that old cracked tintinabulum, and 
some green new scholar calls out " Monitress ! what's that 
bell for V I know what this is for, to-night, if I didn't last 
night: it's devotion-hour, for my room-mate has just come 
from the practice-room with her music, and gone out again to leave 
me alone awhile ; there's my Bible, too, all ready — oh, well ! I can't 
help it, I feel like writing now, and I'll say my prayers after I get 


in bed. — (Shocking, I know ; but, like Topsy, " I 'fess I'se very 

This is the fifth evening since I left home, and such a time as I've 
had ! In hysterics all the time ; or at least I've cried half of it, and 
laughed the other half. My mouth has got a new dimple, .and my 
eyes several shades of red into their blue, from these two interesting 
performances. Sister Mary says I'm excitable ; may be I am ; but I'd 
like to know who could help crying, in the first place, when a birdling 
just beguiled from the nursing-nest — a lamb straying for the first time 
from the parent fold — (ahem ! that sounds like a boarding-school 
girl, doesn't it? Oh, I'll learn !)— in other words, when going away 
from home, on board a horrid steamboat, on that awful Chesapeake, 
and dreadfully sea-sick, and Tom laughing at you, and Mary calling 
you affected ? 

And then to have to part, even from them, in Baltimore and go on 
alone ; to find yourself at eleven o'clock at night in a railroad car, 
still trembling with the terror of hearing the first whistle, deafened 
with the galloping clack, and with nobody and nothing but " Daisy 
Burns" and a pocket full of cinnamon-balls to keep you company ! 
And just as you're consoling yourself with a heart)' cry, and feeling to 
see if your porte-monnaie is safe, and thinking how heroic you are to 
travel alone, and wondering if you shall like boarding-school — and 
then crying again — to have a couple of Dutch women commence 
jabbering in the seat before you, and talking so funnily and gesticulating 
so queerly that you can't help laughing for the life of you — say, who 
could help having hysterics under such circumstances'? 

/ couldn't, at any rate ; so I had them all that night and all the 
next day (I finished my book and my candy between whiles), and 
when I arrived at the Sem. — as the girls call this Institution of Learn- 
ing, rude things ! — I felt so wretched that I just commenced and had 
them all over again. 

It was twilight, and raining preposterously — my new travelling- 
bonnet got shockingly spotted when I walked up the gravel-path — and 
yet there were dozens of heads poked out at every window ; and as 
soon as I entered the hall I heard smothered whispers from the floor 


above — "A new scholar come !" and saw crowds of curious faces 
peeping over the bannisters. I was so indignant ! for there my curls 
were, all tangled, and my travelling-dress one mass of wrinkles ! And 
the gas-light was so bright in the parlour, and my eyes so red, (fortu- 
nate that I have long lashes, and that to droop them is becoming 
to me ;) and Mrs. Major — that's the Principal — was so tall and large, 
and wore a black velvet berthe and bandeaux. However, she bent 
away down and kissed me, and put back the curls from my brow ; 
took me up to my room and introduced me to my chum herself, with 
permission to make my toilet before coming down to tea. " Come 
down to tea, indeed !" I gave one despairing glance around, managed 
to exchange a few formal courtesies with the young lady who was 
henceforward to take Mary's place with me, and then went to bed, 
where I might hide my face under the clothes and cry it all out. 

I was so very miserable ! of course I was ; for I knew I hadn't 
made a good first impression ; but then I couldn't help its raining ! 
And the room was a little square affair, with an ugly wooden bedstead 
painted white, and and an ugly wooden wardrobe painted red, and no 
carpet ; and although it was the tenth of May, there were no flowers 
in it, but it was quite cold ; and not a book on the table but a Geome- 
try, an Ollendorff and a Bible — no piano, no library, no sofa, no birds 
— could I help being miserable? Then my room-mate was just 
as short and broad as myself, — and I am so unfortunately dumpy ! 
how Byron would hate me ! But she wore long sleeves, and had her 
hair put up in a comb, and was much older than I am. She looked 
grave and womanly, and I was positive I shouldn't like her, for I didn't 
like the pattern of her dressing-gown ; and oh, I was so miserable ! 

So I went to sleep, crying ; but woke up after an hour's nap, to find 
my chum standing by me with a supper-tray containing a huge bowl 
of tea (I never drink tea !) and a slice of bread and butter. I don't 
know how I looked, but presently Libbie (that was her name) burst 
into a fit of laughter, explaining, as soon she could speak — " You 
looked so amazed ! But you'll soon get used to bread and tea ; — 
only it is very funny at boarding-school, isn't it f I pushed away 
the tray, and gave way to hearty laughter myself; she undressed and 


went to bed, and we put our arms around each other, and agreed that 
we suited very well, and decided to be very good friends. And so I 
felt better. 

Then all day yesterday a thousand queer things took place 
which I must chronicle another time, for it won't do to act again as 
we did last night. Those horrid bells had been jangling all day, and 
we had no idea what was their object. So at half-past nine, when the 
retiring-bell rang, we still sat quietly chatting together, when the door 
suddenly opened, and a girl appeared without rapping. She had been 
in and out several times that day, and we had remarked to each other, 
'•' How sociable she is !" Now she remarked, "Don't you think you'd 
better retire, young ladies V We stared, but replied, " Oh, no ! we sit 
up much later at home." " Yes, but Mrs. Major would prefer you 
to retire now." "Well, if it's any obligation ;" and we commenced to 
undress, wonderingly. To-day the story has gone all round the school, 
and we've been quizzed unmercifully, — for the fact was, we were 
obliged to retire, and this girl was the official to see that the rule was 
obeyed ! How green we were, to be sure ! 

But there goes that hateful bell again ! and here comes the moni- 
tress — I know her step. Yes, Libbie, I'm coming ; I'll just jump 
into bed in my clothes, and undress after she's come and gone. Out 
with the light ! Then I can say my prayers, too. 

CffttlrmahinTis 011 fpto tyiwks: 

Scene — The Schoolfellow's Library. Present, The Schoolfellow, Mary, 
Herbert, Charles, Fanny, and Elsie. 

Schoolfellow. Well, as I was saying just now, we must meet every month, 
as many of us as possible, and look over the new books. Either I, or Mrs. 
Manners, will be here to tell you what their character and merit may be. 

Mary. Oh, that will be very pleasant. 

Fanny. And perhaps papa will buy those books which the Schoolfellow recom- 

Schoolfellow. I shall certainly not recommend any which would not benefit 

Elsie. I asked mamma yesterday to get me Cousin Alice's new book, and she 
promised to do so. 

Schoolfellow. Here it is ,Elsie, and you can have a peep at it in advance. 

Elsie. "Nothing Venture, Nothing Have." Oh! what a pretty title page ; and 
do see the lilies of the valley below it. 

Schoolfellow. These, and the gold lily on the back have a meaning in them, 
for the story is about a little girl whose life illustrates the sentiment, that "God 
helps them who help themselves," and who made herself quite famous by design- 
ing a lily vase, at a great china-ball in New York, where she was employed as a 
burnisher. This is only the end of the story, Elsie, and you must find out all 
the steps in her adventurous progress from the book itself, which will be much 
pleasanter than to have me tell them to you. 

Elsie. Oh, yes — please don't tell me. 

Herbert. I have got all Cousin Alice's home-books except the new one, and 
papa said he should stop at Appleton's this afternoon, and buy it. 

Charles. I have read only one of them — "All is not Gold that Glitters" — 
which I like very much indeed. 

Schoolfellow. They are all excellent and charming books, and the little 
folks of this country, and of England too — for they are all republished there — 
ought to thank good Cousin Alice for such lessons of truth and goodness as they 

Herbert, (Taking up another book). What a curious name for a book "Faggots 
for the Fireside" is! but, isn't it beautiful, Fanny? 

Fanny. Very pretty outside, certainly. 

Schoolfellow. And very pleasing inside, my little la'dy. Do you know any 
thing about Peter Parley, Fanny ? 



Fannt. I think I do, sir. I have read ever so many of his books. 

Schoolfellow. Well, this is a new book by the veritable Peter. 

Mart. His real mwe is Goodrich, is it not, dear Schoolfellow? 

Schoolfellow. It is, and he was in Paris lately, where this beautiful book, and 
this, also, " Wanderers by Sea and Land," was. got up under his own eye. 
These pretty tinted pictures are done by French lithographers ; and see how dif- 
ferent the type is from that of American books. 

Elsie. I thought it looked different. And is that really French printing? 

Schoolfellow. Yes, and the binding is French also. See how gay and beau- 
tiful it is. 

Ca.vRLES. Are the stories pleasant ones? 

Schoolfellow. I think the excellent old gentleman never told any that are 
more so in his life. , 

Herbert. "Were these books published by a French bookseller ? 

Schoolfellow. Oh, no ! Don't you see the familiar name of Appletons upon 
the title page. 

Mart. Oh, dear Schoolfellow, isn't the Appletons' store a beautiful place? 
Mamma and I were there yesterday, and it looked like a great fairy palace, it 
was so gay with magnificent books. 

Schoolfellow. It is certainly the finest bookstore in this country, and, as far 
as I can learn, the finest in the world. But see, here are three or four other 
books from the same publishers — two of them by Miss Mcintosh. 

Elsie. Oh, I remember her Jessie Graham. 

Schoolfellow. The new ones are Emily Herbert, and Rose and Lillie Stan- 
hope — and they are both books which deserve to be praised. 

Herbert. " The Oriental Story Book" — that would please me, I think. 

Schoolfellow. I shouldn't wonder — and it is one of the best of its class that. 
I've ever examined. 

Mart. But here is something to my taste (reading), "3fr. Rutherford's Chil- 
dren." How glad I am to see a second volume of this charming story! and 1 
ara sure I shall have it for a New-Year's present, for Aunt Fanny gave me the 
first volume, and Bhe was as much delighted with it as I was myself. 

Schoolfellow. I hope she may give you the new volume, Mary, for I have a 
very high opinion of the books on " Ellen Montgomery's Book Shelf." 

Charles. I liked Carl Krinken, which I got last Christmas, very much indeed. 
Is the new volume published by Mr. Putnam? 

Schoolfellow. Yes, and it is quite as handsome as its predecessors. 

Fanny. I know what book / am hoping to get for a New Year's present 

Schoolfellow. Let me know also, Fanny. 

Elsie. I'll tell yon, dear School f ell oio. It is — 

Fanny. Oh, hush, Elsie. Don't tell him. 

Charles. I'll make a guess — its "Harry's Vacation." 


Fanny. Yes, that's it ; and papa has half-promised it to me. 

Schoolfellow. You don't expect me to praise that book, do you, Fanny? 

Fanny. Why shouldn't you, dear Schoolfellow ? You wouldn't have written 
and published it, if you did not think it would benefit the young. Would you? 

Schoolfellow. Well reasoned, Fanny ; and I answer, certainly not. 

Mary. I have read it through already. 

Charles. And so have I. 

Herbert. You are not ahead of me, Charlie Wilson ! 

Schoolfellow. Well, dear children, I hope you all found both pleasure and 
benefit in reading it ; but you must not tell me so, lest I should be made vain. 

All. What nonsense, dear Schoolfellow! 

Schoolfellow. Well, it is time to separate now, but I shall summon you all 
again within a month. 

All. Good bye, dear Schoolfellow. {They go out.} 

% liMUr's Corner. 

We promised our little ridcllers in our last number to make a 
final examination of their communications, and announce, in the first 
number of our new volume, the five successful competitors for our 
prizes. The pile of manuscript lies before us now ; charades, enigmas, 
and riddles, in prose and verse, many of which do credit to the wit 
and ingenuity of their young authors. It has been a pleasant task to 
receive and look over these mementoes from many a far-off little 
friend, even where we have been obliged to set them aside as unfit for 
our purpose ; and we earnestly hope to hear again, and often, from 
every one of them. Those who are disappointed this time, must, like 
Robert Brace's spider, " try again !" — while those who receive ancL 
enjoy the beautiful and instructive book which will reward. , their 
efforts, will, we trust, be incited to a new exercise of their wits. 

The first upon our list marked for a prize, is an enigma which we 
particulaidy commend to our readers for its cleverness, point, and 

34 THE riddler's corner. 



I have a heart, but have not any head — 
I have a mouth, though none e'er saw it fed ; 
Though I am hard of heart, I ne'er have cruel been ; 
Although I have a beard, I never had a chin ; 
Though I am well in health, in bed they let me lie, 
But always take me out before the hour I die : 
Oft taken out of bed, I never am put in, 
And when I'm taken out, 'tis but to be tucked in ! 

A prose enigma, by the Queen of the Fairies, comes next. Her 
Majesty's secretary has a most unpronounceable name, but we will 
not quarrel with it, sincfc- he writes so legible a hand. And here is 
the enigma : 



We are four brothers under the dominion of a powerful magician. He wears 
a long, feathery robe, and he wields a black wand — oh, how sharp it is ! He 
touches us, and we are the cousins of a family of mice, scampering over the floor 
of a duke's palace. How we nibble at the splendid wax-lights, and race over 
the gilded and velvet-covered chairs ! Even the gorgeous cushions of the old 
chair of state, those cushions upon which magnates of the land have reposed in 
titled dignity, are heedlessly trampled upon by our irreverent feet. But in the 
midst of our noisy gambols, our master appears, and with a stroke of his wand 
we become four still marble statues in the Vatican. One of us wields a brush, a 
second a stylus and scroll ; a third, a chisel ; a fourth, a lyre. How still and 
beautiful every thing is ! "Wonderful pictures adorn the walls ; rare statues are 
grouped around : we live in an atmosphere of beauty. Sometimes silent crowds 
come in to gaze at our loveliness ; we stand in mute perfection, the wonder and 
admiration of all. 

But again the mighty wizard enters, and at his bidding we are bounding over 
the blue ocean in a noble ship. One of us climbs the shrouds, another stands 
at the helm, a third paces the deck in a warm jacket, and another keeps watch 
at the mast-head. But not long are we allowed thus to remain, before the great 
magician again appears, and the wonderful wand transforms us into the brightest 
jewel on the coronet of Night. People gaze at us wonderingly, and poet-souls 
drink in inspiration from our strange, silent, all-pervading loveliness. Little 
children say that we are the eyes of angels, that watch over them during the 


reign of night, and they gently fall asleep, sure of a Father's love and care. In 
stalks the great magician, and we are the same insignificant four brothers that 
we originally were ; insignificant alone, but mighty when united. 
Who is the magician, and who are the four brothers? 

We hope frequently to receive contributions to this department of 
the Magazine from the writer of the following, which we make third 
in the list of prize riddles. It is very ingeniously, and yet simply 
constructed, and the hand that fashioned it should not rest at a single 
effort : 



When eyes grow sad with watching, 

For a wanderer from the sea, 
How blest the ear is, catching 

My first word's melody. 

My second's famed in story, 

By Spartan valour crowned, 
Where e'en defeat was glory, 

And the vanquished triumph found. 

Hapless are they who wander 

By sea, without my whole, — 
In vain the stars they ponder, 

To find their distant goal. 

Next comes a pretty 


My first denotes the golden chain 

Which friend to friend doth bind ; 
My second, where'er man has been, 

The sign of peace we find. 
My third's a flower of gorgeous hue, 

Fit type of vanity ; 
My fourth in modest loveliness, 

Breathes low, "Remember me." 

The promise " I will ne'er forget," 

My fifth bears next along : 
My sixth is queen of garden bowers, 

And theme of many a song. 
Entwine this wreath and let it show, 

The sweetest name that earth can 


Last, but by no means least, comes a charming riddle by a corre- 

36 the riddler's corner. 

spondent who discloses to us the name of Mary Maurice, of New 

York City. 


My first is something Nature yields, 

But only to the housewife's skill ; 
Now white, then golden as the fields, 

When summer suns have had their will. 
'Tis scarce at boarding-school, they say, 
Or rather was, in Dickens' day ! 

Some prize my next at evening's hour, 

When fragrant odours from it rise ; 
I like it best in leafy bower, 

Where I may hide from sultry skies, 
And press it to my lips in haste, 
The nectar of the gods to taste. 

I'm green and golden, as a whole, 

And in my praise the poets sing ; 
Who love me keep a gentle soul ; 

To others I'm a trifling thing — 
A little blossom in the grass — 
Not worth their notice as they pass. 

To all of these we trust that we shall receive numerous answers in 
season for our March issue. 

These familiar words will doubtless have fallen upon the ear of 
every little reader of our magazine before they see them upon this 
page. We hope they will be welcome, nevertheless, because uttered 
by the Schoolfellow — in whose heart every reader is cherished as a 
personal friend. This is a small corner which our greeting has to 
occupy, and while it must be brief, it shall be equally sincere and 
affectionate. May every eye that rests upon it sparkle with delight, 
and be dimmed by no bitter tear-drops through all the " New Year.' 

" % €mM §trak fur tit %tm-€ixt\t 


mmsmwm m i§ii a 

Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed (o instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the .young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the lingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker'' — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most, valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled b'm to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's "V ication" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, *hau will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happiiy and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but "children of a larger growth" may derive both know- 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home." 

.■D3=ispiiii4 iotiiIko 

Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for- three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a Copy of 
•'Harry's Vacation" as -ajDremiuin gift, free of postage. 

JABBES S. DICXSRSOXff, Publisher. 









^ Mr. W. C. Richards and "Cousin Alice." 

Tins work has been in existence for six years, during which time it has 
acquired a degree of popularity unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, and 
frequently been pronounced by the press, both North and South, "the best and 
cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States." 


is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and 
aims at the cultivation of the heart as well as of the mind. It is an original ma- 
gazine, and its articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for 
the young in the country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Richards, it will continue 
under his general superintendence, with the constant aid of " Cousin Alice," 
(Mrs. Alice B. Neal), the popular author of the " Home Books," whose name alone 
is a talisman to command the love and favor of children, supported by a large 
number of favourite writers. 


of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skillful artists, and 
are unequaled in variety and beauty by those of any other Juvenile Magazine. 

Postmasters are requested to act as agents for the work, and may retain the 
usual commission for new subscribers. Specimen copies sent gratis on application, 
post-paid, to the Publishers. The volume commences with the January number, 
and back numbers of the volume will always be forwarded. To any who wish 
them, we can supply boand volumes of the ' ; Schoolfellow" from the first, at 
$1 25 per volume, or six dollars for the entire set. 

TERMS — One Dollar a tear, in advance. 



€Mt nf Cnntetitjsf. 

FEBRUARY, 1855. 

Uncle Hugh's Port-Folio, . . . . . Mrs. Richards. 

Sedgemoor, Chapters 26 and 27, . . . . Mrs. Manners. 

The Broken Pitcher, The Editor. 

A Negro Wedding, . Miss Cheesboro. 

A Little Boy's Letter, Mart E. 

Hudson River Railroad, . - . ' . . The Editor. 

The Snow Man, . . . Mrs. Bradley. 

Our Baby, . . . ... . . . Miss Eliz. Townsexd. 

Conversations, The Editor. 

The Riddler's Corner, . Variocs Writers. 

Music— School-fellows' Waltz, . . . . M. A. D. 


As our subscribers well know, the Schoolfellow must be paid for 
in advance. One Dollar, thus paid, will secure his visits for the com- 
ing year. Money properly mailed to the Publisher will be at his 
risk. We are already receiving new subscribers for this volume, 
which, we trust, will prove superior to any of its predecessors. 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for the year. 

For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
book upon our list. For Three Dollars, three copies of the School- 
fellow, and the volume for 1854, handsomely bound. 

For Five Dollars, five copies of the Schoolfellow, and any of our 
books to the amount of Two Dollars. 


Bookseller & Publisher, 

697 Broadway. 

* * 

#* Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

J$3T We would call especial attention to our Prospectus for 1855 
on the last page of the cover. 

Joseph sold to the merchants. 

IittU fitgli's I ar if 1 i jo; 



FTER all this long time of promising us the portfolio 
of pictures, aunt Eleanor, what do you think uncle 
Hugh's present is? Why, just a lot of Scripture 
pictures! Things that May and I have seen fifty 
times ! See, here is ' Joseph sold to the Merchants.' 
Dear me — I know I have read, and told, and heard all 
that story of Joseph, fifty-five millions of times." 
"■ Hold, John," called out " uncle Hugh," who was listening with 
some amusement to the boy's expression of disappointment ; " fifty- 
five millions is a great many times." 

" I know it is, uncle Hugh ; I meant it should be. The fact is, [ 
don't know exactly how often I have read it, and that grand expres- 
sion just means ' a great many times ;' indefinite in number, you 

" But why do you weary of the story, John ?" asked aunt Eleanor. 
" Listen to me a moment, while I read to you what a very learned 
and pious man says about it ;'•' and Mrs. Moore laid down her sewing, 
and, opening the bookcase behind her, took from it a volume from 
which she read — " The life and fortunes of Joseph form a story of 
unrivalled attraction, whether we consider the simplicity and beauty of 
the narrative, the touching pathos of the events related, or the vastly 
important moral lessons which it teaches ;" " and here again," she 
continued, "merely as a human composition, as a specimen of simple, 
graceful, eloquent, and pathetic narrative, it is universally conceded 
that it has no parallel. We find in it all that gives beauty to the 



finest drama — a perfect unity of design ; a richness and variety of 
incident, involving the plot in obscurity, yet gradually drawing it to 
its intended development, and the whole issuing happily, rewarding 
preeminent virtue with appropriate honours and blessings, and visiting 
iniquity with deserved humiliation and punishment." 

" Well" said May, looking up from her crocheting, which she 
had resumed when Mrs. Moore began to read — " Well, I never should 
have thought so much of the history of Joseph ! I used to think it 
very pretty, I remember, and you know, John, you always cried in 
two or three places of the story when mamma read it to us ; but I 
have not read it in three or four years to myself. I seem to know it 
all by heart. I thought it was just a nice story for children." 

" Yes, it is a kind of novel, or fairy story, or something," said 

" That is what is meant by saying it ' has all that gives beauty to a 
drama,' " said uncle Hugh. " Will you understand me if I say it is 
highly picturesque, and extremely dramatic also — that is, one can find 
in its various scenes much material for a painter — while it is distin- 
guished, also, for fine action, in the latter part particularly, and for the 
display of various strong passions throughout it. Eleanor, what does 
Dr. Bush say of the character of Joseph himself? I remember a fine, 
discriminating eulogium which he makes." 

" Here it is," said aunt Eleanor : — 

" We behold, in him, one who, in every period of life, in every 
change of condition, in every variety of relation, secures our confi- 
dence, our respect, our love. In adversity, we see him evincing the 
most exemplary patience and resignation; in temptation, the most 
inflexible firmness; in exaltation, the most unaffected simplicity, 
integrity, gentleness, and humility ; whether as a son, a brother, a 
servant, a father, a master, a ruler, we behold him exhibiting a deport- 
ment equally amiable and praiseworthy ; and the respect which we 
entertain for the sagacity of the statesman and the penetration of the 
prophet, mingles with our profound admiration of the purity of the 

John and May listened to this fine critique with countenances ex- 


tremely expressive of astonishment and interest. John was the first 
to speak when his aunt ceased reading. 

" I never thought of this at all, uncle Hugh ; I am very sorry for 
the way in which I spoke of the pictures. I am sure we ought to he 
respectful, and — and — " 

" Reverential," suggested May ; " is not that it, uncle Hugh ]" 

" Yes, in one sense, May. I see what Hugh means — that we must 
admire and reverence such goodness ajs Joseph's, and not treat, with 
indifference or contempt, any thing which a writer or an artist can do 
towards refreshing our memory of his beautiful character." 

" And now, children," said aunt Eleanor, " you are better disposed 
to be interested in John's portfolio of engravings. Look at this first 
picture of the selling of Joseph. What is noticeable about it V 

" Joseph's meek, amiable look," said May. 

" And the excellent and expressive faces of the brethren, and of 
the Ishmaelites," said John. " I do wonder that those brothers of his 
could have been so cruel — so really hateful." 

" Oh, you remember," said May, " that they had grown jealous of 
him because he was his father's favourite; and hated him, too, for the 
dreams he had, in which he was always represented as being placed 
in authority over them, they bowing down to him, and all that. I 
don't believe I would have stood that myself." 

" I know the many -coloured coat would have been no satisfaction 
or favour to me," said John, laughing. " What a ' Guy' I'd be with 
one— eh, May ?" 

" The fashion for boys' clothes was very different then, John," said 
Mr. Moore ; " and if it really was a coat of many colours, I expect 
they were skilfully and harmoniously blended, making only a rich, 
beautiful garment. Jacob might well love Joseph best, when he was 
so much more amiable than his brothers ; but I think he was unwise 
to show it, as it made the 'brothers hate the boy. The expression — 
' The son of his old age,' probably means a wise and accomplished 
youth, Dr. Cumings says, because Benjamin was really the son of 
his old age, being so much younger than Joseph." 

" Who is that, away off in the picture?" inquired May. " Can that 


be Reuben, who was not with the brethren when the merchants came ? 
I think it must be ; you know, John, Reuben was good-hearted, and 
did not want Joseph killed, and advised them to put him into the 
pit ; I suppose he intended to take him out, and carry him home, 
when the brothers had gone away." 

" There's not a word said of Joseph getting angry, and saying 
things to his brothers," said John ; " but, poor little fellow ! how he 
must have begged and pleaded to be set free to go home to his fa 
ther ! That was one thing I always cried over, May, don't you re- 
member — about Jacob's grief when they carried home the beautiful 
coat dyed with the kid's blood, and told him that Joseph had proba- 
bly been eaten up by some wild beasts ; they were just as bad as 
sons as they were as brothers," said John, indignantly ; " how did 
they know but it would kill their poor old father to hear such a thing 1 
I rather think he was sorry enough that he had ever sent Joseph on 
such an unfortunate errand. See, May, how glad they look to get 
the twenty pieces of silver from the Ishmaelites — how greedy they 
are ! I shouldn't wonder if they quarrelled well over the money before 
they got it divided between them." 

" John, could you have been as good as Joseph was afterwards ?" 
asked Mrs. Moore. 

"I'm afraid not, aunt Eleanor. Where are the other pictures 
about Joseph. I am a great deal more interested in talking the story 
over than I ever supposed I could be." 

" You were tired of it, my boy," said his uncle, "because it had lost 
the charm of novelty, and you were not old enough to see in it any 
other attractions. The whole story is as significant as it is beautiful, 
as we shall find out. But see, there is James with the tea things — 
we can't look at any more of the pictures now." 



adapter XXVX. 

WISH to propose a new arrangement for the even- 
ing, if you gentlemen have no objection," said Miss 
Donne, on Wednesday night. " It has always seemed 
to me only fair that such a play as this should begin 
with the youngest, and so go on to the eldest of the 
party. I noticed, in our last game, that Herbert and 
Alice each forgot names they had chosen, before it 
become their turn. Besides, it might happen that 
some of us should select" the same person which Alice, 
for instance, had hunted up at great expense of time and labour. I 
propose to come in among the last, myself." 

" Not quite the last," said Mr. Austen, " when I have to follow 
you," — " and I," — " and I," said the other gentlemen. 

" Do you all agree, and acknowledge the force of my argu- 
ment V said the lady. 

" Most assuredly," replied Mr. Clayton ; " I wonder we did not 
think of it sooner. Are you ready, Alice 1 You are to lead, thanks 
to Miss Emily's thoughtfulness." 

" I might as well say all I have to say now, Miss Emily," re- 
sponded the child. " There is not much to be said about my choice 
to-night, except that both were poets, and both are dead. The names 
are Miss Landon, and Miss Mary E. Lee, of Charleston. Miss 
Landon wrote some beautiful stories for children ; there is the story 
about the ' Twins,' — why, I cry every time I read it." 



" Miss Landon's novels are much more creditable than her poems," 
remarked Mr. Carey. 

" Do you think so, too V said Miss Emily, eagei'ly ; " that has long 
been my opinion. There is a much more vigorous, healthful tone 
about her prose writings. In her novels, she deals finely in repartee, 
and displays a just and extensive knowledge of human nature in 
courts as well as cottages. The stories for young persons, which 
Alice refers to, are, some of them, very touching, and full of grace." 

" I think her poetry is crowded too full of sentiment, and that of a 
weak, sickly sort," said Mr. Clayton. " One thing has struck me — 
the frequency with which, in prose and verse, she seemed to shadow 
forth her own sad fate. But we have forgotten Miss Lee, Alice's 
other L. She was a charming verse-writer, my child. You do not 
know, I suppose, that a number of years ago, there lived in England- 
two ladies by the name of Lee, who were quite distinguished as 
writers. ' The Canterbury Tales' are their most famous production. 
I do not suppose Miss Mary E. Lee was any relation of theirs, how- 
ever — only the name reminded me of them. Well, Maude, whom 
have you f\ 

" I have taken Miss Eliza. Leslie, Mr. Clayton. Alice, you seemed 
to have forgotten those stories you read, so entirely to the forgetful- 
ness of every thing, last winter." 

" Surely you don't mean ' The Atlantic Tales,' Maude ! I had 
forgotten them, sure enough. I don't think I knew that Miss Leslie 
wrote them. I thought she wrote heaps of cookery-books only," 
replied Alice. 

" She has written a large number of books of one kind and another, 
but I hear she is very much of an invalid, and I fear her writing days 
are over," remarked Mr. Carey. " You have given but one L., 

" I am ready with another, Mr. Carey," answered Maude; "here 
is the good and holy Bishop Latimer, one of the martyrs who were 
burned in the times of Queen Mary. He was a very aged man, and 
had preached before two kings, Henry VIII. and Edward VI., but he 
would not cease protesting against the iniquities of the Romish 


church, so he was tried, and condemned to be burned. When they 
had tied him to the stake, he said to Bishop Ridley, who was tied by 
him, 5 Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man ; we 
shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I 
trust shall never be put out.' " 

"We all thank you, Maude, for remembering so much that is 
interesting about the pious old man. That these martyrs met their 
fate so nobly is one of the strongest proofs, to my thinking, of the 
energizing, vital power of Christianity," said Mr. Clayton. 

" The people I have to name do not follow Maude's good bishop 
well, papa," said Herbert; "I had thought of Louis XIV. and 
Leo X., but, instead of Louis XIV., I should prefer now to take 
Louis IX., called St. Louis. He was a good man, they say, thanks 
to the care taken of his childhood by Blanche of Navarre, his mother. 
I think he was a crusader, too. As for Leo X., he was a remarkable 
man for something — what is it, Mr. Carey 1 — something about Saint 
Peter's — we talked about him the first night we played, when we dis- 
cussed Michael Angelo." 

"Miss Emily, you had proposed Angelo — I doubt not you are 
familiar with that period, and can help Herbert with Leo," said Mr. 

" You are very kind, Mr. Carey, to give me the chance to show how 
much I know," said Miss Emily. " What shall I tell of Leo 1 — of 
his munificent commissions to artists ] Angelo and Raphael honoured 
his commissions ; Erasmus, Machiavelli, and Ariosto were his friends. 
He restored the fine old institutions of Rome, which were falling 
into disuse, gave efficient aid to libraries, and founded colleges ; he 
used the church of Rome as a means to accomplish his purposes for 
the benefit of art and literature, and by a devotion to which, he won 
his great renown as a true son of the liberal Medici family of 

" There, Herbert, if you could not say much for your choice, Miss 
Emily has made up doubly for your deficiency. Are you hesitating, 
too, Arthur ?!' 

" Oh, no, Mr. Clayton, not I, when I have men like Martin Luther 


and Ignatius Loyola to bring in. Instead of ushering in these gentle- 
men with martial music, as Herbert used to propose for my heroes, I 
think Martin Luther might be appropriately preceded by ' Old 
Hundred.' " 

" Ah, Arthur, it is denied now that Martin Luther made that grand 
old choral strain," said Mr. Carey. 

" No matter, Mr. Carey, he might have made it ; it would suit him. 
What a tremendously powerful man Luther was, Mr. Clayton ! It is 
superb the way in which he stemmed the flood of that corrupt papal 
domination. He was ' the man for the century,' as much as Napoleon 
was, or any other great leader of nations has been." 

" How about Loyola ?" inquired Mr. Carey. 

" He was the founder of the Jesuits, Mr. Carey," replied Arthur ; 
"and though that order is always spoken of now as more formidable 
to pure Christianity than any of the Eomish orders of priesthood, yet 
I should think Loyola was a good man, and had tried to do good 
when he proposed the order, and procured the Pope's sanction to it." 

" Its evil, Arthur, consists in the fact that its object is not to guard, 
the Christian religion, but the faith and interests of the Romish 
church; and the grand error of its followers consists in submitting to 
their superior as implicitly as to God himself. They are the most 
devoted and self-denying men, by their first vow, and the most 
unscrupulous in their adherence to the orders they receive, no matter 
how vile they may be, that the world can show. The Papists depend 
now more upon this ' order of Jesus,' as they blasphemously call it, 
to propagate their doctrines, than upon any other means." Mr. 
Austeia spoke with feeling. He had passed so much of his life in 
Romish countries that he was well aware of the good and evil of their 
powerful system. 



©flatter XXTTEX. 


R. CAREY then said, — " I do not know whether I 
come next to Arthur now, or not ; it would be better 
\M%e^\\ I tnat ^' lss Emily should do so, — would it not?" 
cJC^yJ (Ji> -^ assente( l to this, and Miss Emily agreed, say- 
ing, " It makes but little difference where I come in ; 
my characters are usually more like yours, Mr. Carey, 
than either Mr. Clayton's or his children's, and I might 
as well, perhaps, have advantage of priority over you. 
I suppose you, Cousin Hench, and Mr. Clayton, will clash most fre- 
quently. If you wish to rival Mr. Clayton, you must use very long 
words, and tell us about very learned men. Alice may then class 
you together ; at present Mr. Clayton leads us in such lore." 

" If you please, Miss Emily," said Alice, " it's right for papa to do 
so, because he is the oldest — older, even, than Mr. Austen." 

" Yes, two years older — wonderful difference ! But had you not 
better take your place, Emily, in the play, and let us go on V said 
Mr. Austen. " I am very much interested." 

" I am glad you are," she said ; " my choice to-night is Long- 
fellow, our own fine poet and genial-souled man of letters, and Sir 
Thomas Lawrence, the English painter. By the way, may I not add 
the name of another member of the Royal Academy, of which 
Lawrence was so long president 1 I mean Charles Leslie, the brother 
of Miss Leslie, of whom Maude was telling us." 

" Allow me to suggest, Miss Emily," interposed Mr. Carey, " that 
James Mussel Lowell would have been a good accompaniment to 

" He would, indeed, Mr. Carey ; I am very much obliged for the 
association. And now, Hench, I think I have done quite enough for 
once," Miss Emily said. 

"Will you not follow her, Austen?" asked Mr. Clayton. 
" No, I thank you ; I would prefer keeping you company, as pro- 
posed, Philip;" replied the gentleman. 


" Then I must come next," said Mr. Carey. I have chosen Charles 
Lamb and Walter Savage Landor, as unlike men as possible. Lamb 
was genial, humorous, quaint, tender, graceful ; Landor is sullen, 
egotistic, hard, finished, polished, exact. To compare them intellect 
ually, read together Lamb's delightful ' Essays by Elia,' and Landor's 
brilliant 'Imaginary Conversations.' We can only admire Landor, 
but we all love Lamb." 

Mr. Austen bowed as Mr. Carey finished, in token of acquiescence 
in his opinions. " I see," he said, " that we shall agree, in such 
matters, at least. You have expressed my own views of these men 

" Now, then, Austen, you can plead off no longer," said his host ; 
" you see how we choose, and what we are required to do, especially 
if any one challenges the justice of the election. Who have you 
thought of to join our ranks V 

" Two very distinguished and learned men," Mr. Austen answered. 
" The one, Linnceus, the celebrated botanist, is quite familiar by name, 
I suppose, even to Alice, who probably knows all about the Linnaean 
systems, orders, and so on. of flowers ; the other L. is for Leibnitz, the 
great German philosopher and general genius." 

" Alice, how do you like Mr. Austen's choice V inquired her father. 

" I think Mr. Austen knows a great deal," she said, blushing, " and 
that it is very good of him to play with us." 

"Oh! I thought you would appreciate him, child. You see, 
Hench, a little display of learning goes a long way with this young 
lady. When you are grown, Miss Alice, you will deserve to be won, 
as Foster wooed and won his wife." 

" It will be a great many years till that time comes, papa." 

" Certainly it will, my darling, for you will have to live with me, 
and help me to keep up my prodigious lore, Alice," said her father. 

" I'll help to keep up your ' prodigious lore,' papa, if you give me 
as much as I give you," said the witching child. 

" But our game is in danger of being forgotten, at this rate," said 
Mr. Clayton. " I have taken, in L.'s, Leigkton, the excellent arch- 
bishop of that name, whose works are just behind you, in that book- 


case, Maude ; and Dr. William Lowth, whose scriptural learning and 
whose piety have not often been surpassed." 

" How early we have finished to-night !" said Alice, as Mr. Clayton 
ceased speaking. " It seems so odd for papa to come last instead of 
myself. I don't half like it — only for this," she added, "that I can 
keep on thinking about what others say, now, with no fear of forgetting 
my own names." 

" I forgot one," said Herbert. " I don't know how I could. I was 
intending to name Lycurgus, the old iron lawgiver of Sparta ; but his 
name slipped by me." 

" No one mentioned Sir Peter Lely, the celebrated court painter," 
remarked Mr. Carey. 

" I thought of him," said Miss Emily ; " and in connection with him 
I remembered also Sir Godfrey Kneller, another court painter, whom 
we forgot on Monday evening." 

" This is delightful," said Mr. Austen. " It will quite put me to all 
I know to keep pace with your young students. I find myself to-night 
running over the names of scores of the literati, in search of the proper 
letter, and then puzzling myself to see if I know all I should know 
about people. I think one real benefit from games is, that they make 
you think quickly and acutely. Do you remember, Philip, how our 
old master would ask some unexpected question about the lesson we 
were reciting, and then would call out, ' Think quickly, boys ! think 
quickly ! why, where do you put away what you know, if it takes you 
all this while to bring it out?' " 

" I remember the sturdy old master well, Hench." 

" Yes, and I remember, too, a drubbing you got once from him for 
a folly of mine, Philip ; only a generous boy would have forgiven that. 
I am sure you have not forgotten to what I allude." 

" No, I have not forgotten, and it was the easier, begging your 
pardon, my dear fellow, to forgive you, because for once I overreached 
you — do you remember that f " 

" What was the story, papa?" inquired Herbert, who was listening 
with eager delight to the reminiscence. 

" It originated in my depending upon your father's superior know- 


ledge, and doing my recitations by his promptings," replied Mr. 
Austen. " Philip had some grudge against the democratic party, to 
which our master belonged, and which I favoured. By giving certain 
words, in a passage he was translating for me, a peculiar signification, 
there was made a very stinging sarcasm on just such a state of affairs 
as existed in the democratic party at that time. I read the passage 
as Philip directed, so intent upon the elegance of the translation as to 
forget its sharp application. The teacher started up, the boys say, 
with very angry looks, then relapsed into a sullen passion, with which 
he listened to the rest of the lesson. After school 1 was called up, 
and pleaded guilty ; and while expressing my regret for thl? offence I 
had given, somehow it came out that Philip was the instigator. In 
his horror of the deliberate malice which prompted him, as he thought, 
I escaped unregarded, while poor Clayton took a stout caning after I 
had gone. I was very angry when I found it out, for, after all, it was 
my own fault, and I took the wise revenge of relieving Philip from 
the bore of prompting me for some weeks, till the whole affair was 
apparently forgotten." 

" Papa, you never said any thing about that when we were talking 
of prompting, the other day." 

" No, Alice, you could not have comprehended it, unless, as now, 
you knew Mr. Austen. But we have talked beyond your bedtime, 
my dears. Let us have prayers now." 

I §rafun fitter. 


Q^LAS, alas !" the little maiden cries, 
As on the ground her pitcher broken lies— 
The pitcher which so many times she 

Full from the well, back to the cottage- 

Ah, Jessie ! thou may'st learn a lesson sad, 
And yet a lesson needful to be had ; — 
All earthly things are sure to fail at last — 
The things that are above alone stand fast 


% %*%?* WLtWiXL%. 

S I know that there are few, if any, of my little north- 
ern friends who have ever witnessed a negro wedding, 
I present them with a description of one, that came to 
me in a letter. To my little readers at the south, 
the picture will not be a new one; however, they, 
too, may be interested in viewing it again ; and, 
perhaps, may enjoy, even as much as I did, this graphic description 
of a negro wedding. E. B. C. 

Tiverton Lawn, S. C. 

Dear Sister H. : — I have just witnessed a most novel wedding, 
of which I must really send you a " word-painting." This was no 
marriage of the elegant or aristocratic ; the bride was not particu- 
larly fail', nor the groom very splendid ; and yet this humble wed- 
ding was a pleasant and gratifying scene. The parties married were 
Quash and Nellie. Quash was a house-servant, a very young man, 
with a smiling face of ebony hue. Nellie was a tall, thin young girl, 
a field-hand, sedate and dignified in manner. 

They were to be married the day after Christmas, and as we em- 
ployed ourselves busily the day before, in preparing good cheer for 
the festive scene, we had the pleasure of viewing a goodly array of 
cakes of our own manufacture. The bride's cake was handsomely 
iced, and its snowy face contrasted beautifully with the green wreath 
of myrtle around it. Myrtle is the emblem of love ; you will give 
us credit, therefore, for being, on this occasion, both judicious and 




The evening of the wedding, the bride elect and her three brides- 
maids, none of whom were quite aa fair as a lily, came into our room 
to be decked for the occasion. In the capacious chimney was burning 
a large fire, around which we collected the sable party, and com- 
menced preparing their toilet. Laugh as you will, I assure you they 
were quite the mode when attired ; and as they stood grinning and 
laughing around us, they presented a very fine specimen of ebony 
elegance. The bridesmaids wore coloured sashes ; and their brows, 
dark as midnight, were enlivened by wreaths of roses. Anna and I 
took especial pride in decking the bride, as to her was assigned, by 
right, the most conspicuous place in the picture. We attired her in a 
dress of white organdie muslin, which formed a very marked contrast 
to her black neck and arms ; for, of course, we had her sleeves short, 
and her dress cut low in the neck. She wore a crimson sash — in all 
defiance, you will say, of the rules of taste, since a bride should al- 
ways wear pure white. So I think ; but know you that this flaunting 
crimson sash was a bridal gift from the girl's father, and that being 
the case, I thought the bride should honour her parent by wearing it ; 
though in my own inmost heart I disapproved of a coloured girdle, 
and was compelled to admit that in matters of dress, " Daddy Tom's" 
taste was not immaculate. On the bride's head we placed the usual 
emblem, a veil, fastened with a few delicate orange buds, which lay 
very snugly on the crisp curls of her raven hair. She looked ex- 
tremely well, black, brilliant, and shining ; and, the task of dressing 
being over, we arranged the company around the fire, where they sat 
warming, and tittering with evident satisfaction, while they waited the 
coming of the groom. 

Thinking that we heard steps in the entry, we left the room, and 
returned just in time to see the three bridesmaids make a precipitate 
retreat from the looking-glass, where they had been viewing " the 
human face divine." And, indeed, during the whole time they re- 
mained in the room, there was an evident leaning towards the mir- 
ror ; and though so very merry, no one can accuse the sable party of 
not evincing a decided disposition for reflection. 

After repeatedly sending for the groom and his attendants (for the 


ladies were becoming somewhat restive under the protracted delay), 
they made their appearance, dressed in very white and very bridal- 
looking garments. The bride's party, radiant in muslin and roses, 
emerged from the chamber, and the bride, taking the arm of the 
groom, led the way. The bridesmaids were seized upon by the grooms- 
men, who, reversing the order of things, took the ladies' arms. As 
soon as we discovered this arrangement, or rather derangement, of 
matters, we pointed out the impropriety of the proceeding, assuring 
the gentlemen that in the "best society" ladies were never compelled 
to endure the burden of a gentleman's arm. This matter adjusted, 
and lighted on our way by pine-knot torches, held in the hands of 
little negroes, we proceeded to the spacious carriage-house, where we 
found the plantation negroes assembled, together with every member 
of the white family. 

The carriage-house had been tastefully decorated with green bushes, 
from which peered out the bright red berries of the holly. In the 
centre of the building was set the supper-table, which groaned beneath 
a generous supply of all the " delicacies of the season." 

We placed the bridal party in an eligible position ; then the white 
family gathered around, and inclosing the whole, was a vast array of 
negroes, forming a black background to the brilliant picture. A hum 
of admiration ran around the sable group at the splendid appearance 
of the bride and her party ; but it was speedily hushed, and a solemn 
stillness rested on the multitude, when there arose an aged black man, 
a minister, with his venerable head tied in a coloured bandanna hand- 
kerchief. It was a most unclerical costume. Indeed, I never saw 
any thing like it in the pulpit, but it was becoming and picturesque 
nevertheless. He opened a Prayer-book, and commenced in true 
negro dialect the beautiful ritual of the Episcopal Church. Lizzie, 
his young mistress, stood close beside him and held the candle, and 
not a smile disturbed the gravity of her sweet face, as she listened to 
his most murderous assault upon the Queen's English. And thus she 
stood, holding the light, which shone alike upon her face and upon 
that of the aged and faithful slave. As the old man proceeded, a 
deeper hush came over the multitude, which (and I tell it with all 


due sorrow) was sacrilegiously broken by Anna and I ; for human 
gravity completely gave way at words which, until then, had always 
fallen upon my ear with a peculiarly solemn significance — " What 
God has joined together let no man put asunder ;" which was rendered 
by the old negro clergyman, in his bandanna head-gear, thus : " What 
God he put togedder let no mens put atunder." At this, you will 
confess, most peculiar wording of the injunction, I was compelled to 
cough away a very palpable laugh ; and only recovered my gravity 
by looking most intently at nothing, and thinking of the large hole I 
had just burned in my merino dress. 

At length the ceremony was concluded ; and, after the bride had 
been affectionately kissed by her bridesmaids, the gentlemen led out 
the ladies for the dance. The coachman requested the bride to go 
through the evolutions of the quadrille with him ; and Nellie's father 
insisted on playing the first set, " to open de ball," as he said. His 
intentions were good, but his execution miserable — Ole Bull was cer- 
tainly not his model ; and the dancers were quite relieved when he 
gave up the violin into the hands of a more experienced player. 

After looking at the most wondrously energetic display of danc- 
ing I have ever beheld, the white party retired, and the negroes pro- 
longed the festive scene until the stars had sunk to rest, and the bun 
was slowly climbing the eastern sky. The next day, the bride very 
generously presented us with some of the spoils of the feast. 

Thus ended the negro wedding ; and a merrier oblation to Hymen 
I have never witnessed. 

• All that night, visions of the strange scene danced in my head ; the 
carriage-house, decked with green and shining holly ; the bridal party, 
in their white attire ; the old black clergyman, with his young mistress 
acting as the torch-bearer ; and the countless multitude of negroes, 
the women with their bright and picturesque head-dresses, forming a 
scene at once novel and interesting. 

1 have attended many a wedding, where the bride, attired in jewels 
and satin, looked radiantly lovely ; but time has generally effaced the 
remembrance of the glowing tints of the picture. The recollection of 



this negro bride and this humble negro wedding, however, will not 
pass away, but ever remain as something pleasant for memory to 
look back to. Yours affectionately, 


% filile log's fitfrr. 

Dear Waiter, 

I've just been called in from my play, 

And told to sit down in my seat ; 
Mamma says she thinks that for such a cold day 

I've had quite enough of the street, 
/think that Mamma is too careful by half — 

I am not such a baby, I know, 
As not to know how to take care of myself 

Wherever I happen to go . 

However, Mamma must be minded you see, 

So I think the best thing I can do, 
To hunt up my paper and inkstand will be, 

And scribble a letter to you. 
Your's pleased me so much, 'twas so loving and 

I was girl enough almost to cry — 
And something did make me a little bit blind — 

As I read your and Louie's good-by. 

I've thought of you hundreds of times, if not 

And wished you were both here with me ; 
We'd have just about as much fun I am sure, 

As ever one could wish to see. 
The river is solid all over with ice, 

Such capital places for slides I 
The sleighs on the snow-covered pavements so 
nice — 

And there's lots of amusement besides. 

I've got a new sleigh, and an elegant pair 

Of really high boots — like a man — 
I tell you I let people know what I wear, 

For I make all the noise that I can I 

The way I go clumping around and about, 
And clattering up and down stairs, 

And stamping and tramping both indoors qnd 
out — 
Mamma says she can't hear her ears 1 

But I think it's fun to make plenty of noise, 

And rattle and romp as we please, 
And I don't think we ought to be called naughty 

Just for such little trifles as these I 
Why, if I was as big as Papa, and as old, 

And I had some little boys, too, 
They should do what they liked, and I never 
would scold — 

Isn't that just the way you would do ? 

Dear me, there's the baby ! it's no use to try 

To write one more sentence to-day ; 
She'll upset my ink and my papers, and cry 

If I just want to push her away I 
She's a dear little baby, they say, and all that — 

The sweetest that ever was known — 
But, between you and me, it is truly a fact, 

She has temper enough of her own 1 

So, good-by, dear Walter, a happy New Year 

To the girls, and to Louis and you ; 
And write again soon — I'll be wanting to hear 

Whatever you all say and do. 
I really must stop, or Miss Ede will upset 

My inkstand, and do herself hurt : 
So good-by once more, and don't ever forget 

Your old friend and playfellow, 


®ju fuhoti tyiktx ^ailroafc 

AVE you ever travelled by railroad, little 
reader ? " Travelled by railroad, indeed, Mr. 
Schoolfellow! I should think I have," exclaims 
nearly every one of those whose eyes rest upon this page ; and 
forthwith Harry Eavenel recals his journey from Charleston, all 
the way through the State of Georgia, to Chattanooga in Tennessee. 
Fanny Howland remembers how she went, with her papa and 
mamma, from New York to Dunkirk, on Lake Erie, a distance of 
450 miles, over one single railroad. Another thinks of his long 
journey from the very heart of Alabama to Boston, nearly fifteen 
hundred miles, over a great many different roads, with only one link 
missing* on the whole route. There are so many railroads in all 
parts of the country, that probably nearly all our readers have jour- 

* From Acquia Creek, in Virginia, to "Washington City, a distance of sixty 
miles by steamboat, on the river Potomac. (57) 


neyed upon one ; but we have hundreds — perhaps we may say thou- 
sands — who have never travelled upon the Hudson River railroad, 
which is one of the most notable of all the railways in our country. 
It is not its length, however, which makes it notable, for it is only 
one third as long as the Erie railroad, and there are many others 
which exceed it in this respect. It is the route which the road pursues, 
along the banks of the matchless Hudson river, which gives it its chief 
renown. No railroad in the world, perhaps, surpasses it in the mag- 
nificence and beauty of the scenery through which it passes. A few 
years ago, multitudes of steamboats traversed the Hudson river, many 
of them " floating palaces," for size and splendour, in which thou- 
sands of passengers passed daily between New York and Albany, or 
the intermediate towns which lie along the shores of the river. The 
opening of the railroad along the line of the river, speedily diminished 
the travel by steamboat, and now, even in the height of the travelling 
season, comparatively few superior boats are employed to carry only 
passengers. The great tide of travelling no longer flows in the chan- 
nel of the beautiful river, but along the iron tracks which have been 
constructed upon its eastern margin. When it was first proposed to 
build this railroad, the scheme was thought to be a rash one, and it 
was the general opinion that it would never succeed. Little did any 
one imagine, that the iron horse would, in a few years, rush along the 
banks of the river a score of times every day, laughing in his speed 
at the slow-creeping steamboat, and whirling over the track, at each 
transit, hundreds of passengers ; and still less did they suppose that a 
single first-class steamboat would soon be sufficient for the nightly 
travel on the river between New York and Albany. The road was 
constructed and furnished at an original cost of seven millions of dol- 
lars — a very large sum of money, much of which was expended in the 
excavation of rocky hills. The picture at the head of this article is a 
view of Fort Washington Point, where the road passes through a 
rocky cut, more than a cmarter of a mile in length. Nearly a million 
and a half of cubic feet of rock were removed from this cut, and this 
immense quantity of stone was employed to make a road-bed and 
curb wall, for a distance of two thousand feet across the bay, just 



below Fort Washington. The cut is fifty feet deep at one point. 
Here, in the days of the Revolution, the American army was defeated 
by the British, and 2,600 men were taken prisoners of war. Just 
opposite Fort Washington, upon the west shore of the river, is Fort 
Lee. It stood upon a rocky height, nearly 300 feet above the river, 
and was quite an important post in the great war. Here also the 
American militia met with a disastrous defeat from a greatly superior 
force of Hessian soldiers. At this point on the river, begins the mag- 
nificent wall of the Palisades — a range of precipitous hills of trap rock 
which continues for twenty miles, and rises to an average height of 
four hundred feet. In the picture may be seen a bridge crossing the 
railroad, and also the lofty poles from which the wires of the mag- 
netic telegraph are stretched across the river. These poles are secured 
in their position by iron rods, extending from them to the ground. 


Tunnel at New Hamburg. 

There were many formidable difficulties to overcome in construct- 
ing the road, even as far as Poughkeepsie — about half-way of its length. 
The excavations are frequent and extensive, and in some places the 
road passes through vast hills, by tunnels of greater or less length. 


One of the most important of these is that of New Hamburg, a ham- 
let a few miles above the village of Fishkill, and the city of New burgh 
on the western shore of the river. 

The great speed at which the cars travel on this road — being about 
forty miles an hour — is unfavourable to a good view of the magnificent 
and ever varying scenery of the river. The passenger is whirled all 
too swiftly through the grand pass of the Highlands, and catches but 
partial glimpses of the sublime hills which thereabouts lift their mighty 
crowns, and their lofty peaks, far above his sight. 

Yet it is a most exhilarating journey in the sweet summer morning, 
or in the delicious calm of the summer evening, when the banks of 
the river are green with leafage, and golden with the sunset. 

One great benefit which this railroad has conferred upon the public, 
is a free winter communication between the metropolis and Albany. 
We are no longer ice-bound for months in the year, but can glide along 
the river-banks, heedless of the icy fetters which bind the stream. 

A novel and interesting sight is often afforded, to the winter travel- 
ler on this railroad, in the motion of the ice-boats upon the river. 
These are generally rudely constructed vehicles — boxes or platforms, 
fastened upon three pairs of sled-runners, and propelled on the ice by 
the wind acting upon a common sail. They move with great velocity 
— almost equalling, at times, the speed of the iron horse itself. These 
ice-boats are easily managed, and can be turned in an instant. 

Besides these ice-boats, the passenger may see groups of skaters, 
who move with great swiftness over the shining fields of ice. Some 
of them will even run a race with the locomotive as it speeds across 
the broad bays, which spread out from the river — but the swiftest ot 
them are soon compelled to give up the unequal contest. 

There is no bridge across the Hudson at Albany, and passengers 
are carried across in a steam ferry-boat. During a part of the pre- 
sent season the ice was so strong, that the boat had to cease running, 
and the passengers were conveyed across the ice in sleighs. Upon the 
very cold days, the ice track was made firmer by pouring water upon 
it, which was immediately frozen solid. Generally, however, the ferry 
channel is kept open for the steamboat. 

it a to Han 

H, me!" sighed Bertie. 

It was a warm July day, and he was lying on his couch, 
, tired, and hot, and cross. It was no wonder, either ; for 
nobody could feel very comfortable in the dry, dusty heat 
of the day. 

" Oh, dear me !" Bertie said again, still more impa- 
tiently ; " I wish it was winter-time, and all snow ! 
Don't you, Marimilie 1" 

" No, I don't think I do," I said. 

" Then I wish it was snow all over my couch," he went on ; " I'd 
like to make snow-balls, they'd feel so nice to my hand." 

" But they would melt so soon, Bertie, and that would make such 
an uncomfortable slop," I said, laughing. " I think a little ice would 
be better for you just now." So I brought him a plate of broken 
ice ; and while he ate it, I said, — 

" I'll tell you a story, Bertie, about winter-time and snow, and then 
you can look at the ice in your hands, and fancy it is winter, you 
know. Shall 11" 

" Oh, yes !" he exclaimed, eagerly ; " that will be so nice !" 
And I commenced : 

" Kitty and I were standing at the window one winter's day, watch- 
ing the snow that was floating down in a thick cloud of white flakes. 
It had been snowing all the morning, so the ground was covered thick- 
ly with a pretty white carpet, and the branches of the trees were 
bending with the soft weight ; for there was no wind to whirl it off, 
and it lay as it fell. It was very pleasant to watch it through the 
window, coming down so thick and fast that we could not see any 
thing beyond it, and we looked into the mist of snow for a long time. 
" ' Is n't it beautiful V I said at last, turning round to my cousin 

Lottie, who was sitting before the fire, toasting her slippered feet. 



" ' No, I don't see any thing beautiful in it,' she answered pettishly ; 
' I think snow is very disagreeable always — gives one wet feet and 
bad colds, and makes one look like a washerwoman, with red hands 
and nose. Ugh ! I wish it would never snow where I am ;' and 
she shrugged her shoulders with infinite disgust. 

" ' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Lottie !' I exclaimed. 

" ' Of course she ought !' cried my brother Robert, gaily, taking up 
my words as he came into the room. ' And so ought you, Miss 
Mary, for moping in the house, when you might be having such ele- 
gant fun out of doors. Snow-balls for the picking up, and brother 
Ned ready for a pitched battle with any of us ! I came in to muster 
recruits — come, all of you, shoulder arms and march !' 

" ' I will !' I shouted eagerly, running to look for my bonnet and 
gloves. ' And I, too !' said Kitty and Johnnie ; but Lottie curled 
her red lip in disdain, at the idea of going out to play in the 

" ' Let me take your slippers off, Miss Lottie,' said Bob, teasingly, 
' and lend you a pair of my brogans. Oh, I guess one of them will 
do, though : you can put both of your feet into it, you know.' 

" ' Go away,' said Lottie, angrily, drawing her feet under her dress. 
' I don't choose to make a tom-boy of myself, whoever else does.' 

" ' Much obliged to you, Miss Lottie, for your compliment,' I said, 
bowing low to her, and displaying my thick, stout shoes and coarse 
woollen gloves. 'Very sorry to shock you so, but you see we don't 
have such a snow-storm every day, and I think it's a duty to make 
the most of it when it comes. Good-bye !' and we all ran out of the 
house, leaving Lottie very much disgusted. 

" Our brother Edward, who was ever so much older than we were, 
was out in the snow, as Bob had said, and it was rare fun for us all to 
pelt him down with a thick shower of balls, as fast as we could make 
them fly. Robert, and Johnnie, and Kitty, and I, all united against 
him, and we pelted him so furiously that he had to fly, at last, with his 
hair and whiskers and coat perfectly powdered with snow. We called 
after him to come back, but he stood in the door, shaking the clinging 
snow from his hair and clothe?, with a gesture that said very plainly, 


' No, I thank you ; I've had enough of that !' So we sent a volley 
of balls flying after him as he stood in the door, to revenge ourselves 
for his desertion. He sprang aside as he saw them coming, and the 
snow flew whistling through the hall, powdering every thing in its reach, 
and, what was funniest of all, covering Lottie completely ! She had 
come near the door, in a sort of contemptuous curiosity to see what in 
the world we found to amuse us — and what a small tempest the little 
lady created when the snow greeted her so unceremoniously ! Plow 
she did stamp her feet and shake her curls, and fly back into the sit- 
ting-room, and vow we ought to be ashamed of ourselves ! And how 
we did laugh ! Poor Lottie ! she didn't get over it for an hour. 

" We had shaken off the snow from our dresses, and gone into the 
kitchen to get warm before Aunt Rachel's great blazing fire ; and we 
considered what to do next. We were rather tired of snow-balling, 
since Edward had left us ; still the snow tempted us, and we did not 
want to go in for all day yet. So I proposed to make a snow man, 
and every body agreed unanimously, and away we went again. The 
snow had ceased to fall now, and it lay deep and heavy upon the 
ground, so that we had plenty of material to work with. 

" First we made up a ball of snow, and then rolled it over the 
ground till it grew large enough for our purpose ; and then we select- 
ed a place in front of the hall-door for our snow-man, and ran in to 
tell Lottie that we were going to put him up for her special edification ; 
which made her very indignant, and she drew herself up in supreme 
contempt of all- our ' tom-boyish plays.' 

" The snow man went on very briskly for a while. Little Johnnie 
brought his arms piled up with snow as fast as we wanted to use it, 
and Kitty and Robert and. I packed on and beat it down to make 
our monster's great body, so before long he had grown taller than 
any of us. Then we had to make arms, and a head, and a great snow 
hat for him. 

" Our fingers grew numbed and frozen very often, working in the 
cold, damp snow so long, and we had to run in to Aunt Rachel's fire 
a great many times ; and every time she would say, 

" Lord-a-massy, chillun, why don't you stay in de house, 'stead o' 


bein' out in de snow all day % Miss Mary, you'll ketch your death 
o' cold, certain sure !' 

"And I would say, ' I certainly shall, Aunt Rachel, if you don't get 
away and hush talking to me, so that I can come to the fire.' 

" Kitty got tired of the snow man at last, and declared she must go 
in, she couldn't stand it any longer ; and by-and-by, Robert and 
Johnnie grew cold and weary too, and they left it, and went into the 
house. But I was indignant, and declared that as it had been com- 
menced, it should be finished, even if I had to do it myself, all alone. 
So I worked away bravely ; rolled a great snow-ball for the head, 
and planted it on the sturdy shoulders of our snow giant ; stuck a nose 
on his face, and punched holes for his eyes and mouth ; fashioned a 
queer high-crowned hat, and perched it on the top of his head ; and 
then, to complete the whole, put a long stick into his hand, that every 
one might know him for the schoolmaster ; for so I called him. 

" I went into the house when I had finished my work, and called 
them all to look at him through the window ; and even Lottie had to 
laugh at the stern old snow man. There he stood, stiff and upright, 
his head so erect, aud his queer, stubbed-looking hat pressed down 
so resolutely, while his nose stuck out so formidably, and his mouth, 
though it stretched from ear to ear, almost looked as if it could never 
be taught to smile. 

" ' Won't it be rare fun to snow-ball him to morrow !' said Bob. 
" He'll be frozen hard by that time, and it'll take a good many 
knocks to pelt him down. I 'd like to have a fling at him now : he 
looks as if he could stand it.' 

" ' No, I thank you,' I said quickly ; ' nobody shall snow-ball him till 
I get ready, and that isn't now. I've earned a right to his lordship 
by my last hour's hard work, and I intend to throw the first ball at 
my old schoolmaster myself 

"The last thing that I did when I went to bed that night was to look 
through my window at the snow man. He stood as I had left him, 
untouched and upright ; looking in the still night-time like a great 
white ghost looming up from the snow-plains around him. My 
dreams that night all had snow images in them, and my first waking 


thought was of the particular snow man that I had worked on so 
busily all yesterday. I jumped out of bed and went to the window 
to say good-morning to him. But Jack Frost had been at work on 
all the panes, and they were traced so thickly with fanciful figures 
and lines of frost-work, that I could not see through them at all. 

" I rubbed off some of the frost with my warm hand, but still I 
could not see any thing of the snow man, and I thought it was very 
strange. I could see the white plains of snow stretching far and wide 
over lawns and fields and house-tops ; I could see it lying in our own 
yard deep and untrodden, except for little tracks hither and thither, 
to the well, and the barn-yard, and the corn-houses ; but I saw no 
snow man rising up from its midst, as I had seen it last night. I threw 
open the window in wonder and apprehension, heedless of the snow 
that drifted in, or of Kitty's wondering remonstrances ; and then I 
saw at once the snow man's fate. 

" He lay a heap of ruins in the midst of trampled snow ; his hat, 
upon which I had so prided myself, crushed to atoms; his head lying 
on the ground broken in half, with the nose ingloriously sticking up ; 
his sturdy, corpulent body mercilessly broken and scattered. Poor 
snow man ! there was no sign of his dignity and greatness left. The 
snow around him was dirty and trampled down, as if a number had 
been engaged in the work of destruction — altogether, it was a picture 
of desolation. I was so angry that I could have cried, and I could 
hardly wait to get dressed before I flew down stairs to find out who 
had done the mischief. 

" Just as I had supposed, it had been done by a troop of little negro 
boys who had come over from the next plantation. They had found 
the snow man, and thought it would be capital fun to knock him down ; 
so they had done it before Aunt Rachel found out what they were 
about. And all my whole day's work in the cold, which had almost 
made me sick, was just to make fun for a lot of saucy little negroes ! 

" I was very angry and indignant, and it did not mend the matter 
for every one to laugh at me, Lottie laughed most of all, and de- 
clared she was glad of it. It served me just right, she said, for being 
so foolish as to make ifc, and was a punishment for covering her with 


snow. So, as every one laughed, I had to laugh myself ; but I said I 
would never make a snow man again ; and I never have." 

" But you must make me one next winter," said Bertie, putting 
away the plate, from which he had taken the last piece of ice. " I 
never saw a snow man. But I wish I could look out of the window 
and see one now !" 

\t fill., 

[Harry Gray is flying kite on the front pavement — Charlie Vaux comes along beating hoop — 
Harry stops Charlie to tell him the news.] 

"We 've got a baby ! — I should like you to come 

Just to see the baby that we have at home. 

Oh, it is such a baby ! with the bluest little eyes — 

And its mouth ! — you should only see its mouth when it cries ! 

Then it has such a hand! — like mine, only smaller; 

And it cannot walk yet, and our Ponto is taller ! 

It has the queerest little feet, with the funniest little toes, 

And something which papa declares will grow into a nose. 

I saw it this morning — how it sucked its little thumb ! 

Oh, it is such a baby ! now do, Charlie, come ; 

Mother says you may see it if you will not make a noise. 

Just wait till nurse has gone down stairs — you know she hates us boys. 

Did you ever have a baby ? we have had ours a week. 

Nurse says it soon will talk, but I never heard it speak. 

And what is strange, they let it cry and scream just when it pleases ; 

And the more it cries, it seems to me, the less mamma it teases. 

I know they make me creep about as quiet as a mouse ; 

I tell you what, it 's something — a baby in the house ! 

In ma's own room I scarcely dare to run across the floor ; 

It 's " Do be still !" or " Harry, hush !" or else " Do shut the door !" 

I do n't like Nurse — she 's always there — and says " Now, Harry, go," 

Because I want to kiss mainma — but I should like to know 

If she is not as much my ma now. as she was a month ago! 


She lets the baby have its way, blesses its little eyes, 
Coaxes and pets it all the more, the more it screams and cries. 
But it is just reversed with me ! I know if I should take 
Such airs on me as baby does, the moment it 's awake, 
I should be sure to find myself in bed an hour too soon, 
Or have my hobby-horse locked up and kept an afternoon. 

You have a brother ? what of that ! wait till you have a sister ; 

I wish you had been at our house the first time that I kissed her ! 

Such a warm little mouth ! — standing wide open, so. 

A boy 's no great things — I 'm one — I ought to know ! 

I 'm glad she 's a girl — I know all my toys 

Would last as long again, but for rough little boys ! 

But it 's well you have one, since you can't have the other, 

Though I would not change my sister for any little brother. 

Perhaps a boy-baby is better than no baby at all ; 

But our baby 's a girl — did you hear father call ? 

There he is, over yonder, just crossing the street. 

We can go up stairs with him. Oh, Charlie, wipe your feet ! 

For nurse looks at footmarks with a frown as black as thunder, 

And mutters to herself, " What are mats for, I wonder ?" 

Now you must not make a noise — please, Charlie, don't forget — 

Papa can let us in — I am his boy yet ! [From "The White Dove."] 

Scene, Schoolfellows Library. Present, The Schoolfellow, Herbert, Mary, 
Fanny, and Charles. 

Schoolfellow. Good morning my young friends — but where is Elsie? 

Herbert. She is not very well — and aunt Mary thought she had better not 
go out in the cold ; at which she was just a little rebellious. 

Schoolfellow. I miss her sweet face and her pleasant voice ; but you must tell 
her, Herbert, about the new books which are to occupy our attention this morning. 

Mart. Have you many new books, dear Schoolfellow ? 


Schoolfellow. None at all, Mary ; but there are two very attractive ones, 
which we did not find time to examine when we were together last month. 
Charlie. Why are there no new ones this month ? 
Schoolfellow. The publishers never issue juvenile books just after the holi- 

Charlie. That would be a poor plan, indeed. 

Mart. There is one exception to that rule, dear Schoolfellow, to my know- 
ledge. Fanny had a present of a beautiful little volume in pape^ covers. It was 
called Bruno, and was the first of a series of story-books, to be published every 
month by the Harpers. 

Fanny. Oh, yes, it is a pretty little book, full of beautiful pictures ; and I am 
to have twelve of them before next New Year. Uncle Irving told me so on New 
Year's day. 

Schoolfellow. Yes— that is an exception to the rule. The plan of publishing 
monthly story-books for children, is rather novel; but it will succeed in the 
hands of Messrs. Harper, and with the name of Mr. Abbott upon the books. He 
is such a favourite with the little people, who know his " Rollo" and his " Fran- 
conia" books. And then, these handsome little volumes are only two shillings 
each — which is exceedingly cheap, considering their beauty and merit. 

Herbert. What books did we overlook at our last meeting ? 

Mart. Here is one of them [reading], "Richard the Lion-Hearted,' 1 '' pub- 
lished by James S. Dickerson, 697 Broadway, New York. 

Schoolfellow. Yes, and it is a very excellent book of its kind. It is the first 
of a series of Biographies, to be edited by the Rev. Dr. Hawks. They will be writ- 
ten either by him, or by some competent person, whom he selects ; and they will 
embrace the most romantic characters of history — such as Sir Wu Iter Raleigh, 
Robert Bruce, Edward the Black Prince, Oliver Cromwell, and others of similar 

Mary. Are there to be no heroines in the series ? 

Schoolfellow. It would hardly be fair to omit them, Mary ; but none are an- 
nounced as yet. 

Mary. Then you must prevail upon " Mrs. Manners," or " Cousin Alice,*' to 
supply the deficiency which will exist in this " Romance of Biography," if 
heroines are not included, as well as heroes. 

Charlie. Oh, here is a capital story, I should think [reading], " The Boat Club, 
by Oliver Optic" — published by Crosby, Nichols, & Co., of Boston. 

Schoolfellow. Why should you think it is "capital," Charlie? 

Charlie. Oh, it looks so. It is full of dialogue, and has nice pictures. 

Schoolfellow. Well, Charlie, that is a novel way of judging a book, and yet 
there is some sense in it. But you are right in your guess, for it is a very well 
told story indeed, and it will afibrd you much pleasure to follow the history of 


the Boat Club, and learn how goodness and generosity met with their reward, 
and how vice and selfishness were duly punished. 

Mary. Have you seen the notice of " Harry's Vacation" in the " Crayon, 1 " 1 
dear Schoolfellow. 

Schoolfellow. I have, Mary, and I suppose you would like to know what I 
have to say in reply to the very learned criticism which it offers. 

Mary. Yes, indeed, I should ; though I know already that you can answer it 
satisfactorily ; for my uncle Hugh laughed heartily when he read it, and said, 
" Here, now, is an instance of a critic finding fault with what he does not under- 
stand." I had not time to ask him for any explanation — but will you please 
enlighten me and the editor of the " Crayon," at the same time ? 

Herbert. "Who has been finding fault with "Harry's Vacation," I should like 
to know ? 

Schoolfellow. The editor of the " Crayon' 1 '' is very much amused to learn 
that William Sinclair was affected by breathing pure hydrogen gas, in the same 
way as if he had inhaled the nitrous oxide. You recollect, all of you. that Wil- 
liam Sinclair breathed the hydrogen gas from the india-rubber bag, for a few mo- 
ments, and then immediately commenced reciting the famous lines — 

" My voice is still for war, gods!" 
This he did to show the effect of hydrogen gas upon the voice, and the whole party 
was almost convulsed with merriment, to hear his fine full tones changed into a 
thin, squeaking treble. Had the " Crayon" critic shared in their amusement, 
his mirth would have been legitimate and reasonable, but as it is, he has turned 
the laugh upon himself, either for objecting to a fact of which he was ignorant, 
or for uttering an opinion without fully understanding the subject of it. This is 
the case with a great many of the book reviewers of the day. 

Herbert. I. guess the next time he notices a book of yours, he will read it 
before he quarrels with its facts. 

Mary. I think these critics are quite too impertinent, in giving their hasty 
impressions of books to the public. They ought at least to understand the author 
before they review him. 

Schoolfellow. Sagely said, Mary, and truly also. But that is a very un- 
fashionable notion of yours, and if it should chance to prevail, the number of 
critics would be wonderfully diminished. Enough of this, however, and now 
good by all — good-by. {.They go out ] 

t mMUr'a (iunur* 

E found our old rule, with regard to answering our 
riddles, work so well in the past year, that we shall 
continue it through another. So, this month, we give 
our readers again a set of new enigmas, and hope to 

receive, in season for the March issue, a multitude of answers to the 

prize riddles of last month. 

The first that comes to hand is a graceful 



My first is what every one hopes to obtain ; 
My second a wide-spread and treacherous main ; 
My third is the name of your tenderest friend ; 
And my fourth had neither beginning nor end. 

Arrange these initials, my whole will be seen, , 

The best place on earth, though 'twere ever so mean ; 

There happiness, love, and contentment abide, 

And pleasures which earth cannot elsewhere provide. 

" Little Ned's" enigma is very good for a " first attempt ;" but 
puzzles of that description are generally no puzzles at all, and do 
not interest our readers, who prefer something more ingenious. 
But little Ned must try again, and we do not doubt he will do some- 
thing quite good enough to publish by-and-by. An original charade 
by " II. O." has been lying by us for a long time, but it will be none 
the less interesting to our readers on that account. Here it is ; — 




With youthful dames I find a transient rest, 
But do not long remain their welcome guest; 
They bear with me till schooling days are done, 
And then with all their hearts they wish me gone. 

I run with speed, but never change my place ; 
I often bolt, but dash on with the race : 
Both strong and fleet, yet powerless I am, 
Unless protected by my fost'ring dam. 


I am no miser, yet I hoard my gold ; 
I am a frequent terror to the 6eaman bold ; — 
Yet often, robed in raiment soft and sweet, 
I woo the streamlet sparkling at my feet. 

My all in early bloom became a bride, 
But drooped and faded by a husband's side. 
Who coldly caused the silken cord to sever, 
Then sought in vain the gem he lost for ever. 

We conclude with a pretty selected riddle, to which, as to the 
others, we trust that we shall have numerous answers. 


The child of a peasant, Rose thought it no shame 

To toil at my first all the day ; 
When her father grew rich, and a farmer became, 

My first to my second gave way. 
Then she married a merchant, who brought her to town, 

To this eminent station preferred ; 
Of my first and my second undmindful she's grown, 

And gives all her time to my third. 

^rhoolfclloto's 18a% 


By M. A. D. 

-_ 3 2 v 1 3 2 X 


Ik £ 



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Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well. as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-hoy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled him to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happily and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but "children of a larger growth" may derive both know 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home." 

DCrisPiaiAL ■-•VIMYjbb 

Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Harry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 

JAMES S. DICKEB.SOW, Publisher. 









Mr. W. C. Richards and "Cousin Alice." 

This work has been in existence for six years, during which time it has 
acquired a degree of popularity unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, ani 
frequently been pronounced by the press, both North and South. " the best and 
cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States." 


is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and 
aims at the cultivation of the heart as well as of the mind. It is an original ma- 
gazine, and its articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for 
the young in the country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Eichards, it will continue 
under his general superintendence, with the constant aid of "Cousin Alice," 
(Mrs. Alice B. Neal), the popular author of the " Home Books," whose name alone 
is a talisman to command the love and favor of children, supported by a largo 
number of favourite writers. 


of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skillful artists, and 
are unequaled in variety and beauty by those of any other Juvenile Magazine. 

Postmasters are requested to act as agents for the work, and may retain the 
usual commission for new subscribers. Specimen copies sent gratis on application. 
post-paid, to the Publishers. The volume commences with the January number, 
and back numbers of the volume will always be forwarded. To any who wish 
them, we can supply bound volumes of the '• Schoolfellow" from the first, at 
$1 25 per volume, or six dollars for the entire set. 

TERMS — One Dollar a year, in advance. 



€Mt nf €nlnin. 

MARCH, 1855. 

Arthur's Birth-day, By Mrs . Bradley. 

Sedgemoor, Chapters 28 and 29, . . .By Mrs. Manners. 
Making Friends, . By The Author op "The Doll and her Friends." 
Leaves from Kitty's Journal, No. 2, .By Sue Leslie, 

The Heron, . . . . . . .By The Editor. 

The Baby Correspondence, No. 6. Edith Newcome to 

Sam Lively, By Mrs. Manners. 

Kitty Gray, By Mary E. 

Two Little Valentines, By A Mother. 

The Baby's Thoughts, . . . ■ . , By A New Contributor. 
The Riddler's Corner, . . . . Various Contributors. 


As our subscribers well know, the Schoolfellow must be paid for 
in advance. Ooe Dollar, tbus paid, will secure his visits for the com- 
ing year. Money properly mailed to the Publisher will be at his 
risk. We are already receiving new subscribers for this volume, 
which, we trust, will prove superior to any of its predecessors. 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for the year. 

For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
book upon our list. For Three Dollars, three copies of the School- 
fellow, and the volume for 1854, handsomely bound. 

For Five Dollars, five copies of the Schoolfellow, and any of our 
bookb to the amount of Two Dollars. 


Bookseller & Publisher, 

697 Broadway. 

* # * Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

J£3T We would call especial attention to our Prospectus for 1855 
on the last page of the cover. 

Arthur's own tea-cup .See p. 79. 


laijntr's §wi|-l|$2+ 

PON pleasant summer afternoons, Nurse would 
always take Arthur and Edith out for a walk in 
the woods, or in the green-shaded meadow. Little 
Edie was beginning to walk quite nicely now, and 
Arthur loved dearly to hold her little fat hand, and 
guide her little feet that tottled around in such an eager unskilful 
way. They would stay an hour or two in the meadow sometimes, 
Nurse sitting down upon one of the old gray rocks with her knitting 
in her hand, and Arthur and Edie tumbling about amongst the grass 
and flowers, as happy as the dear little humming-birds or bright crim- 
son butterflies that fluttered around them. 

When Nurse saw the sun grow red and round, and begin to sink 
slowly down behind the golden clouds that were gathered around 
him, she called the children to her, and started home. And some- 
times they reached home just as Arthur's parents were going to tea ; 
and then the little ones each had a kiss from mamma and papa before 
they were sent away to their own supper in the nursery. Arthur 
always wished very much that he might stay down stairs and take 
tea with mamma, instead of having for ever to sit in that same high 
chair, by that same little table in the nursery, and to eat the same bread 
and milk always. Sometimes he thought it quite a hardship, and tried 
to make himself believe that Nurse was cross, and the baby trouble- 
some, and the milk sour and disagreeable — when all the time it was 
his own little fretful spirit that made every thing so unpleasant to 

"What makes you so cross, Arthur?" Nurse said to him one 
evening, when he had complained of every thing, and treated poor little 
Edie so unkindly, that she shrank away from him with her little lip 


76 Arthur's birth-day. 

puckered up ready to cry, and such a grieved face as was quite 
pitiful to see. But it vexed Arthur to he called cross, and he an- 
swered passionately : 

" I 'm not cross at all, Nurse, not at all — it 's only you !" 

"But I don't speak angrily to Edie, and throw down my "bread, 
and push away my cup and saucer, as you are doing," said Nurse. 

"I don't care ! I '11 do it again!" the little boy cried angrily ; and 
in the passionate impulse of the moment, he dashed the little cup that 
he held in his hand away from him. It fell upon the matted floor, 
and the delicate china lay broken into twenty pieces, amidst a stream 
of milk that had been spilled from it. Arthur sat still, half-frightened 
at the mischief he had done ; Nurse got up from the table without 
saying a word, and setting the baby down upon the floor, she gathered 
up the broken pieces of china and wiped up the milk. Then she com- 
menced to clear away the supper-things from the table, and pile up 
the soiled dishes to be taken down stairs ; but all the while she did 
not say a word to Arthur. 

The little boy grew very miserable, sitting alone in his chair, with 
no one noticing him even to scold him. He knew he had been very 
naughty, and now he was growing sadly ashamed of his wicked tem- 
per; but he wished Nurse would only speak to him! If she said 
ever such hard things, if she punished him even ! Any thing would 
be better than to be treated so, he thought. 

By-and-bye he could not bear it any longer. Nurse had taken her 
seat by the window, and the baby sat quietly on her lap ; the room 
was very silent. Arthur slipped down from his high chair where he 
had been fidgeting restlessly for a long time, and came timidly up to 
Nurse's knee. 

" I did n't mean to break the cup, Nursie," he said penitently, and 
then he hid his head in her lap, and burst suddenly into passionate 
crying. Nurse could n't help pitying the poor little fellow as he lay 
sobbing so grievously. She laid her hand cai-essingly on his curly 
head, and soothed him gently till his sobs had died away. Baby 
Edith looked on wonderingly, half-frightened and ready to cry her- 
self at such strange proceedings. 


Arthur looked up presently, with his eyes full of tears. " Are you 
angry, Nursie ?" he asked timidly. 

" Not angry, my little boy," Nurse said gently ; " only very sorry 
to see you in such bad temper." 

" But I could n't help it, Nursie — 1 was so miserable !" said the 
child excitedly, his lips quivering again. 

"So miserable! why, what was the matter? what had happened 
to make you so ? Just think a moment and tell me." 

And Arthur tried to think, but he could not for his life remember 
a thing that should have made him miserable. He only knew that 
he had felt very discontented and unhappy, very cross and fretful, 
but he could not tell why. Arthur did not know that grown people 
as well as children very often make themselves "miserable" in just 
the same way. 

" Well," said Nurse, " what was it?" but the little boy only hung 
his head and said nothing. And just then the nursery door opened, 
and mamma came in to say good-night to her little children. It was 
a very unusual thing to find them all so still, and Arthur with his 
usually happy face stained with tears. Mamma wanted to know 
directly what had happened, and Arthur threw himself into her arms 
and sobbed out : 

" Oh mamma, I have been so naughty to-night ! I was cross to 
Edie, and angry with Nurse — and then I broke my little cup!" 

He clung to her, crying bitterly, he was so ashamed and penitent, 
and his mother felt very sorry for her little boy. She made him tell 
her when he grew quiet again, all about the whole story, and then 
she told him what he must do whenever he felt so cross and fretful, 
and was tempted to do wicked things again. , 

"It does n't come all at once, this evil temper;" she said. "We 
begin to be discontented and peevish, and then we encourage it by 
thinking of ourselves, until the unhappy feeling grows too strong for 
us to conquer it. Then we say and do angry, wicked things that 
afterwards we are very much ashamed of. But if w r e would try to 
think of something else as soon as the fretful feeling begins to come, 
and ask our Heavenly Father to help us to forgot it and put it away 

78 Arthur's birth-day. 

from us, then we should seldom make ourselves miserable in this 
foolish way. Do you understand me, my little boy?" 

Arthur had been listening very earnestly, and his mamma saw that 
if he did not understand all her words, he still felt the meaning of 
what she had said. The soft gray twilight had come creeping round 
them as they all sat together by the window. Baby Edith had fallen 
asleep in Nurse's lap, and Arthur's eyes had grown heavy from all 
his crying and excitement. So mamma undressed him herself to- 
night, and after his bath he came to her knee to say his prayers. 
Arthur knew quite a number of little prayers, and he used to say them 
all, one after the other, every night. First he would say u Our Fa- 
ther who art in Heaven," and then, " Now I lay me down to sleep," 
and then, "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;" and last of all, he 
would say this little prayer : 

"Sleep I ever, wake I never, 
Sweet Jesus, keep my soul for ever !" 

When he had finished to-night, his mamma bent over him softly, 
and prayed, herself, that God would bless and keep her little son, for- 
give him for his fault, take away his passionate temper, and make 
him gentle, and good, and patient. She kissed him good-night when 
Nurse had lifted him into bed, and the little fellow went to sleep 
subdued and solemnized, but still happy in the sense of penitence and 

Arthur was very good and patient for many days after that, and 
Nurse very seldom had need to find fault with him for any thing. He 
remembered what his mamma had told him, and obeyed her advice 
so well, that he did not even grow discontented when he would come 
home from his walk, and see the pretty tea-table laid down stairs with 
its shining linen and silver, and its delicate biscuit and cake. He 
would never look at it, but run right away up stairs to his high-ehair 
and his nursery supper. 

But one evening when the children came home, mamma told Nurse 
that she might leave Arthur fo take tea down stairs to-night, if Ar- 

Arthur's birth-day. 79 

thur would like to. If he would like to ! How bright the little boy's 
face grew, and how eagerly he kissed mamma's face all over in his 
surprise and pleasure. Mamma smiled very fondly upon the happy 
little face, and then she went to the tea-tray, and took up a beautiful 
little cup and saucer that stood there amongst the other things. The 
cup had a wreath of gold flowers around it, and there was a name in 
the centre, stamped in pretty gold letters. Arthur could not read it, 
but when mamma placed it in his hands, he knew that it must be his 
own name, and that the cup was intended for him. 

His little face grew brighter still with its joyful surprise, and mam- 
ma thought it a very lovely one as the rosy smiles and blushes chased 
each other over the childish features. " Oh mamma, I never will 
break this !" he exclaimed eagerly at last ; and his mother knew that 
he was thinking of how naughty he had been some time ago. 

She kissed him fondly, and said — " it is my little boy's birth-day 
present. Arthur is four years old to-day, and getting old enough now 
to control himself, and not be a baby any longer. He must let this 
little cup help him to remember what mamma has told him." 

Arthur looked quite serious for a little while ; it seemed such an 
important thing to be four years old, and have a birth-day ! But 
papa began to talk to him presently in his funny way, and then 
Arthur laughed again ; and they all sat round the table and had the 
nicest of teas. Arthur had his new cup, with a great deal of milk and 
sugar, and a very little tea in it ; but he thought it was very delight- 
ful. And altogether the evening of Arthur's birth-day was a very 
charming and memorable one to the little boy. 



FTER they had dined on the following day, Mr. Austen 
and Mr. Clayton indulged themselves and the interested 
children in a few more reminiscences of their school-days. 
They had not been vicious boys, so there was nothing to 
recall that they objected to the young people's listening 
to, and their mischief even was not of a nature to do any harm. There 
was one story about putting three frozen pumpkins in the bed of one 
of the boys, and how in return he put huge sticks of wood under their 
feather-bed, deftly smoothing down the clothes so that they could not 
see them until they had jumped in upon them. Then there were 
pranks played upon an unpopular tutor by some others of their class, 
which he resented so maliciously and absurdly, as to lead to his dis- 
missal and the boy's expulsion. There were pleasanter things to 
listen to than these, and finally Mr. Clayton told them of the close of 
their last school term, when he left for college, and Austen to com- 
mence his business career. 

" There was a chief honour to be contended for," he said. " I doubted 
not that Austen would get it, for he was exceedingly popular, and his 
readiness told upon the teachers. There was a special reason for my 
wishing it for myself; but when I saw how Austen was going a-head, 
I quietly withdrew from the eager competition which such a prize 
arouses amongst ambitious school boys. At last the important 
decision was made, and it was as I supposed, Austen had won the 
honour. I knew how much he was accustomed to rely upon my ex- 
actness in learning, and that I had spent at least three hours to 
his one in stud v." 


"That you had Philip," said Mr. Austen; " I did not know as much 
as even you, who gave me so much help, fancied I did ; I was a rest- 
less boy, and, though not idle, I spent many hours in writing never-to- 
be-read essays ; in constructing machines upon impossible principles ; 
in seeking for information and authority upon subjects that no one 
ever did, or ever will care a straw about. I know I tormented your 
life away almost, and why you bore it was ever after incompre- 
hensible to me." 

" Why I bore it !" replied Mr. Clayton, " because you twice saved 
my life, Hench Austen, onccfrom the chasm in that treacherous ice, 
when your life was risked for two mortal hours ; and again, when your 
devotion brought me safely through the virulent fever which raged 
in our school. It was to your indefatigable nursing that fall, under 
God's blessing, that I am indebted for my being, I humbly and grate- 
fully acknowledge." 

" Nonsense, Philip, what a tremendous estimate you put upon those 
things ; one, a service a good Newfoundland might have done as well, 
and the other a mere act of common humanity." 

" Call it what you will, Hench, it will not alter the feeling which ever 
moved me afterwards, and which has bound me to you during all these 
years of absence and silence. But now for the prize," continued Mr. 
Clayton ; " it was awarded to Austen as I told you ; and what do you 
think he said when he heard its public announcement % Why, he arose 
from his seat, and said that he had no claim whatever to such an 
award ; and then he went on to enumerate most circumstantially all 
the rules he had broken, which the teachers knew or were ignorant 
of; all the pranks he had played, and lastly, all the recitations to 
which he had gone unprepared, in which he had been saved from dis- 
grace by my. aid. Then followed, as rapidly, a statistical account of 
my excellencies, proprieties and general goodnesses. He finished by 
saying he did this with more humility than they would give him 
credit for, that he never saw his error so plainly as at the moment 
when another's richly-merited honours were bestowed upon him, and 
that the shame instead of pride which he then experienced, would 
reform him for life. 


" He sat down and buried his face in his hands, when he had finished. 
There was a moment's hush, and then the teacher called for me in a 
peremptory tone, which convinced me that pleading off would be in 
vain. I took the honour and delivered the valedictory, but [ received 
no whit of the real honours which belonged to Hench Austen, the boast 
of our school, with all his faults." 

" Fie, Philip ; I have heard you out quietly for the sake of the 
grand effect ! What an expatiation you have made upon that act of 
justice — so tardy, that it has been a shame to me many a day since. 
Boys, there are various lessons to be learned from that story. I '11 
warrant you, you will have the discrimination to see why it mortifies 
me now to hear it. Such a sponge as I was at school ! But I left 
the trick at school I assure you. That was one lesson learned for life.'''' 

The children came into the library on Friday night with quite a 
noisy rush for them. When the tumult had a little subsided, all ap- 
peared eager to commence the game — saying they had such "lots" 
of names on hand that they were impatient to dispose of them. 

" Lots, indeed," said Miss Emily, " an elegant term for a library, 
and for students' use." 

" I beg your pardon, Miss Emily," said Herbert, " but I never 
thought of it as inelegant; it only seems expressive to me." 

"Some time, when it is not play night, we will discuss slang 
phrases, expressive words, as Herbert says," said Mr. Clayton. 

" Oh, please do, papa, and please don't forget it, as the things we 
put off to other nights are apt to be forgotten," said Herbert. 

" Well about these M's," said his father. " Come, let us see how- 
well you have been doing. Who is it to-night, my lady Alice V 

" I have not found so many, papa, as the others. I have only Miss 
Mitford, to whom I helped myself, and Miss Hannah More, to whom 
Maude helped me." 

" They are most excellent names, my love, no matter how you came 
by them ; they are both ornaments to the English language ; yes, to 
the language as well as the literature. Some reviewer of Miss 
Mitford, writing in Blackwood, said of her, that the sweetness and ex- 
quisite propriety of her use of our language was comparable to 


nothing but the perfection of Petrarch's Italian. She has perfected 
the English as he has the Italian." 

" Why, Mr. Clayton," inquired Maude, " do people say Mrs. Mary 
Mitford and Mrs. Hannah More, when neither of them were ever 
married V 

" Because it is the English custom so to do ; using their given or 
christian name with the prefix of Mrs., tells an English ear at once, 
that they were maiden ladies." 

" But married ladies are spoken of in that way in this country, and 
letters are addressed to them as Mrs. Mary , or Mrs. Jane, what- 
ever the name is," said Maude. 

" It is not proper, my dear, if it is customary. A married lady 
before the public is to be called by her husband's name ; the wife of 
George Henshaw, for instance, is Mrs. George Henshaw." 

" I '11 remember that," answered Maude ; "and now as it is my turn, 
I will say Henry Marlyn, the good missionary to India, and Philip 
de Mornay, lord of Plessis Marly." 

" Who in the world was he, Maude ?" asked her brother. 

'■ He was a great man in the days of Henry IV., Arthur ; a 
Huguenot, and a friend of the good old admiral De Coligni. You must 
remember about him when we were reading the Henriade in French." 

" Oh yes, I do remember him, a minister of Henry IV., beforehe 
became a Romanist. Sully, the other minister, was the one who 
advised Henry to join the Romish church for policy's sake, on which 
account Mornay left him." 

CJajitet XXKX. 

ERY well, my learned little people," said Mr. Clayton, 
" and so we come to you, Herbert." 

"T. Babington, Macaulay,^ responded Herbert quickly, 
" the author of ' Lyrics of Ancient Rome,' and of that 
grand poem, ' The Battle of Ivry.' He is an essayist, 
and a historian also, and a member of Parliament, and — 
and — a great man generally, I am sure." 


" But that is only one name, strong as it is, ray boy," said Mr. Carey. 

" I have not decided about the others," he said. " 1 want an Ameri- 
can, and I can only think of Madison and Monroe, the two presidents." 

" I should think they were great enough, Herbert," said Alice. 

" So they are, but you see, Alice, they are great from their position, 
from circumstances. I like people who are great in spite of circum- 
stances — like any men of real genius." 

" Well, who is it my lad ?" 

" Marius, the Roman, Mithridates, or Mirabeau." 

" Oh, come, come ! that will do, Herbert; you have named six great 
men any way." 

" He did not take any of my choice," said Arthur. " I have fixed 
upon two quite heroic souls ; Philip Melancthon, who assisted Luther 
so much in that blessed Reformation, and Mahomet the great im- 

" An odd combination, Arthur," said Mr. Austen, " yet both names 
come up naturally in such a game as this. Melancthon was tutor to 
a nobleman's sons at your age, Arthur," he continued; " and though so 
precocious, he did not then stop growing as precocious children are apt 
to do ; he was so learned, that all questions of great abstruseness or 
any involving vast erudition, were referred to him." 

" He is represented as a very timid, yielding man," remarked Miss 

" So he was, apparently, by nature, Emily ; but he was firm as a 
rock, strong as a tower, and fierce as. a lion, when set upon by the 
violent churchmen of Rome. His disposition was a curious com- 
pound of qualities. I know not which was most admirable, however, 
his learning, his piety, or his manliness and complete humility." 

" What do you say of my other name, of Mahomet ?" inquired 

" He is not so much a favourite of course, Arthur ; but I can say that 
he seemed to possess the inspiration of genius, if nothing else. He 
conceived and carried out a giant scheme of imposture." 

"I am inclined to believe him not so much an impostor as a self- 
deceived man. I cannot but believe him sincere in most that he did," 


remarked Mr. Clayton ; "but it is a matter that we cannot decide, so 
we will pass on to Miss Ernily, who is ready for us I know." 

" I offer my favourite Sir Thomas More, one of the most Christian 
gentlemen, one of the wisest and most upright statesmen, and one of 
the best and tenderest fathers and friends the world ever saw. His 
beautiful life and his glorious death of martyrdom, rank him amongst 
those who will wear the crown in the life to come. While I rever- 
ence him, I have an almost filial feeling for him. My second is Metas- 
tasio, the renowned Italian lyric and dramatic poet." 

" Sir Thomas More is one of your enthusiasms, I perceive, Emily," 
said Mr. Austen. 

"Surely you do not object to it, cousin Hench." 

" No, it is natural to you, both the enthusiasm and the peculiar ad- 
miration for men of his stamp. Unfortunately, I can hardly say men 
of his stamp, they are so rare in this world." 

" If it is my turn," said Mr. Carey, " I come in with Sir James Mack- 
intosh, the celebrated Scotch statesman, historian, essayist, political 
writer generally, and much-admired universally, (a small set off to 
Sir Thomas More, he whispered in an aside to Miss Donne) — and 
my other name is Moliere, the French dramatist, who made all the 
world laugh, while he died of ennui and chagrin." 

" I offer Massillon, the famous preacher, of wonderful eloquence 
and unquestioned piety, though a Frenchman and Romanist, and our 
own Milton, one of the glories of our language and our literature. 
Have I not done my devoir f\ said Mr. Austen. 

" Oh yes, cousin Hench, but we don't applaud here except it be 
one of the children," said Miss Donne. 

"I am a tyro in the game, Emily, you must remember," said Mr. 

" And so dull, that you think you deserve credit for being able to 
learn how to play it after two evenings' teaching," said his fair cousin, 
laughing. " Well you shall be applauded, cousin Hench." 

" Lastly come I," said Mr. Clayton, " bringing two very unlike 
people, the astute and wordly Machiavelli, the shrewd politic Italian, 
and Mozart, whose Requiem shows the departing soul of one whose 


genius was kindled in the skies, and who only knew the world as he 
heard its clash and clamour through the intervals of his harmonies." 

" Ah, how many we have had to leave out this evening," said Mr. 
Carey. " I have had a score in my mind, I believe ; let me see — there 
was Montesquieu, and Massinger, and Malsherbes." 

"I have thought of Mosheim and Mather," said Mr. Clayton. 

" And Murat, and Macenas, and Marlborough," said Arthur. 

" And so many Marys," said Maude. " There was ' bloody' Mary, 
but I did not want her, nor would I have Mary, Queen of Scots; but 
I could have taken Marie Antoinette, or her mother, the grand Marie 

""We have left out old Montaigne," remarked Mr. Austen. 

" And McPherson ; just think that I should forget the author of 
' Ossian,' to which I was so devoted formerly," said Herbert. " What 
was that you were quoting about him, Maude, when I was praising 
him up the other day V 

" Do you mean the lines from Mrs. Browning, Herbert % 

" Once courted greater than the rest, 
When mountain winds blew out his vest." 

" That is rather sarcastic, it seems to me," said Herbert. " I am 
afraid Mrs. Browning does not share my admiration of Ossian. Well, 
no matter. I guess he can stand alone on the mountain and let the 
winds blow out his vest again." 

"Come now, my good friends all, and my dear children," said the 
host, " we will have prayers, and let these little people go oft' to 

ahing jrtjMibf, 

Wk copy the following graphic and entertaining sketch from a beautiful 
little English volume, entitled " Cat and Dog ; or, the Memoirs of Puss and 
Captain." It is written in the form of an autobiography: Captain, a magnifi- 
cent setter dog narrating his ownjadventures. The story is the more delightful, 
that it is founded on fact — the reconciliation described below actually taking 
place, and resulting in a singular and amusing friendship between Captain and 
the kitten. Captain had loved very much his young mistress, Lily, and was so 
jealous of her regard for the kitten, that he hated and persecuted the poor little 
thing upon every safe occasion. Then it happened that Miss Lily went away 
from home, and poor Captain was left to brood over his loss. In a dream he 
saw his life from puppyhood up, and he reflected upon his conduct, and especially 
his jealousy, until he became ashamed of himself, and resolved to amend his life — 
a resolution which we earnestly commend to our little readers, whenever they have 
occasion to be dissatisfied with their past conduct. Captain thus tells his own 
significant story : — 

n O," thought I, as I jumped up ai:d shook myself all 
over, " I will not have this distressing experience for 
nothing ; I will make good use of it ; I cannot recall 
the past, but I will act differently for the future ;" and 
down I lay again to make plans for the future. Com- 
ing events cast no shadows before, either in the glass 
or in my dreams. I knew nothing about what I might, could, would, 
or should do. The Past I had lost, the Future was not in my power ; 
and what remained to me ] Perhaps I might never have an oppor- 
tunity of behaving well again. 

I was fast relapsing into despondency, when suddenly I was aroused 
from my dreams by a sound once odious to me. I raised myself 
upon my front paws and listened. There was no mistake, I heard it 
again ; a thin and timid mew, dying away in the distance, and sound- 
ing as i it proceeded from the mere shadow of a cat. But faint and 
shadowy as it was, I recognized it ; it recalled me to realities, and the 


'i'l',' 11 !- 
'Hi- ii 

4 I1NL i § \ Sam 

.■■" I' ;,ij!J. 7 '!,i 'l.' 1 1 ■^^Mi-wi.Lj i^(^Mlt k^K^ 's 

Making Friends. — See p. 87. 



conviction of my right line of conduct flashed acioss my mind. The 
Present — the present moment was mine. I could only take warning 
by the past, and hope for the future, but I must act now. I had but 
to take every opportunity when it offered itself, and there would be 
no fear of not having opportunities enough. Here was one ready at 
hand. Instead of worrying that kitten, who was now in my power, I 
would magnanimously endure her existence. I 'would do more, I 
would let her know that she. had nothing any longer to fear from me ; 
and in pursuance of this kind intention, I walked about the room in 
search of her. 

I soon descried her, perched upon the top of a high book-case, not 
daring to come down for fear of me. She was altered by recent 
events, though not so much as I. She looked forlorn and uncomfort- 
able, but not shaggy, haggard, or dirty. The regard to her toilette 
which had characterized her in better days, still clung to her, and 
made her neat and tidy in misfortune. The blue ribbon round her 
neck was indeed faded, but in other respects she looked as clean, and 
white, and sleek as Lily herself. She had evidently licked herself all 
over every day, instead of moping in the dirt. She and Lily had 
always been somewhat alike in point of cleanliness. Indeed, I once 
imagined that Lily must lick herself all over in order to look so 
clean ; but on further consideration I had reason to believe that she 
commonly attained her object by plunging into cold water, more 
after my own fashion. 

But to return to the kitten. There she stood, the very picture of 
fear ; her legs stretched, her tail arched, her bask raised, trying to 
assume the best posture of defence she could, but evidently believing 
it of no use. She mewed louder at every step I took nearer. Even 
if I had been inclined to harm her, she was safe enough on the top of 
that high book-case ; but she did not know that. In her inexperience, 
she fancied me able to spring about the world as she did, and ex- 
pected every moment that I should perch on the carved oak crown, 
and seizing her in my mouth, jump down again end crunch her as she 
would a mouse. 

She began running backwards and forwards on the top of her book* 


case, mewing piteously at every turn. I understood her language ; it 
meant, " Oh, what shall I do ] Mew, mew ! Pray, my lord, have 
pity upon an unfortunate kitten ! Mew, mew, mew ! If you will let 
me run away this time, I will keep out of your lordship's sight all the 
rest of my life. Mew, mew, mew, mew ! Oh dear, I had not the 
least intention of intruding on your highness ; I thought your majesty 
was in the stable. I wish I was in the coal-cellar myself. Oh, oh, 
pray ! oh, mew !" 

So she went on for a long time, in too great a fright to observe the 
encouragement and condescension which I threw into my countenance 
and manner. I sat down in front of the book-case, and holding my 
head on one side, looked up at her with an expression of gentle be- 
nevolence, which I thought must re-assure the most timid spirit. It 
had some effect. She ceased running from side to side, and stopped 
opposite me, her yellow eyes fixed on mine. I returned her gaze, and 
wagged my tail. She lowered hers, which had been held up like a 
peacock's, and reduced it to its natural dimensions. After a sufficient 
amount of staring, we began to understand one another, and Pussy's 
mews were in a very different tone, and one much more satisfactory 
to me. 

Though every animal makes use of a dialect of its own, so different 
as to appear to men a distinct language for each race, — for instance, 
the barking of a dog, the mewing of a cat, the bellowing of a bull, 
&c, — still, a general mode of expression is common to all, and all can 
understand and be understood by one another. The reason of this is, 
that the universal language is that of feeling only, which is alike to 
every one, and can be made evident by the most inarticulate sounds. 
Moans, murmurs, sighs, whines, growls, roars, are sufficient to express 
ouv feelings : our thoughts, when we have any, we must keep to our- 
selves; for they cannot be made intelligible by mere sound without 
speech, and speech we know belongs to man alone. In fact, I sup- 
pose it is the power of thinking and' speaking which makes him our 
master ; without it, I am not at all sure that he would have so much 
the upper hand of us, for we are very often the strongest. But a 
man can always know what he means to do. and why lie means to do 



it; and he can tell others, and consult them about it; which, of 
course, gives him an immense advantage over us, who only act upon 
the spur of the moment, without knowing whether we are right or 

Good nature was all that Pussy and I wanted to express just now, 
and that is always easy to show, with or without words. Mews in 
various tones from her were met by small, good-humoured half-barks 
and agreeable grunts from use, till at last she fairly left off mewing, 
and began to purr. Much pleased with my success so far, I now lay 
down, stretching out my front paws to their full length before, and 
my tail behind, brushing the floor in a half-circle with the latter. 
Then I yawned in a friendly way, and finally laid my head down on 
my paws to watch my little protege quietly, in hopes of enticing her 
from her fortress. 

This last insinuating attitude decided her. She gently placed first 
one little white paw, and then another, on projecting ornaments of the 
book-case, one step on the lion, and the next on the unicorn ; and 
without hurting either herself or the delicate carved work which she 
chose to use as her staircase, she alighted harmless and unharmed 
within my reach. Then she mewed once more ; but that was her 
last expression of doubt or dread. I soon re-assured her ; and that 
moment was the first of a confidence and intimacy seldom seen 
between our uncongenial races. 

fwfrtt from Jtiifg's fflttrttaL 

^^u. Li . 

Newtown Seminary. 

ULLY intended to have written again before this ; but, dear 
me ! one never finds time to do any thing on one's own 
account here, for it 's ail at the disposal of others. I don't 
see what it is so much that I do, but I have actually to 
hoard up the minutes, as a miser does his pennies, for fear 
least I should n't crowd all in, and when night comes, and I think of 
the day, I feel just as 1 used to do after a Christmas dinner at home — 
crammed ! 

I was sleeping so soundly the morning after I wrote ; and suddenly, 
there seemed to be a fly buzzing in my ear, and I jumped up in bed, 
and rubbed my eyes. Every thing looked indistinct in the struggling 
daylight, and, through the mist, sounded an excruciating jangling of 
bells that seemed to my sleepy senses like pins and needles pricking 
me. Libbie was putting on her stockings by the bedside; and as I 
covered my ears in horror, and was falling back among the clothes, 
she said, "No, no, little woman; the rising bell rings along time, 
and I awoke when it commenced. Hurry, or you won't be ready for 

It was five o'clock — and / rose at nine at home ! 
She laughed : "Don't sigh so bitterly; I see coming north is going 
to do you good. There, on with your slippers and dressing-gown." 
I obeyed ruefully — protesting the while against the barbarity, and 
cordially agreeing with Hood on the subject of early rising ; and I 
had washed my face and commenced to curl my hair, when another 
smaller bell sounded. "You had better go down first," said Libbie; 



" you won't have to stay so long, the monitress won't be so wide 

I laughed, and taking my shawl, descended to the class-room ; the 
oddest sight I met there ! A room full of girls over fifteen years of 
age, scattered about in attitudes the most grotesque, in costumes the 
most indiscriminate and indescribable. There was a quantity of faded 
calico dressing-gowns ; more night-gowns with shawls pinned over 
them ; several bare feet, and several more whose owners were then 
and there encasing them in their proper habiliments. The monitress 
was sitting on the platform, her elbows on the teacher's desk, and the 
curl-papers showing from her nightcap — calling the roll loudly and 
shortly, extorting a sleepy "present!" from the interesting looking 
individuals around. I said good-morning to one or two who greeted 
me politely ; duly answered when " Kitty Curleu !" was snapped out 
— and sat down to amuse myself with studying attitudes and express- 
ions for a large painting to be called "Morning," that lovely season, 
you know ; but, as soon as the Z's were got through, (there is ac- 
tually one Z — a Miss Zebedee, one of "Zebedee's children," doubt- 
less !) the monitress rushed up stairs, the bell jingled, and I followed 
the crowd, laughing heartily. 

The sight of Libbie's bible, however, open where she had been 
reading, reminded me of the purpose of the hour ; and as I closed the 
door after her, I knelt at the open window, and, with the birds, gave 
my good morning to God. After I had completed my toilet, and 
made the bed — such a sight, for I had never made one before ! and 
Libbie swept and dusted, we took a walk out in the beautiful grove 
which encircled the house, to freshen our complexions with May dew, 
and gather some lilac for a vase, to give a home-look to our room. 
The breakfast-bell called us in, and I felt thankful my chum had been 
here a week before me, as I made my first entree into the long low 
refectory, with its six tables, each headed and footed by a teacher, 
and flanked with rows of strange tall girls who eyed the new scholar 
curiously. Such a noise after the blessing was asked ! such a clash- 
ing and clattering of dishes, knives, and spoons, I could not hear my 
ears ! and to sit on a bench ! at a long table ! with an albata spoon 


and fork ! and there was no buckwheat, no egg-pone, no beefsteak ; 
and the coffee had milk — sky-blue — in it — oh, I was disgusted ! And 
those rough girls kept saying all the time "Potatoes, please ! Bread, 
please ! Butter, please !" and then they 'd hand them to me — pooh ! 
But I did allow myself, just out of politeness, you know, to eat a slice 
of bread after Libbie took the trouble to butter it for me ; and the 
coffee really tasted better than I expected, and I always liked potatoes, 
though I had never seen them for breakfast before. So I '' did" very 
well, after all ; and I talked and laughed. The girls around volun- 
teered to initiate me into the mysteries of boarding-school tactics, and 
many were the droll revelations [ received. I thought I should sur- 
vive, for the fun would keep one alive ; though one pitying friend 
was afraid I should never get reconciled to hash, and another thought 
the not being allowed to wear jewellery would overcome me. I 
thought, however, that they looked very neat and pretty in their 
debege dresses and low linen collars, even without a brooch, so I only 
laughed at the oddity of the regulation, and felt very amiable when, 
after breakfast, I followed the long troop into " chapel." 

" We have family worship here every morning," explained one of 
the girls ; " you will find it a great bore ; for the organ is cracked, 
and Miss Ilentz sings through her nose, and the girls don't keep 
time at all in the chants ; then one had so much rather be out in the 
grove all that time ! But I don't mind it so much, I sit away back, 
and eat ground-peas — I always save my ground-peas for chapel !" 

I made no answer to all this, the girl was so comically frank ; yet I 
knew it was wrong, and I did not at all agree with her. As I entered 
the pretty little church, looking so quiet and solemn with its Gothic 
windows, its white-railed chancel, and matted aisles — it seemed verily 
like "a church within the house," and quite natural to bend rever- 
ently before seating myself in the pew. Dr. Major — I had only had 
a glimpse of him before at breakfast — stood at the desk, tall, benign, 
and serious, in his flowing surplice, and after the full, deep organ volun- 
tary died away, Mrs. Major's strong voice was loudest in the con- 
fession to our "Almighty and most merciful Father." It seemed to 
me a beautiful and solemn way to commence the duties of the day ; 


my voice joined timidly in response and chant, and I told Libbie, as 
we passed from the quiet fragrant room, out into the open air, that I 
felt quite prepared to be good. She smiled soberl}'. Then came 
" exercise hour," and we made a merry time of it. " Five times round 
the grove" was the rule — and we ran, and jumped, and romped with 
the little girls. I had not yet acquired the boarding-school young lady 
style; the slow, gi'aceful saunter — with arms interlinked with some 
beloved nine-days' companion, and the rapid confidential interchange 
of secrets — most important! and endorsed with the "Now?/ you tell 
— I '11 never speak to you again !" 

Then the lessons came — mercy ! how quick and incessant ! twenty 
pages of Rhetoric, as many of Logic, and a dozen propositions in Geom- 
etry, to say nothing of a Music lesson — before dinner; then hash and 
potatoes, and dried apple-pie ; then drawing and painting, and German 
and French — by the way, my maitresse de Frangais (wonder if that 's 
right?) has such an interesting face, and looks as if she might be 
sympathetic • I have seen her but once, but I 'm going to love her 
certain if she '11 let me! — and after that we were thrust out into the 
grove, and every thing is so crammed together, with nothing but that 
inevitable bell dividing the incongruous mass ; and then came tea 
with milk-and-water, and thin buttered bread, and then study-hour, and 
devotion, and bed ; and that was the second day, and all the rest are 
just like it — oh, dear! I 'm almost out of breath, and Libbie wants 
me to go and return some calls, now while it 's intermission (we do 
have intermission sometimes indeed!) so I must stop— «-ah! 

i Utarrjf £>ip* 

In entering Aries the sun shines on 

The Ram with crooked horns and golden fleece ; 
March with its storms is come — the Winter gone — 

The days in length will very soon increase. 

%\t |!ll t. 

HO, among the readers of the Schoolfellovj, 
would imagine that there is any connection 
between the bird whose picture is given above, 
and the quaint old adage — 

" He does not know a Hawk from a Handsaw" ? 

And yet there is a connection between them, 
and that so intimate, that the handsaxo of the 
proverb is nothing else than the Heron itself. To explain this paradox, 
it is necessary only to recall to mind an old name of the Heron — 
which was Heronshaio, or Hernshaw. The proverb, " He does not 
know a Hawk from a Hernshaw," was expressive of stupidity — since 
these two birds were totally unlike, and could scarcely be confounded 
by any one possessed of common sense. The corruption of Hernshaw 
into Handsale, has greatly marred the significance of the saying — 
which, however, is still in common use. 

In ancient times the Heron shaw was famous in the popular art of 



falconry. It was so much esteemed both as an object of that aris- 
tocratic sport, and also as an article of food upon the tables of the 
great, that a fine of one pound was imposed upon any one who de- 
stroyed its eggs. In the times of Henry the Eighth, a heron was 
worth as much as a fine pheasant. But it was not only for sport or 
for food that this bird was esteemed. The plumes which crown its 
head, and those which droop over the wings, were prized as orna- 
ments, and their use was confined to the noble of the land. 

The common Heron (cinerea ardea) is found extensively in various 
parts of the w r orld. In England, it is quite common to find heronries, 
like the rookeries, in the lofty trees which surround the fine old man- 
sions of the country. Sometimes there is a feud between the herons 
and the rooks on account of the trees, and fierce battles have been 
known to take place between them. Generally, however, they peace- 
ably divide the trees, and each party keeps to itself. The heron's 
nest is a rude structure of dry sticks, deposited in a crotch of the tree, 
but it is carefully lined with wool, upon which are laid five blueish- 
green eggs. The uncouth appearance of the young herons may be 
conceived from the exceeding ugliness of the bird in full feather. 

The Heron is made by some naturalists a symbol of solitude, be- 
cause it is accustomed to watch alone for its prey. It will stand 
perfectly motionless in a shallow pond or stream, and in the gray 
twilight of morning may easily be mistaken for a stump. If closely 
watched, however, it will be seen suddenly to dart its strong sharp 
beak into the water, and almost unerringly strike and capture a fish 
for its breakfast — which it soars away to enjoy in its lofty nest. 

The day of the Heron seems to have gone by — not that the bird is 
becoming extinct or very scarce — but hawking is no longer a fashion- 
able sport ; the flesh of the heron is no longer sought for by the 
gourmand, and heron-plumes cannot now vie with ostrich feathers or 
with cunning and delicate artificial fabrics, as ornaments for the head 
of beauty and pride. Alas for the poor Heron of modern times ! 



EAR COUSIN SAM :— I can begin my letter with a 

piece of your poetry, for I 've come here " to see our 

grandmother." I never can have much poetry in my 

letters, for my mamma says she can't make it as your 

lamma can ; but she will tell me, some day, a great deal 

other people have made; some by "Mother Goose," 

and some by " Mother Hubbard." Why are they called our 

mothers, Sam % 

I have just heard your letter read, and was much affected by its 
loving messages. I was glad to find that you admire me, and like my 
hands, arms, and neck. I think myself that they are pretty — and 
mamma makes me such lovely aprons, and trims them so nicely, 
and keeps the sleeves always fastened up with coral or gold brace- 
lets, or with ribbons. I have a great variety of dresses ; crimson, like 
yours, and blue, and pink, and pale green, and one of buff cashmere, 
so charmingly embroidered ; and then so many sashes, great thick 
broad ribbons that can stand alone, — but I don't wear those to creep 
in — I only see them now and then in my drawer. I like my short 
dresses now, for I admire such nice shoes as I have, of so many different 
kinds. I expect it 's because I am a girl, that they take such pains 
with my dress, for, as I once told you, I find girls must be admired for 
something ; and just to think, after all my trouble about them, that 
now I 'm admired for my little hand and foot ! The way those feet 
are good to stand on and walk with, J am just finding out. Mamma 
says, "stand up, Edie, all alone, 'loney," and then I throw up my 



arms over my breast, and stand still a minute ; then she says, " first 
foot, second foot, — come to mamma, little girlie," and I step off to her, 
and fall into her lap and laugh. Oh, it is charming ! 

You will see that we have left New York, where I was born, and 
all the dear people there, and my dear Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom ; 
even my papa is not much with us now. He has only been up here 
once to see us. Some day we are going back, I think ; but I like my 
grandmother's house very well. It is warmer than it was in the - 
big city, at least it is for me. We, that is mamma and Bertie and 
I, have a beautiful room here, and I have a basket-cradle, which I like 
very much. I have my own nurse, Ellen, too, and she is very good to 
me, and so is grandmamma and my little Aunt Kitty; still I miss all the 
people I knew in New York. Before we came away, I went to have 
my picture taken for my first nurse, and another of the servants who 
was very fond of me. I found I had such beautiful eyes, and a dear 
little mouth, but I was sorry to see so little hair on the top of my 
head, where you have lovely long curls ! 

We had a dismal time that last week in New York. The doors 
were kept opening and shutting all the time; the rooms were cold,- 
and in great confusion ; all the books and pictures were taken down 
and sent away, and the silver was packed away in a chest, all but our 
silver cups, and spoons, and forks. Aunt Mary cried when she kissed 
me, and said, " her heart would break," for you know we are never 
going to New York to live again, only to visit. But I was most 
sorry for Ellen — she thinks a great deal about " Barney ;" maybe he 
is her brother, as Bertie is mine. He gave her a beautiful gold ring 
for her finger, and he promised to come and see her that last morning, 
but we went off before Barney came ; and I am. sometimes afraid 
" her heart will break," or something dreadful happen, she feels so 
badly about him. I have to be sorry for her, for she is good to me, 
and I love her. 

We had no trouble at the last, except that our trunk, (Bertie's and 
mine,) was tipped into the mud, and all my fine clothes were muddied, 
because the spring-lock came unfastened. Such things you never 
saw, though Bertie has ! They looked just as he does sometimes when 


it 's rainy weather ! But mamma did not cry when she saw them, so 
I did not, for I must try and do as she does. I don't cry much now. 
I think 1 am very happy. 

This morning I had a great fright. A pretty little round-house 
which hangs up in the dining-room was taken down, and what should 
happen when auntie opened the door, but a pretty little yellow crea- 
ture darted out, and whizzed by me. I had been trying to call 
" birdie, birdie," and " pet, pet," as the others did, but when it began 
to fly, I was so frightened that my hand on mamma's shoulder shook, 
and I trembled all over, and was obliged to scream little quick sob- 
bing screams. Oh ! I thought I should never get my breath again, 
when I saw that strange little " birdie !" How can such a little crea- 
ture go by itself, when I, who am so much larger, have such hard 
work to learn 1 

I have a great many new play-things here. My papa brought me 
a crying baby, which I can kiss instead of tasting, and can pat, and 
rock to sleep ; and she always makes me think of you, she has such 
large blue eyes, with brown fringes to them, and such a sweet mouth. 
Then I try to read to mamma, as Bertie does, but though I hold up 
a book and try ever so hard, it only sounds to me like " ba, ba, ba," 
and I play " peep bo," behind the sofa, and I get into the dressing- 
closet, and have a grand time with all Bertie's things when he is gone 
to school. One day mamma put his boots on me ! Was n't I a funny 
figure ; and I often wear his fur-eared cap and his comforter, as he 
calls it. He wants to give me a ride on his new sled, but mamma 
thinks I can't have one yet, for fear he would throw me off into the 
great soft white snow which covers every thing now. Have you got 
a sled yet, and those little iron things boys go on the ice with ? We 
are going across the river on the ice some day, in a great sleigh, with 
two horses, and fur robes to cover us up. What a nice thing it will 
be, with the bells jingling, and the other sleighs flying by us at such 
a rate. I think I like this winter, as they call it. 

Oh, Sam ! I almost forgot to tell you that I 've got a tooth — my 
first tooth. I am very old, I 'm afraid to be getting along so slowly ; 
but what can I do when they won't come, and only stay away and 


ache, and ache. If it was not for getting my teeth, and that papa is 
away, and Aunty Mary, and Uncle Tom, and Uncle Add, and you so 
far off, and if I could walk all alone, and could talk like Bertie, I 
should be perfectly happy. Dear me, so many things when I thought 
I was quite happy now ! I don't think I ought to think of what I 
have not got, but of what I have, and then I shall forget that I 'm not 
" quite happy." I just heard my mamma say that, and it seemed so 
good that I thought perhaps it might do you good too. 

And now, Sam, for this long letter, written so soon after yours 
come, you will be kind enough, I hope, to give me another. Will 
you kiss your papa and mamma for me, and love me always? 

[It was our happy expectation to continue the publication of the Baby Cor- 
respondence at least through the present volume, for we have been frequently 
told by our readers and friends that the letters afforded them much gratification. 
It could not be, therefore, without regret that we are suddenly required to an- 
nounce that the foregoing letter is the last of this unique series. But that regret 
is deepened into a sorrow, which we shall not attempt to express, by the sad 
cause of this interruption. The dear little girl who was represented in this cor- 
respondence has been called to a place among the angels since the foregoing 
letter was put in type. We have looked for the last time upon her sweet baby 
face, and her little body rests beneath the snow in the grave-jard at Hudson. 

It may interest the readers of the Schoolfellow to know that Sam and Edith 
were cousins — the former being the only child of Mrs. Alice Neal Eaven, and 
the latter the only daughter of her sister, Mrs. Richards. Under their familiar 
nommes des plume (or writing names) they have respectively conducted the corre- 
spondence for the two children, the elder of whom is now about seventeen months, 
and the younger was not quite thirteen months, when she closed her eyes for 
ever to the scenes of earth, and opened them upon the strange beauties of heaven. 
She still lives, however, in loving hearts, and now the memory of her beauty 
and infantile graces is only less a treasure to us, than she was ia her brief earth- 
life. — Editor.] 

fiitig (iraij; 


LLEN GRAY was a very neat, careful girl. Busy 
as a bee all the day long, and always busy for some 
/S useful purpose too, she was a world of help to her mother, 
and saved her many a household trouble. The neighbours 
held her up as a bright example to their own daughters ; 
and Mrs. Gray would listen to their praises with motherly 
pride and fondness, always saying, " if Kitty were only as good 
a daughter, she would have nothing to wish for." 
So Ellen, almost unconsciously, grew a little vain and over-bear- 
ing, so many praises spoiled her somewhat ; and Kitty, her little 
sister, getting little but blame from Ellen, as well as everybody else, 
grew more and more careless and idle, and tried less and less to 
please anybody. She certainly was a careless child, and made a 
great deal of trouble both for her mother and sister. She was ofteu 
very sorry for her naughtiness, and wished that she could be good ; 
but then when she did try, nobody ever noticed it, and when she did 
wrong, she was scolded so much that she grew hardened and reckless 



at last, and began to think it was no use in the world to try to do 
any better. 

Ellen, because she was older, and really did so much for Kitty, 
thought she had a perfect right to scold and lecture her as much as 
she pleased. And though she did it with the best intentions gene- 
rally, it was very true that she was ofteu more severe to her little 
sister than even the occasion demanded. It was Ellen's failing, an 
impatient temper, and a little love of domineering; and her scolding 
always did Kitty more harm than good. 

" I don't see what right she has to hector me so," the child said 
angrily to herself one day, when Ellen had been reproving her in her 
usual style. " If she is my sister, and if she {5 every thing good in 
the world, and I am every thing bad, she don't make me any better 
by telling me such things, and I won't take it from her any longer — 
that I won't ! I wish I was twice as bad as I am, just for spite !" 

Down through the pretty flower-garden Kitty rushed in her pas- 
sionate anger, never heeding how she trod upon the well-kept borders 
that Ellen took such care of, and dashed off leaves and flowers from 
the tall plants, in her impetuous speed. Her heart was full of bitter 
and passionate feelings, and she did not think or care what mischief 
she might do. 

There was a little flower-stand at the foot of the garden-walk, full 
of plants which specially belonged to Ellen, and Ellen was particu- 
larly proud and fond of them. Kitty did not mean to harm them, 
angry and revengeful as she felt, but she did not try to be very care- 
ful as she hurried past them ; and her torn dress, the very thing for 
which Ellen had been scolding her, caught suddenly on a projecting 
nail, and the light flower-stand, in a moment, was pulled to the 
ground. Broken pots and crushed plants lay heaped upon each 
other, a hopeless ruin ; and Kitty, quickly sobered by a sight of the 
mischief she had done, stood still, pale with sorrow and dismay. 

What should she do ] What would Ellen say 1 But all doubts 
on that matter were very soon settled, for her sister suddenly made 
her appearance in the midst of the trouble. Poor Kitty ! She hid 
her face in her hands, and burst into desolate crying. But Ellen's 


anger was too extreme to be softened by any grief, and she scolded 
the child in most pitiless language, saying such bitter . things to her 
that Kitty's heart was almost broken. 

[Conclusion in our next.] 

®i»0 fitlle fakttiitus* 

[The following verses have been in our possession for nearly a twelve-month. 
They were received too late for insertion in the February number of last year, 
and when we looked for them, to print them in our last number, we could not 
find them. We might, therefore, perhaps, have let them pass altogether, as out 
of time ; but for the fact that the little boy to whom one of the valentines is 
addressed — died not long after it was written. We print them, therefore, as a 
memorial. — Editor.] 


Your mother's brow, now smooth and fair, 
Has not a sign of wrinkle there, 
And not a lock of silver gray, 
Could you at present pluck away. 
Be careful, child, as time wears on, 
And boyhood's sunny hours are gone, 
No furrow on thy mother's face 
Thy follies there shall ever trace ; 
No act of thine her fond heart blight, 
Nor change her raven locks to white. 


A little bird once built a nest 
Of new-mown hay ; for that was best 
To lay a little fledgeling on, 
Which she expected soon would come. 
The tiny thing did come at last, 
Was warmly sheltered from the blast, 
It lived, and chirped, and finely grew 
Until at last away it flew ; 
Ungrateful child, it never came 
To see its mother once again. 

The time will come, I dare to say, 
When you, my dear, will fly away ; 
But do not, if you "d save a tear, 
Forget or slight your mother dear. 

%\i Nairn's &{fait|f|jts. 

" I wonder what the baby thinks ! 

Just see how wide awake she lies, 

And crows at me, and stares and winks 

- With laughing wonder in her eyes." 

I '11 answer for her little girl. 

" Whose can it be, that smiling face 
With hair like sunshine in a curl 

That hangs around my nestling-place ? 

" At three months old, I 've much to 

For every thing looks strange to me. 
But then I know enough to turn 

To all the brightest things I see. 

" Red roses on the curtain grow. 

Once, when 'twas up, I saw a star. 
I wonder, black-eyes, if you know 

How many pretty things there are. 

"Now, don't you wish you were n't so tall, 
So you 'd live in a cradle too, 

And talk to shadows on the wall, 
And think you heard them talk to 

' ' But then I could n't spare you, dear, 
For when I wake from cozy dreams, 

And that great sun goes by so near, 
You kiss me, like his warmest beams, 

" I guess that you, and mother too, 
Are pieces broken from the sun. 

No : she 's the sun ; a sunbeam you, 
For when 'tis dark, you both are gone. 

" I lie here guessing every day 
What you, the sun and roses be. 

A little world 'tis where we stay, 
But large and bright enough for me." 

There, little girl ! your pleasant face 
Will give the baby thoughts like these. 

Then let no frown your brow disgrace, 
But be the loveliest thing she sees. 

E are tempted to offer our little riddlers to-day a greet- 
ing for spring; for the strip of sunny blue sky that we 
peep out upon from the window of our sanctum, re- 
minds us that even " stormy March" has its beautiful 
days well worthy of the bonnie Spring. There are no flowers yet 
for us ; but we know of many a sunny little nook in the Schoolfellow's 



well-beloved Southern land, where blue and white violets are spring 
ing up thickly even now amongst their broad shady leaves, and 
scenting the air with their faint, exquisite fragrance. Golden crocuses, 
too, and fair, fragile white-bells, are bursting through the brown earth, 
befure the snow has fairly melted from our city gardens. 

No matter ! we will greet joyously every promise of spring that 
the blue sky and bright sun-shine give us to-day, and appreciate as 
lovingly, as if the " green and golden" blossom were before us, this 
pretty answer to Mary Maurice's charming flower riddle : 



Through the woods and the meadows at play, 
Nannie has wandered this long bright day ; 
Now in the evening cool and sweet, 
Homeward she boundeth with light little feet : 
Thinking, perhaps, of a table spread 
With golden butter and snow-white bread, 
And her own little painted china cup 
With fragrant milk filled brimming up. 
Thinking, too, of the brilliant store 
Gathered up in her pinafore — 
Spring-tide blossoms of varied bloom, 
Burdened, some, with a rare perfume, 
And some as bright as the summer-skies ; 
But none were fairer in Nannie's eyes, 
Than as simple a flower as ever looks up — 
The green and golden butter-cup. 

Another answer — and the only one besides — is sent us by our dear 
little friend Julia. We give one stanza of it, which is all we have 
room for, and think it very good for a little girl's first attempt in 

This little flower is small and neat, 
And to me also is very sweet ; 
And in despair I must give up, 
If it is not a butter-cup. 

We have next a very smooth and graceful 



The golden chain which rivets friend to friend 

Is sweetly symbolled by the myrtle vine ; 
Then with it, branches of the olive blend, 

And peace with love will gracefully entwine. 
The gaudy tulip in its stately pride 

Lifts its vain head, and spurns the meaner lot 
Of modest heart' sease blooming by its side, 

Which gentle tones "forget me not." 
The everlasting seeks not to be seen, 

But claims remembrance from each constant mind, 
And last the rose, of flowers the lovely queen, 

Asks in this varied wreath to be entwined. 
Thus the sweet name of Mother will appear, 
To all true hearts a name for ever dear. by h. w. o. 

Thanks to " Daisy" for her pretty 

When weary watcher's tears are flowing 

For some loved wanderer o'er the sea, 
Bright smiles break through the tears, all glowing, 

Catching, " I come V sweet melody. 

There is a spot by glory crowned, 

Which once did noblest valour see ; 
And sweetest music floats around 

The "pass" of old Thermopylae 

When wandering o'er the pathless ocean, 

The sport of wind, and wave, and tide, 
To brave the hurricane's commotion 

The " compass" is our only guide." 

We thank II. 0., also, for his metrical solution of the same. 

We would like to publish " Minnie's" answer, but it is too long to 
be crowded into our limited space. We thank her for it, nevertheless, 
and hope to hear again from her in this "corner." With a little more 
care to make her versification smooth, Minnie will write very graceful 

Queen Titania deserves our consideration next, and we discover 
that a very simple wand indeed will dissolve all her fairy-like trans- 
formations and combinations into very matter-of-fact realities. We 
can hardly be said to wield the veritable wand ourself, for our gold 
pen wears no " feathery robe ;" nevertheless, it is enough of a magi- 
cian to transform those four alphabetical brothers, A, T, R, S, first 


into a family of saucy rats — again into the soul-elevating arts — a third 
time into four jolly tars — and lastly into a single beautiful star! 
" Daisy" and Lucille Ferrers also send us solutions of the enigma. 

Lastly (in our backward movement) is the clever enigma, by Frances 
Holcombe. Several have rightly guessed the subject of the riddle ; 
Dut only one of our correspondents has ventured a rhyming reply to 
it, and that is so nearly in the words of the original, that it is scarcely 
advisable to publish it. To those who are still in ignorance, we will 
mention the word Oyster, and they will " see through a mill-stone with 
both eyes" at once ! We hope to hear again from Frances. 

We are quite willing, however, not to hear again from the " friend 
to the Schoolfellow," who has taken the liberty to make some imper- 
tinently ridiculous criticisms upon the above-mentioned enigma. 
Anonymous letters reflect no credit upon a gentleman, and we do not 
care to know the author of such effusions ; therefore, in the name of 
the Schoolfellow, we must beg leave to deny our " friend" the honour 
of the title he has assumed. 

So much for the prize riddles, which are now all disposed of, we 
believe ; and we have room left for a contribution from our much- 
loved correspondent and faithful friend, Inez — 'from whom we never 
hear but with delight ; but from whom we hear quite too seldom of 
late. She sends us a very unique and beautiful 

What's the first duty of the morning? 
Sloth and self-indulgence scorning — 
'Tis to heed the cock's shrill warning, 

Which plainly tells my first. 
You will see upon the bushes, 
(If not nightingales and thrushes — ) 
My second, whose warm bosom's flush is 

Like rose-buds just half burst. 
In the garden where he 'b sitting — 
(Lightly step, or he '11 be flitting — !) 
Seek .my whole, these parts befitting — 

A flower for love's expression nursed. 

Other Charades which we hoped to publish in this number, must 
lie over until our next, as we have already exceeded the limits of -space 
appropriated for this department of our magazine. 

" %, digital §»»& Art i\t jtotitt-felt 



,/ Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled him to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's "Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happ'uy and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but (i children of a larger growth" may derive both know- 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home." 

[D-BSPieiAL lOTieiicO 

Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Harry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 






a magaots m exm aid bgys; a 


Mr. W. C. Richards and "Cousin Alice." 

This work has been in existence for six years, during which time it has 
acquired a degree of popularity unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, and 
frequently been pronounced by the press, both North and South, " the best and 
cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States." 


is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and 
aims at the cultivation of the heart as well as of the mind. It is an original ma- 
gazine, and its articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for 
the young in the country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Richards, it will continue 
under his general superintendence, with the constant aid of " Cousin Alice," 
(Mrs. Alice B. Neal), the popular author of the " Home Books," whose name alone 
is a talisman to command the love and favor of children, supported by a large 
number of favourite writers. 


of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skillful artists, and 
are unequaled in variety and beauty by those of any other Juvenile Magazine. 

Postmasters are requested to act as agents for the work, and may retain the 
usual commission for new subscribers. Specimen copies sent gratis on application, 
post-paid, to the Publishers. The volume commences with the January number, 
and back numbers of the volume will always be forwarded. To any who wish 
them, we can supply bound volumes of the '• Scuoolfellow" from the first, at 
$1 25 per volume, or six dollars for the entire set. 

TERMS — One Dollar a year, in advance. 



CahU nf Cntttetrt*. 

MAY, 1855. 

The Journey to London. Bt the Author op " The Doll and her Friends." 

The Closet under the Stairs. .... By Mrs. Bradley. 

A Western Prairie in Summer. . . . . By Roscoe. 

Moral Strength By Mrs. Richards. 

The Tame Woodpigeon By M. S. C. 

Sedgemoor. Chapter XXXII. ... By Mrs. Manners. 

The Happy Home. By E. B. Cheesborough. 

Geraldine's Holidays. By Caroline Howard. 

Conversations on New Books By the Editor. 

The Riddler's Cornek. . . . . . By Various Contributors. 


As our subscribers well know, the Schoolfellow must be paid for 
in advance. One Dollar, thus paid, will secure his visits for the com- 
ing year. Money properly mailed to the Publisher will be at his 
risk. We are already receiving new subscribers for this volume, 
which, we trust, will prove superior to any of its predecessors. 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for the year. 

For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
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Bookseller & Publisher, 

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* # * Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

$3T We would call especial attention to our Prospectus for 1855 
on the last page of the cover. 


[It affords us pleasure to gratify our little friend Elsie, by making another 
extract from the very entertaining "Memoirs of Puss and the Captain," from 
which, it will be remembered by our readers, we copied recently the account 
of their " making friends." Soon after that important event, Captain went to 
London with his master, on a visit to Miss Lily. While there, in spite of the 
excitement which the great city afforded him, he pined for his Pussy, and, like 
a dog of spirit and generosity as he certainly was, he resolved to go back to 
her, native village and fetch her. We have not room to detail his adventures 
on the road thither, nor the surprise and delight with which he was welcomed 
back ; but must take up the narrative at the moment of his arrival at his mas- 
ter's house, which we proceed to do in his own graphic language.] 

f PEEPED in at the kitchen window, and there sat my Pussy, 
in her old place before the fire, looking just as when I left 
her — the neatest, whitest, softest, and gentlest of creatures. 
She was not surprised to see me. She winked and blinked a little, 
as if she was dreaming of me at that moment, and was afraid to 
open her eyes more than half way, lest the dream should vanish ; 
but at last she opened them altogether, and the dream turned to 
reality. Then, had we not a happy meeting ! 

There was much to tell on both sides before we could properly 
discuss the grand object of my coming, and our time was a good deal 
taken up by a constant succession of visitors ; not dogs or cats, as 
might have been expected, but boys and girls, men and women, 
friends of the servants, all pouring in to see me. From -the time that 
the gardener and his wife had satisfied themselves that my master was 
not coming with me, they seemed to consider my arrival stranger 
than ever, and to think it necessary to inform everybody of the cir- 
cumstance — though I should certainly have supposed there would be 
more wonder in seeing two persons than one. Pussy did not approve 
of so much company, as she always disliked to be stared at ; I, being 
of .a less retiring turn of mind, was perhaps rather flattered by the 



notice ; but, by the time evening came, even I was glad to have the 
house quiet. Then we lay by the fire, and explained all our feelings 
to each other. 

I described to my friend how unhappy I had been without her, and 
how, amidst all the pleasures of London, I had languished for her 
company, till I could bear my loneliness no longer ; and I entreated 
her, for my sake, to relinquish all her present habits, and to try a new 
life and a new home. 

She heard me with much sympathy, and owned that she, too, had 
been unhappy ; and that, notwithstanding the placid exterior which 
she had thought it right to keep up, she had missed me quite as much 
as I had missed her. But she did not at once, as I hoped, agree ea- 
gerly to my proposal of accompanying me to London. She hesi- 
tated. The journey seemed an arduous undertaking. What strange 
dogs she might meet ! what showers of rain ! what obstacles of all 
kinds, that had never suggested themselves to me ! 

I strenuously combated all her objections, trying to convince her 
that the journey which seemed so formidable would turn out a mere 
pleasure-excursion. I did not mind getting wet myself; but as she 
did, I was glad to assure her that there was plenty of shelter in case 
of rain. Indeed, one might suppose that the whole road had been 
laid out for the express convenience of cat travellers : there were 
such hedges, trees, stiles, sheltered nooks, and sunny banks in every 
direction. Then, as for strange dogs, was I not there to protect her] was I 
not a match for any dog ? and did she not know that I would gladly 
shed the last drop of my blood in her cause, besides enjoying a fight on 
my own account 1 She sighed, but her sigh was a nearer approach 
to a purr than before, though her objections were far from being 

She owned that she dreaded change. She had her own habits and 
her own duties ; she had been used all her life to that same house, 
with its cellars and its pantries under her especial charge, and she was 
afraid that in a new place she might be idle and uncomfortable. 

This seemed to me a most unreasonable punctilio. I allowed that 
she might fairly prefer the country, but I could not for a moment 


admit that a town life need be idle. Did she suppose there were no 
mice in London 1 I could answer for the contrary. The servants 
were perpetually complaining not only of mice, but of rats ; and 
only the day before I started, I had heard them declare that they 
could not do without a cat any longer. A most active life was open 
to her. The only danger was, that she might find too much to do, 
and that her love of neatness and comfort might be revolted by the 
dark crannies and gloomy cellars in which she had to seek her work. 
But as for being useless, that was indeed an idle fear any where, for 
any body who wished to work. 

She listened attentively, and began to purr in a more decided 

" Still," said she, " I am afraid they will miss me here." 

" No doubt," I replied ; " but their loss can be remedied. A house 
like this can be kept in order by a very inferior cat to yourself; and 
after all, you are cherished here chiefly because it was Lily's wish. 
Peggy can easily find another kitten ; and you know she has often 
said that white cats were not to her taste, and she should much prefer 
a tabby." 

" True, true," murmured Puss ; and seeing that she was gradually 
softening, I continued to place every inducement before her in the 
strongest light. I represented the present unguarded state of the 
sugar, candles, preserves, &c, in a manner to touch the feelings of 
any domestic cat, and dwelt at some length on the improvement that 
must take place in the house under her vigilant superintendence. And 
I finally crowned my persuasions with the tenderest appeal to her 
affection for me, drawing a vivid picture of the difference to me and 
to my happiness that would result from her companionship. Pussy 
had for some time been wavering, and before I had finished my ha- 
rangue, she purred a full consent. 

I need not describe my delight at thus gaining the great object of 
my life. Some feelings should not be made public property. My 
happiness was not of a nature to be boisterous, but it was such as to 
satisfy Pussy that she had decided aright. 

At break of day we began our grand adventure, as we were anxious 


to lose no time ; and we had been so well fed over-night, that we 
could defy hunger for the next twenty-four hours. When I had set 
out on my solitary journey, I had felt very easy about my accommo- 
dations and mode of travelling ; but now that I had my less hardy 
companion, many cares crowded on my mind, and I pondered so pro- 
foundly over every arrangement, that Puss seemed the most cheerful 
and courageous of the two. Indeed, from the moment she agreed to 
my request, she generously gave to the winds all her former objec- 
tions, and thought of nothing but helping me, and giving as little 
trouble as possible herself. 

We passed through our native village quietly. All curious ob- 
servers had visited us the night before ; and our friendship was so 
well known, that the sight of us together attracted no notice beyond 
a few kind words ; but on emerging into the great world of the Lon- 
don road, we were obliged to hold a consultation upon our proceed- 
ings. Though our object was the same, our views of the best means 
of attaining it did not quite agree ; Pussy's idea being to avoid fight- 
ing, mine to be prepared for it. Doubtless a combination of both 
principles was our true policy. 

We reconnoitred our route. Fields on each side were divided 
from the road by hedges, and there was a raised path between 
the hedge and the road. We decided that I should run along the 
open path, looking out for every danger, while Pussy, as much out of 
sight as possible, crept along the field on the other side of the hedge. 
Though this arrangement separated us, it was by far the safest ; the 
thick green hedge hid the cat from observation, and there were plenty 
of gaps through which we could take an opportunity of peeping at 
each other, unmarked by any one else. Moreover, the fields had at- 
tractions for Pussy besides mere security ; she could catch birds and 
field-mice, and thus secure a comfortable meal at any moment. 

la this manner we proceeded pleasantly for many miles ; I trotting 
steadily onwards, and Puss creeping behind the hedge at her usual 
stealthy pace. When prudence permitted, we enlivened our journey 
by various agreeable diversions. Sometimes, on coming to a paling 
or a wall, Puss jumped up with her usual activity, and ran along the 


top. Occasionally we made a halt, while she climbed a pleasant 
tree, and I reposed on the grass under its shade. Or she would rest 
on a sunny bank, while I amused myself by watching any passing 
carriages and horses in the road. Once or twice we left the beaten 
path in search of water, but we were careful not to wander far out of 
our way. 

In going through one village, we observed some treltis-work on the 
gable end of a house, affording facilities of ascent quite irresistible to 
a cat of spirit. Puss was on the perpendicular wall in an instant, 
climbing hand over hand, or rather paw over paw, till she reached the 
roof. There she revelled in her favourite exaltation, and enjoyed 
herself thoroughly in darting over the slates, and making excursions 
up and down the chimney-stacks. As there were several houses ad- 
joining, she had the opportunity of a considerable promenade along 
the gutters, very satisfactory till she came to the end of the row ; 
but there, unfortunately, she found no means of coming down again. 
There was no trellis ; and a blank wall, without a single projection to 
afford a footing, was beyond even her dexterity. There was nothing 
to be done but to retrace her steps ; I, meanwhile, running along the 
foot-path, and looking up with some anxiety. 

But we were not obliged to go back very far. The middle house 
was an inn, with a sign-post before it, from which hung a picture of a 
red lion rampant — an ugly beast, and far from royal. I thought I 
would have shaken him to pieces if he had be>en alive, but under 
present circumstances I was very glad to see him. Puss sprang from 
the roof to the cross-beam which supported him, and from thence 
easily scrambled down his post to the ground. Very glad I was to 
have her at my side again, and to make our way through the village 

All these freaks had rather hindered us, as people cannot go out 
of their way for amusement without wasting more time than they 
reckon upon ; and I now urged Puss to resist such temptations, and 
to keep up a steady walk on her side of the hedge. Not being able 
to climb myself, I had no sympathy with her great love of the art ; 
and, in fact, I had sometimes considered her power of ascending 


heights, and finding footing in places inaccessible to me, as a fault in 
her character. But, as I did not wish to be ill-natured and disagreea- 
ble, I indulged her taste, though believing it to be useless, if not dan- 
gerous, and often persuading her to keep to the beaten path in every- 

But I thought myself wiser than I was, and I had to learn by expe- 
rience that every different nature and endowment may have its pe- 
culiar advantages. Before we were out of sight of that village, the 
very talent which I had despised was the means of saving Pussy's life. 

The hedgerow, which had hitherto been our safeguard and screen 
from impertinent observation, had come to an end ; the fields were 
separated from the road only by an open ditch, and young trees, en- 
closed in palings, were planted at regular intervals along the path. 
We were trotting leisurely, thinking of no mischief, when at a turn 
in the road there suddenly darted out upon us a fierce and powerful 
mastiff! To leap the ditch and be at Pussy's side was the work of a 
moment both for him and for me, though with very different emo- 
tions : he to assail, I to defend her. The attack was so sudden, that 
Puss- had no time to use her weapons to any -purpose ; she just man- 
aged to give one spirited claw at his nose with a loud hiss, and then 
sprang faster and higher than I had ever seen her spring before, 
and gained the top of the paling just in time to escape his seizure. 
If she had not been able to jump, she would have been a dead cat. 
Even then she was not quite out of his reach, and he flew after her ; 
but I threw myself upon him while she bounded to the little tree, and 
climbed its branches till she gained a place of safety. 

Then the mastiff and I had a battle royal. The very recollection 
of it at this day does me good. We were all in the highest state of 
excitement. Puss in the tree, her back showing high above her ears, 
and her tail swelled to the size of a fox's brush, puffing and spitting 
at her enemy like a snake or a steam-engine ; the mastiff running 
round the paling on his hind legs, banging up against it on every side, 
and barking and howling with rage ; I, no less furious, howling and 
barking at him in return, and galloping round the tree as wildly as 
he did. Determined to try every thing, he turned to dash round the 


other way, and we came full upon each other. I need not describe 
the consequences. "Greek" may " meet Greek," and I leave the 
result to the learned ; but if any body had ever doubted whether, 
when dog meets dog, " then comes the tug of war," now was the 
time to convince themselves. We certainly did tug at each other 
most decidedly. Our strength and courage were so nearly equal, 
that for some time the victory was doubtful. Again aVid again each 
hero, bitten, scratched, and bruised, rolled in the dust, and rose up 
again, shaking ears and coat, ready to rush upon his adversary with 
undiminished spirit. The final issue seemed to depend entirely upon 
the power of holding out longest. As I scorn to boast, I candidly 
confess that I was many times ready to ask for quarter, and own my- 
self beaten : indeed, if I had only been fighting on my own account, 
I must have yielded ; but the goodness of my cause supported me, 
and in defence of my friend I performed exploits of valour that I did 
not know to be in my nature. At last, I had the satisfaction to see 
my enemy fairly turn round, and with drooping head, and tail be- 
tween his legs, sneak off to his own home in a very different state 
of mind and body from that in which he left it. I sent after him a 
bark of triumph that made the woods re-echo ; but my best reward 
was in my Pussy's thanks and praises, and the happy consciousness 
of being her successful champion. p 

I required a little rest after my exertions ; but before long we were 
on the move again, and met Avith no further impediments until we 
arrived at our resting-place for the night. This was under the shelter 
of an empty barn, rather infested by rats, so that Puss found both 
food and lodging. Tastes differ : I was. glad of a comfortable roof and 
a warm corner ; but, though Puss pressed me to partake of her pro- 
vision, I preferred going without a meal for once in my life to sharing 
a rat. 

We were up and dressed time enough for the rising sun to meet us 
on our road. I have few more "incidents of travel" to recount; 
indeed, beyond a little difficulty in crossing a puddle or two without 
wetting my comrade's feet, or dirtying her white stockings, we arrived 
at the outskirts of London without hindrance. 

%\}t €lutt utthr i\t stairs. 

Chapter XK. 

k NCE I went close to one of the little boxes, where i 
saw a pair of beautiful little white squabs, nearly- 
feathered. I had a fancy to examine them more 
nearly, so I put my hand into the little door to draw it 
out, but I quickly drew it back, streaming with blood. 
The mother pigeon, whom I had not seen, had defended her children 
bravely. I began to think, under the pain of my smarting hand, that 
the pigeon-house was not such a charming place after all, and I 
wanted to go down. None of the others were ready to go with me, 
so I went alone, creeping down the ladder very cautiously upon my 
hands and feet. My face looked towards the left, so, of course, I 
could not see any body at the foot of the ladder; and suddenly, just 
as I had got within a few rounds of the bottom, I felt myself snatched 
up by somebody I could not see. And there I was a prisoner, borne 
off in triumph on Aunt Nelly's shoulders. 

" She did not say a word to me, but set me down in the closet and 
shut the door in my face. I cried, I begged, I entreated her to let 
me out, for the closet was so dark I was nearly frightened to death. 
I promised never to go up the ladder again ; to be good all the rest 
of my life, if she would only let me out this time. But not a word 
of reply did she give me ; indeed, I don't think she heard any thing I 
had been saying, for she had gone out again, and taken her station at 
the foot of the ladder, for. another victim. 

" Pretty soon I heard her coming to the closet again, and I heard 
Sue's voice in contention with her. Next moment Sue was set down 
in the closet beside me, and the door triumphantly fastened again. I 



don't know how it happened so, but we came down one by one from 
the loft, and one by one Aunt Nelly snatched us up, and imprisoned 
us in the closet under the stairs. Lizzie was shut in next to Sue, and 
last of all, Edward, as he came down most unsuspectingly and uncon- 
cernedly, was borne off, struggling, and kicking, and fighting in hottest 
indignation against such an outrageous infringement of his liberties. 

" He banged against the closet-door after he had beenvshut in, till it 
trembled with his blows, but the sturdy button did n't give way, and 
Aunt Nelly laughed at him in loud scorn. ' That 's for takin' dem 
childen up thar, when you know'd your mammy did n't want 'em to 
go,' she said. ' Kick an' rar much as you please, you can't git out, 
honey. Nex time you '11 know how to keep dem childun away 
from your nasty ole pigeon-house; and dey '11 know how to keep 
derselves away, too,' she added, with a laugh. 

" I did n't care so much about being in the closet, since all the others 
were there too. I was n't afraid any longer, and it was rather funny 
than otherwise. Edward got over his anger by-and-by, and then 
we all talked and laughed together, and said saucy things to Aunt 
Nelly, to vex her. And she punished us for it by keeping us shut up 
there till nearly supper-time, when she saw mother coming home, 
and then she let us out. She was ready enough to take the law into 
her own hands on all occasions when mother was n't by ; but she 
did n't care to have mother know every thing she did with regard to 
us ; and as she almost always inflicted her summary punishment for 
some disobedience or other, we could not tell of her without betraying 

" So we happened to get imprisoned in this closet under the stairs a 
great many times before mother ever found it out at all. I must tell 
you how she happened to hear of it at last. 

" It was one cold, clear morning in winter — a holiday, too, so that 
we had no lessons to learn, and nothing to keep us out of mischief. 
Lizzie was always the ringleader in any fun and frolic, and I being 
next in age to her, generally followed her lead for any mischief she 
suggested. This morning she had discovered a slide that Edward 
and Tom Vinson had made in the back alley, where the pavement 


had been sleeted over. So she called me to come and slide with her ; 
but, in the first place, she made me go into the house and get the 
pressing-board — a polished walnut board which Miss Sophie, the seam- 
stress, used for pressing open seams when she was making cloth 
clothes. 1 could n't think what she wanted with it, but I got it as she 
had told me, and then watched the use she made of it. The pavement 
of the alley had a sort of downward slope ; and Lizzie, gathering up her 
frock and seating herself firmly on the pressing-board, made me give 
it a slight push, which sent it slipping smoothly down the whole 
length of the alley, and so gave her a famous slide. We took slides, 
by turn, for a good while, quite undisturbed in our new enjoyment. 
By-and-by I happened to see Kitty, then a little girl only about 
three years old, running in the yard, and I called her to come to me, 
thinking to give her a nice slide. 

" She came very readily, and we placed her upon the board care- 
fully, and then gave her a gentle push, to start her on her journey. 
But, bah ! the little simpleton got frightened, and tumbled off, and 
went rolling like a ball down the slippery pavement, with the press- 
board clattering after her. Such a scream as she did set up when she 
got to the bottom ! My ! it frightened us to death, almost ! We 
flew to see if she was much hurt, and while we were trying to soothe 
her, Aunt Nelly suddenly made her appearance. She had heard the 
screaming, and started off to see what mischief we were up to now. 

"And how she did scold, first about our ' bein' out thar like tomboys 
slidin' on the ice,' and then about taking the pressing-board for such a 
use ; and, lastly, about having ' dat chile,' as she called Kitty, out in 
the cold with us. So she ended by marching both of us into the 
kitchen, and shutting us up in the closet. Kitty went crying to 
mother, to show her bruised face, and tell her all about it. Then 
mother inquired where Lizzie and I were ; and when she found out, 
she went to the closet and liberated us herself, Aunt Nelly looking 
on in great indignation. 

" ' Dat 's the way,' she muttered to herself. ' I tries to make de 
chilluns behabc, den missus comes ; and taint no use at all.' 

" ' But I don't like the children taught to behave exactly in this 



*way,' said mother. 'And next time you think they are doing wrong, 
come and tell me about it, and I will attend to the matter myself in 
my own way. It is n't any part of your duty to punish the children 
when they do not behave ; so you must never put one of them in 
this closet again. I do not approve of it in any case.' 

" So after that we did not dread the closet under the stairs, for we 
were never again confined in the midst of its darkness. Mother was 
quite indignant at Aunt Nelly's assumption of authority over us ; and 
after that, told us always to tell her immediately of any imposition 
on her part. Aunt Nelly did not live with us very long after that, 
and I was n't sorry when she went away." 

tshxn Irairu hi JSiimmn\ 

SHALL never forget the sensations with which 
I looked abroad for the first time upon one of 
these wide-extended champaigns. The morn- 
ing was one of the brightest and most beautiful 
of midsummer — the 4th of July. The prairie 
was then decked in its richest attire of wild 
verdure and bright flowers. As I entered upon it, descending from a 
gently sloping bluff", there was spread out before me one vast, unbro- 
ken, level plain, to which my eye could discover no boundary, except 
in the distance on the north. I was struck with the novelty and gran- 
deur of the scene — the prairie resembling a vast sea of living green, 
its tall grass waving majestically in the breeze, as the waters of old 
Ocean roll and undulate before the winds. As I rode out upon this 
prairie, the bluffs behind me and the distant skirting woods on the 
north gradually faded from view, until they entirely disappeared, and 
I was, as the dwellers on these plains say, out of sight of land. 


It was not till then that I had a full perception of the vastness and 
sublimity of a Western prairie. But as I stood in the centre of this 
boundless and luxuriant amphitheatre — not a hillock or tree in sight, 
and where the eye rested only on the green verdure of a boundless 
plain on the expanse of the blue heavens — a scene of magnificence 
and calm loveliness opened to my view, such as I never before had 
looked upon; and I felt that there was much of high sublimity, much 
of mystery, in these wonderful works of Omnipotence — these unshorn 
fields, boundless and peaceful. 

As I stood alone in the heart of that vast champaign, a certain in- 
describable feeling of loneliness stole over me, which I could not 
away with. Like the solitary mariner, in his little boat out on the 
great deep, I felt as if I were separated from the whole world. In- 
deed, I could hardly persuade myself that I was not far out on the 
ocean. A solitary emigrant waggon, with its white covering looming 
up in the distance, appeared like the canvass of a ship at sea. The 
illusion was almost perfect, so similar to a vast sea in their billowy 
beauty are 

These meads interminable, where the wandering eye, 
Unfixed, is in a verdant ocean lost. 

Nothing can exceed in. delicate loveliness these boundless flower- 
gardens of nature. During the spring and summer they are covered 
with richly-dyed and many-coloured flowers, blooming in wild luxuri- 
ance, and dallying with the wind. In crossing even one of the small 
undulating prairies in Iowa, I gathered more than thirty different kinds 
of flowers ; and on one of the flat prairies in Illinois I plucked nearly 
fifty of various shades and conformations. 

The prairie flowers, although superior to domestic plants in their 
brilliancy, are far inferior to them in delicacy and fragrance. They 
are, however, much improved by culture. In their wild state, many 
of them have no fragrance, and are coarse and gaudy in their appear- 
ance •, but when transplanted and cultivated by delicate hands, they 
emit fragrant odours, and assume finer shapes and hues. 

oral B t x tn $ t 1 : 


OUND all the boys— Philip, and Ned, and Frank — 
trundling hoops down the long garden walks. I let them 
have their own way for a half hour, but the sun was hot, and 
they were getting flushed and heated by the exercise. 

" There, that will do, boys, for this sunny day. Go and 
find some shade, and rest for a while." 
The ardent purple-heated faces were turned to me, with a pleading 
look, and Ned said — 

" But it is such a little time, and I wanted to make my hoop go as 
evenly as Philip's." 

" You must no longer run in this sun," I said quietly, and the three 
walked slowly, and not very cheerfully, to the tool-house, and hung 
up their hoops. 

By-and-by the sun grew more presuming, and hot beams poured 
down through the thick-leaved mulberry-tree, under which I was 
seated. I had finished my sewing, and folding it up, I went down the 
walk to find the boys, and take them in to the lunch-table. Twice I 
walked round the circuit of the garden, and found no trace of them. 
I was surprised, for there was no outlet to it but by the gate near the 
great mulberry-tree. As I stood still for a moment thinking of their 
disappearance, I heard, above the noise of the falling water near me, 
the sound of a child's voice. 

"Don't throw any more in, Philip." 
" Yes, let them go in ; they are beautiful." 

" No, no ! give them to me for mamma." That was my little 
Frank's voice. 

" Now, watch this rose — beautiful rose — how she sails along. Don't 
she, Ned ?" 




" It was too bad to pick the flowers, unless you wanted them for 
mamma. Oh ! I wish I could catch that one ; it was the finest ' Cloth 
of Gold' that has been on the bushes this summer, and mamma was 
so anxious to have some fine roses from it." 

I was standing now where I could see the children. Philip was 
sitting on a bank beside the stream, and Ned was standing by him 
with his hat off also, and a little basket on his arm full of raspberries. 
Philip was throwing flower after flower, from the fine bouquet he held 
in his hand, into the wooden trough by which the water was led over 
the bank from the height above, for the spring from which it came 
was a high one. The flowers went down with the plunge of the water, 
sunk into the natural basin formed below, whirled, eddied, and then 
some of them, broken into fragments, floated along down the brook, 
or were washed to the bank, while others, rising, sat up on the water, 
and sailed along most serenely. 

Frank, with a rueful face, was on the other side of the trough 
watching the performance. lie was indignant at the waste of flowers. 
! was surprised that my thoughtful Philip should be engaged in such 
mischief. Then I heard him say — 


"I won't throw away anymore of these superb yellow roses — they 
deserve to live. The water cannot break off their petals ; the shock 
does not disturb them. How she came up, that Cloth of Gold ! how she 
seemed to shake off the water from her rich leaves ! See, there she is 
still, so stately. Look at this flower ; watch it quiver ! there go the 
leaves. Oh, fie ! what a poor thing it was — it could hot bear any- 
thing." . 

" There, Philip, stop, my son. You have made the illustration, and 
I will read you its lessons. By-and-by, when my little boys are 
grown up to be men, and they leave their homes, and go into the world, 
there will be just such a plunge as that made by the flowers. The 
good principles which I try to give you, all the little laws I lay down, 
and the rules I make, are the leaves of the flowers ; without them there 
is only an unsightly form, as you see the poor flowers have without 
their leaves. 

" Those of you who have not good, strong, earnest wills to do and be 
good — God helping you — will take the shock as the poor, frail flower did. 
Your goodness, which is moral beauty, and the only beauty wise eyes 
can see, will fall away from you, and your souls will be, before God 
and the angels, the unsightly things those poor broken flowers are to 
you now. Do you understand, Philip?" 

" I believe I do, mamma." 

" What is necessary to make you able to bear the plunge, and then 
go on serenely with the current, still complete in yourself?" 

" I cannot tell, mother." 

" This will be your salvation, my boys. You must pray for your- 
selves, as I pray for you constantly, that good principles of action may 
be firmly fastened in your natures ; that love to God, and obedience 
to his Word, which shows true love, may adorn and beautify my dar- 
lings always, notwithstanding the world's buffetings and its wily temp- 

The Tamo Woodpigeon. 

^STlHERE was once a little girl called Alice, who was lame. 
^ in her feet. She could walk about the house, but she 
Hi could not run, and climb, and jump about like other chil- 
dren. ' 

When her brothers and sisters went out in the spring 
to look for primroses, or in the summer to gather straw- 
berries, or in the autumn to get nuts, Alice was always 
left at home; and she felt very dull, and sometimes cried 
when she was quite alone. 

Her brothers and sisters were sorry, too, that she could not go 
with them ; and they always gave her some of their flowers and fruit, 
and told her about their walks, and what they had seen. But still, 
Alice often felt very lonely and sad whilst they were away ; and one 
day she said, " I wish there was a cat or a bird, or something alive, 
to keep me company whilst the others are away." 

Her eldest brother heard this, and thought about it ; and one day, 
when he was climbing a tree in a wood, he found a woodpigeon's nest, 
with two young ones in it. They were nearly old enough to fly, and 
looked so pretty, and plump, he thought- how much Alice would like 
one for a pet ; so he took the prettiest out of the nest, and brought it 
down safely in his hat. 

When he got home, he asked Alice to guess what he had brought 
for her — and then he showed her the little pigeon. Alice was quite 
delighted with the little bird : she took great care of it, and fed it, 
and petted it ; and it grew tame enough to eat out of her hand, and 
to perch on her shoulder, and come when it was called. It was not 
kept in a cage, but allowed to go about the house, and the little bit 
of garden behind the house ; and it never seemed to wish to get away. 
In the middle of the day it used to go into a dark corner, as if it did 
not like the strong light ; but at daybreak it was awake and lively. 



It went to roost -over Alice's window every night — and there it slept, 
perched on one leg, with its head beneath its wing, till the first dawn 
of light. 

In this way the woodpigeon lived through the summer and the win- 
ter ; and when the other children were out, Alice amused herself with 
it ; and when she looked at it, she thought, " My brother remembered 
me, though I was not with him ;" and that was a pleasant thought, and 
made her smile. 

When the spring came, the pet woodpigeon was full-grown ; the 
feathers on the neck shone with pretty mixed colours, and the eyes 
were bright and red, and Alice was fonder of it than ever. 

On one of the first warm days, Alice's brothers and sisters went 
into the woods to gather primroses. Alice stood at the door to watch 
them go ; and when she went in, she called her pet, but it did not come. 
But as it was about the middle of the day, she thought it was gone to 
perch in the dark corner. 

When Alice had sat a long time at her work, as her pretty favourite 
did not come to her, she went to look for it. But she did not find it 
in the house, so she went into the garden, and looked among the salad- 
beds, where it liked to go and feed ; but no, it was not there. 

At last she chanced to look up to a fir-tree that grew in the corner 
of the parden, and there in the dark branches she saw the woodpigeon. 
Alice tailed it, and it soon came down to her; she carried it into the 
house, and fed it, and called it by all her prettiest pet names. It had 
never flown up into the high fir-tree before, and she felt as if she were 
going to lose it. " Perhaps it will fly away to the woods some day, 
and never come back," she thought ; " and then I shall be lonely 

When Alice's brothers and sisters came in that day, and told her 
about the pleasant afternoon they had spent in the woods, she was 
very quiet, and did not ask them so many questions as she sometimes 
did. Her eldest brother sat down by her, and said, " You cannot 
think, Alice, how lively it was in the wood ; the little birds were 
sporting about, and chasing each other among the new leaves ; the 
tomtits had so many different calls and cries, they quite puzzled us ; 


then we heard the cuckoo, and saw a pair of woodpigeons building in 
the low branch of a tree." 

Alice looked up where her pet was perching, and all at once she 
thought, " Perhaps it feels lonely here, without a mate, in the pleasant 
spring ;" but she did not like to think that, so she tried to believe that 
the woodpigeon was too fond of her ever to leave her. \ 

That night, when Alice went to bed, she dreamed that she was in 
the woods, and that the wind blew softly through the trees, and that 
she heard the sweet cooing of the woodpigeons over her head ; and 
when she got up, she almost wondered to see her pet fly to her to 
be fed. 

As the days of spring went by, the woodpigeon flew oftener into 
the boughs of the fir ; but still, Alice did not put it into a cage to 
keep it, for she was not a selfish little girl ; and she thought, " If it 
feels happier to go away, I. will let it go." 

One morning very early, Alice was awakened by the pigeon tap- 
ping against the window-pane — it seemed very restless, and anxious 
to get out. Alice got up and took the bird in her hands, and kissed 
its pretty head, and stroked its smooth feathers ; and then she opened 
the window, and said " Good-bye ;" and the pigeon flew out into the 
fir-tree, but it did not stay there long. — it soon spread its wings, and 
flew away towards the woods. 

Then Alice laj down again, and the tears came into her eyes ; for 
she was sure that she should never see her favourite again. 

But in the evening, when her brothers missed the woodpigeon, 
and asked her where it Avas, she smiled, and said, " I have let it go, to 
behappy in the woods ; I am glad that I did not force it to stay." 

t ir 1 1 m o r ; 


ffiijaptcr XXX$%. 

BEGIN to think it 'don't pay' to drive so hard at this 
'no account' Anglo-Saxon," said Herbert, as he laid 
down the grammar of that language, at -the end of his 
study hours on the following day. 

" Don't pay ' to drive so hard ' at a 'no account ' 
language," said his tutor, repeating Herbert's own 
words slowly after him. " I think, Herbert, the much- 
talked-of conversation on slang should not be deferred, 
when a well-bred lad, who is a good classical scholar 
also, uses such language." 

" Why should not those words be used, Mr. Carey, which are most 
expressive 1 ? Why am I studying this same Anglo-Saxon, unless it is 
to gain a knowledge of the strength of our language % It seems to me 
that refining too much, necessarily reduces strength. I infer that, from 
what I have heard you say on other occasions." 

" There is some truth in your remarks, and pertinence in your 
question, Herbert. Let us go to the dining-room, and while at lunch, 
we will see what Miss Emily and your father, and his friend, have to 
say about the right use of language." 

" Papa," said Herbert, as they joined the rest of the family at the 
lunch-table, " I want to know what slang is." 

" That is a cromprehensive question, my boy, and one more easily 
asked than answered. Let me see — or think, I should say, more prop- 

" Ah, Mr. Clayton," said Arthur, " if we stop always to speak 'prop- 
erly,' we should never talk ' slang,' but I think we should come to be 
a very stupid set of talkers. If words were always used ' properly,' 
there would not be half the chance for puns, and all sorts of wit de- 
pendent upon a play of words, that there is now." 

'■ I, too," said Mr. Austen, " am no advocate of the sesquipedalian 



words introduced into our English by Dr. Johnson, and those of his 
time, who so favoured the Latin derivatives. I prefer a simple, honest? 
strong Saxon word or phrase. It matters not if it be common, or 
commonly used, so it is not really vulgar ; by vulgar I mean low, 

" Yes. Even Miss Emily laughs at ' highfalutin,' with all her 
woman's refinement," said Mr. Clayton. " The thing i& to decide 
what is not ' highfalutin ;' which expression, by-the-way, would do 
honour to these boys' vocabulary, and which is not ' slang.' Now who 
shall be our authority 1 Dr. Johnson is a truer guide than Webster, 
in spite of Johnson's tendency to Latinity, and though I have the 
highest respect for the worthy and admirable Noah Webster. The 
happy medium is seldom attained. There is, with all persons, a ten- 
dency to extremes. I can, however, while I think of it, call your 
attention to a living person who speaks pure, elegant English, and 
that without any stiffness or restraint. I refer to the English lady, 
Mrs. Egerton, who called here upon Miss Emily last week. I delight 
to listen to her. I am sure Mary Mitford must talk as she does ; and 
her voice, which shows cultivation and refinement, charms me always. 
Her enunciation is clear and perfect, her pronunciation faultless, and 
it is like listening to music to hear her conversing." 

" My dear Philip, what an eulogium !'•' said Mr. Austen. 

" She was my wife's dearest friend, Austen," said his host. " It may 
be I am partial, but she has always impressed me as I have described 

" You have done her no more than justice," said Miss Donne, " if 
I may judge with my slight acquaintance. I hope Maude and Alice 
will have the opportunity of seeing much of Mrs. Egerton, if for no 
other reason than to observe her peculiar accomplishment in language. 
It is far better to learn to speak our own language with the grace and 
perfection she exhibits, than to acquire an indifferent knowledge of 
three or four European tongues." 

" But what is slang : papa 1" asked Alice. 

" Here it is in ' Webster,' said Maude, who had been turning over 
the leaves of the large Dictionary : — " ' Low, vulgar, unmeaning Ian- 


guage ;' and here is Low put in brackets after the definition. Whafc 
does that mean V 

u It means," said Mr. Clayton, " that it is of low origin ; and I 
think what we have farther to do, is to decide what is slang and what 
is not." 

" I think words and phrases distorted by popular use from their 
original meaning, may be called slang or cant phrases. These originate 
with fellows of low habits, but clever wits, and first gain popularity in 
a drinking saloon ; then they pass into the columns of a Sunday paper, 
or some other periodical more desirous of being funny than elegant ; 
by-and-by they are on the lips of youths, their sisters catch them up, 
and thus, by the use of such language, refined ladies come to have one 
kind of association or fellowship with the frequenters of drinking- 
houses, with the coarse and vulgar ! Therefore I protest against the 
use of all these words," said Mr. Carey. 

"An excellent case, sir," said Mr. Clayton. 

" I used a word the other evening which comes into the objection- 
able category," said Mr. Austen. "I said I was a sponge at school. 
I knew that was a pot-house word, in the way I applied it. I thought 
of it a moment after using it." 

" The word ' told J as 1" used it in that same conversation, had a 
distorted meaning," said Mr. Clayton. " I used it instead of ' pn> 
duced a decided impression ;' a circumlocution which seems to lack 
the force of the single word told, and hence the temptation to use such 

" The expressions ' sold,' when overreached by a jest or trick ; 
4 don't pay,' when any thing is not worth the trouble it costs ; and 
' over the left,' to show or explain irony, are all slang words, and vex 
the refined ear. Besides these, and scores of others which might be 
named, there are provincialisms or peculiarities of certain parts of the 
country, which are greatly objectionable, though sometimes not so 
low. Here, ' no account,' meaning worthless, and ' for true,' an as- 
severation peculiar to the negro, would sound as disagreeably to an 
educated New Englandcr, as some of the Yankeeisms of his country- 
people sound to our unaccustomed ears. The h§ppy medium in con- 



versation, and in the general use of language, is acquired with much 
difficulty, if admittance is once given to such interlopers — cant or 
slang words, or provincialisms. There are many familiar expressions 
which indicate no lacking of refinement, and which lend grace to lan- 
guage. It is a difficult thing to lay down rules for the use of language ; 
it is a matter to be decided by good sense, assisted by refined asso- 
ciation and polite information. It does boys good, in this respect, to 
associate with girls ; and every man of sense is willing to acknowledge 
the benefit he has derived from the society of cultivated women. Now, 
having finished my homily," said Mr. Clayton, laughing, " I must 
leave you, as I have a business engagement." 

The little party in the dining-room then adjourned, and each mem- 
ber of it went about some of the peculiar duties which, as pupils, 
teachers, or men of business, devolved upon them. Mr. Austen said 
he was obliged to go to the city, and should not return that night. 
Alice begged him to be at home in time for the game on the follow- 
ing evening, which he promised to do, without hesitation, expressing, 
at the same time, the pleasure which he derived from the play, and 
from every association with his young friends, "and old too," at 
Sedgemoor. ^ 

%\t gsjjrj f)0uu* 

Come, draw down the crimson curtains, 
And pile on the faggots high ; 
We'll not heed the storm that's driving 
White snow-flakes across the sky ; 
Nor the wind, that is sadly sighing, 
Like the voice of human woe, 
Nor the ocean, that's dashing wildly 
O'er the silvery feet of the snow. 

Oh, not all the homes of the kingly 
Hath jewels so fair as this ; 
Oh, not all the courts of the princely 
Can shine withlsuch golden bliss ; 

For peace, like a silvery river, 
Floweth gently in and around, 
And chimeth with lips of music, 
That lulleth with pleasant sound. 

Then, draw down the crimson curtains, 
And shut out the blast so cold, 
And pray that sweet Peace may alway 
With tender arms thus enfold. 
That Love, Hope, and Faith may ever 
Throw round us their brilliant zone, 
And this prove the golden portal 
That leads to a heavenly home. 

E. B. Cheesborough. 

t x a I ft i % t ' ' s 1 1 1 ft a p ; 


ID you know, my dear Marion, that a whole year has 
fled since I wrote you concerning any other subject 
but school ? And before I proceed farther, let me tell 
you a singular fact connected with institutions of learn- 
I own that I begin to see the use of them, and of mas- 
ters for every branch of science, for my improvement will 
testify to their importance. But, dearest, this confession 
must not make you think that I do not appreciate a holiday ; 
no, perish the thought ! for how can I entertain such an idea, when 
the memory of the one that is just passed comes over me 

" Like the sweet south wind 
Breathing o'er a bank of violets V 

My heart even rebels at once more entering upon the routine of study, 
but I trust that Time, the Great Healer, will set all in order at last. 

However, I must not murmur, for papa has shortened the period 
of my stay at Mrs. Jay's from three years from the present time to 
two, and then I shall have finished my education. When I tell him 
this, however, he smiles half sarcastically, half incredulously, and 
says, " My dear Geraldine, you will never finish your education. 
Why, I am forty-five, and I have not yet finished mine." But then 
you know, Marion, that parents are very old-fashioned in these days, 
and I am certain that when I get home once more, and papa hears 
my last Overture, listens to my French accent, which Monsieur 
Duluc says is so charming, sees me dressed for a ball with my hair 
a la Grisi, he will see that there is little, if any thing, more to be 


geraldine's holidays. 171 

Well, dear, you are impatient, I know, to hear how and where I 
spent my New- Year's Day. Where 1 With the Blightnots, of course. 
How % Ah ! you shall hear. In the first place, that considerate 
friend. Mrs. Blightnot, wrote to tell me that each member of the 
family was to purchase or make for every other member or guest a 
present; and so there never was such an industrious set as that 
charming circle. Instead of having our gifts suspended on a tree, 
in the manner of the Germans, we substituted a table, upon which 
every one laid his or her gift. The table was covered with a cloth, 
so that until the last moment the gifts were veiled from every eye. 
In addition to that, we made a rule that every gift was to have at- 
tached to it at least two lines of poetry, and Mrs. Blightnot was 
appointed to read out, for the benefit of the company, the thoughts 
they inscribed. But it would be, better to leave all these prelimina- 
ries, (my ! what a long word !) and transport you to the eventful 
night itself. We were prevented by sickness in Mrs. B.'s family 
from celebrating the very first night of the New Year, and so had 
to defer our promised pleasure for two weeks — two of the longest 
weeks I ever passed ; but the day at last came, and a glorious one it 
was — indeed, I might be tempted to quote from one of the poets, 
and say that it was "the bridal of the earth and sky," so bright and 
lovely was the sunshine, so soft and delicious the air at night. 

If you have never been convinced by me before, that Mrs. Blight- 
not is a genius, you must believe so now, when I tell you that, even 
with a sick child in her arms, she was the chief mover and contriver 
of all our pleasure. She seemed to be every where : now in the par- 
lour, seeing if we were correct in rehearsing our parts in the little 
sort of drama which we were going to enact; and now in the kitchen, 
superintending the concoction of some nice dish for the evening ; and 
yet this woman is a poet, too. So, who shall dare to say, after this, 
that the useful and the ornamental may not blend together in happy 
union % Besides the family, a few intimate friends were invited — 
such as the W's, good Mr. D., young Will and James Darnley, to- 
gether with Julia K, a sweet girl from the country, and a few 

172 geraldine's holidays. 

The little dramatic scene which I have alluded to was the follow- 
ing : — At a signal from Mrs. Blightnot, a folding-door was suddenly 
thrown open, and the guests assembled beheld a sort of moving 
tableau. The Old Year, as a very old man, with long gray hair al- 
most to his knees, with trembling hands, and leaning on crutches, 
appeared departing, " with melancholy steps and slow," through a 
distant door. No one imagined that James Blightnot could have 
done this so well ; in fact, it was so life-like, that many thought that 
it indeed was some poor, bent old man, whom we had induced to 
come in and take a part in our pageant. As the Old Year departed, a 
dirge was played on a small seraphina, the tones of which are, you 
know, so much like an organ. Scarce had the Old Year disappeared, 
when the tune suddenly changed to a brisk, cheerful measure, and the 
Hours, several rosy little girls, were seen at another door, bearing in 
the New Year — a beautiful doll dressed as an infant, and laid upon a 
soft pillow. Then the Hours sang a song of welcome to the little 
stranger, and placed it in a fantastic cradle in the middle of the room, 
under a canopy of boughs and flowers. 

Then two of the Blightnots, Amanda Darnley, and myself, dressed 
very artistically as Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, ranged 
ourselves about the infant, while the Hours stood in the back-ground, 
in pretty attitudes. While we were thus standing, Fred. Blightnot 
as Winter, dressed in all the furs which we could borrow, including 
an old boa and a muff, addressed the slumbering child. I forgot to 
say that an artificial icicle hung from his nose, and on his feet were 
fastened a pair of skates. His words were these : — 

" Why are we here this happy festal night? 
Why are our smiles so beautiful and bright? 
To hail the infant, new-born year, we meet ; 
His baby majesty with joy to greet. 
'Tis rather late, some say, our calls to pay ; 
Say we, the child's but two weeks old to-day ; 
And every body knows, who knows at all, 
That babes are not at home to earlier call." 

geraldine's holidays. 173 

This address was of course loudly applauded, aud Autumn, Gene- 
vieve Blightnot, approached in her turn the cradle of the New Year. 
How beautiful she appeared ! My memory recalls every particular 
of her dress. She was clothed in sad-coloured drapery, and held a 
branch of withering leaves in her hand, while her lovely locks were 
crowned with a few pale, fall flowers. There was a deep melancholy 
m her voice, as she thus addressed the unconscious infant : — 

u On some he smiles, on some he sadly weeps ; 
For some, all calmly hushed, he pillowed sleeps ; 
His tears or smiles we must in patience take, 
For brighter sunshine shadows often make. 
And can we not with truth most earnest say, 
This life for us is bright this New- Year Day ? 
That God has given us more — ah, how much more— 
Than we to Him have yielded from our store?" 

After these touching words, for to many a heart present did they ap- 
ply — since some had lost friends, and some had been unfortunate in busi- 
ness — Mrs. Blightnot, though she had no particular sorrow to record^ 
wept hysterically ; so much so, that Mr. Blightnot had to rush to her 
support, and cheer her with affectionate words of tenderness and com- 
fort. How beautiful, dearest Marion, such whole-souled affection is ! 
How sweet the bond that unites such a family together ! But when 
Mrs. Blightnot perceived that her whole numerous family, alarmed 
at her state, were gathering around her, she made an heroic effort, 
and beckoned to me to come forward as Summer, and pay my tribute 
to the New Year. Fancy me, then, dearest, as personifying this warm, 
uncomfortable season of the year, with all its accompaniments. I 
was dressed in a red dress, to typify the intense, burning heat ; and, 
as Mrs. Blightnot said that she wished to give to my otherwise pensive 
air a comic look, in each hand I held a ponderous fan, and while my 
hair floated over my shoulders, it yas crowned by a wreath of golden 
grain. It was the most becoming dress in the world, my dear, and 
I had an opportunity, which may never occur again, now that I am 

174 geraldine's holidays. 

entering the boundary of young ladyism, of displaying my luxuriant 
locks to advantage. There was a merry glance in my eye, they told 
me, as I repeated the following lines ; and as each name was men- 
tioned, I pointed to the person alluded to with one of my fans, and 
then, when I had finished, calmly resumed fanning myself, in a digni- 
fied and unconcerned manner. 


" What guests have we ? Ah, there we gladly see 
That best of friends, our faithful C. G. D. ; 
And there fair Julia, pleasant to the sight, 
And dear Miss 0., to whom we wish to-night 
Good health. The W's, whom we rate above 
All other neighbours, and most truly love ; 
And James and Will, we'll not forget each beau, 
For they are highly requisite, you know." 

Of course Will and James blushed crimson at this allusion, and Mrs. 
Blightnot, to cover their confusion, signed to Livy, her daughter, to 
come forward as Spring. Now Livy is a sweet little thing, with long, 
fair hair, and the bluest eyes in creation ; and she looked so bewitching 
in her coronal of fresh buds, and her pale green dress, and a garland 
in her hnnd, that she herself formed a pretty picture alone, as she said 
the two following lines of poetry in a soft, musical voice :- — 


" Then who'll refuse with heart and soul to strive 
A greeting warm to give to Fifty-five ?" 

Then the Seasons simultaneously advanced, and Winter said — 

" Not Winter : he shall have my furs and muff, 
And cloak and hood — I hope he has enough." 

Then the poor little new-born year seemed to be almost smothered 
beneath the weight of the furs, and some of the children of the 


geraldine's holidays. 175 

audience rushed among the Seasons to rescue the doll, as if it had 
been a real infant. When order was restored, Autumn said, throwing 
a few flowers into the cradle — 

" Not Autumn : he shall have my dying flowers, 
The last, the palest from my fading bowers." 

Then I, waving my large fans over him, exclaimed — 

" Not Summer : I will fan his infant nose, 
And shield him from mosquitoes, and such foes.'' 

Then, before the laugh had subsided which this couplet occasioned, 
Spring, twining her garland around the cradle, sang — 

" Not I : my brightest, emerald green I'll bring, 
And he will know he owes it all to Spring." 

During the transition from " grave to gay," I had almost said from 
" lively to severe," I thought that Mrs. Blightnot would at one mo- 
ment have been suffocated by sobs, and at another time by laughter. 
My ! what fine sensibilities she has — how readily her heart opens to 
the ridiculous or the sublime ! Ah, Marion, would that your mother 
and mine — but hush, rebellious heart ! what is, is. Then Mr. Blight- 
not — what an admirable father he is ! During the whole of the per- 
formance, he held his youngest son, George Washington Blightnot, in 
his arms, for he insisted upon being brought down stairs in his night- 
dress ; and there he sat perched on his father's knee, when he should 
have been asleep, like an owl, with eyes just as staring, and for all 
the world looking as if he had made a vow never, never to close them 

[To be continued.] 


Scea'E : — Schoolfelloiv s Library. Present — The Schoolfellow, Mary, Herbert, 
Elsie, Charles, and Fanny, 

Elsie. Good morning, dear Schoolfellow. I thank you for missing me at the 
last meeting. 

Schoolfellow. I did miss you, my dear child, and am very glad that you 
are here this morning, with all the rest of our little band. 

Mart. Yes, we are all here this morning — and, I can answer for all, that we 
are glad to be here. 

All. That you may, Mary ! 

Schoolfellow. We have missed two monthly meetings, have we not, dear 
children ? 

Charles. That was not our fault, though — you did not send for us. 

Schoolfellow. No ! I had no new books of importance ; and moreover, I have 
been away from the city much of the time. 

Mary. I see you have several new books on the table this morning. 

Herbert. They have a very attractive loo^c, too. 

Schoolfellow. There is a good deal in the outward appearance of a book, 
Herbert — though it won't always do to judge from it of the character of its con- 
tents. These books, however, are as good as they seem to be. 

Mart. I notice that they nearly all come from Boston. 

Herbert. Yes, and from Ticknor and Fields, of whose publications I have 
heard my uncle Horace speak in very high terms. He says, " they are excellent 
inside and outside." 

Schoolfellow. Messrs. Ticknor and Fields are publishers of exceedingly fine 
taste, and their books are generally put up in a neat brown livery. 

Charles. These are not brown books, though. 

Schoolfellow. No, the rule does not apply to their juvenile books, which 
wear gayer colours. 

Mart. Oh, Herbert — see, this is your book by an undoubted title [reading], 
" A Boy's Adventures in the Wilds of Australia; or, Herbert's Kote-Book." 

Fannie. Is that Herbert's own book though, Mary? 

Herbert. Not exactly, Fannie. It belongs to one of my many namesakes, it 
seems. I shall ask permission to read it, though — not only for its title, but for 
its author's sake — for I dearly love the writings of the nowitts. 



Schoolfellow. You and Mary, and Elsie, will all be deeply interested in this 
narrative, which has all the charm of novel incident — told in a most graphic 
manner. It was actually written in the very region, and among the scenes it 
describes — and you will not be in danger of growing weary over its delightful 
p ages. 

Elsie. I think I should like this better than Herbert's book [reading], "Met- 
ric England — Travels, Descriptions, Tales, and Historical Sketches, by Grace 

Schoolfellow. Yes, Elsie, that would please you better. It is not so excit- 
ing — but it is very charming, as a book must be, written by such a graceful pen 
as its author's — about such scenes as she describes ; Kenilworth, Sherwood Forest, 
fine old English Abbeys and Halls — London and its Lions. Decidedly, Elsie, 
that is the book to suit your taste. 

Mart. I shall not object to read it, too. 

Herbert. Nor I either — though I do love books of strange adventure — Robin- 
son Crusoeish books, you know ! 

Schoolfellow. Here is one of that description, Herbert, and one by an 
author with whom you must be somewhat familiar. It is Captain Mayne Reid's 
"Forest Exiles, or the Perils of a Peruvian Family, amid the Wilds of the 

Herbert. Oh, I have read two of Captain Reid's books. " The Boy Hunters" 

and — and — 

Elsie. " The Desert Home,'" Herbert? 

Herbert. No, Elsie — not that — the — 

Schoolfellow. " The Young Voyageurs," Herbert ? 

Herbert. Yes ! that is the name ; and if the new book is up to them, I shall 
like it much. 

Schoolfellow. If I am not mistaken, it is the best book of the four which 
Captain Reid has given to his young readers. It is a fresher book, and an im- 
provement upon his own manner. 

Charles. Is it too old for me to read ? 

Schoolfellow. Not at all, Charlie — though I think you and Fannie would 
be better suited at present with these two pretty little volumes, the monthly 
Story Books of Harper and Brothers — they are called " The Little Louvre" and 
"Prank." The first of these is fancifully named from a great Picture Gallery in 
Paris — in the Palace of the Louvre. The book contains a great many very 
pretty pictures and descriptions of curious and attractive things. " Prank" is 
a story designed to show children the wickedness of mischief, and to dissuade 
them from all tricks that do injury to others. It is a very pleasing and useful 
li> \e book indeed — and though you and Fannie may not need its lessons, they will 
d yon no harm. 



Elsie. I have got the Crst three of this series of hooks in a prettily hound 
volume, and papa says he will give them to me every quarter. 

Schoolfellow. You are fortunate, Elsie ; for a year's volumes will be a very 
pretty collection for your library. And now I must dismiss you all — and I pre- 
sume two or three months will pass away, before I have occasion, or opportunity, 
to call you together again. Good-bye. 

All. Good-bye, dear Schoolfellow — {.They go out. 


■iMUr's €sxvitt. 

NEZ'S pretty Flower Charade has puzzled some 
of our little readers a good deal. " Nina" — a 
little girl from whom we have never heard be- 
fore — says : " The ' first duty of the morning' 
is to get up, I suppose; at least I've been told 
so. Though my conscience lets me make it the 
last duty as much as possible ! Perhaps that's 
the reason why I don't understand Miss Inez's charade, but I must 
confess it puzzles me entirely. I don't see any thing 'upon the 
bushes' or ' in the garden' that enlightens me at all as to the name 
of that ' flower for love's expression nursed ;' and I candidly confess 
my stupidity, in hope that some other one of your readers will be 
brighter than Nina !" Only two — Lucille Ferrers and Lucy Wilson — 
have so far proved their claim to be brighter than Nina, by sending 
us correct solutions of the charade. We give Lucy's answer, as being 
the more smoothly versified of the two. 



Wake, little girl, the birds are singing : 
Listen to their sweet notes ringing 

Full aud high upon the air : 
Wrens and robins glad songs utter, 
Saucy sparrows chirp and flutter, 

And the lark sings loud and clear. 


And the beautiful May blossoms 
Ope their many-tinted bosoms 

To the sunshine and the dew : 
Turning with coquettish graces, 
Smiling, shy, and blushing faces 

To the breeze, their lover true. 

So my little girl, up-springing 
From your cosy bed, be singing 

"With the birds a merry song ; 
Let us make some pretty posies 
Of Wake-robins, pinks, and roses, 

For papa — come, run along ! 

We now present our readers with an Enigma, by H. O., which has 
lain idle too long. We hope our correspondents will not be dis- 
couraged by its length from searching out its many meanings ; and 
that we shall have numerous answers to it in season for our July 


BY H. 0. 

When skies are clear and gentle winds prevail, 
And ships glide on beneath a cloud of sail,- 
The seaman sits and handles me with care, 
As I grow round and plump, but never fair. 

In Yankee land they make me up of fish, 
Barring the perfume, quite a pleasant dish ; 
But much more sweetly on their toilet-stands, 
With soap I wash ike ladies' little hands. 

My body's dumpy, without wings or feet, 
And yet no stag or bird is half so fleet. 
I play with children in their harmless sports, 
But deal destruction to strong ships and forts. 

I boldly perch upon the steeple high, 
And form the beauty of the brightest eye ; 
And though in many games I play with skill, 
I never without aid could run up hill. 



At my least beck, the belles adorn their tresses, 
And beaux shine dimly in their broad-cloth dresses, 
The matron too unlocks her jewel-casket, 
While I am left neglected in her basket. 

In summer's bloom, or winter's frosty weather, 
Snow and myself are often found together, 
And though with fire I fall upon the earth, 
Yet none can tell the place that gives me birth. 

We conclude with a little selected 


My first doth affliction denote, 

Which my second was born to endure ; 
My whole is a sure antidote 

That affliction to soften and cure. 

Some of our little readers complain that our charades are too 
hard for them. But what will they say to the following, which was 
made by the poet Praed, and which has puzzled the world to this 
day. We have sought in vain to satisfy ourselves with a solution, 
and no one else has ever satisfied us. 

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt 

Sooth 'twas an awful day ! 
Although on that old age of sport — 
The rufflers of the camp and court, 

Had little time to pray : 
"Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there — 
Two syllables by way of prayer. 

My first to all the brave and proud 

Who see to-morrow's sun ; 
My next with her cold and quiet cloud 
To those who find their dewy shroud 

Before to-day's be done : 
And both together to all blue eyes 
That weep when a warrior nobly dies. 

We will make any one who can furnish a reasonable answer, a free 
subscriber to the Schoolfellow as long as the work exists, and add 
also, a copy of the back volumes from the beginning of the work. 

" $ tojitel iflrt for % $ 0ntt-€i«lc 



IPIS&(Q)»IY If I«B. 

Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, daring the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled b^m to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of "Harry's Vacation" 'flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, *han will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happiiy and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but " children of a larger growth" may derive, both know- 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home." 

Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Harry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 







Mr. W. C. Richards and "Cousin Alice." 

This work has been ia existence for six years, during which time it has 
acquired a degree of popularity unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, and 
frequently been pronounced by the press, both North and South, " the best and 
cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States." : 


is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and 
aims at the cultivation of the heart as well as of the mind. It is an original ma- 
gazine, and its articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for 
the young in the country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Richards, it "will continue 
under his general superintendence, with the constant aid of "Cousin Alice," 
(Mrs. Alice B. Neal), the popular author of the '• Home Books," whose name alone 
Is a talisman to command the love and favor of children, supported by a large 
number of favourite writers. 


of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skillful artists, and 
are unequaled in variety and beauty by those of any other Juvenile Magazine. 

Postmasters are requested to act as agents for the work, and may retain the 
usual commission for new subscribers. Specimen copies sent gratis on application, 
post-paid, to the Publishers. The volume commences with the January number, 
and back numbers of the volume will always be forwarded. To any who wish 
them, we can supply bound volumes of the " Schoolfellow" from the first, at 
$1 25 per volume, or six dollars for the entire set 

TERMS— ^Onb Dollar a year, in advance. 



€Mt nf Cntrfrtita, 

JUNE, 1855. 

Uncle Hugh's Portfolio, No. III. — "The Cup found in Benjamin's Sack." 

By Mrs. Richards. 
Little Charlie. . . ' . . . ' . By B. B. C. 

Mercy's Mission. By Miss Cheesborough. 

Cousin Annie . By Mrs. Bradley . 

Sedgemoor. Chapter XXXIII. and XXXIV. . By Mrs. Manners. 

Geraldine's Holidays. By Caroline Howard. 

Why Arthur Inman Fought By Mrs. Richards. 

The Sunbeam By Mrs. E. M. Bracket. 

The Riddler's Corner By Various Contributors. 


As our subscribers well know, tbe Schoolfellow must be paid for 
in advance. One Dollar, tbus paid, will secure his Visits for the com- 
ing year. Money properly mailed to the Publisher will be at his 
risk. We are already receiving new subscribers for this volume, 
which, we trust, will prove superior to any of its predecessors. 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for the year. 

For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
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Bookseller & Publisher, 

697 Broadway. 

* * 

Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

3&T We would call especial attention to our Prospectus for 1855 
on the last page of the cover. 

Win tit fust's fflrtffllia; 


V H dear, dear, dear, what shall I do with myself this 
morning 1 Such pouring rain — the very deluge was not 
worse. I am tired of hearing the rain on the spouts 
and roof, and tired of seeing the people rush through 
the streets with their dripping umbrellas, and tired of 
pitying the poor forlorn-looking horses and thrice drenched drivers, 
and tired of — " 

" Yourself — -which should have come first of all — for it is at the 
foundation of all the weariness you express, John." 

" But, Aunt Eleanor, what can boys do in such weather as this % 
I can't keep house or write letters as you do — or practise, or sew with 
Mary's marvellous industry, or — or — " 

" What does your uncle find to occupy himself with to-day ?" 

" Oh, men — why they write in great blank books — and do — a thou- 
sand things — such men as Uncle Hugh — just see how much he knows." 

" The secret of your disgust of a rainy day is, then, that you know 
very little." 

" Maybe that is so." 

•' Do bring me the portfolio from the sofa table — " 

" Oh, my pictures — shall we talk about them % I will call May — 
Come, May, you have punished that piano long enough. Such straight 
up and down hum-drumming as Bertini is an imposition on our 

" Indeed, John, Bertini's fine lessons on chords are anything but 
hum-drumming. It is a pity you had not something of it to do 



" So it is ! Boys ought to be taught music — especially to give 
them something to do on rainy days. My boys shall learn it !" 

" ' The cup found in Benjamin's sack,' Aunt Eleanor — that is a 
good way from the time poor Joseph was in prison — so much for 
God's disposing. Just think of it, John — Joseph was taken from the 
prison and made a ruler and a prince — a prime minister, I suppose." 
" I would rather be made a prime minister, than be born a prince, 

" Why so r 

" It's plain enough ' why so.' Because a prime minister almost 
always has some great distinguishing talent which has won the favour 
of the king and of the people. Who cares for honours which you have 
because you chanced to be born to them ?" 

" I am glad you are waking up, John — but I am sadly afraid he 
will never be a prime minister who cannot occupy for himself a few 
leisure hours." 

" 1 am ashamed of it, sir. I was stupid and childish. I am ready 
now to hear about Joseph." 

" I wish you might emulate his virtues, my boy. But tell me what 
you know of this history from the last picture to this." 

" Oh, I know all about it. About Pharaoh's dream, and how Joseph 
interpreted it, and Pharaoh saw that God befriended and inspired the 
young man, so he gave him dominon and honours — and then Joseph 
went to work and bought up corn and grain, and filled tremendous 
great storehouses with that which should be food for the people when 
the famine should come. Pharaoh gave him a wife, and he had 
two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim — and altogether he was a flourishing 
and happy man." 

" He must have thought a great deal about his poor old father. 
They could not write letters, I suppose, as we do now, or have post- 
carriers. That must have been a moving time to Joseph, when he 
saw his brethren coming, with the crowds whom the famine drove 
into Egypt, for corn. I should have liked to see him then." 

" He restrained his feelings, you know, before his brethren, and 
' spoke roughly to them.' This was to try them. How many times 


and in how many ways he tested their present feelings and characters ! 
I think there are few things reoorded in God's word as touching as this 
conduct of Joseph in his interviews with his brethren. Imagine him 
listening to them talking about their evil behaviour to him — all of 
which conversation he understood, though they knew it not — for he 
had spoken to them by an interpreter. ' And he turned himself 
about from them and wept.' " 

" But, Aunt Eleanor, why was he so harsh to them if he forgave 
them for their conduct to him ?" 

" He forgave them as God forgives us, John — when they repented 
— truly repented. It was to try them, to be sure that their repent- 
ance was of the right kind, that made him demand to have Benja- 
min brought down. He knew how his father loved Benjamin now, 
and he wanted to see whether his brethren were still envious as they 
had shown themselves towards him. Also, whether they loved their 
father any more — and had respect to the grief he must have felt 
when Joseph was killed, as he imagined. God, we know, directed 
all Joseph's life, and probably showed him now just how to behave 
in regard to his brethren." 

" Why should he order Simeon to be bound?" 

" Possibly Simeon was a hard, stern man ; perhaps he had had 
much to do with selling Joseph — besides, he desired now by all means 
to intimidate them." 

"Poor old Jacob felt badly enough when they came home without 
Simeon, and asking for Benjamin. ' Joseph is not, and Simeon is not 
— and ye will take Benjamin away !'" 

" What excuse could Joseph make for sending for Benjamin, Aunt 
Eleanor V 

"Don't you see this, John, in the account of their visit given to 
their father 1 ' Bring your youngest brother unto me' — (you know 
they had told him all about the family, when he first accused them of 
being spies) — 'and then I shall know that ye are not spies, but are 
true men.' " 

" Aunt Eleanor, it is so pitiful to read , about the father telling his 
sons to carry down presents to propitiate the hard ruler, when it be- 

186 uncle Hugh's portfolio. 

came necessary for them to go again, telling them to take double 
money in their hands, and the money that they had carried down 
before, and which they found in the mouths of their sacks when they 
returned home. ' Take also your brother, and arise and go again 
unto the man ; and God Almighty give you mercy before the man, 
that he may send away your other brother and Benjamin. If I be 
bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.' 1 Poor Jacob was almost 

" They were humble enough by this time, I should say — those 
proud, wicked sons of Jacob. Well, that was just right for them to 
be as humble and penitent as they were ; don't you think so, May V 

" Some one remarked of this story, that Joseph knew how much 
good his trouble and suffering had done him, and he was willing his 
brethren should have some of the same medicine. He did it through 
no feeling of resentment or ill-will. You must not imagine that, 
John. Now read in the 43d chapter of Genesis, from the 26th 
verse to the end of the chapter. What is more moving than this 
story of Joseph's meeting them — hearing of the welfare of his father, 
the old man, and seeing little Benjamin % ' And Joseph sought where 
to weep.' These were honourable tears — honourable to the man, and 
to the son." 

" Now comes the picture, Aunt Eleanor — see, Uncle Hugh ! When 
they were going away, Joseph had all the money they had brought 
with them put into the sacks again, and with Benjamin's sack the 
silver cup they had used at his table. Then, as soon as they had gut 
out of the city, he sent servants for them to search them and find the 
silver cup, and behold it was found in Benjamin's sack ! That was 
the very hardest thing they had to bear yet — wasn't if? — that harm 
should befall that precious boy. Poor Benjamin ! I am sure I don't 
wonder he looks frightened to death — what had he to expect 1 ?" 

"John, read the latter part of the 44th chapter, from the 14th 
verse — is it not touching and humble, full of pathos — Judah's plea 
for his father, ' an old man, and for the child of his age V Go on 
with the next chapter, and read Joseph's disclosure of himself to the 
humbled brethren. How noble in him to say, ' Be not grieved nor 



angry with yourselves that ye sold me hither, for God did send me 
before you to preserve life !' What, do you think of Joseph now, 
John 1 ?'' 

" Everything that you, and Uncle Hugh, and Mr. Bush, and every- 
body else said, when we looked at the first picture of him. He was 
noble, admirable — it is a beautiful story, as I read it now. I am so 
glad I have these pictures to make me think often of the good Joseph. 
Ah ! there comes a glow of sunshine. I am sorry for it, I would just 
like to stay at home this afternoon and have another picture. Rainy 
days are not so dreadfully bad after all, Aunt Eleanor." 

fifth Cljarin* 


'Twas eve, and the sunset golden 
Flashed bright through the leafy trees, 
And, sweet as the voice of the angels 
Sung softly the balmy breeze. 
"With steps like the fawn's in fleetness, 
And heart beating gladly elate, 
Little Charlie went merrily onward, 
And entered the church-yard gate.. 

Here, gleaming in marble -whiteness, 
Glanced many a stately tomb, 
And here hung brilliant garlands 
Of roses in crimson bloom. 
By the side of a flowery hillock 
Little Charlie knelt tenderly down, 
And pressing his lips to the flowers, 
"VVhisper'd softly, "little Charlie has 
come.' 1 

" Dear brother, the sun is bright shining, 
And gilding the river so fair ; 
And the birds they are merrily calling 
To you, sleeping quietly there. 

Oh, wake up, dear brother, and listen, 
'Tis Charlie, little Charlie that's come ; 
0, if he would but only answer, 
I'd carry him back to his home.'' 

" I think it must be all these flowers 
That are blooming so thick o'er his head, 
They keep out the sound of my calling, 
And so he can't hear what is said." 
Then with lips that were quivering 

And cheeks bathed in many a tear, 
He pressed his young brow to the clay 

And sobbed out, " little Charlie is here.'' 

Then his mother said, '•' Charlie, thy 

Does not in this gloomy spot lie ; 
He's living with God and the angels,' 
High up in the realms of the sky. 


jerrg b 



PON a dark and lowering night, a lady set forth on 
a holy mission. The sky gloomed blackly over, 
her, and the fierce billows dashed their angry spray 
far over the wide beach. Yet on she went, silent 
and solitary, over the gloomy island, heeding not 
the angry waves, nor listening to the fierce duet that the sea-king was 
singing with the mighty monarch of the winds. 

That morning a lovely calm lay on the ocean, like a peaceful smile 
on the pure face of Innocence ; and now the winds had lashed the 
waves to fury, and they leaped in mad confusion, as they reared aloft 
their foam-crested heads. 

The day before, a ship had left its safe moorings, and with pinions 
streaming gayly in the air, launched forth into the bright and calm 
waters. Friends stood on the shore, and, as they waved fond adieus 
to those they loved, who were now about to set sail on the treacher- 
ous deep, they breathed fervently — " God speed the vessel on its 
way !" 

All that day the noble ship sailed beneath a cloudless sky ; and at 
night, the moon poured down a flood of radiance upon her path. 
Brightly the sun rose on the morrow, and gentle gales wafted the ship 
on her onward course. But as the hours wore on, dark clouds gath- 
ered over the face of the blue sky, and distant thunder muttered in 
the heavens. Slowly the tempest strode along, like a fierce and angry 
monarch, and gathering fury as it went, descended at length in storm 
and wrath over the devoted vessel. Gallantly she rode upon the 
foaming tide, that threatened each moment to engulf her, as proudly 
she sank and rose on the mighty swell of the raging ocean. The rain 
poured in fearful torrents on the deck, the lightning played in fierce 


mercy's mission. 189 

brilliancy about the rigging, and high above the howling wind and 
roaring waves sounded the sullen and mighty voice of the thunder. 

Suddenly there was a vivid flash, and the voyagers of that doomed 
vessel hid their blinded eyes in horror. Then came a loud thunder 
clap, as if the elements had met together in a fierce concussion, and 
then an awful hush, so calm — so still, that it appeared as if earth and 
heaven, and raging sea, had destroyed each other in a deadly encounter. 
Suddenly, a dreadful scream filled the air, and the cabin door was 
thrown open. " Save, save your lives !" cried the captain, with trem- 
bling voice. " To the long-boat — the ship is on fire !" 

" Oh ! God in heaven, have mercy upon us !" cried the terrified 
passengers, as they rushed, with all the fleetness of despair, out into 
the raging tempest. Children clung screaming to their mothers, and 
pale women, fainting with terror, were borne along by devoted sons 
and brothers. One after another they leaped into the boats, and put 
out on the raging ocean. Like wild-fire spread the flames over the 
ship, wrapping mast and deck in a fiery mantle of splendour. Hissing 
and crawling like serpents of fire, they entwined themselves around 
the flag, whilst the deck below, filled with a sea of fiery flames, roared 
with a voice as loud as that of the very billows themselves. Casting 
its lurid light on sky and ocean, that fiery ship was a sublime, but ter- 
rible spectacle ; and the tempest-tost wanderers, in the little boats, 
watched the awful scene with " thoughts of voiceless depth." Behind 
them lay the burning ship ; before them, an angry ocean ; above, a 
starless sky; and all around, destruction, desolation, and despair. 

No sign of land cheered the lonely voyagers — not a beacon of hope 
gleamed in the distance, and, until midnight, they lay tossing at the 
mercy of the winds and waves. 

Suddenly they spied a long line of light ; and the same joyous cry 
of " Land '." that .once came from the wayworn men of Columbus* 
and burst like a peal of music over the broad Atlantic, was now 
shouted by these voyagers, and the sound mingled with the angry 
voice of the tempest. 

With hearts filled with hope, the voyagers, steering by the light- 
ning's vivid flash, at length gained the shore. It was an island on 

190 mercy's mission. 

which they landed ; and the same on which resided that lady who, 
amid tempest and rain, was now pursuing her way on a mission of 

When the news reached the inhabitants of the island that a com- 
pany of voyagers, cold, weary, and tempest-tossed, had been thrown 
among them, the most benevolent hastened to their relief. Among 
these was Mrs. Arlington, a lady whose happiness consisted in doing 
good, and who passed her life in deeds of mercy and charity. Where 
sickness dwelt, fading the cheek and dimming the eye, there might 
she be seen, hovering, like a good angel, around the couch of suffering- 
Where Death stalked in dark majesty, remorselessly bearing off the 
loved and lovely from homes and hearts that ill could spare them, 
there she raised her voice in prayer, whispering words of comfort to 
the sorrowing survivors, and pointing them, with the finger of Faith, 
to that God who deals out his dispensations " in mercy, not in wrath." 
Wherever sorrow threw its shadows, wherever misery in its thousand 
shapes intruded, there she loved best to be, binding up the broken 
heart, hushing the half-stified sob of grief, and rising to " woman's 
best and peculiar altitude, that of doing good." 

But Mrs. Aldington's own life had not always been a summer's sail 
on a sunny sea : she, too, had been tempest-tossed on the wide waves 
of sorrow and misery. One by one, she had seen five lovely daugh- 
ters borne off by the conqueror, Death, and five white rose-trees now 
marked the spot where youth and beauty slept. Her only son had 
yielded up his life a sacrifice to the god of battle, and his body filled 
a soldier's grave. 

• Mrs. Arlington now resided alone, with no other companions than 
her books and flowers. Sometimes she felt very lonely, as she sat 
by the fireside, listening to the ceaseless flow of the ocean, and the 
moaning of the sad winds. 

And as she wended her way this tempestuous night, a wish filled 
her heart, that among these voyagers there might be one who she could 
take to her own home as a friend and companion. 

When she reached the spot where the boats had landed, she found 
many of the islanders assembled, offering shelter and comfort to the 

mercy's mission. 191 

weary strangers. In the group there was a little girl who particu- 
larly attracted her attention, as, alarmed and timid, she clung to an 
old woman, scarcely raising her head to look at the kind lady now 
addressing her. 

" Speak, Clara, to the lady, and tell her who you are, my darling," 
said the old woman. 

But Clara only clung to her the more convulsively, and turned her 
face from the questioner. 

" Are her parents here V asked Mrs. Arlington, gazing with increas- 
ing interest at the little girl. 

" No, indeed, my good lady," said the old woman, brushing a tear 
from her bronzed cheek : " the child is an orphan ; her father died a 
year ago, and, worn with sorrow and poverty, her blessed mother soon 
followed him." 

" And where are you going to take the child %" asked Mrs. Ar- 

" To my old home in Wales," was the answer. " I have a brother 
living there; he says that I must take the child to him, and he will 
support us both. I was her mother's nurse, sweet young creature that 
she was, and I am now this child's." 

" Has she no friends, no relations V asked Mrs. Arlington. 

" Oh yes, my lady — relations-, but no friends ; hard-hearted people, 
living in great rich houses, but they care not for the child, and in all 
this wide world she has only me ;" and the old woman pressed the 
child more closely to her bosom. 

" Well, come with me to-night," said Mrs. Arlington, " and I will 
give you a home and shelter." 

Theaiext day found the nurse and child comfortably ensconced in 
the home of Mrs. Arlington ; and whilst the little Clara, now grown 
playful and lively, sported about the room, with the huge dog for a 
playmate, the old nurse sat and talked with Mrs. Arlington. She told 
her that the child's mother had married without the consent of her 
parents. The father, a stern, unrelenting old man, though he knew 
that his child was steeped to the lips in poverty, put forth no hand to 
give her aid. "As she chose her path, so shall she walk therein," 

192 "mercy's mission. 

said the cruel old man ; and "with his heart filled with unforgiveness, 
he died, and appeared before God's tribunal, expecting that mercy he 
refused to practice himself while on earth. The young couple strug- 
gled on until Heaven removed them from their earthly trials. " Then, 
dear lady," concluded the old nurse, " I was left alone with this poor 
bereaved orphan." 

Time wore on, and all the voyagers had departed from -the island, 
save the nurse and child. Suffering and exposure on the fearful night 
of the storm had so wrought upon the feeble frame of the old woman, 
that she now lay ill and dying. All the day the child sat, pale and 
tearful, by the bedside of the sufferer ; and at night, sad and weary, 
she would climb up on the bed, and lay her little head by that of her 
faithful friend. 

One night, when Clara was wrapped in slumber, the old woman 
died. In. the morning she came into the room, and saw her old friend 
lying cold and still on the pillow. She climbed up on the bed, and 
patted the pale cheek with her little hand, while her long golden curls 
floated over the face of the sleeper. 

" Wake up," she said, " oh, dear, dear nurse ! the sun is shining so 
beautifully on the ocean ! Oh ! why do you lie here so long ?" 

All was still — still and solemn — no answer came from those pale v 
closed lips ; and the little child stooped down, and kissed the marble 
brow. She started back, young as she was ; she remembered another 
cold kiss that froze her very heart — it was that she had' pressed on 
the icy cheek of her dead mother. The white shroud — the narrow 
coffin — the deep, dark grave — seemed all again before her ; and she 
laid her little hand on the stiff, unyielding arm of the old woman, and 
moaned aloud. " Oh ! don't leave me, dear nurse ! Who will love 
me when you are gone 1 I am a poor little child — don't leave mc 
alone, dear, dear nurse !" Ah ! it was a sad wail that this young 
child sent up from her sorrowing little heart. 

That evening the nurse was buried by the moaning sea, and the 
waves with mournful voice sung a requiem, ceaseless and forever, over 
her lonely grave. 

And Clara still continued to live with Mrs. Arlington, and was to 


her even as a daughter. Happy in the affeetion of her new friend, 
her childhood was one long sunny day, and she passed over a radiant 
path to womanhood. Attentive, affectionate, and, oh ! above all, deep- 
ly grateful to her kind friend, she was at once the solace and delight 
of her declining years. 

When night came down on sea and land, wrapping all things in a 
mantle of darkness, Mrs. Arlington and Clara would sit around the 
cheerful fire in pleasant companionship ; and as Mrs. Arlington list- 
ened to the grateful outpourings of Clara's heart, and watched the 
bright sparkle of her beaming eye, she breathed an inward prayer of 
thanksgiving to the wise God, who had prompted her to go forth that 
stormy night on Mercy's Mission. 

Cling U \\t Sligljtg $hu. 

[Selected by Rena Fat.] 

Cling to the Mighty One, 

Cling in thy grief, 
Cling to the Holy One, 

He gives relief; 
Cling to the Gracious One, 

Cling in thy pain, 
Cling to the Faithful One, 

He will sustain. 

Cling to the Living One, 

Cling in thy woe ; 
Cling to the Loving One, 

Through all below ; 
Cling to the Pard'ning One, 

He speaketh peace ; 
Cling to the Healing One, 

Anguish shall cease. 

Cling to the Bleeding One, 

Cling to his side ; 
Cling to the Risen One, 

In Him abide. 
Cling to the Coming One, 

Hope shall arise ; 
Cling to the Reigning One, 

Joy lights thine eyes. 

CirttBiitt %\xnit: 


)HE day was dull and rainy; and I was standing by the 
nursery window, half hidden amongst the curtains, 
watching the rain as it dashed heavily against the 
panes. It was any thing but a cheerful employ- 
ment, and if I had been in a happy humour, I 
should never have chosen it ; but my face looked 
as sullen and cloudy as the gray sky above me, 
and my heart was full of passionate anger and jealousy. 

There was a murmur of pleasant voices in the nursery ; the baby 
was wide awake in the cradle, laughing and crowing to Cousin Annie ; 
and Laurie was laughing, too, as merrily as either. They none of 
them cared for me ! It was all Laurie's fault, too, that I was in a 
bad humour ; he had broken my doll — on purpose, I said angrily to 
myself — and yet there he was, just as happy as I was miserable, not 
troubling himself about me in any way. Cousin Annie, too, she never 
once thought of me, or cared how unhappy I was ! And so I stood, 
watching the rain, and growing all the while more angry and jealous, 
and so more miserable. 

By-and-bye some one came to the window and' pushed back the 
curtains : " Helen," Cousin Annie said, cheerfully, " don't you think 
you have watched the rain long enough ? / think the fire is much 
pleasanter to look at ; so come — we want you here with us." 

She led me out into the room, and I followed her, though sullenly 
and reluctantly. Then she took Laurie's hand and led him up to me ; 
" Now you two have been unhappy long enough," she said, " and it's 
quite time that you were friends again. Kiss Helen, Laurie, and tell 




her that you are sorry that you made her angry. I am sure you 

But Laurie drew back a little : " I did tell her I was sorry, Cousin 
Annie, for breaking her doll ; she knows I didn't mean to do it, and 
so she ought not to have got angry. That was all her own doing." 

"No matter, you did break her doll; and you would have felt 
just as badly as she does, perhaps, if she had broken one of your 
playthings. So you should make the first advances." 

Then Laurie came to me frankly enough, and would have put his 
arms around me and kissed me, but I drew away from him with 
sullen pride. 

" Won't you kiss me, Helen ?' 3 he asked. " I am sorry I made 
you angry." 

But I could not be softened : " I don't want you to kiss me, and I 
don't care whether you are sorry or not," I answered, coldly. And 
I turned away, and went back to my old stand by the window. 

Cousin Annie followed me : " It is the last day I shall be with you, 
Helen, and you are making it very unhappy for me," she said, sor- 
rowfully. " I cannot bear to see you so determined to make yourself, 
and Laurie, and me, all so miserable, when we might be so happy. 
Will you not kiss Laurie and forgive him, and be good-natured and 
cheerful again 1 He has really done nothing which should make you 


act in this way, and it is very wrong, Helen, for you to indulge in 
such feelings." 

" I don't care how wrong it is," I exclaimed, bitterly ; " you needn't 
mind me, Cousin Annie ; you can go back to your pet Laurie, who 
never does anything wrong, and just leave me to myself. It's no con- 
sequence if Fm miserable !" 

She looked at me sadly a moment, then said : " But you make me so 
too, Helen, and I wanted this last day with you all to be a very happy 
one. I am going away to-morrow, and perhaps you may never see 
me again. Will you not do so much as this for me while I stay 1 
It is- the last thing I shall ask of you in a great while." 

It was hard to withstand her gentle pleading ; I longed to throw 
myself in her arms, and sob out the penitence and sorrow already 
swelling in my heart. But my wicked pride and anger still prevented 
me from yielding, and I obstinately persisted in my ill-humour and 
sullenness. Cousin Annie left me at last, when she saw that I would 
not be persuaded, and for all the rest of that day I was alone with my 
own wretched feelings. I knew that Laurie was restless and unhappy, 
and there was a shade of sadness on Cousin Annie's sweet face that 
I knew I had caused. I hated mysejf for it, and wished remorsefully 
that I had yielded to her pleading, and overcome my wicked temper ; 
but it was too late now, I thought, so all day long I kept apart from 
her and from Laurie, with a cloud upon my face, and bitter sorrow in 
my heart. 

She went away early the next morning ; her long visit of three 
months had come to an end, and now she was going back to her own 
home. Laurie and I had grown to love her dearly while she was 
with us ; she was always so gentle and loving, and made herself, 
though so much older, a companion hi all our childish interests. I 
loved her with all the strength of my nature — better than any one 
in the world ; and my parting with her almost broke my heart. 

I could have killed myself for the way in which I had treated her ; 
I longed to fall down at her feet and tell her my shame and remorse, 
but I did not dare. I was too shy and undemonstrative always, and 
had no power to express the passionate feelings that were burning in 


my heart. So she only kissed me good-bye, still with the sorrowful 
look upon her face. I knew that to the last she hoped for some sign 
of relenting from me, and that it was a grief and disappointment to 
her not to find it. 

But I could not say a word, and the carriage rolled away, and 
Cousin Annie was gone. She thought I was sullen and angry still ; 
she never knew how wretched I was, and how my heart ached with 
its deep penitence and sorrow. And I never could tell her, for 1 never 
saw Cousin Annie again. 

It was only one week after that time that a letter was sent to my 
mother with tidings of Annie's dangerous illness. And before another 
week had passed, came another letter with a black seal — Annie was 
dead. ' There was a long curl of her beautiful golden brown hair in the 
letter. That curl, bright and shining still, though so many years 
have passed, lies before me now as I write ; and like a picture it 
brings back to me the fair, delicate face, with its beautiful loving eyes, 
that once it shaded ; and I can see again, as plainly as I used when a 
child, the sweet bright smile that used to dance over her little mouth 
and laugh in her blue eyes. 

Her sudden death, with all my remorse, was the one terrible grief 
of my childhood. It crushed me at first, so that 1 thought I never 
again could know peace and happiness. But by-and-bye out of the 
bitter punishment came the blessing ; and I learned to find peace, as 
Annie had long ago found it, in meekly striving to obey the will of 
my Father in heaven, and humbly seeking to follow in the footsteps 
of him who has said, w 

" Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me ; for I am meek and 
lowly in heart ; and ye shall find rest unto your souls." 



ffiljaptev XXXEEX. 

.EDNESDAY evening found them all in their places 
at the accustomed hour, and ready for the evening's 
" Shall I commence now ?" said Alice. 

" Yes, my dear," replied her father. 

"Alice should have said begin instead of commence " said her 
brother, " for begin is Saxon." 

" ' Mind your P's and Q's,' if you please, Herbert," said Arthur. 

" Oh, Arthur, that is dreadful — puns and cant, and I don't know 
what else," said Herbert. 

" Come, boys, Alice has had her lips open two or three times to 
say — whom, my daughter?" 

" The first is William Penn, from whom Pennsylvania is named ; 
I think everybody knows about him ; and the second is Queen 
Pkiliiopa. I have been reading a little book about her; she was the 
.mother of the Black Prince, whom English history tells so much of, 
and the wife of King Edward III., and the very same story is told of 
her that was told when we were playing in E, of Queen Eleanor !" 

" What story do you mean, Alice ?" inquired Maude. 

" Why, about the burghers of Calais who offered themselves as 
hostages to King Edward, and for whom the Queen pleaded that 
they might be set free. I believe you made a mistake about it, 
Maude, and Queen told Philippa's story — or else somebody else 
made the mistake." 

" It was my own mistake," said Maude, blushing deeply. " I don't 



see how it could have happened that I should be so* mistaken — I should 
never have remembered it but for this." 

" Don't condemn yourself so hastily, Maude," said Mr. Clayton, 
kindly; " we who listened to you are just as much to blame for the 
mistake. What do you recall now of Eleanor?" 

" Only that she saved her husband's life by sucking the poison from 
a wound inflicted by a poisonous arrow. That was wifely, and 
honoured the Queen." 

" Even so — all womanly attributes in their loftiest form honour 
queens — because the woman is above the queen ; one is the dignity 
given by mankind — the other is the dignity conferred by God him- 
self on those who should be the mothers of men — of kings — of the 
human nature of Christ, His own Son." 

" I am glad I am a girl," said Maude, in a low voice — then she 
added, as it came her turn in the play, " I have Paley, whose Natural 
Theology I am going to study after a few months. We have school- 
books of his,- have we not, Miss Emily? and my second name is 
Pascal, whose " Thoughts''' I sometimes translate from the French." 

" Was Pascal a Romanist, Maude V 

" I should hardly think so, from the tone of his religion." 

" He was a member of that church, however, but he was a leader 
in a pure body of Romish Christians who were called Jansenists : 
you young people will be delighted when you come to know more of 
Pascal and his times. His Provincial Letters are rich in the wealth 
of the intellect and heart which dictated them. Well, Herbert 1 ?" 

" Two Americans, ladies and gentlemen. Prescott the historian, of 
whom we are justly proud (aren't we 1 ?) and Poe. I don't know much 
about him — only he wrote some stories which I am never sure that I 
understood, but I hear people talking as if he was a great man. I 
was thinking of Plutarch and Pluto — " 

" There, that will do, Herbert." 

" Yes, papa, but I know who they are — " 

" Edgar A. Poe was a great man by gift of nature, but no talents 
were more completely desecrated. To an intellect which was in- 
comprehensible and apparently infinite to a common mind, he added 


so immoral and depraved a nature, that it might often be said of 
him, ' he has a devil.' " 

" Can I say the two Pitts P asked Arthur. 

" We call the father the Earl of Chatham, to distinguish him from 
his illustrious son — they were wonderful men." 

" Then let me have another duo — the two Peters." 

" Whom do you mean, Arthur V 

" Peter the Great, and Peter the Hermit — both had tremendous 
power over men." 

" Yes," said Mr. Austen, " a strange phase of humanity was de- 
veloped by the inspiring fanaticism of the Crusade preacher ; as for 
the other, he was a strong man, he had a kind of savage strength in 
his nature, which no refinement would have quite subdued. He was 
undoubtedly the man for his age and country. But you have been 
greedy of great men, my lad." 

"I offer you Petrarch" said Miss Emily, " the most elegant of 
Italian writers, as well as a writer of most elegant Italian — the 
famous lover of Laura, giving immortality to her charms by his 
eloquent pen — and by his side will stand Phidias, who, with his 
chisel, gave immortality to men, and brought Olympian gods to earth." 

" I have no favourites to present," said Mr. Carey, in succession. " I 
don't know how it is when there are so many great men beginning 
with P. There are Praed and Proctor, whom we know better as 
Barry Cornwall — clever poets and pleasant men. What a pity poor 
Praed lived so little time — he gave us only an inkling of his genius." 

" I had been thinking of Proctor," said Miss Emily, " but he left 
my mind for yours, I suppose, and I took Phidias in his place. I 
wonder you passed by those Grecians, Pythagoras, Pisistratus, and 
so on. I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but neither Mr. Clayton nor 
Mr. Austen have to plunge so far back to encounter acquaintances." 

" Oh, I have gone back very nearly as far, Miss Emily, to-day ; but 
go on Austen, my good men are not used to waiting." 

" The two Plinys — younger and older — and our modern Porson" 

" What were the two Plinys ?" asked Alice. 

" Men, Alice — great naturalists. I believe the younger man was 


the most celebrated. He lost his life during an eruption of Vesu- 

" ' Pliny's Doves' — why is that broach of yours called so, Miss 
Emily ?" 

" I don't know, Maude, unless because it is a mosaic copied from one 
which was found amid the ruins of Pompeii — and perhaps it was sup- 
posed to have belonged to Pliny — or he may have written a descrip- 
tion of it. I will find out about it, and let you know." 

" Pray, don't pass over my famous man of a thousand tongues — 
Porson — without a recognition of his bulky lingual possessions. He 
was a huge Polyglot." 

" There have been few such linguists, truly. And now, Austen, 
and all of you, do welcome Peter and Paul. 1 " 

" Of Bible times, papa 1 Ah, you do like those people so much." 

"They are beloved of God, Alice, and is it not an honour to hold 
them ever in remembrance ? Were they not honoured in all their 
lives'? Even when sinning against God, they were brought back by 
such especial means. Do you think Peter can forget the loving look 
of sad reproach which Christ bent upon him when he denied him those 
three times ? And Paul, what power and glory were displayed to 
compass his conversion, and how, during all his life, the power and 
glory of God was shown in his preachings — his writings — his whole 
devoted and saintly life ?" 

"You always make a good case of it, papa." 

" Don't sigh over it so profoundly, Alice. I should be ashamed to 
say less of those men. 


©fcaptct XXXXV. 

O you not think we might run through with the letter 

Q to-night ?" said Miss Emily, on the following morning, 

to the party at the breakfast- table. "It has really no 

right in the game, so few persons can be found responding 

, to its summons." 

£> " Yes, by all means," said Mr. Clayton. " I cannot think 

) of more than two Q's myself. I doubt if we can make it go 

" I have one in my mind, if I may be allowed to use it," said 
Maude, with an arch look. 

" Oh, use anything to-night ; we will not question any of your 
gentry, indeed. I don't believe half a dozen. can be brought together 
with the utmost diligence," said Mr. Austen. 

The children were hastening away to fortify themselves, if possi- 
ble, for the evening, when Arthur, who was in advance of the others, 
turned around at the door, and said — 

" Let me ask a question, if you please, while I think of it. How 
did the expression ' mind your P's and Q's' originate ?" 

" You were told the other evening that such phrases had their rise 
chiefly in drinking houses, Arthur," said Mr. Clayton, " and this is a 
case in point. It is said to have meant originally, ' mind your pints 
and quarts,' P's and Q's, as they stand in the ale-house score ; and of 
course the expression is used to make one cautious, and to keep him 
from going too fast." 

" Thank you," said both the boys : " we are just now going to mind 
the Q's," continued Herbert, and off they ran. 

" Papa," said Alice, that night, " 1 am in a great hurry for you to 
begin to play, that I may tell you I know nothing except that this book," 
holding up a very old, almost worm-eaten volume, " was written by 
Frances Quarks. Its name is ' Divine Fancies, digested into epi- 
grams, meditations, and observations.' " 

" He was a quaint old poet, Alice, of the times of Charles I., and 


has some claims to notice, even though Pope did give him a place in 
the ' Dunciad,' and though his books have long since ceased to pay 
for new editions. Well, Maude, your eyes don't commonly sparkle 
for nothing." 

" I have taken Quilp. I can only refer you to Mr. Dickens' story 
of Little Nell, in ' The Old Curiosity Shop' — I mean for information 
about him," said Maude. 

"That will do, my dear," said Mr. Clayton, smiling; "anything is 
fair to-night, as I told you before." 

" I have no apology to make," said Herbert, " for I 've never 
heralded a better name than Marcus Fabius Quintilianus, the famous 
expounder of eloquence. It will be necessary for me to acquaint 
myself with ' De Institutione Oratoria,' before I can run on the presi- 
dential ticket." 

" Certainly, Herbert," said Arthur. " Meanwhile, I 'd advise you to 
' tarry at Jericho till your beard be grown,' and I will go on now to 
name Quintus Cwtius, the writer, you know — yes, and Quintus 
Curtius, the old Roman, too ; there ! think of my giving two Q's !" 

" I have remembered a notable," said Miss Emily, " who has a Q 
somewhere in his name. He is called Francisco Gomez de Quesedo 
y Villegas, after the fashion of those Spanish nobles. He was quite 
a famous writer on Spanish literature ; he was wise and witty, and 
generally worthy." 

" You are all very good," said Mr. Carey, " to leave me Quin, 
the celebrated Irish actor. He possessed the Irish characteristics of 
convivial taste and habit, and strong, vivid passions, set off by warm- 
hearted generosity, and fine wit. Do you remember the anecdote 
about him, Mr. Austen, in connection with George III. 1 He had 
taught the royal children elocution, and I doubt not, had had his 
hands full in beating back their Dutch propensities. When he was 
informed of the graceful and dignified manner in which George III. 
pronounced his first speech at the meeting of Parliament, the 
veteran performer exclaimed, with eager exultation, ' It was / who 
taught the boy.' " 

" It seems odd to me," said Arthur, " that those who have the dig- 

204 . sedgehoor; 

nity of a crown upon their heads should be instructed in a diguified 
bearing. Yet I have read that James I. was extremely undignified in 
manner, and the first Georges were quite clownish ; even Napoleon 
had to take lessons of Talma, the tragedian." 

" You forget, Arthur, that many a crown is placed by inheritance, or 
by unexpected circumstances, upon heads that would look better under 
a shepherd's bonnet or a workman's cap ; such was not the case, how- 
ever, with Napoleon, who won his diadem ; nor should it have been with 
James I., who carried in his veins the blood of a hundred kings ; so you 
see it is not always a dignified position that gives dignity of carriage. 
I have known a soul full of honour, full of dignity, enshrined in a 
hunchback's form," said Mr. Austen. " I almost feel inclined to 
apologize for myself to-night, for not having a grave worthy. The 
fact is, I can only think of Quinault, the first writer of French operas. 
I think, as he was a man of some note, that he may stand, though his 
chief merit in our eyes consists in commencing his name with Q." 

" I have to bring a Frenchman," said Mr. Clayton : " the Jansenist 
Pasquier Quesnel. When the young people are sufficiently conver- 
sant with ecclesiastical matters to appreciate the history of the Jan- 
senists, as they were called, they will read Quesnel's biography with 
great interest." 

Then followed a conversation on ecclesiastical history, which 
roused both Herbert and Arthur to great ardour as they listened to 
the wonderful deeds of those who had suffered for their faith, whether 
in the persecutions of the heathen Emperors of Eome, in the inqui- 
sitorial chambers of the Papal See, or amidst the wilds and mountain 
fastnesses to which the true Church was driven. The close of the 
evening was spent in preparation for the next night's play. 


[Concluded from page 175.] 

ELL, and wha„t came next ? I think I hear you 
asking impatiently. Why, the presents, to be 
sure. We were asked into another room, and 
there stood a large table, covered. The four 
seasons each took a corner, and lifted up the 
cover, and what treasures were exposed to our 
admiring eyes ! James Blightnot's uncle gave 
^3^ him an elegant watch and chain, which was in 

a box labelled " Cough Drops." James took the box in his hand, and 
what was his surprise on opening it, at finding himself in the possess- 
ion of that for which he had so long a time wished. Quite a scene 
ensued, I assure you ; Mrs.. Blightnot rushed to her first-born, and em- 
braced him with ardor, while Mr. Blightnot, quite participating in his 
son's delight, sang a few bars of the song entitled, " Would I were a 
boy again." The lines on James' watch were these, attached to it on 
a piece of paper : 

" Watch ! James, each hour, improve it as it flies ; 
Chain every evil thought 'till evil dies." 

ilext came a fine box of tools for Fred, who has a great turn for 
mechanics. " It was a splendid set, fifty-two pieces in all, and you 
should have seen Fred's raptures over the handsaw, gouges, gimblets, 
pincers, plyers, screw-driver and plane. I happened to take up one 
of the tools which looked to me like a toothpick, and I said so. I 
cannot describe to you Fred's scorn as he took it from me, saying in 
a sarcastic tone, " Well, girls are the most ignorant human beings I 


206 geraldine's holidays. 

ever heard of — the idea of calling this a toothpick." I felt quite 
humiliated for a moment, but when I asked him if he knew how to 
back-stitch waistbands, he confessed his ignorance, and we laughed at 
each other. The motto on his tool chest was the following : 

" Be sharp as Hatchet, firm as Nail, 
Be punctual to each call ; 
To Compass hardships never fail, 
And thus you will gain awl" (all.) 

Then for Genevieve Blightnot there was a beautiful silk dress with 
this motto : 

" Be as the flowers when robed in colours rare, 
Unconscious, modest, unassuming, fair." 

For Amanda Darnley there was a very handsome writing-desk, 
and a napkin-ring for Mrs. Blightnot. On the last was inscribed 
these appropriate words, engraved on the silver. It was a gift from 
the Blightnot family to their beloved mother : 

P A ring of love 
To her we give, 
"Who teaches us 
To die and live." 

Nor must the offering to Mr. Blightnot be forgotten ; a large 
supply of soap, which was the contribution of this thoughtful family. 
But, my dear friend, were I to detain you with an account of all the 
gifts that were on the table, your patience would be exhausted, and 
I must content myself with the mention of only two or three -others. 
For myself, one of my prettiest presents was a set of ivory tablets, 
with the outer leaves of exquisite pearl, carved most elaborately. 
On one of the leaves were pencilled these lines : 

" These leaves, sweet maiden, like thy heart are fair, 
Spoil neither : guard them both with tenderest care." 

Some facetious friend sent Mr. Blightnot a dried cod fish, from 
whose tail flourished a pendant of white paper, on which was written : 

geraldine's holidays. 207 

" When you eat this fish, 
Set for me a dish." 

Then there were gems, and fans, and toys, and dolls in abundance, 
and we would have remained all night comparing and gazing on our 
treasures, had not Mrs. Blightnot called us into another room to partake 
of a delicious feast. 'Tis in such things that her genius is supreme ; 
Mr. T., the epicure, would go into raptures over her stewed oysters ; 
and as for the ices, they were beyond praise. 

The evening ended with a diversion which was new to us all, and 
which Mrs. Blightnot called by the rather unrefined name of the 
" Grab Bag." Now, every body had contributed something to said 
bag ; some things were of value, to be sure, but most of the articles 
therem were perfectly absurd-. Each individual was allowed to put 
his hand in and draw out, without having seen it, the first article he 
touched. You can have no idea how very diverting this was. Old 
Mr. Savage, a confirmed bachelor, drew out a lady's cap ; Fred 
Blightnot a doll ; Mr. Blightnot a pop gun ; and Mrs. Darnley a bag 
of marbles, and so on, and the finale of our evening proved the mer- 
riest part of it ; and when the last article, a wig, was drawn out by 
old Miss Simpson, one of the neighbours, who, every one knew, wore 
false curls, we found that the small hours of the night were approach- 
ing, and the guests departed one by one, each wishing the other in 
all sincerity a Happy New Year. 

I feel, I know, friend and companion of my youth, that I have not 
done justice to this happy evening, and yet I was anxious to commit 
an account of it to paper, in order that on some future occasion, 
when I have emerged from the trammels of boarding-school, we 
might together plan a similar entertainment. But ah ! I fear that the 
Blightnot spirit will not descend upon us, and we could not induce 
that devoted woman to leave her family or neglect one single duty 
of her useful home-life. Ah ! sometimes when I think of Mrs. Jay 
and herself together, it seems to me as if they belonged not to the 
same species of humanity ; the one so severe, so exacting, so starch- 
ed ; the other so genial, so joy -giving, and -loving. 

208 geraldine's holidays. 

But, dear me, how time passes. I must hasten down stairs to my 
books. I think that I hinted at the beginning of my lengthy epistle, 
that I was becoming more interested every day in my studies ; my 
mind seems to be enlarging, my intellect expanding, and my soul drink- 
ing in great truths. Do not wonder, then, dearest, when I tell you 
that 1 find myself poetizing frequently, or that I dedicate the lines 
which you will find enclosed, to my best, my dearest, my earliest 
friend : 


J.0 iu ^ g $ „. g. 

Beneath a branching, spreading tree, 

Bright, waving emerald green, 
I mused, and thought-on thee, my love, 

And 'gainst the trunk did lean. 

Oh, distance^ what a tyrant, thou ! 

I said with broken tone, 
Thou part'st my Marion and me, 

ADd leav'st us both alone. 

Oh, Marion, nymph of glancing eye, 
Thy picture 's on my heart, 
■ And never will it leave that place, 
'Till life and love depart. 

Think on me,"then, at morn and night, 

And in the shadowy eve, 
And thought of thee, oh, friend beloved, 

My breast shall never leave. 

Excuse the tear drops which you will see blistering the paper ; 
they can be detected by your observing a slight inequality here and 
there. I can never read the lines without being affected. I showed 
them to Mrs. Blightnot in confidence, and though she told me candidly 
that they contained a few faults, yet she said they reminded her of 
Byron's best effusions. I think, perhaps, that papa might appreciate 
these, were he to see them, and yet I would hardly dare (o submit 

SONNET. 209 

them to his inspection. I showed him, not long ago, some lines of 
mine to the Weeping Willow, which Mrs. Blightnot pronounced 
admirable ; and though I know he is a man of taste, and a scholar, and 
well acquainted with the poets, strange to say, he said that he 
thought " they were rather of the tragic muse order," and was nearly 
stifled with laughter from some cause or other, though he had just 
said that they were tragic, and then he told me that I was at the very 
foot of Parnassus, and that I must climb a little higher before I ven- 
tured to steal the graces of the sacred Nine. When I told him that 
I did not understand him, he said, " Ah ! have you not learned my- 
thology % why, I must write to Mrs. Jay and ask her to let you begin 
that important study forthwith." Thus you see, dear Marion, that 
another book is to be added to my stock. Ah ! how long it takes 
to know everything. 

The school bell rings, and I sign myself in a hurry, yours, till 
death, Geraldine. 

It It t\\ 


Sweet bud of Purity ! the dews of morning 

But shone upon thy life's unfolding leaf : 
The early spring-bloom but thy cheek adorning, 

Thou whose fair day on earth has been so brief ! 
Oh ! perish a blossom of the Parent Tree, 

No more thy small rose lips his own shall greet, 
Who, from his Human Life, sometimes to thee 

Could turn, and feel thy baby-smiles were sweet. 
But it pleased God in early days to call thee 

From this dim world of sorrow, sin, and pain ; 
Not one of its dark evils can befall thee,- 

For He who gave hath claimed His own again ! 
There pure celestial breezes fan thy brow, 

Oh ! Infant Seraph ! thou art happier now ! 
Chicago, 1854. 

Ilfg ^rtfur fitmait Jfflitgljt 

AM sure Dick Henderson was the meanest boy 
in school — I always thought he was, and said 
he was, and what I am going to tell you now 
will prove it. But Arthur Inman gave him his 
deserts at last. Our teacher did not approve 
of fighting, not he. I never saw a man more 
averse to it ; we dreaded to have him hear about Dick's good drub- 
bing — richly as he had merited it. We all came into the school-room 
with fear and trembling the day of the fight, but there was no occa- 
sion — dear me, as mamma always used to say, how I am running 
on ahead of my story! 

Fagging was carried on to an intolerable degree at Wilton, where 
our school was. You don't have fagging in this country. It 's a pity ; 
but no, it is not, either. It had its advantages, or it would never have 
been allowed. You may be sure a nobleman would never have been 
willing to see his son and heir to his titles and his broad estates 
waiting at the beck and nod .of a vulgar rich man's son, who, vulgar 
as his father, exacted actual servitude from his unhappy fa"- — if the 
system had not had its advantages. It taught subordination. Those 
who were benefited by it were made good masters, for thev knew 
from experience the ills of servitude, and all learned that subordina- 
tion which is a necessary part of the education of those who must 
obey rules, and look up with proper reverence, at least respect, to 
those elevated above them by rank. They learned, also, how to wait 
upon themselves — those who had been obliged, as fags, at school to 
wait upon others. This lesson could never be gained in many of the 
halls, and even palaces of England, where obsequious servants bowed 
to the shoe-tie of the young heir. 



But fagging had its ills, too, and Dick Henderson will illustrate one 
of them. Dick was one of those very vulgarians of whom I have 
spoken. Vulgarity, showing itself in lawless, vicious self-indulgence 
— in a total lacking of consideration for the feelings and comfort of 
others, and of all delicacy of sentiment, was Dick's character. 

His unhappy fag was a gentle little fellow, the youngest son of the 
Lady Mary Meredith. His father had been dead only a few months, 
when his guardians thought it best to send the lad to our school, 
His sweet, sad face won us all, for it was girlishly delicate, and we 
tried in every way to prevent his becoming Henderson's fag. 

" That coarse, brutal boy, will kill little Meredith," I said. 

" Not while I can fight," said young Arthur Inman, drawing him- 
self up with a noble look of defiance, and real chivalry on his hand- 
some face. "Meekness and merit shall be protected while this arm 
can be wielded, you may be sure, boys." 

" And we '11 stand by you, Prince Arthur. Three cheers, and here 's 
a hand pledged to help Arthur Inman out of any trouble he gets 
into by defending that little picture of the beautiful Lady Mary." 

So the compact was made, and it was a Holy Alliance to aid the 
oppressed, and stand by the right. 

One Monday morning, about a month after this, I found Arthur 
Inman in the garden alcove, leaning against the wall, and looking very 
pale and very determined. 

" Well, Arthur ?" 

" Well, Dick Henderson is a villain, and he shall cry quarter to 
me to-day, or my name is not Arthur Inman !" 

" Little Meredith in question ?" 

'.' Yes — that is it. . Yesterday, Sunday, think of that, John, he 
beat the child till his back is covered with welts as large as my 
finger ; there is the whip he used, I caught him at it, and he cleared 
off, and left it ready for his own shoulders." 

" What was the offence ?" 

" Little Meredith refused to sneak down to the inn at the cross- 
roads and bring Henderson a can of beer. He threatened the cudg- 
elling, but the brave little boy stood up before him without moving 



his eyelids, and said, ' Strike me, beat me, knock me down — that I 
never will do for you or any one else, Henderson. Here, strike !' 
And the dastard did strike, and so will /." 

I did not say a word, but I clenched hands with the young knight, 
and he knew what I meant by it. 

Arthur encountered Dick that day before we had expected it. 
" Here 's for Walter Meredith," was all he said when they met. The 
battle commenced. Poltroon that he was ! In less that a moment 
Henderson had measured his length on the ground, and Arthur stood 
over him whip in hand. How he pleaded for quarter ! and how 
pitiful the whole conduct of the coward was ! 

Arthur threw away the whip, and said — 

" Well, / will be generous, little as you deserve it, but touch a 
hair of Walter Meredith's head, Dick Henderson, and this lash shall 
come down on you pitilessly." 

The great clumsy fellow tried to sneer, and say that fear of the 
master had withheld the whip. Arthur drew back with a flushed 
face, and raised his arm — 

"You know better, Henderson. You know that even for this I 
shall draw down Dr. Eaton's displeasure. I, who love him so, and 
respect his every law, I defy you to say it again." 


Little did we. who came up just as all of it was over, and only in 
time to hear the story from Arthur's lips, little did we know that 
Dr. Eaton had seen and heard it all. 

The master never referred to it. His silence was understood and 
appreciated. It was approbation of Arthur — decidedly. 

Henderson left school that year. He became an arrogant, insolent, 
vulgar man, lacking every gentle, manly quality, and surely every 
Christian grace. 

I need not tell you how Arthur Inman stood with us, or how the 
Lady Mary acknowledged his brave defence of her son, or how the 
two men stand side by side now in the great world, fighting with 
milder weapons, but no less doughtily, for the cause of Liberty and 


It was a very little thing, 
A ray of morning sunlight, from a door 
Suddenly opened to the balmy air, 
Streaming across the shadows of my room, 
Until it reached a cloud of sunny curls 
Upon a fair and blessed childish head — 
The Morning glory of my summer years ! 
And there the bright ray lingered, 
Lighting up with amber, and rich gold each curl ; 
Then stealing down the whiteness of his neck, 
Clasping his fair and rounded shoulders, with 
Its warm and bright ethereal touch : 
'Twas a fond fancy ; yet I could but deem 

It was the hand of God caressing him ! 

The Journey to London, 

i %i)nWx f i Cffrjjkrl 

ailRsZ iHE bright June sunshine is falling through our windows, 
and the shadows of the rose-vines that cling around the 
lattice flicker^ upon the paper as we write. The School- 
fellow is not in his city den to-day, surrounded by brick 
walls, and with only crowded, dusty streets to look out 
upon. From the open window by which he sits, he can 
look up, to the blue summer sky stretching away vast 
and beautiful — down, upon a wilderness of roses and 
honeysuckles, and around upon green meadows and fields of waving 

We wish that all our little readers who may be still in the midst of 
the city's dust and heat, could be here with us, enjoying the freshness 
and beauty of this quiet country home. We would like to tell you 
much about it, and about our merry little friend " Lily," whose home 
it is ; and who flits in and out of the room with her laughing face 
and saucy brown eyes, every five minutes. Some time we may, per- 
haps ; but now we must first look at this little packet of letters, and 
see what is available for the Biddler's Corner. 

The first that comes to hand is a contribution from Miss Nannie 
Lee, an " Original Enigma,'' which she very much wishes to see in 
print. We are sorry that we cannot gratify her, but the subject of 
the enigma is so trite, and has been so often used, that we think it 
best to withhold it. Nannie must not be discouraged, however ; she 
rhymes cleverly, and we have no doubt that she will soon write very 
pretty riddles. 

Augustus, and Charlie M., each send us poetical solutions of Inez's 
charade, but they copy the words of the original too closely. We 
give, instead, the following answer by our little friend Lucy Wilson : 




The dreary night was darkening fast, 
When through the woods a traveller passed ; 
Weary and foot-sore, glad was he 
The sheltering inn's bright light to see ; 
And seated by its genial fire, 
With supper to his heart's desire — 
He little cared, though loud and high , 
The stormy gale raged fiercely by ; 

To him its wild and mournful wail 
Was musical as Nightingale, 
That stirs the silent summer night 
With thrilling songs of rare delight. . 

Marion's little charade has been variously answered by " Birdie," 
Charles Montague, S. N., and Augustus. We select for publication 
the following : 



Little blossom fair and frail, 

I your riddle will unveil. 

Through the meadows green and sweet, 

Trample cows with heavy feet ; 

And I know a rosy lip, 

Where bee-like I love to sip 

Sweeter honey, cowslip fair, 

Than fell ever to your share ! 

We cut from an English paper a riddle for our little readers who 
are learning French. It is so easy, that we hope to get many answers 
even from the youngest of our correspondents. 


Je suis a. la tete de l'armee, 

Et je suis toujours en garde contre l'ennemi, 

Et sans moi Paris serait pris. 

216 THE riddler's corner. 


To a word of consent, add one-half of a fright ; 
Next subjoin what you never beheld in the night 
These rightly connected, you'll quickly obtain, 
What numbers have seen, but will ne'er see again. 

We conclude with an original charade, for which our thanks are due 
to a new corespondent, Miss Addy Smith. We hope to hear from 
her again. 


An insect small that most despise, 
A plague in careful housewife's eyes, 
And yet the type of industry 
To all time still my first shall be. 

My second little girls oft dread ; 
It is an irksome task indeed, 
"When little feet would bound away 
To join in merry childish play. 

My whole through churches grand and high 
Rolls with majestic harmony, 
A deep and solemn music-swell, 
Hushing all hearts beneath its spell. 





Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled him to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book ior the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happily and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
decree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but " children of a larger growth" may derive both know 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant " Philosophy at Home." 


Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Harry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 







1 linii IKS] ^y <*&> u ii ^^ ^g/ \smm WS IS l§») ^^ \H\B g| 



Mr. W. C. Richards and "Cousin Alice." 

This work has been in existence for six years, during which time it has 
acquired a degree of popularity unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, an4 
frequently been pronounced by the press, both North and South. " the best and 
cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States." 


is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and 
aims at the cultivation of the heart as well as of the mind. It is an original ma- 
gazine, and its articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for 
the young in the country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Richards, it will continue 
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is a talisman to command the love and favor of children, supported by a large 
number of favourite writers. 


of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skillful artists, and 
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€Mt nf Cntitetttn. 


Uncle Hugh's Portfolio, No. V. Pharaoh's Daughter, 

and the Infant Moses, . . . . By Mrs. Richards. _- 

The Angel of God, . . . . . . By Hans Andersen. 

Sedgemoor. Chapters XL., XLI. and XLIL, . By Mrs. Manners. 

The Rabbits, , By Author of " Stories 

in Natural History." 
The Mother and Son. A Ballad, . . . By Caroline Howard. 

The Lumber-Room. A Story for Bertie, . . By Mary E. 
The Pebble Stone, . . . From " a Boy Dream of 

The Fountain in the Woods, . . . . By H. J. Slack, Esq. 

The Discontented Weathercock, . . . Selected. 

To-Morrow, . . . . . . Selected. 


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Moses in tha Bulrushes. 

?UtI* jfttfljf's lortfalin; 

V. pharaoh's d a ug hter • and the infant moses. 

jj^HERE is no afternoon service at church to-day, May, 
what do you think of getting out the portfolio for an- 
other talk over the pictures." 
" No service, why is that, John V 
" Ask Uncle Hugh." 

" Because poor little Bertie Stevens, Dr. Stevens's 
little boy, is very low with the scarlet fever, and they 
are afraid he will not live till sunset. The doctor looked 
so pale and anxious this morning, that my heart ached for him."* 

Aunt Eleanor made no remark, but tears trembled on her dark 
lashes, and the children remembered how Uncle Hugh and Aunt 
Eleanor had buried in their early childhood the only children they had 
ever had, two bright and promising little boys. This same terrible 
scarlet fever had left the father and mother childless. So you may be 
sure they both prayed fervently that day, that little Bertie Stevens 
might be spared to his loving parents. 

In the afternoon, Aunt Eleanor remembering John's remark about 
the portfolio, called the children to her, and asked them about the 
next picture which they found there. It was a lovely picture of 
Pharoah's daughter finding the infant Moses in the tiny ark by the 
water's edge. The " goodly child" lay in the soft wrappers which his 
mother had placed about him, so fair, and sweet, and plump that the 
woman's heart of the princess was moved by its beauty and by its 
pitiful tears as it wept. Even John exclaimed with delighted admir- 
ation, as the beauty of the whole scene was comprehended. 

" What a cruel, hard-hearted Pharaoh that was to order the male 
children of the Israelites to be destroyed. Why was it, Aunt 
Eleanor 1 ?" said May. 

292 uncle Hugh's portfolio. 

"Because, in spite of his unjust and cruel rules and laws, the ob- 
ject of which was to render their whole lives burdens to them, the 
descendents of Jacob increased and multiplied at a wonderful rate, 
and Pharaoh became afraid that they would be a powerful and dan- 
gerous race in his land. I think it was more than sixty years 
after Joseph's death, that this law to kill the children was first 

" I don't wonder that Moses' mother kept her baby hid for three 
months ; a ' goodly child' must mean that he was a beautiful baby. 
Ah, a baby of three months old is so sweet ! with what a pang his 
mother must have laid him in that uncouth cradle, uncertain what 
his fate wo,uld be." 

" Not very uncertain, however, May," said Uncle Hugh, coming 
towards them. " Don't you remember what is said in the eleventh 
chapter of Hebrews, ' By faith Moses when he was born was hid 
thr%e months of his parents, because they saw he was a proper child; 
and they were not afraid of the king's commandment 2' They had 
received some revelation from God, very likely, of the great destiny 
which awaited him." 

" We who live in these peaceful and happy days are not half thank- 
ful enough for the mercies we have. Now, when God takes our chil- 
dren from us by death, it is painful enough, even when we can both 
feel and see that it is God's own will, that it is His dealing with 
our souls. But in the days of Pharaoh and Herod, the poor mothers 
saw their darlings taken from them by the hands of fierce men, and 
often, I doubt not, saw them perish before their eyes. It was much 
harder to trust God then, and to believe Him to be as loving and 
merciful as He is wise and just." 

" Yes, Eleanor," said Uncle Hugh, very tenderly, " we are blest in 
that our lines have fallen unto us in pleasant places, and we are blest, 
too, in the ability and disposition to recognize God's hand in all that 
befalls us. This babe's mother saw the reward of her faith when the 
child was given into her tender care again. We shall some day see 
the reward of our faith ; it will surely come, though it be long de- 

uxcle Hugh's portfolio. 293 

" John, was not Miriam delighted when the princess looked so 
kindly on the forlorn little baby boy, and asked her about a nurse 
for him 1 Nothing could have been more charming, it all turned out 
just right." 

"Things are apt to turn out so when God orders them and guards 
their accomplishment, my dear May. Do you observe here, that 
Moses was in many things the type of Christ j He was saved from 
destruction as our Saviour was, by hiding in Egypt from the cruel 
wrath of the king. Moses delivered the Israelites from Egyptian 
bondage — but Christ delivered all believing mankind from an infinite- 
ly more grievous bondage, even from the bondage of sin and death." 

" I suppose he was brought up at the court as a young prince would 
have been, and thus had every advantage, and grew up fitted for a 
leader when the time came." 

" Yes, John, in all ages of the world you will find men fitting, by 
God's providences, though they know not the gracious guidance, they 
may be under, to be the leaders of some great movement which is to 
change- the destiny of nations. Such men were Alexander — Csesar — 
Mahomet — Martin Luther — Cromwell — and Napoleon. Men for the 
times, wielding power which only God could give them; but, alas! 
seldom recognizing God in any of their ways. ' Moses was quali- 
fied by his education to be a prince and king in JeshurunJ says 
the learned commentator ; ' by having it in a learned court, he was 
fitted to be a historian, and by having it in the court of Egypt, he 
was fitted to be the ambassador of God to that court. Moses was 
called by an Egyptian name, as a happy omen to the Gentile 
world, giving hopes of that day when it shall be said, 'Blessed be 
Egypt my people I 1 His tuition at court was an earnest of the fulfil- 
ment of that promise, ' kings shall be thy nursing fathers and queens 
thy nursing mothers.'' " 

" The princess little thinks, Uncle Hugh, as she stands there watch- 
ing the bright baby, of the part she is taking in the destiny of a great 
man, and of a great nation." 

" Say of the world, May, for this, I doubt not, was among the pur- 
poses of God from the foundation of the world, and this was one part 


of his plan to bring about the spiritual as well as temporal salvation 
of His Israel." 

" No boy knows what his future may be," said John ; " who can tell 
what may be in store for me ?" 

" Even kings and great men have no royal road to learning, John. 
You must improve every moment, every opportunity, to be ready 
for a great future, should such be God's will concerning you." 

€\i Inpl of <S£olL 


ACH time that a good and pious child dies, an angel 
from heaven descends to earth, takes the child in 
her arms, spreads her white wings, flies over all 
those places the child has loved, and there gathers 
flowers to carry to God, in order that they may 
flourish in heaven more beautiful than they ever 
were on earth. God presses them to his bosom, kisses those he 
likes the best, after which they receive a voice and can sing in the 
great celestial choir. 

This is what an angel related to a young child who had just 
died, and whom the gentle angel was carrying to heaven. The 
child heard the words as in a dream, and they flew together to- 
wards those places that he had loved, and stopped in a garden 
filled with beautiful flowers. " What shall we take to plant in hea- 
ven," asked the angel? Now there was in this garden a fine tall 
rose bush, but some naughty people had broken the stem, and its 
branches, covered with half-opened buds, hung sad and faded to the 
ground. " Poor rose," said the child ; " let us take it, that the good 
God may make it grow again." And the angel took it and kissed 


the child, who half opened his eyelids. They now gathered more 
beautiful flowers, and also little daisies, and the grave-colored violets. 
Now we have all sorts, said the child ; the angel assented, yet still did 
not fly directly to heaven, but stopped at a large town. It was night, 
and they flew above a little narrow street where they saw quantities 
of dirty ruins, broken vases, and filthy rags ; in short, all sorts of 
miserable and disgusting objects. The angel pointed out, in the midst 
of this desolation, a broken pot of flowers, where the earth was dried 
up, but where the roots of a field flower still remained. It had been 
thrown there as a thing of no value. " Let us take this flower," said 
the angel, " and I will tell thee its history as we fly to heaven." And 
they took it, and the good angel began the history of the poor faded 
field flower. 

In a miserable little low room, in one of the houses of the sad street 
we are leaving, lived a poor sick child ; he had kept his bed since his 
birth, and his best days were those when he was just able painfully 
to drag himself about on crutches. 

For a short time during the summer the sun's rays reached so far 
as to cross the bars of the little window of. the damp room; and 
when the poor child was able, with great trouble, to approach the 
window, they said, " He has been out to-day." All that he knew of 
trees and forests was reduced to a small branch of green that the son 
of a neighbour, from time to time, brought him. He would then hang 
up this branch above his poor aching head, and imagine himself to be 
in the midst of a flowery grove shaded by the thick foliage, and where 
the little birds were singing gaily. 

One spring a neighbour brought home some wild flowers, and 
amongst them he found one that still retained its roots. It was 
planted in a flower pot, and placed on the window ledge, near the bed 
of the young invalid. And this little wild flower grew, and each year 
sent forth new buds. It was for the child the most beautiful of gar- 
dens, the greatest of treasures. He watered it, and nursed it, and 
watched that each ray of sun that penetrated to the window should 
fall upon it. Even in his dreams the child thought of his cherished 
flower, its colour and its perfume. His last look, when God called him 


to himself, was upon his loved flower, that for so long had been his 
only companion. He has now been a year with God, and it is just a 
year that this poor flower has been forgotten ; the earth became dry, 
the flower faded, and then it was thrown out amongst all the rub- 
bish that you saw in the street. And it is this flower, — this poor 
faded flower — that we will just put in our bouquet, for it has given 
more joy than the most magnificent plant in the garden of a king. 
" But how do you know all that ?" asked the child, as the angel car- 
ried him to heaven. " I know it because I was the poor sick child 
that once was only able to walk on crutches. You see, I ought to 
know this flower well." And the child now opened his eyes quite, 
and looked at the angel, whose celestial figure radiated with goodness 
and beauty. At this moment they found themselves in heaven, where 
all was joy and felicity ; and God pressed the child to his bosom, and 
gave him wings like to the other angels ; God. also pressed the flowers 
to his heart, but it was the poor faded flower that he kissed, and it 
received a voice, and it sang in the great choir of the angels who sur- 
rounded God, some near, and others a little farther, and others again 
farther still, and farther, circle after circle, to infinity. But all were 
equally happy, and all sang — great and little — the good little child, 
and the faded flower that had been thrown into the narrow dark street 
amongst all the rubbish. 



Chapter X3L. 

HEN Mr. Austen returned from the city on Thursday- 
afternoon, his friends saw a shade of gloom upon his 
usually open and joyous face. It was so extraordinary 
a circumstance that even Mathias noticed it, and ob- 
served to himself — 
" Great pity ; Mass Austen must hab some trouble too. Berry 
fine man, Mass Austen ; hope he goin to stay wid us. Wonder what 
he lookin' ober all his traps for dis afternoon." 

" Because he is going away, Mathias, to your sorrow as well as his 
friends'." Even such was the truth. Business recalled him to Rio 
Janeiro for a time, and sadly was the news received by the loving 
little family at Sedgemoor. He had dared to take a week's reprieve, 
and that was all he could have. 

"But I shall return in a few months, Emily," he said, "and never 
leave you again ; for I have resolved to settle- all my affairs, and in- 
vest my money in such a way that I shall be relieved of all care of 
it. If anything happens to me," he added, after a minute's pause, 
'' I have made such arrangements that you and Maude will share 
equally with my sister the fortune which has accumulated upon my 
hands. I am sure you will have a tender, faithful protector as long 
as Carey lives ; and it would be arrogating more than I may, to com- 
mend to his care and yours that sweet, womanly Maude ; for you 
have an earlier, though not a tenderer, interest in her than I ac- 
knowledge. Were she a little older, or I a little younger, I cannot 
tell what I might be led to do ; for I cannot bear to think her destiny 
should be in other hands than my own." 

Miss Emily seemed surprised, but highly gratified at the unexpected 
turn Mr. Austen's remarks were taking. She did not oppose his kind- 
intentions expressed toward Maude and herself. She stood too near 
him in the relation of sister, to conjure up any morbid or mock objec- 

1 3* (297) 


tions to his plans. When they had made all necessary business ar- 
rangements, and it had been settled that Emily should spend the 
approaching vacation with a dear friend near her late home, where 
Mr. Carey should go for her and bring her back to Sedgemoor as his 
wife, Miss Donne turned the conversation again to Maude : 

" Child as she is, Cousin Hench, she has a wonderful comprehension 
of life, of its heights and depths, and she is capable of improvement 
during all her lifetime. She seems mature now, because she is so 
loving and considerate : she will always be sedate ; and, in the calm 
atmosphere which will surround her nature, her womanhood will 
expand with blossom and fruit of unsurpassed beauty and richness. 
Maude is my particular enthusiasm, Hench. I watch over her with 
a miser's devotion." 

'' Say rather a mother's devotion, Emily. Well, well, we cannot 
penetrate into the future. I am glad of it ; but of this be sure, not 
a sorrow shall dim the glory of your young pupil's life, if I can 
shield her from it, and her faith in humanity shall receive no trial if with 
God's blessing I can avert it. I would not for the world that she 
should know how I feel. She never will know it, unless I should be 
persuaded that the knowledge would give her happiness. I shall be 
back here I hope by the new year, and unsuspected I can enjoy the 
pleasure I find in her presence, in the growing graces and the pro- 
gress of her pure deep spirit." 

It was very hard for all the family to settle quietly to their accus- 
tomed duties when they comprehended the fact that Mr. Austen was 
really going away. True, he had been with them but a short time, 
but was really much beloved, and they all rested in the conviction 
that he was established with them permanently. It seemed almost 
an age to the young people to look forward nearly a year ! Mr. 
Austen repeated to them what he had told Miss Donne, that he would 
surely return if God spared his life, and make Sedgemoor his home. 

Arthur, Herbert, and Alice mingled their voices in protestations 
•of the sorrow they felt at his leaving, and the joy his return would 
give them. Mr. Austen replied to each one as best suited their dis- 
positions, encouraging and promising ; but when he paused to speak 


to Maude, he remembered that he had not heard her voice in the 
lamentations, and he looked around at her just in time to catch a 
mournful look, which she hid in her large, deep eyes as they fell before 
his. He did not speak to her, but he garnered up the memory of that 
voiceless appeal, and mentally renewed the promise he had made to 
his cousin, to watch over Maude all the coming years of her life. 

There was little else talked of all evening than Mr. Austen's plans, 
and their own disappointment that he had to leave them. "I shall 
have time to finish this game with you," he cried; "for I think three 
more evenings will end it. When we are all together again, we will 
play other interesting and instructive games, which will bring us all 
together in one capacity. Now go, boys and girls, and get ready fur 
to-morrow evening, while I arrange some business with Mr. Clayton." 

They assembled in the library on Friday evening with much less 
enthusiasm for their employment than they had manifested before. 
The circle narrowed about their guest, as if they would seek to im- 
prison him amongst them. He laughingly made them sit back in 
their usual places, saying he was prisoner to no one, and he would 
leave them to-morrow if they were not more gracious and reason- 
able about it. 

" Come, Alice," said Mr. Clayton, " could you find the name of 
any worthy beginning with U '?" 

" No, I could not, papa." 

"Who could ?" 

" I can think of Archbishop Usher only," said Mr. Austen. " Perhaps 
there are others, but I cannot recall them to my memory. Let me see, 
what is the idea of Usher which will most impress these young people?" 

" Oh ! I've seen his name in that large Bible," said Arthur, 
quickly. " There are dates put in the margin, and after the dates it 
says, ' according to Usher.' " 

" Yes, he is much quoted as authority in chronology," said Mr. 
Clayton ; " and I will tell you an anecdote about him : He was very 
fond of reading historical works, and at the age of fourteen he began 
to make extracts from everything he read, in order to fix the facts 
more firmly in his memory ; and before he was sixteen he had made 


such proficiency in chronology, that he drew up in Latin an exact 
chronicle of the Bible as far as the book of Kings ! Before he was 
sixteen also, he had read scores of books by the most learned writers 
on both sides of the Romish controversy. He accomplished many 
other wonderful exploits in scholarship, and became as remarkable 
for his piety and modesty as he was for his learning. He wrote a 
great many learned and religious books, and was as much beloved as 
a preacher as he was respected as a scholar. He well merited the 
title given to him, — 'the greatest luminary in the Irish Church.' " 

" What an interesting man," said Arthur. " How stupid I feel 
when I hear of such people. What have / done !" 

" Laid the foundation for a noble manhood, I hope, Arthur," said 
Mr. Austen ; " but is that the only U V 

"There are the popes named Urban" said Mr. Carey ; " but they 
were not very remarkable. Urban II. first proclaimed the crusade 
against the Infidels who held possession of Jerusalem, and thus com- 
menced a new phase in the world's history ; and another Urban made 
himself extremely obnoxious by his bulls against the Jansenists, 
though he was in most things liberal-minded, and was a great patron 
of the arts and sciences." 

" There were several Polish kings named Uladislaus" said Arthur ; 
" but I know nothing remarkable which they did." 

" Is there not a celebrated cook in Paris named Ude ? n 

" Oh ! don't call him a cook, Herbert," said Mr. Austen. " He has 
penetrated so deeply into the mysteries of his art, that he should be 
respectfully spoken of as a professor of gastronomy !" 

"I can think of a U," said Maude. "There was Undine.'" 

" My dear Maude !" said Miss Emily. 

" I know she was only a creation of the fancy," said Maude ; " but 
she seems to me like an old acquaintance." 

" She was a type of womanhood — of a woman with a newly-created 
soul," said Mr. Austen. " There's a deep meaning in that fable of 
the novelist." 

" Don't forget Spencer's undying Una,'" said Mr. Carey ; " but we 
are wandering into fairy land sure enough." 


Chapter X2L3L 

O on then regularly with V," said Mr. Clayton. " Tell us 
whom you have chosert, Alice dear ?" 

"The first is Vandyck, papa. Miss Emily says he 
was a great painter in the time of King Charles in Eng- 
land, — the very greatest portrait painter that ever lived, 
— though I don't believe he was an Englishman. I was talking about 
my new apron yesterday, as it is called a Vandyck apron, because 
it has a large collar, or rather a little cape to it. Miss Emily said 
that kind of a cape was called a Vandyck, because it was worn in 
the time of that painter, and he put them into all his portraits. 
Now, my second I've only just heard of — but I expect to hear 
more about him some day or another. He is a great favourite with 
Herbert, and Maude, and Arthur, and his name is Virgil." 

"You presuming little girl !" exclaimed her brother. 

" I can't help it, Herbert," said Alice. '' I could not think of any 
V's, when I almost fell over your great, red-covered Virgil on the 
floor in the school-room ; so, to pay you for your carelessness, my 
dear little boy, I thought I would use his name." 

" I've nothing to say," said Herbert, demurely. " You may go on, 

"I have taken the philosopher Volta, from whom the Voltaic 
pile is named. I believe he invented it ; and my next other choice is 
Vaughn.' 1 '' 

"Who was he, Maude?" 

"I don't know, sir," Maude answered, laughing a little. "I saw 
his name on a volume of religious poems. I only know he was 
Hemy Vaughn." 

" I think that is about all that any of us know of him," said Mr. 
Clayton. " There are not many noted V's." 

" Yes, there are a great many Vans, of one kind and another," 
said Mr. Austen. 


" Not many who were wonderful, Austen : do your best. Go on, 

" I have a Van," said Herbert ; Vancouver, the great navigator, he 
named Vancouver's Island, you remember; and my other V is old 
Varro — the most learned man that ever was, amongst the Romans, I 

" Few have surpassed him in learning anywhere, at any time, Her- 
bert," said Mr. Carey. " He wrote upon grammar, eloquence, his- 
tory, antiquities, philosophy, politics, agriculture, nautical affairs, ar- 
chitecture, and religion, and wrote learnedly on all these topics." 

" Ah me, Herbert ! what do we know 2" said Arthur, with a long- 
drawn sigh. " I shall never be a man of action I fear, or of learning 
either. Now, why cannot I be a Sir Harry Vane, a great man to 
stir up others, a great friend of liberty and all that 1 ?" 

" Because I hope, Arthur, you will not live in times like those 
which called out Vane, and tried all men's souls. Who is your other 
man ?" 

" Velasquez, the great Spanish painter. He did not interest me par- 
ticularly. I use him because I have to bring two Vs." 

" Your taste for the arts is yet to have its birth I see, Arthur," said 
Mr. Austen. " A comprehensive mind cultivates all kinds of beauti- 
ful tastes — no art is neglected. Of course you have an artist in train, 
Emily ?" 

" Yes, and a poet too ; I flatter myself there are no greater names 
to use to-night than Leonardo da Vinci and Lope de Vega.'''' 

" There is another universal genius in da Vinci, Arthur," said Mr. 
Clayton. " He was a wonderful painter, almost rivalling Angelo and 
Raphael. He w r as a fine architect, a great mathematician and philoso- 
pher in general, a poet, a musician, expert in horsemanship, and dex- 
trous in the use of arms." 

" You have omitted to name the number of books and treatises he 
wrote on various subjects," said Mr. Austen. " And as for Lope de 
Vega, he was a world's wonder also. I believe over twenty-one mill- 
ions of lines written by him were actually printed, and eighteen 
hundred plays were acted on the stage ! Is it not almost fabulous?" 


said Mr. Carey. " I think from the quantity that their quality must 
have been poor enough." 

" There were giants in those days," said Arthur, shaking his head 
despondingly. " Who expects to do such things again ? No one ; no 
one can. I don't much believe in the account of De Vega, Mr. Clay- 
ton. Confess to its improbability, .that we may take courage." 

" Take courage, boys," said Mr. Clayton. " You are not expected 
to equal da Vinci or de Vega; only equal your capacities, your capa- 
bilities, and your advantages. Comprehend these, and set up your 

" I will name a writer who must yet become familiar to these lads," 
said Mr. Carey. " Emmerich Vattel, author of the Rights of Nations, 
which every young man should understand. My second name is Vcr- 
net, the landscape and marine painter. It has been said of him that 
' his genius knew neither infancy nor old age.' The celebrated artist 
Horace Vernet, of France, is his grandson." 

" I offer Volney and the three painters named Vanderveldes" said Mr. 
Austen. "Two of the Vanderveldes were father and son, and it is 
remarkable how similar they were in genius ; the third was born at 
Amsterdam, (the others were of Ley den,) and won great praise for 
his charming style. Volney was a great scholar in Oriental, histori- 
cal, and topographical lore." 

" Voltaire left till the last," said Mr. Clayton. " I need not expa- 
tiate upon him. You all know of his genius, his brilliant life amid 
the crowned heads of Europe, and of his miserable scepticism. Sir 
John Vanburgh, the dramatist and architect, is my second choice — ■ 
' a man of wit and honour.' What splendid names do we not congre- 
gate. I feel dazzled myself by the assemblage." 

©japter X2LE*. 

LL of Saturday was spent away from home by Mr. 
Austen and his friend, Mr. Clayton. They were very 
busy in the city attending to legal business, consumma- 
ting a few of Mr. Austen's numerous plans for the 
benefit and happiness of those whom he loved, securing 
competences to Maude and his cousin Emily, and to Arthur such a 
sum as would make him independent of immediate action upon his 
entrance into life, that he might have time to establish himself well 
in whatever business it should suit his taste to enter. 

" If he were my own son and I a millionaire, I would not give him 
more," said Mr. Clayton. " That is as much as a young man needs, 
unless in singular cases, where his only object is to make money, and 
he fancies large commercial speculations. I would only secure him from 
want, and give him time to look around him. A thousand a year 
does that effectually, and is indeed a competency in a professional 
career at the start, unless he marries early. But, Austen, my dear 
fellow, you could not make more definite arrangements if you were 
certain you were going to your grave ; you have stepped into my 
family and taken my wards out of my hands in an odd way." 

"Not taken them out of your hands at all, Mr. Clayton ; I have 
only added somewhat to your responsibilities by making you trustee 
of a little money for them. If I return in the winter, or soon after, 
I desire to have no voice in the plans made for those children. I shall 
assume no rights ; they will not know for years to come that I have 
ever interested myself in them particularly. I am especially anxious 
that Maude should not know it. I could not bear that she should feel 
under any obligation to me. I do not care to analyze my feelings 
for Maude, Philip. I love her as all must love a charming, transparent 
girl, approaching womanhood so guileless, and so unconscious of her 

"She has few fears in her sweet girlhood, I acknowledge," said Mr. 


Clayton ; " I cannot wonder at your affectionate interest, and I trust 
you so utterly that I cannot tell what form that interest assumes. 
Meanwhile, Maude is happy, blessed in every manner in which we can 
shower blessings on her, and we will let her future rest." 

Such discourse beguiled them on .their way home Saturday evening. 
It was after the dinner hour, but Alice begged to be allowed to go to 
the dining-room with them, saying she could serve the dessert and pour 
coffee for them. • They laughed much at the fair, slender little crea- 
ture, whose assumption of womanhood was complete as she did the 
honours of her end of the table. 

" I read, papa," she said, " in a book of letters to girls on good 
manners, about a young lady who poured tea and coffee at a tea-table 
with so much grace that a gentleman was charmed with her and pro- 
posed to marry her." 

" Upon my word, Miss Alice, you have been making progress in 
your reading," said her father, laughing ; " so you are practicing to get 
a husband ! I am sorry you have no better subjects than my bach- 
elor friend, Austen, and myself to practice upon." 

" I did not mean, papa, that I wanted a husband now?" 1 

"No, I suppose not — not till you'are fifteen say — some years yet. 

Well, practice in season, Alice ; you will equal Miss , what was 

the name of the fascinating tea-maker?" 

" You may laugh now, papa, but I know you will be glad when I 
am grown up and can sit at the head of the table, and be your house- 
keeper — eh ! papa V 

" I am very well satisfied with my little girl as she is," said Mr. 
Clayton. " I am anything but impatient for the time to come when 
she will be grown up, and getting married, as she may some day, 
after the manner of young ladies. Sedgemoor is pleasant enough now. 
I would not change it for anything the future promises." 

" Except to have Mr. Austen back again, papa." 

And the conversation again turned upon his absence, so much 
more lamented because such a very unexpected interruption to many 
of her' delightful plans formed with Mr. Austen's concurrence and aid. 
Thus the evening passed away. 


When Monday night came, this game of the alphabet was resumed. 
Mr. Carey remarked that one more evening would finish the game. 

" Yes," said Mr. Austen, " I had calculated upon that myself, and 
find it tells well with my own arrangements. I must leave Sedge- 
moor Thursday morning in the nine o'clock down train, and shall then 
have but a few hours to complete my final arrangements for this hate- 
ful voyage. I shall expect that you will all be very bright, as I am 
going away so soon, that I carry away some spiritual illumination into 
that region of dark souls." 

" We found enough to do for to-night," said Herbert ; " such a 
splendid lot of W.'s. I almost wish I was two persons to-night to 
collect in our group my staunch old favourites. Now, please to start, 
Ally dear, and don't take my man." 

" I have taken him, I am pretty sure, Herbert," said Alice ; " I 
hear you wanted Washington ; but what could I do when every time 
I would try to think of a W, up he would pop V 

"The idea of General Washington's ever popping up! Why, 
Alice, what sort of a man do you think he was ? He never did any- 
thing but rise up, and that, too, in the most grand and stately manner. 
I am shocked that you should have ' popped ' him into our game." 
Herbert delivered himself of this remonstrance in a very slow and 
indignant manner, and Alice said, " Well, Herbert, I am very glad 
you have had your say about Washington. I feared if I hurried him 
out as fast as ever I could, you would still lay claim to him. I know 
what you would have done. You would have brought the name out 
with a tremendous speech, all flash and glitter, liberty and stars — " 

" Gilding and refined gold, and so on — that's right, Alice ; you have 
as good a right to Washington as Herbert has." 

" And he can think of so many names, papa," added Alice. u But 
what made Washington so great V she asked ; " that was what I always 
wanted to know." 

" He was the ' Commander-in-Chief of our armies during the 
great struggle for freedom in those seven years of revolution which 
followed Britain's unjust taxations ; and then was President of our 
Confederacy during two terms of office," replied Mr. Clayton. 


" I understand that, papa ; but how did he come to be the greatest 
general — was he the bravest ?" 

" He was as brave as man could be, Alice ; but I think his great 
power lay in his excellent, incomparable judgment, which toned his 
bravery, and directed every movement till it brought him to the suc- 
cessful issue for which he was contending. He was a firm, reserved, 
prudent, controlled, strong man, and I can well describe him in Shake- 
speare's noble words — 

the elements 

So mixed up in him, that nature might stand up 
And say to all ' This teas a man !' 

but you have another W to bring, Alice." 
" Yes, papa, Dr. Watts:' 

" What a falling off was there^ my countrymen !" 
" A very good name, notwithstanding, Herbert," said Mr. Austen. 
"It may have been extremely serviceable in the great cause of human- 
ity, my boy. It is not for us to compute what good those simple, ex- 
cellent lyrics of Dr. Watts' has done." 

The RaVbits. 


%\t %kWx\%. 

ENRY bad some pet rabbits, and he was very fond of them. 
He had a nice dry place for them to sleep in, with plenty of 
clean straw for their beds, and an open court for them to run 
about in when they liked. 

Henry was very careful to keep the place clean, and to feed them 
every day at the proper hour ; he knew what was good for them 
every day, and what they might have now and then for a treat. He 
fed them with*cabbages and lettuces, and oatmeal mixed with bran or 
potatoes ; and gave them a little parsley, or a few carrots, or apple 
parings, now and then. 

One of the rabbits was very tame, and that was the favourite. 
Sometimes Henry brought her a few strawberries, and he always 
laughed to see her eat the strawberry and drop the green part ; he 
could not think, as she eat so many green things every day, why she 
could not eat the stalk of the strawberry as well. 

In the spring Henry used to go out in the lanes, and gather the 
young leaves of the dandelions and the docks for his rabbits, and he 
was very glad when any one showed him a plant that was good for 
them. He was very careful, too, not to give them the leaves when 
they were wet with rain, for he knew that would make them ill. 

Once Henry had a great pleasure — he noticed that his pet rabbit 
ran about very busily, gathering up hay and straw, and biting it into 
short pieces, and then carried them into the warmest corner of the 
house, and began to make a nest there. After that was done, she tore 
off the soft white fur from her own breast, and carried it in mouths- 
ful to the nest and made a warm lining with it. The nest was so 
deep and so warm, Henry was quite delighted to think of the young 
ones lying in it. 

After a few days, the old rabbit stayed in the nest a good deal, 
and only came out now and then, to get some food — so Henry was 
sure she had young ones to take care of; but though he longed to see 



them, he did not disturb them, for he knew they were very tender 
creatures, and ought to be kept warm. Besides, he had been told 
that if he disturbed the mother whilst they were young, she might 
grow so frightened that she would not take care of them, or bring 
them up. 

When the young ones came out at last, they were the prettiest 
little black and white things. They hopped about their mother, and 
put up their little feet on her soft fur; and Henry never grew tired 
of watching them. He spent a good deal of his playtime with the 
rabbits, and always wished his friends to see them. . 

One day his Aunt Ellen came on a visit, and he soon began to tell 
her about the rabbits, and most about the pet, which he called "Lizzie." 

" Do come and see her," said Henry. 

" Cannot you wait a little ?" said Aunt Ellen. " I will go by-and- 

But Henry was impatient, and said — 

" I will go and fetch Lizzie — she is quite tame, and then you can 
see her at once." 

" No, no," said Aunt Ellen, " I cannot allow you to do that ; I 
would rather go with you now." 

So Henry took her to see Lizzie and the young ones, and told her 
all about them. 

When they went in again, Henry asked Aunt Ellen why she would 
not let him bring the rabbit into the 'house ; and she said — 

" I do not like to see rabbits carried about, because I know that 
they are very easily hurt, and even killed. I will tell you what once 
happened to a pet rabbit. 

" I went one day to a cottage, to see some little girls ; when I 
came in, they were sitting at work mending their stockings. They 
soon began to tell me about a beautiful white rabbit which they had 
for a pet; they said it was tamer and prettier than any rabbit they 
had ever seen. At last the eldest girl threw down her work, and ran 
out : she brought the white rabbit back in her arms ; she held it by 
the ears in the proper manner, and put her other hand under it. She 


asked me to stroke it, and the other children came round to pet and 
feed it, as it sat in her lap. 

" After a time, she wanted to show me some knitting which she had 
done at school, and she turned to a large arm-chair that stood close 
by, and put down the rabbit on the cushion : she thought it would be 
quite safe, and very comfortable there, until she took it out to its 
house again. 

•"But instead of that, the poor rabbit struggled on the chair, as if it 
had gone into a fit, and then fell on the floor. The children ran to 
take it up, and tried to find out what was the matter with it. One of 
them ran to fetch some water, and wanted it to drink, but it was of 
no use — in a minute or two more it lay still, and did not even breathe 
— for it was dead. 

" The poor children were so sorry and so frightened, they began to 
cry sadly. Then I took up the rabbit and looked very carefully all 
over it, and found out what had killed it : the long darning-needle 
that Sarah had been mending her stockings with, had run into its lit- 
tle heart. There was not a single drop of blood on the white fur, and 
yet it was quite dead ! Poor Sarah cried more when she found that 
her careless way of throwing down her work- had caused such a sad 

" When her sisters saw how very sorry she was, they tried to leave 
off crying ; and one of them ran to ask their father to come and take 
the dead rabbit away." 

"Poor little white rabbit !" said Henry. 

"Well," said Aunt Ellen, "after that day, I never liked to see 
children carry their pets about out of the proper places ; and that is 
why I would not let you bring Lizzie into the parlour." 

t IWljn aulr £>au* 

a ballad- 

Far upon the raging waters 
Goes a gallant ship to sea, 

Rock her masts above the billows, 
Like the waving of a tree. 

And a boy among the cordage, 
In the night-watch lies asleep, 

And he dreams of home and mother, 
And his eyes unconscious weep. 

For he left her without kisses, 

And he softly stole away, 
While a few words written only, 

Said, " the world is mine to-day." 

" For I go to distant countries, 
And I'll roam where'er I will ; 

I have disobeyed you, mother, 
But my heart is with you still. 

" Wearied grew my restless spirit, 

Pining, pining for the sea, 
'Till I broke the chain that bound me, 

And my will and steps are free. 

" You will grieve awhile to miss me, 
But your tears you soon will dry, 

For I'll bring you gems and jewels, 
And rich silks of brilliant dye. 

" A farewell I would have spoken, 
But I knew your voice would chide : 

This is all — at sea to-morrow 
I will be at early tide." 

Dreamed he of his lonely mother, 
And he woke with sudden start — 

"Ah, how cruel 'twas to leave her, 
And from such a love to part!" 

And a picture rose before him 

Of his now forsaken home, 
Where she prayed forlorn and lonely, 

For her son, in quivering tone. 

"Ah, how cruel 'twas to leave her!" 
But too late were breathed the words, 

For the wind among the rigging 
Was the only answer heard. 

And he paced the deck unwearied, 
And he made a fervent vow, 

Should God spare his life to greet her, 
Down before her feet to bow, 

And to ask her to forgive him, 
Mother, in the cottage lone, 

And a lifetime of devotion 
For her misery should atone. 

Onward sailed the bounding vessel, 
'Till she reached that far-ofl' shore, 

Whence the mariner comes laden 
With bright, precious golden ore. 

And the boy ? Wealth poured upon him, 
For he toiled with heart and hand, 

And he gathered gems like pebbles, 
And he garnered gold like sand. 

And he grew in stature man-like, 
And the voice of praise he gained, 

But one bitter memory ever 
All his soul's white honour stained. 

That land mother, from whose presence 
He had basely fled by stealth ; 

What cared she for gems and jewels, 
Or for all his cherished wealth ? 



Could he bring back years of yearning? 

Could he light her eye once more ? 
Could he see her watching for him 

By the ivied cottage door? 

And he sails again, bound homeward, 
Restless now for sight of land, 

And the soft voice of his mother, 
And the pressure of her hand. 

Oh, she pined when he had left her, 
And with head pressed 'gainst the pane 

Daily looked for his returning 
To her weary heart again. 

Looked with eyes forever sea-ward, 
Praying, weeping all the while, 

'Till her voice forgot its music, 
And her lips their beaming smile. 

Then her form so lithe and active 
Seemed a shadow as she passed, 

And the silver threads were gleaming 
'Mid her dark locks thick and fast. 

And thus sat she by the window, 
Gazing towards the far-off main, 

For her son, her only treasure, 
Who, she felt, would come again. 

But he came not ; and one morning, 

In her sad and quiet way, 
Her soul, she said, would seek him, 

"When in death her body lay. 

And with eyes still gazing sea-ward, 
And with arms extended wide, 


And a cry, " I come, my darling !" 
She sank down and calmly died. 

Then came friends and robed her kindly, 
In the grave's pure dress of white, 

And upon a couch they laid her, 
For the sad funereal rite. 

And that morning, too, right gladly, 
Through each well-rememberedstreet, 

Came her boy, so long a stranger, 
With impatient, anxious feet. 

"And though years have passed," he 

" I will hear her accents now, 
I will meet her look of welcome, 

And her kisses on my brow." 

Of welcome ! Hush ! he listens, 

There is silence over all, 
And some friends, like solemn statues 

Sit beside a funeral pall. 

"She is dead, young man," they whisper, 
" Go' your way, her heart is broke, 

'Twas his deed, her son's, he left her, 
And no word of parting spoke." 

" Oh, not dead" he cried despairing- 
Then the neighbours looked around, 
And said one, " her words are proven, 

And her soul her son hath found. ' ' 

Then they left him bending lowly 
At her feet so marble cold ; 

She had gained a rest in heaven, 
He had bartered all for gold. 

Caroline Howard. 


UNT MARIMILIE! Won't you come here, 
Aunt Marimilie!" 

I was sitting alone in my own room one day, 
when I heard Bertie's voice calling me so. I 
knew very well by his tone, half angry and 
alf crying, that he was in some sort of trouble ; and so 
ran out to see what was the matter. 
There was Bertie iu the hall below, struggling to get 
away from one of the servant girls who held him tightly, and crying 
with passionate anger because his efforts were vain. 

"Aunt Marimilie, can't you make Fanny let me go?" he sobbed 
out as soon as I appeared. Fanny released him when she saw me, 
and then I asked what was the trouble, and what Bertie had been 

" She won't let me alone ! She torments me to death !" Bertie 
exclaimed angrily. 

" Because you won't do as youVe told," Fanny answered quickly. 
'' You'd better tell your Aunt Mary what a naughty boy you are, 
that won't stay in the house when your mother tells you, but must 
always be running in the street !" 

" Is that what he has been doing ?" I asked. 

" Yes'm. His mother has gone out, and she said I was not to let 
him go in the street at all, but I can't keep him in to save my life. 
This is just three times he's run away and got off in the street with 
Tee and all them boys ! I never did see such a child !" 

" Very well, Fanny ; never mind, I'll take care of him now," I 
said. And so I took the little boy's hand, and we went up stairs 
again to my room. He sat down rather moodily, halfway expecting 
to be scolded, for he knew he had not been doing right, and I began 
very seriously to give him a lecture. 

" Now, Bert," I said, " I want to know what's the reason you won't 



mind mamma, and keep out of the street when she's not at home. 
Don't you know it's naughty to run away as you do, and make so 
much trouble for Fanny and everybody ?" 

" Well, Aunt Mary, I can't help it ; you know I can't," he 
answered petulantly. 

" Can't help it 1 That's a funny idea. Why not 2" 

"Because," he exclaimed indignantly, "you know I must have 
something to do, and I've got nobody to play with in the house ; so I 
have to go in the street !" 

" But you have crowds of plaything, Bert, and Tee might come in 
to play with you," I suggested. 

• " Well, so Tee did come, -and we were just playing in the study, 
and Fanny came and turned us out, because she said we made such a 
litter. Then Tee wouldn't stay any longer." 

" What were you doing in the ^study ?" 

" Nothing, but only building houses with the books, and cutting 
out paper toys — and then we had a blanket to make a tent with over 
the chairs !" 

" I don't wonder Fanny turned you out," I said laughing. " It must 
have been a tidy-looking room before you left it. Where did you go 

" Then I went to play in mamma's room, and she said I made such 
a noise I'd wake the baby; and then I went down in the kitchen, and 
Kate wouldn't let me stay there, and so I had to go in the street. 
What else could I do, Aunt Mary % I haven't got any playmates. 
I wish I had my little brothers and cousins down from heaven to 
play with me! Oh dear !" 

Poor Bert, he looked very ill-used and unhappy, and declared, in 
his own words, "that he was so miserable he. didn't know what to 
do !" So after I had given him a little lecture about the necessity of 
obeying mamma, no matter what happened, or how " miserable" he 
felt, I promised him a story by way of comfort. 

" Tell me something about yourself, what you did when you were 
a little girl," he said. 


" What shall I tell you about ; the pigeons or the guinea-pigs, or 
Aunt Nelly ?" I asked. 

" No, I know about them," he said. " Tell me something else — 
about your playmates. Who did you play with, and what did you 
do ?" 

" Oh, I played with Kitty and Lizzie and Bob, and we did lots of 
things; plenty of mischief, just as you do now." 

" And where did you play 1 Did you have a big yard, and a nice 
play-room ?" 

"Yes indeed, we had an elegant yard and a great garden full of 
trees, and bushes, and flowers. We had grand times there, but there 
was a room in the house that we liked to play in best of any place. 
I suppose that was because we were very seldom allowed to play 
there. It was a large, long room, right over the great kitchen ; the 
ceiling was low and brown, with rafters instead of plaster, and the 
walls were all rough and unfinished. It had a trap-door in the floor, 
too, which we thought was specially charming. There were all sorts 
of old rubbish in this room, old clothes that were so elegant to dress 
up in, and old-fashioned, broken furniture, chairs and tables and old 
spinning-wheels, that were grand playthings for us whenever we could 
get amongst them. On account of these old things it was called the 
lumber-room, though there were other things besides lumber in it. 
Mother kept her stores of winter blankets and comforters here, in a 
row of shelves on one side of the room ; and on the other side there 
were always great bags of dried apples, and peaches, and pears, and 
barrels of hickory-nuts and black walnuts. Of course these were a 
great temptation, and altogether the lumber-room was a very fasci- 
nating place to all of us. It was kept locked generally, but whenever 
we found the key in the door we made a grand rush for entrance." 

" And what did you do when you got inl" asked Bertie, who had 
been listening with eager interest. 

" Oh, we played with all our might. We tumbled out the old 
rocking-chairs and the queer old spinning-wheel, and made the funniest 
carriages of them, and we stole the dried apples, and cracked the 
walnuts, and dressed up in the odd old clothes, and had a nice time 


generally, till somebody found out where we were. Then we played 
being turned out — for we ran away just as fast as we could go, without 
waiting to be told ! 

" One day we found the lumber-room open — it was Sunday after- 
noon, so it was very naughty for us to go in to play ; but we didn't 
stop to think about that, and we all went in — Lizzie, and Kitty, and I. 
We didn't play making carriages, because we were afraid to make a 
noise, but we pulled down the queer old clothes, and dressed our- 
selves up for ladies and gentlemen. Lizzie found a funny little pair 
of blue trowsers that had once been our brother Edward's, and a 
little faded nankeen jacket; and she put these on and capered about 
the lumber-room in them, more like a monkey than a little girl. I 
had one of grandma's black frocks, made with great bishop sleeves, 
and so long for me that I had to hold it up in both hands; on my 
head I had a black beaver bonnet, with such a funny high crown, you 
never saw anything so ridiculous. Kitty was the smallest of all, so 
we dressed her in a man's coat that came down to her feet, and she 
looked just as you look, Bert, when you dress up in Uncle's Tom's 
great-coat and boots." 

Bertie clapped his hands and laughed gaily. " Oh, Aunt Marimilie, 
I wish I had been there ; wasn't it elegant !" 

" We thought it was, and we enjoyed the frolic as much as you 
would have done. We capered and danced about by ourselves until 
we got tired, and then we took a fancy to show ourselves in our 
ridiculous dresses to the servants in the kitchen. I told you the 
lumber-room was right over the kitchen, and there was a trap-door 
in the floor. We had always been forbidden to touch this trap-door 
for any occasion whatever, but this time we ventured to disobey a 
positive command. We wanted so much to peep down and show 
ourselves to the servants — they would be so frightened at the sight 
of us — and it would be such fun ! So Lizzie — she was always the 
ringleader in any mischief, being the oldest — lifted the trap-door 
silently, and we all three knelt down around it, and made a queer 
groaning noise to attract the notice of the servants below. 

"They \veva startled, of course, and sprang up quickly to see what 


the matter was. They were too much frightened at first to come 
under the door, and so we groaned again. Then Aunt Chloe guessed 
what it was, and they all ran under the door to look. Lizzie clapped 
her hands and laughed, and leaned far over to show herself, but she 
leaned too far, lost her balance suddenly, and before anybody could 
help her, pitched head-foremost through the trap-door down into the 

" Kitty and I screamed with all our might, and ran down into the 
kitchen as fast as we could go in our cumbersome dresses. By the 
time we got down, the cries of the servants had called mother to the 
spot, and you may guess how astonished she was at the sight of us 
all. She had no time to ask questions though, for Lizzie was lying 
stunned, apparently, and very much frightened ; she was trying to 
restore her. Fortunately a large kitchen-table always sat under the 
trap-door, and Lizzie's fall had been broken by this. If she had fallen 
down to the brick floor, she might have been killed, or at least very 
much hurt. As it was, she soon recovered, and opened her eyes. 
Then, what do you think were the first words she said 1 ?" 

" I don't know — what, Aunt Mary ?" Bertie asked eagerly. 

" We were all gathered round her, mother bathing her pale face 
with camphor, and looking very pale herself, and Kitty and I crying 
as if our hearts would break. Though certainly we looked very 
funny to be crying in earnest, while we wepe dressed in that ridicu- 
lous style ! But suddenly the colour came back to Lizzie's face, and 
she opened her eyes, and the first words she said were — 

" Oh, mother, I came down like a bird !" 

" How everybody did laugh, and Kitty and I laughed as loudly as 
we had cried before. Lizzie got well very soon, all but a headache ; 
and then mother found time to ask us how it all happened. We got 
a pretty good scolding, and were sent back to the lumber-room to 
take oft' our old clothes. But thanks to Lizzie's fall we were not 
punished that time, any more than by having to sit still the rest of 
the afternoon. Only we were told if we ever behaved so badly again, 
to look out for squalls !" 



" And did you never play in the lumber-room any more ?" Bertie 

" Oh, yes, a great many times, only not Sunday afternoons ; and 
we never meddled with the trap-door again. Lizzie's fall taught us a 
lesson of obedience ; and I think if Master Bertie should get hurt in 
the street some day, it would teach him a good lesson too, about 
minding mamma !" 

" Ah, but Aunt Mary," — Bertie hung his head shyly — " you know 
I haven't any brothers and sisters to play with as you had ; and I 
haven't any real play-room either. I wish we had a lumber-room at 
our house !" 

" I wish you had, Bert, with all my heart," I said ; and indeed I 
do pity children who are brought up in the city, and never know the 
fascinations of those dear old country house lumber-rooms and 

tbilt Statu. 

A woxdrous traveller was of yore 

The rounded Pebble Stone, 
As he rolled along from shore to shore. 

In rivers now unknown. 

Early and late he must have gone, 

Nor rest nor sleep had he ; 
Until he slept in his gravel bed 

Beneath the sounding sea. 

Deep in the earth you'll find him hid, 
If you dig in the solid ground ; 

He must have travelled far and near, 
Else, why should he be so round ? 

Where ancient forests grew and waved, 
"Where ancient streams did flow ; 

That little pebble journey 'd on, 
In the river's bed below. 

A wondrous traveller was of yore, 

That rounded Pebble Stone, 
As he rolled along from shore to shore, 

In rivers now unknown. 

From " A- Boy's Dream of Geology." 

${u fountain in \\t WLti&h 

LITTLE way apart from a great oity, was a fountain in the 
wood. The water gushed from a rock and ran in a little 
crystal stream to a mossy basin below; the wild flowers 
nodded their heads to catch its tiny spray ; tall trees overarched it, 
and through the interspaces of their moving leaves the sun-light came 
and danced with rainbow feet upon its sparkling surface. 

There was a young girl, who managed every day to escape a little 
while from the turmoil of the city, and went, like a pilgrim, to the 
fountain in the wood. The water was sparkling, the moss and fern 
looked very lovely in the gentle moisture which the fountain cast 
upon them, and the trees waved their branches and rustled their 
green leaves in happy concert with the summer breeze. The girl 
loved the beauty of the scene, and it grew upon her. Every day the 
fountain had a fresh tale to tell, and the whispering murmur of the 
leaves was ever new. 

By-and-bye she came to know something of the language in which 
the fountain, the ferns, the mosses, and the trees held converse. She 
listened very patiently, full of wonder and of love. She heard them 
often regret that man would not learn their language, that they might 
tell him the beautiful things they had to say. At last, the maiden 
ventured to tell them that she knew their tongue, and with what ex- 
quisite delight she heard them talk. 

The fountain flowed faster, more sunbeams danced on its waters, 
the leaves sang a new song, and the ferns and mosses grew greener 
before her eyes. They all told her what joy thrilled through them 
at her words. Human beings had passed them in abundance, they 
said, and as there was a tradition among the flowers that men once 
spoke, they hoped one day to hear them do so again. The maiden 



told them that all men spoke, at which they were astonished, but said 
that making articulate noises was not speaking ; many such they had 
heard, but never till now real human speech; for that, they said, 
could come alone from the mind and heart. It was the voice of the 
body which men usually talked with, and that they did not under- 
stand, but only the voice of the soul, which was rare to be heard. 

Then there was great joy through all the wood, and there went 
forth a report, that at length a maiden was found whose soul could 
speak, and who knew the language of the flowers and the fountain. 
And the trees and the stream said to one another, " Even so did our 
old prophets teach, and now hath it been fulfilled." Then the maiden 
tried to tell her friends in the city what she had heard at the fountain, 
but could explain very little ; for, although they knew her words, 
they felt not her meaning. And certain young men came and begged 
her to take them to the wood, that they might hear the voices. So 
she took one after another ; but nothing came of it, for to them the 
fountain and the trees were mute. Many thought the maiden mad, 
and laughed at her belief, but they could not take the sweet voices 
away from her. 

Now the maidens wished her to take them also ; and she did, but 
with little better success. A few thought they heard something, but 
knew not what, and on their return to the city, its bustle obliterated 
the small remembrance they had carried away. 

At length, the young man begged the maiden to give him a trial, 
and so she did. They went hand in hand to the fountain, and he 
heard the language, although not so well as the maiden ; but she 
helped him, and found that, when both heard the words together, 
they were more beautiful than ever. She let go his hand, and much 
of the beauty was gone : the fountain told them to join hands and 
lips also, and they did it. Then arose sweeter sounds than they had 
ever heard, and soft voices encompassed them, saying, "From hence- 
forth be united, for the Spirit of Youth and Beauty hath made you 



WEATHERCOCK that had, for I know not how long, swung 
backwards and forwards on a tall pole near an old country 
house, became, at last, strangely discontented with its lot. 
" What a life," said our Weathercock, " do I lead ! Creak — creak 
— creak, all day, and all night too, never enjoying a moment's 
repose save at the pleasure of these good-for-nothing breezes that 
are nearly always blowing about me, and make a point of taking 
their rest and exercise at such times as are least agreeable to me. 
I do believe they change about to all the points of the compass for 
no other reason than to tease and thwart me. In the summer, when 
I was languid, and suffering because I could not get change of air 
(which the odious way in which I am fastened here renders impos- 
sible), the slightest puff, even of an east wind, would have been a 
real comfort to me; but it was not to be had, of course. Now, this 
blessed New Year's-day, for a whole week I have been kept in such 
a constant state of agitation, and spun round so often, that I declare 
I am quite giddy. There are Hobnail and Cabbagestalk coming 
every morning to look at me, without, apparently, a single thought 
about the unpleasantness of my position. And only to think of my 
abilities being wasted up here! Why, if I were only loose 1 am 
sure I could fly as well as a bird. Plow I would astonish the 
people ! I should fly right over the trees, and then to the church 
steeple, like the rooks ; and look much handsomer than they too, 
for their black jackets can't be compared to my gilded sides. My 
wings look well enough when the sun shines on them, even here : 
but fluttering through the air, — oh, that would be beautiful ! Flying, 
1 am sure, is the easiest thing in the world ; and then travelling 
does so improve the mind and manners. I am a complete rustic, — 
nay a clown, with having spent all my life in this stupid -place." 



And with that the Weathercock gave itself a good twitch. But 
that had only the effect of making it spin round ; and it was as far 
off from flying as ever. Then it tried turning obstinate ; and for 
three days contrived not to move an inch, though there was so brisk 
a gale blowing that, being washing-day, more garments than I can 

mention were blown off the clothes-line, and carried away to 

Jericho, I suppose, for they never came back again. 

But Hobnail got a tall ladder, and set it up against the small pole; 
and climbing very clumsily to the top, he gave the Weathercock 
such an oiling, that it could not, for the life of it, stand still a mo- 
ment, but went on trembling and shaking like an aspen-leaf. 

However, at last I suppose it managed to wriggle out some of its 
fastenings ; for one day, when it was fretting and grumbling as 
usual, jerking and twitching itself like a petulant child, and saying, 
"If I was oniy loose !" — sough came a gust of wind that, in a trice, 
whisked it off the pole, and up into the air in a most gratifying man- 
ner. " Here goes for the steeple !" exclaimed the Weathercock, 
exultingly. But, alas ! its upward flight was but for an instant. 
The next moment down it came, clattering, in the courtyard. 

And as it lay, hour after hour, half choked among dirty straw, 
and all sorts of rubbish, it found to its sorrow, that, so far from 
having bettered its condition by following its own fancies, it now 
could not stir at all ; npt even backwards and forwards, which it 
once thought so unworthy of its capabilities. 

All bent and dirty, the stable-boy found at next morning, and 
gave it a kick, which was not very agreeable to its feelings. How- 
ever, he picked it up. It next received a severe discipline at the 
hands of the blacksmith, who bent it straight upon his anvil ; but it 
got no more gilding. And, finally, Hobnail climbed again up the 
tall ladder, and fixed it in its old place, just over the offices at the 
back of that old, old country-house. 

But the Weathercock was never again heard to utter the least com- 
plaint about being condemned to show which way the wind blew. 



To mokrow had need be a very long day, 

Or what will they do who postpone and delay, 

And put off their duties till then ? 
And yet we all had, when to-morrow has come, 
That for yesterday's work it will make little room, 

And we needs must postpone it again. 

To thousands to-morrow will never arrive, 
And if we are spared and it finds us alive 

We yet may be feeble or ill : 
Besides, it will have its own business to do, 
With its thoughts, and its labours, and cares, not a few. 

Sufficient each moment to fill. 

To-day, says the dunce, to my playthings I turn, 
To-morrow, to-morrow my lesson I'll learn, 

But to-morrow still finds him the same : 
To-morrow I'll rouse me, the sluggard still cries, 
But while he is yawning it comes and it flies, 

And adds to his sin and his shame. 

To-morrow, the sinner repentingly says, 
I vow to reform all my reprobate ways, 

But to-morrow will laugh at his vow ; 
He deceives both himself and despises his God 
"Who delays till to-morrow to turn from that road 

Where conscience accuses him now. 

The work of to-day, then, I must not postpone, 
Lest if I delay it should never be done, 

For I only am sure of to-day ; 
Of each single hour I must give a report, 
And to-day is too long and to-morrow too short 
To allow of neglect or delay. 

Note. — Our Riddler's Corner for this month, we are sorry to tell 
our little readers, is unavoidably closed up and empty. In the next 
number we will endeavour to make amends for the deficiency by a 
double space devoted to this department, and an increased variety of 
good things. 



iPiaiL®i(o)iPi¥ if iiss: 


Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaitcs. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story., The .incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them; almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled him to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to Ijie delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happily and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but "children of a larger growth" may derive both know 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home," 

DcrispitiiL lOTrei.icO 

Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Barry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 






Being first in the Series of Romantic Biographies to be 
edited by the 



" A choice biographical library has long been in contemplation in New York, 
the design being to portray romantic characters in a popular yet authentic style. 
The editor of this attractive series of books is Rev. Dr. Hawks, who, it is under- 
stood, has a life of Sir Walter Raleigh in preparation. The first volume of the 
" Romance of Biography" has just appeared in a very neat volume, from the 
press of James S. Dickerson. It is a charming narrative of the exploits of 
Richard Coeur de Lion — spirited, clear, and most agreeable in style — handsomely 
illustrated, and prirted in very readable type. Such books cannot fail to be 

" The first volume of this series of books has been issued. It contains a bril- 
liant narrative of Richard the Lion-hearted, divested as far as possible of the 
political history of his reign, and written with a view to the instruction and; im- 
provement of the young. Each volume of the* series is to be complete in itself. 
The name of the Rev. Dr. Hawks is a satisfactory guarantee of the unexcep- 
tionable character of the work. The Illustrations are numerous and spirited." 
—Boston Transcript 


$97 Broadway, I\cw York. 

€Mt nf Cntitetit0. 

OCTOBER, 1855. 

Uncle Hugh's Portfolio, No. VI. Moses before Pha- 
raoh, By Uncle Hugh. 

Lotte Going to Bed, By Sue Leslie. 

Aunt Nora's Lessons, By Miss Cheeseboro. 

Sedgemoor. Chapter XLIII By Mks Manners. 

Little Nannie, By Lucy Larcom. 

Raising Babbits, , .... By the Editor. 

Black Dick the Fiddler, Selected. 

The Two Dolls, By Mrs Bradley. 

The Forest Rivulet, Selected. 

My Brother, By Emma A. Brown. 

The Lily and the Rose, From the German. 

The Riddler's Corner, By Various Authors. 


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which, we trust, will prove superior to any of its predecessors. 


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For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
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rtffi^fflM^Mff/f; ■;":" >""':'"f r ifa 

Moses tefore Pharaoh. 

%itlt W U $Y S ^ artf aitn; 


■ OHN, John ! what an angry tone," said Aunt Eleanor 
in a chiding voice as she came into the room where the 
two children were getting their Sunday-school lessons. 
°«v " I never should imagine that you were studying the 
Bible. What is the lesson for to-day ?" 

John's face had grown very crimson under this rebuke, for he was 
an ingenuous boy, and ready enough to acknowledge a fault when con- 
victed of it. 

" May has studied her lesson all the week I believe, Aunt Eleanor, 
and now she sits down and reads it over and knows it, presto. I can't 
do that, and I was angry that May should be done first." 

" And so must accuse me of having studied .it all the week, and 
only pretending to study now ! Oh, John !" 

" I beg your pardon, May. I was very mean, but I do hate to feel 
so stupid." 

" What is the lesson about, May V' n 

" Why, I believe it is the very thing of which we have a picture in 
Uncle Hugh's portfolio — or at least it refers to it ;. the lesson is upon 
the means used by God to deliver the children of Israel from the 
Egyptian bondage — and wasn't that next picture ' Moses before Pha- 
raoh' ? I'll go and get' it." 

" There, don't run over me, May," said Uncle Hugh as he encoun- 
tered her in the door. " What is it, the picture 1 I heard your 
conversation, and was bringing in the portfolio for your use — that is, 
if John has really learned his lesson yet." 

" Yes, I believe so, Uncle Hugh — I've learned two lessons." 

" Well, what are they ?" 



"One in the Bible, about the Israelites, and one from the Bible, 
about the temper of which I was giving May the benefit," and John's 
face assumed a yet deeper tint. 

Uncle Hugh looked pleased. " Do you remember the old rhyme 
about falling into sin, May ? ' 

" Oh yes, it is like this, I think : 

' Man-like it is to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like it is to dwell therein, 
Christ-like it is o'er sin to grieve, 
God-like it is all sin to leave.' " 

"There, my boy," said Uncle Hugh, " there is consolation for you 
when you have done wrong." 

" Yes, but ' as meek as Moses ' I never shall be," said John, sighing ; 
" he was so willing to see his imperfections, and so ready to acknow- 
ledge Aaron's advantage over him in talents. Moses was a fearful 
sort of a man ; I wonder God chose such a man, possessing so little 
daring, for such an undertaking as delivering the people of Israel." 

" Don't you remember our noticing last Sunday how eminently 
qualified Moses had become by being educated at the Egyptian court 
for his audiences with kings. Moreover, he was so distrustful of him- 
self, that he would not be so likely to do rash things — unauthorized 
by God — as a venturous man might have done. He took God's 
word, he belieyed it, and he acted by it. That kind of courage which 
proceeds from knowledge and conviction of duty, and which we call 
moral courage, is worth ten times as much as the rash daring which is 
not greatly elevated above the instinct. "We may admire the fear- 
less man because we detest the opposite fault of cowardice, but we 
most heartily give our admiration and approbation to the soul whose 
watchword is duty, whose end is the right, and whose master is not 
impulse — which must be human and is so liable to be wrong, but the 
Lawgiver as well as the Love-inspirer, God, the Divine." 

"Ah, you give us a great deal of encouragement, Uncle Hugh." 

" Yes, I've preached you quite a sermon on Moses' meekness and 
his resolution." 

uncle hugh's portfolio. 329 

" One thing pleases me," said John, " the very fact of Moses slay- 
ing the Egyptian because he was smiting a Hebrew, while yet in 
Pharaoh's court, proves that he grew up with a very warm feeling 
for his oppressed countrymen. Some people would have grown 
haughty, and quite forgetful of their relations in Moses' place ; that 
is the common way of the world." 

" But a very different way from that of any of the good men whom 
God has set before us as examples in His Word. There is nothing 
more continually inveighed against in the Bible than pride ; and is 
not charity or love, ' which is not puffed up,' placed first in the ranks 
of virtue V 

" It would keep any man humble and meek as Moses, I should 
think," said May, " to feel that he was the bearer of a message from 
God. Any man, I mean, who could comprehend, in some small de- 
gree even, the distance between God and himself." 

" Yes, May ; hence you see how unnatural and vile a thing spirit- 
ual pride, as it is called, is ; for ' who maketh us to differ ' but God. 

" I don't wonder much though," said John, " that such a heathen as 
King Pharaoh was, should have refused at first to believe the words 
of Moses. He really needed the miracles which. Moses wrought — and 
finally the crowning plague, the terrible sorrow of the smiting of the 
children, and then I don't wonder that they were urgent for the 
Israelites to go !" 

" How much it does take to convince us even now- that God, the 
Lord, the great I AM, is our Creator, Upholder, and Preserver — that 
we are all to Him that we have and that we are, and that what He 
demands of us, the first and best and strongest love of our hearts, we 
have no more right to withhold from Him than Pharaoh had to keep 
back the Hebrews. And yet, even when the plagues come — yes, 
even when our children are taken from us, we persist in resisting 
God. Are we not worse, viler before God than the sinful Egyptians 
were ?" 

May and John looked very serious as Aunt Eleanor spoke ; they 
knew how God had dealt with her, and that she had yielded up her 
first-born to Him who will allow no rival in the hearts of His creatures. 



They looked long at the picture of Moses standing in Pharaoh's pres- 
ence, and their hearts were full of the lessons which that picture had 
given occasion for. John remembered the beauty of meekness, and 
the grandness of moral courage, and they both understood more plainly 
than ever the duty of obedience to God's requirements — an obedience 
as essential to our happiness now as to our future well-being. 

$*tit pitrg U 

"When the golden day is gone. 

And the travel-weary sun 

Sinks into his peaceful rest 

On the clouds' soft crimson breast, 

When the twilight shadows fall 

In a dim, funereal pall, 

When the night-wind thrills the leaves, 

As among the trees it grieves, 

And the white moon's tender light 

Shineth out upon the night — 

Comes our " lamb without a spot" — 

Merry, graceful baby-Lotte ! 

Bounding to a mother's call 

Echoing through the wide old halL 

Soon the baby-prayer is said, 

With folded hands and bended head. 

Then, the little slip untied, 

Shoes and stockings laid aside, 

All the tiny garments doffed, 

Brushed the tresses satin-soft. 

In the bath-tub then a dip, 

A sweet kiss from the rosy lip, 

A loving goodnight softly said, 

And Lotte is ready for the bed. 

No disturbing sounds intruding, 

Slumber soon o'er her is brooding ; 

Slowly droop the silken lashes, 
Veiling violet-eyes' soft flashes, 
Fragrant breathings come and go, 
Softly as a streamlet's flow ; 
Hushed is now each noisy sound, 
Dreamy silence slumbers round, 
And the crib-curtains are drawn 
O'er the sleeper till the dawn. 
C- a S S 3 o 

Thus it was in days gone by, 
When our life like summer sky 
Was softly and serenely bright, 
With no shadow o'er its light. 
Now our sky is all obscured, 
Bitter grief have we endured, 
Sorrow very dark and deep. 
Then we laughed, now we may weep ! 
For upon another bed 
Eesteth sweet Lotte's golden head, 
And the shroud's dim, wraith-like fold 
Wraps her limbs of marble cold, 
And the grave sod rests above her — 
She needeth now no other cover ! 
Plunged in slumber still and deep — 
In a never-waking sleep. 

//fEW persons gave advice, and taught life's lessons so pleasant- 
"ll ' ly, as Aunt Nora. She was the only single member of a nu- 
Cz5 merous family of brothers and sisters, with whom she divided 
her time, and who esteemed her society not only a delightful pleasure 
but a peculiar privilege. The children of the family hailed her pres- 
ence with genuine satisfaction ; for, though she freely commented on 
their faults, she also pointed them out the manner in which those 
faults could be corrected. The first to promote all rational pleasures, 
she was the first to teach them when and how such pleasures were to 
be enjoyed — never at the sacrifice of duty. 

Gentle, patient, and loving, harshness was no part of her system. 
Unlike the lessons of sterner Mentors, her teachings left no stings in 
the heart, wounding deeper where they might have cured. 

There is nothing more common than for children to receive re- 
proof, when administered by any other than a parent, as an evidence 
of unkind feeling on the part of the reprover. They little know that 
they who have spoken would infinitely rather have held their peace ; 
and frequently, even when they seemed unloving and harsh, their 
hearts have yearned with tenderness over the guilty offender. 

To no one is the task of reproof pleasant ; to most it is extremely 
painful, and this fact Aunt Nora had so impressed upon the minds 
of her young relatives, that they received her rebukes in the same 
spirit in which they were given, lovingly and meekly. They had 
discernment enough to know that one so pious, so gentle, so self- 
controlled, could possibly have no other object in reproving them than 
their ultimate good. They knew that her whole aim was to teach 
them so to pass through this life, that they might win the life to 

Aunt Nora was not only a pious, but she was an intellectual 
woman. We all know that religion does not require the aid of m- 



tellect to make it lovely, but intellect surely requires religion, for, 
without this setting, it is but a valueless and unlovely jewel. To be 
the companion of a pious and intellectual woman — to listen to teach- 
ings that draw their inspiration from the very fount of wisdom, God 
himself — is the greatest privilege that a child can enjoy ; and, in 
inviting Aunt Nora to their houses, her brothers and sisters felt this 
to be eminently the case. At the period of which we now speak, 
she was passing some time with her sister, Mrs. Beaufort, whose chil- 
dren, though in many respects well-behaved and well-instructed, yet 
possessed faults which required the keen eye of Aunt Nora to detect, 
and her judicious treatment to eradicate. There are some faults 
which appear, at first sight, so very trivial as not worthy of 
note or rebuke ; but which, upon closer examination, will be found 
to contain the germ of much that will injure the future character, if 
allowed to remain. What are called little faults, Aunt Nora never 
passed over ; for she knew that little faults frequently grow to great 
crimes. It seems, perhaps, a very little fault for a child to devour 
any delicacy without offering to share it with his less fortunate com- 
panions ; but the feelings which prompted the act, if allowed to re- 
main unchecked, will grow into that dreadful monster of deformity, 
Selfishness ; and the child, grown to the man, sees, acknowledges, 
and adores but one supreme idol — that of self. Knowing this, Aunt 
Nora felt the vast importance of checking little faults. 

Soon after her arrival, a daughter of one of the neighbours came to 
pass the day with the little Beauforts. Agnes Gray was a timid 
child, easily repulsed by unkindness, or wounded by the shafts of 
ridicule. She was wanting, perhaps, in proper spirit, for she allowed 
her companions to impose upon her good nature without attempting 
a justifiable remonstrance. Emma Beaufort was a lively, thought- 
less child ; we say thoughtless, for we cannot believe that from 
thoughtfulness she so frequently wounded the innocent and unoffend- 
ing. She possessed one habit that rendered her very obnoxious to 
her acquaintances, and was entirely at variance with all the rules of 
politeness, good sense and kind feeling. This was a propensity to 
ridicule the dress of those whom she imagined to be not quite so 


well attired as herself; not remembering, as has been feelingly 

1 ' God looks not at the clothing which we wear ; 
All must put off their garments at the tomb ; 
The same sun shines on all — the same sweet air 
Lifteth the beggar's locks — the lady's plume." 

This habit Aunt Nora had noticed with infinite pain, and her kind 
heart mourned over this sad want of feeling exhibited by her little 

When busily engaged with her sewing in the room -where the little 
girls were at play, she was deeply mortified to overhear the follow- 
ing conversation : 

" Why do you wear so coarse a dress, Agnes ?" said Emma ; 
" look how fine mine is, and how fashionably it is made." 

" I wear whatever my mother pleases to dress me in," was the 

" Then your mother must be a very mean or a very poor woman, 
to dress you in that sort of stuff; your frock is shabbier than our 
black cook's old wrapper ; how can you stand being dressed so 
meanly 1 Don't your dress scratch you ?" 

" Do what ?" asked Agnes, in astonishment, whilst her voice trem- 
bled with all the feeling of a wounded and outraged spirit. 

" Why, it is so coarse," said Emma. 

" Hush, hush, my child," interrupted Aunlr Nora's reproving 
voice ; " the dress is not half so coarse, my darling, as your re- 
marks, nor half so capable of imparting a scratch, as are your words 
of inflicting a wound." 

Agnes Gray raised her eyes to the speaker ; they were filled with 
tears. Aunt Nora drew her kindly to her side, and Agnes said, in 
a voice of suppressed feeling, 

" My mother is not rich, and she gives me the best that she can 

" And you wear it, like a good child, without a murmur," said 
Aunt Nora. " Believe me, my darling, none but very foolish peo- 

334 aunt nora's lessons. 

pie set any store by dress ; and they whose good opinion is worth 
having will think just as well of you in homely attire, as if you were 
radiant in diamonds, and rustled in the most splendid brocaded 

" There is not a more contemptible love than that of dress, nor 
one so infinitely beneath the regards of an immortal soul. How 
perishing, how worthless-, the most elegant finery that we can wear ! 
"We are expressly told, in the Word of God, how utterly vain are all 
such things in his eyes . ' Man looketh on the outward appearance, 
but the Lord looketh on the heart !' Only think, my dear child, of 
that great Being seeing, and noting in his book of remembrance, the 
unkindness, the vanity, that prompted your ridicule. 

" The lowly Jesus, himself, gives us a most impressively striking 
and beautiful illustration of the vanity of dress. ' Behold,' he says, 
' the lilies of the field ; they toil not, neither do they spin ; yet Sol- 
omon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.' Now, 
Solomon, you know, ' exceeded all the kings of the earth for riches ;' 
he possessed gold, and silver, and precious jewels, in abundance ; he 
sat on a precious throne of ivory, overlaid with gold ; the very 
' drinking-vessels' in the house were all of pure gold. Solomon's 
own attire, to correspond with all this splendour, must have been 
very magnificent ; and yet our Saviour tells us that the modest 
white lily, in its simple dress, unadorned by a single glowing tint, 
is far more beautifully arrayed than was the great king Solomon, 
brilliant in gold and diamonds. What a comment on the vanity of 
our most vigourous efforts to attire ourselves splendidly ! Heap on. 
our persons all the gorgeousness that we may, in God's eyes the 
simple white dress of the lily, emblematic of purity and modesty, is 
far lovelier than our most splendid finery." 

" Do you think, then, Aunt Nora, that dress is of no consequence ? H 
said Emma, who had listened very attentively to her aunt's re- 
marks ; " and that it makes no difference how we look V 

" Far from it, my dear," replied Aunt Nora; "it makes a very 
great difference. There is nothing more repulsive than an untidy 
female. Every one should aim at being neatly and cleanly attired, 

aunt noka's lessons. 335 

but never finely. But the lesson I would now inculcate is this : 
never be ashamed of your dress, or ridicule that of others, so long 
as you are neat and clean, and attired suitably to your means ; and 
ever bear in mind, my child, when the disposition to ridicule the 
dress of your companions arises in your heart, that, in the eyes of 
God, you are committing a grievous sin ; and, in the eyes of all sen- 
sible people, proving yourself utterly destitute of kindness, polite- 
ness, and all true generosity of feeling." 

" Dear Aunt Nora," said Emma, " I never thought before how 
rude and unkind it is to ridicule the dress of our companions. I 
hope that never again I shall be guilty of this offence." 

Aunt Nora pressed the young penitent to her heart, and ejaculat- 
ed a silent prayer that her teachings might prove of lasting effect. 
Her prayer was graciously answered ; for, long years after, when 
Aunt Nora was sleeping quietly in her grave, did her kind teachings 
rise again to view. Particularly when adverse fortune visited the 
Beauforts, and Emma, now a young lady, had to ply her needle 
ceaselessly to gain a scanty living. Not the slightest degree of 
shame ever entered her heart, as she walked to church in her plain 
calico dress ; and when the rich lady, in her plumes and diamonds, 
swept past her up the aisle, she thought of those holy words, quoted 
to her by Aunt Nora : " Man looketh on the outward appearance, 
but God looks on the heart." 

£J&pm0 0t; 


©Laptev X&EEE. 

BRING Professor Wilson," said Maude, "who wrote 
' Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life,' and Benjamin 
West, the American painter." 

"Professor Wilson, better known as 'Christopher 
North,' has a great many claims upon the honours of 
the literary world," said Mr. Clayton. " Few men have 
done more for the cause of literature, as a novelist ; for 
he wrote other books than that, Maude, though nothing 
more charming. As a poet, as an essayist, a critic, a 
biographer, and in his legitimate profession of teaching, he has won 
the respect and love of all, even of us Americans, despite the scorings 
he has given, or allowed to be given, to America, in Blackwood, of 
which he was editor for a good many years." 

" I saw Howard Appleton just after he returned from the Edin- 
burgh University," said Arthur, " and I could not help telling him 
that I must congratulate him on his great honour. He asked me what 
I meant, and I replied that I would rather be publicly commended at 
the Examination, as he was by Professor Wilson, than receive almost 
any other scholastic honour." 

" As for West," said Mr. Carey, " his career was an extremely hon- 
ourable one ; he worked his way himself, except as his patrons gave 
him some pecuniary aid. He has many noble pictures to protract his 

" Now," said Herbert," I choose Daniel Webster, (wouldn't Wash- 
ington and Webster have made a grand couple 1) and I choose him 



because I am proud to name such an illustrious American, whose fame 
fills the world, as his eloquent words moved the souls of all men j 
and my second choice is James Watt, whom I choose, to do justice to 
his eminent genius and admirable discoveries and inventions." 

" In the name of James Watt, who was an honorary member of a 
dozen or two scientific associations, who received honours of various 
sorts from princes and kings, and who has some few statues erected to 
his memory in Westminster Abbey, and some other obscure places, I 
thank you for the justice you have done him, and for your patronizing 
manner towards him," said Mr. Clayton. 

" Ah, papa, you've paid me for teasing Alice about Washington," 
said Herbert, laughing*; " but I really didn't know Watt's genius was 
so much appreciated." 

" Don't patronize people till you are sure they need it," said Mr. 
Clayton ; " be careful of that disposition of yours, Herbert, or you 
may, as in this case, do something ridiculous." 

" I have such old-time heroes," said Arthur, " that I expect you will 
all laugh at me ; but I, who gave Bruce at the beginning of the game, 
must not fail to give Wallace at the end of it." 

" Not the composer Wallace ?" asked Miss Emily with a quiet af- 
fectation of ignorance which amused them all. 

" How can you, Miss Emily," said Arthur ; " I would warrant any- 
thing the ' Scottish Chiefs ' has had its share in your interest when you 
were young." * r 

" Arthur, I'm astonished !" exclaimed Mr. Austen, laughing ; " when 
she was young, indeed ! Your indignation has run off with your gal- 

" I beg your pardon, Miss Emily, but you have been younger and 
had less mature tastes in books than you have now, and you used to 
read 'Scottish Chiefs' then 1 ?" 

" Yes, indeed, Arthur, and I shed many a tear over the unhappy 
Wallace. I don't know but I should have taken him for myself if I 
had thought no one else would choose him, for he was a noble and 
heroic patriot." 

" And my other W," said Arthur, " is William the Conqueror. I 


can't say much about him. What little I know, you all know as 
well. He was not a very good king, but rather tyrannical ; yet he fills 
up a large place in history." 

" Because he made a great change in England, bringing over his 
Norman subjects and customs and laws," said Mr. Carey. 

" Now I offer to youf regai'ds," said Miss Emily, " Izaak Walton, 
the gentle biographer of Herbert, Donne and others, and a very special 
favourite of mine, for I like and admire everything he ever put his pen 
to write. My second is our own countryman, .Ware, the author of 
those fine books, ' Zenobia' — no — ' Letters from Palmyra,' and its 
accompanying work, ' Probus,' or ' Letters from Rome,' was it not ?" 

" I am surprised, Emily, that you did not take a certain old beloved 
friend of ours ; there, you need not say anything, you're too late," 
said Mr. Austen. 

li I am sure Miss Emily left him for me," said Mr. Carey ; " / will 
name Wordsworth, — we all can help to do him honour, — the great in- 
terpreter of Nature's language, who has penetrated so far into the 
heart of all things, and given us such wondrous wisdom in his verse." 

" His noble ode on ' The Intimations of Immortality in the Soul ' 
is almost unequalled in our language; it is spoken music; it is 
rhymed philosophy ; it is the voice of every soul interpreted," said 
Mr. Austen. 

" I have to name, after him, Sir Christopher Wren — I grant the 
decadence," said Mr. Carey. 

" And I," said Mr. Austen, "amieft to bring along the haughty old 
Cardinal Wolsey, who rose from nothing to the loftiest estate, and 
fell as one so raised only can fall ! How much our interest in Wol- 
sey is enhanced by Shakspeare's handling of his story ; but surely it 
was pitiful. My second name is Wilkie, the great painter. I hesi- 
tated between him and Wilkes, but the latter was too turbulent an 
individual. What a race he ran, that wonderful Wilkes ! His time 
is a great era in the history of English politics ; the masses were so 
infatuated by their leader, whose genius for popularity was won- 

" Amongst the many great names which are left," said Mr. Clayton, 



" I will choose the Reformer WicMiffe, who left his mark even 
stronger than Wilkes, Austen ; inasmuch as God was working in Wick- 
liffe against the corruptions of the Romish Church. My other names, 
for I have a great many to choose from, as I said, are those of the 
great seceders from the English Church, Geoi'ge Whitfield and John 
Wesley. What a wonderful amount of work Wesley did ! For fifty - 
two years and more, he delivered from two to four sermous a day, 
besides writing very copiously, and travelling about 5000 miles a 
year ! I suppose Whitfield was the more afiectingly eloquent 
preacher ; they tell strange stories of his gift in that respect. He was 
a fine looking man, with one of the noblest, most flexible voices man 
ever had, and every word he uttered produced its full effect. Well, 
we will finish our game on Wednesday evening. I am afraid all the 
other letters will hardly furnish an evening's work." 

litth Itaititu, 

" Fawn-footed Nannie, 

Where have you been?" 
Chasing a sunbeam 

Into the glen ; 
Plunging through silver lakes 

After the moon, 
Tracking o'er meadows 

The footsteps of June. 

'■ Sunny-eyed Nannie, 

"What did you see ?" 
Saw the fays sewing 

Green leaves on a tree ; 
Saw the waves counting 

The eyes of the stars ; 
Saw cloud-lambs sleeping 

By sunset's red bars. 

"Tuneful-eared Nannie, 

What did you hear ?" 
Heard the rain asking 

A rose to, appear ; 
Heard the woods tell 

When the wind whistled wrong: 
Heard the stream flow 

Where the bird drinks his song. 

"Nannie, dear Nannie, 
Oh take me with you, 
To run, and to listen, 

And see as you do!" 
Nay, nay — lest you borrow 

My ear and my eye, 
The music you'll hear not, 
The beauty will die. 

Lucy Larcom. 

Raisino RaVbits. 


.aisi'tijj %Rfibih. 

ANY young persons are fond of keeping pets, such as 
birds, or squirrels, or rabbits. As a mere amusement, 
this is not to be censured — but rather commended. It 
tends to promote kindness of feeling, and also habits of 
care and attention. The boy who cherishes his pet dog 
or his pet squirrel will not be very likely to practice 
cruelty towards dumb animals anywhere. The girl 
who remembers and provides for the daily returning wants of her 
favourite bird, will learn habits of thoughtfulness which will be of use 
during all her life. 

A very handsome little book has just been published* in New York, 
under the title of The Rabbit Fancier, in which there is a complete 
account of this pretty and inoffensive animal in all its varieties and 
in all its habits. From the pages of this book we learn that it is 
quite a simple matter to raise rabbits, and that besides the innocent 
amusement which may be derived from doing so, it may be made 
quite a matter of profit to boys even, who may have a little spare 

The author of this book thinks that the rabbit did not originate in 
Great Britain — although it existed there before any period described 
in history. It is generally believed, indeed, that it was introduced 
into Spain from Africa by the Romans. Be this as it may, however, 
it now abounds in many countries. In England there are very numer- 
ous and extensive rabbit warrens, which, are tracts of peculiar land 
enclosed for the special purpose of breeding this animal. Its habit is 
to burrow in the earth — and these warrens are .selected in sandy 
regions and generally of a rolling surface — where the rabbits multi- 
ply very rapidly. The owner of the warren — or rather the game- 
keeper — takes them, when he wishes to do so, by nets or traps, and 
sometimes by dogs and ferrets, which latter will pursue them into 
their holes. 

* The Babbit Fancier ; a Treatise upon the Breeding, Bearing, Feeding, and General Manage 
rnent of Babbits. By C. N. Bement. New York : C. M. Saxton & Co. 




There are many varieties of the rabbits — and some of them are 
called fancy rabbits — which are not, as some people suppose, produced 
from the common rabbit by domestication and attention, but are 
distinct kinds, brought originally from Persia and Asia Minor. These 
require more care in the raising than the English domestic rabbit. Of 
the fancy rabbits, there is the Angola species, with long silken hair — 

generally of a pure white, or else black and white. The fur of this 
variety is more valuable than that of most other kinds. Another 
variety is the lop-ear rabbit, in which the ears are so long that they 
droop and fall down to the side of the head. If both ears are of the 
same length and size the animal is pronounced a perfect specimen, and 
prized accordingly. Besides these, there is the dew-lap rabbit. The 
dew-lap is a sort of pouch or bag under the throat of the rabbit, and 
looks very much as if Bunny had put on a boa to keep his throat 
warm ! 

The mode of raising and treating all these varieties, and more par- 
ticularly all the kinds of the domestic rabbit, are so simply described 
in Mr. Bement's book, that an intelligent boy can easily follow the 



directions and became a " rabbit fancier." Rabbit hutches, pits, and 
courts are none of them beyond the ingenuity and skill of boys — at 
least to a respectable degree of success. They might, with a little 
care and at a moderate cost, find amusement for themselves, and sup- 
ply mamma with frequent delicacies for the table, in the shape of 
nice young rabbits to be roasted, fricasseed, or " baked in a pie." 


If any of our young readers feel inclined to indulge in the harmless 
pursuit of rabbitry, and their parents do not object, let them consult 
Mr. Bement's book, where they will obtain all the instruction they 
will find needful. We have known boys kept out of much mischief 
by rabbit raising, and we certainly never heard of any evil growing 
out of this pleasing employment. 

The above picture represents the American Gray Rabbit— a 
well-known species, found from New Hampshire to Florida, and 
spreading quite far westward. It is about the size of the ordinary 
European rabbit, but differs in its colour. 

lark gidi f|e ^fiWUr. 


HEN the first settlers in South Kentucky took 
up their abode in that country, the thick woods 
on the banks of the Ohio were infested to such 
a degree with the large gray wolves, that the 
inhabitants stood in great dread of the crea- 
tures, and often formed hunting expeditions for 
the purpose of exterminating them. Farm- 
yards and the grazing grounds were the usual 
scenes of their depredations; but in thewinter time, when the intense 
cold made them more hungry, and when the small animals kept snug 
in their dens, and the cattle were all safely housed, the brutes were 
known to get so desperately savage that they attacked even the 
abodes of men, and ill-fared it with any unlucky traveller who, at 
those times, fell single-handed in the way of a pack of the ferocious 
creatures. Many and many are the stories told of " hair-breadth 
escapes'' from the jaws of the gray wolves, and the stratagems that 
were employed to outwit the brutes were as multifarious as the 
occasions. Some of them were excellent, and Black Dick's is one of 
the best I-ever heard of. 

It was Christmas evening, the full moon and the merry twinkling 
stars shone brightly and coldly over the immense fields of snow 
which covered alike prairies, trees, and houses. Old Dick, a " good- 
for-nothing darkie," as he was often enough called, had been invited 
to a farmhouse, where his talents as a fiddler were often favourably 
regarded, and the old beau determined to appear in full costume. 

A blue coat, with bright shining buttons, and with tails that nearly 
swept the ground, yellow nether garments, and shoes ornamented 
with a profusion of ribands, were among Dick's holiday attire ; but 


the crowning bit of excellence, the *' something" that distinguished 
Dick from all other niggers, was the fine expanse of collar, of the. 
purest white, that reached far above his cheek-bone on each side of 
his old ebony face. 

Well, I must tell you, this Christmas eve, Dick had spruced him- 
self up to his own entire satisfaction, and as he always prided himself 
upon his great punctuality, had started off for the farmhouse with 
his fiddle under his arm, as he thought, all in good time. But when 
he got out he found, by the look of the night, that he was at least 
half-an-hour later than the appointed time. 

The old man stepped quickly aud lightly over the crisp snow, as 
if he were already in the ball-room, picturing in his own mind the 
sensation he should create when he should play the new quadrille 
that had been taught him only about a fortnight before by Dark 
Jem, the wandering minstrel. Merrily he skipped along, now glanc- 
ing at the round moon that lighted his way so beautifully, and now 
peeping down at his black shoes to see that their lustre was not dim- 
med by any dampness from the snow. All went on well, and Dick 
plunged fearlessly into the narrow path that led through a dense 
wood, the nearest way to his place of destination. He walked 
briskly on, whistling, in his own way, one of his favourite tunes, and 
only thinking about which " drink" would be the best for him after 
his long walk. Presently the old man heard a sharp, crackling noise 
in the undergrowth close by his side, and as he looked he could see 
a pair of fiery-looking eyes staring at him. Crash came a noise on 
the other side, and when he jerked round Dick caught sight of two 
more eyes and a sharp snout protruding ; then came a few short 
growls, which made him feel rather nervous, and soon the noise in- 
creased to such a fearful howl, that poor Dick fancied there must be 
a legion of demons behind him. A cold sweat crept over the un- 
happy man. Dick knew that to run was certain destruction, and the 
wolves were growing more and more desperate in their evident 
determination to eat him for their supper. At length one old brute 
stood right in his path. Dick, in an agony, held forth his fiddle and 
sweeping his hand across the strings, produced such a discordant 


noise that the wolf took to his heels as if he had been bewitched; 
but, alas ! there were more behind hungrier than he 1 One dashed 
passed him, snapping his white teeth with a sharp ringing sound ; 
another bounded right across his path within a yard of him ; while 
the whole pack howled and yelled till Dick's nerves quivered within 
him. Often and often he tried his first stratagem, and always 
frightened away the immediate intruder ; but that only served to 
encourage the rest, and the poor fiddler began to grow desperate. 
Just then, he reached an open space that had been cleared in the 
wood, in the midst of which stood an old log hut, uninhabited and 
half in ruins. Dick feeling this to be his only hope, drew his fingers 
vehemently across the strings of his fiddle, and dashed madly across 
the opening. The wolves, disconcerted at first, now that they saw 
him run, pursued him with wild yells, and it was only by two yards 
that Dick distanced them in sufficient time to close the rickety 
door in their faces. But there the poor shivering wretch again gave 
himself up for lost, for the. ferocious brutes, disappointed of their 
prey, flew madly at every side of the hut, and threatened soon to 
tear down the whole fabric. At last Dick thought of one more 
chance : putting his foot in one of the window holes, he managed to 
scramble through an opening in the roof, and, fiddle in hand, he sat 
in triumph across the top of the building. His joy was of short 
duration ; in two minutes the wolves broke through the door, and 
poor Dick's leg, which was hanging too near the hole through which 
he had just crept, was nigh falling a prey to one insatiable monster, 
\iho luckily closed his jaws on the yellow garments instead of the 
black flesh. Remembering the success of his former musical demon- 
strations, Dick now put the fiddle to his shoulder, and drew the bow 
sharply across the strings ; instantly the yells were hushed, a deep 
silence reigned, and the old fiddler saw that he had one more hope. 
Thinking of his best tune in his best days, he played " Yankee 
Doodle" with all the energy he could command. The brutes seemed 
to be spell-bound and changed into stone images. There they all 
sat on their haunches, gazing up at their entertainer, as if they had 
been invited to a concert: scarcely a tongue moved or a tail wagged; 


never was there a more perfect illustration of the charm of music 
over the " savage breast." But, thought the old man, this cannot 
last forever ; and though in sheer desperation he kept on fiddling 
away, he began to give himself up for lost. He had nearly exhausted 
his stock of tunes, and he did not know if the wolves would stand 
an encore uncalled for. 

But now Dick pricked up his ears and his courage too, for in the 
far distance he fancied he could hear folks calling out his name. 
Dick shouted in reply, and in a few minutes more a whole posse of 
people, some in ball costume and some armed with rifles, rushed into 
the enclosure. Then the attentive audience, seeing that the odds 
were against them, broke up and decamped into the darkness of the 
woods, where they yelled with hunger and baffled malignity. Then 
the old fiddler was rescued from his perch, and some of the younger 
men, who had come in search of the " good-for-nothing darkie," bore 
him in triumph on their shoulders to the farm-house, where he first 
narrated his adventures to an admiring crowd, and then fell to work 
at his fiddle in such a style, that some of the old folks shook their 
heads, and said they feared the poor man had lost his senses. 

Dick was all right again next day ; but he never could tell the 
story about the wolves' concert without certain twitching.s in the 
face, that proved how earnestly he remembered it. 

t ftoo Soils. 


, UST look, mother ! see here !" exclaimed my wild 
little sister Kate one day, running into the nursery 
where mother was playing with baby Lotte, and hold- 
ing up to our view a pretty, flaxen-haired wax-doll, 
dressed in blue lawn and white ruffles. " Hasn't Charlotte Arnold 
got a beautiful wax-doll, mother ; and won't you get me one just like 
it ; say, won't you, mother ?" continued the little romp. 

" Who is Charlotte Arnold, Kitty ?" asked mother. 

" Don't you know 1 Well, it's the Arnolds that have moved into 
the house next door — old Shank's house you know — and there's a girl 
named Marie Arnold, and one named Charlotte Arnold ; they came 
yesterday, and I'm acquainted with Charlotte now. She lent me the 
doll to show you and Marimilie." 

Mother smiled at Kate's explanations, and told her that the doll 
was very pretty. Little Lotte thought it was, for she grasped it ea- 
gerly and held it in her arms, crowing with delight over its curly head 
and blue eyes. 

" Won't you get me one like it, mother 1 I say, tell me 4" pleaded 
Kitty again. 

" I can't decide upon so weighty a matter at once, Kitty dear," said 
her mother smiling. 

" Now, mother, you're laughing at me ! Tell me right straight, 
mayn't I have a wax-doll 1 I might as well have one as Charlotte 
Arnold !" and Kitty's mouth began to pucker queerly as if she had 
half a mind to cry. 

" There, Kitty, never mind," said my mother pleasantly. " Run 
away now, and we'll see about it." So Kitty, all bright with smiles 



again — for she knew what " we'll see about it'' meant — snatched up 
the wax baby, and ran out to the front porch again, where we heard 
her saying triumphantly to her new friend : 

" I shall have a doll too, before long, Charlotte ! Mother said 
she'd see about it, and she always means to do a thing when she says 

" Does she ?" Charlotte replied eagerly. " Won't it be nice fun, 
when you have a doll, for»us to play together with ours ! What shall 
you name yours 1 Mine's named Blue-eyed Mary." 

" What a funny name for a doll !" Kitty exclaimed, with a laugh. 
" But I don't know what to call mine. I shall have to ask sister Sue 
— she knows ever so many names." 

Every day after this, Kitty teased mother to go down to the Ave- 
nue and buy her doll ; and one day we went — mother, Kate, and I. 
There was quite an assortment of dolls displayed before Kitty — dark- 
haired and light-haired, blue-eyed and black-eyed, large and small. 
Kitty was very fastidious, and it was some time before she could de- 
cide upon the doll she wanted ; but at last she selected a large one 
with black curls, and large, black, wide-open eyes. Its complexion 
was somewhat dark, and it had a very intense color. On the whole, 
it was rather a fierce-looking doll, and when sister Sue was appli»><l f<» 
for a name for the young lady, she told Kitty to call it Madge Wild- 
fire ! Kate grumbled a little at the name, but after all concluded to 
call it so, and signified her intention to Charlotte Arnold, who laughed 
very much, and said it was quite as funny a name as Blue-eyed Mary. 

Kitty -was extremely impatient to have a set of clothes made up for 
Madge Wildfire. She could not sew nicely enough to make any of 
them herself, and she had to wait till mother and Sue would make 
them. She could not bear to see Sue sew on anything else till 
Madge's clothes were done ; and when her first suit was finished, and 
she was dressed in the pretty pink lawn frock, made so low in the 
neck, with such pretty ruffled sleeves, and the green silk sash, and 
lace pantalets, I think Kitty was the proudest and happiest child in 
Washington. She lifted Madge Wildfire in her arms with tenderest 
care, and marched out of the nursery to look for Charlotte Arnold. 


Charlotte was sitting with her doll in the front porch of her father's 
house, which was only separated from our porch by a low railing ; so 
it was quite convenient for the intercourse of the little girls. They 
could sit in the porches and chatter and talk as much as they pleased, 
and pass their dolls backward and forward over the railing. They 
could not visit each other, because my mother had not yet called up- 
on Mrs. Arnold, and the families were not acquainted. 

After a while, however, at a proper time, mother did visit Mrs. 
Arnold, and then we — Kitty, and Charlotte, and I — became very in- 
timate, the warmest friends, indeed. I was a year and a half older 
than Kate ; but we had always been such constant companions in 
everything, that I did not feel any older, and so I had as much inter- 
est in the dolls as they had. I was as proud of Kitty's doll as she 
was herself, and just as much delighted when it was shown off to par- 
ticular advantage. There was a little toy-shop on Seventh Street 
which was very much patronized by the little girls in. our neighbour- 
hood. Almost every evening we would run down to lt Ayler's," a 
whole crew of us, and spend our pocket-money upon the toys that 
were displayed before us. Kitty and Charlotte never bought any- 
thing without a direct reference to their dolls. Blue-eyed Mary and 
Madge Wildfire always accompanied us, and Charlotte would say, in 
her queer, stammering voice — she had a funny way of speaking that 
made us all laugh very much ; her voice was so curious, so stammer- 
ing, and broken, that many people could not understand her at all — 
" L)o you like this table, Miss Blue-eyed Mary 1 Would you like to 
have it for a centre-table in your parlor, or would you rather have 
this beautiful cushioned arm-chair 1 Take your choice, my dear ; and 
if there's anything else you want, just tell me. Don't be too modest 
now, but speak out !" 

One evening Kate went out to walk on the pavement without her 
doll. Charlotte Arnold was there as usual, with her doll in her arms, 
and she was quite surprised to see Kate without Madge Wildfire. 
But Kate had a new toy in her hand — a hoop brightly covered with 
red and white flannel, and she rolled it down the curb-stone very fast, 
and declared there was more fun in chasing a hoop than in marching 


up and down the pavement with a foolish doll-baby. So the fashion 
was set for hoops, and very soon all the girls had one. Every even- 
ing there was a continued clatter of hoopsticks, and every evening we 
would range ourselves in a line, start altogether, and run down the 
square, round the corner, across the flag-stones, and back again — 
making our pretty, bright hoops whirl so fast all the time, that they 
looked like a line of red light flashing by. For a time the dolls were 
neglected ; they were not taken out for an airing ; they were not 
carefully dressed in the prettiest clothes in the day-time, and put to 
bed regularly at night, as at first. Charlotte put hers away in a 
closet, and Kitty left Madge lying about upon the tables and chairs 
in the nursery. 

Our little sister Lotte was a child of two years — a frolicsome, 
beautiful little faixy — not mischievous at all, but thoughtless, like any 
other child. She loved to play with Kitty's large doll better than 
with her own little ones, and when it was left lying about so carelessly, 
she took quiet possession of it, and treated it as she treated her own 
toys, not very tenderly. One evening she took a fancy to wash its 
face (not before it needed it), and so she gave it a real good scrubbing 
with soap and water. As it happened, the evening was a little damp, 
and Lotte was then very delicate, so mother had had a fire made in 
the nursery, though it was summer time. After Lotte had washed 
Madge Wildfire, she seated her close to the fire in her own little chair, 
to keep her from having a cold, as she told Kate when Kate came in 
from rolling her hoop, and found her doll sitting by the fire with the 
wax of its face so softened by the heat that it yielded to every im- 
pression made upon its surface. 

Kitty is a passionate child yet, and then she was even more pas- 
sionate and impetuous than she is now. I wonder that in her hasty 
anger she did not scold Lotte, or even slap her for the mischief she 
had done ; but she did neither. Kitty loved Lotte too well to be 
angry with her, whatever the child might do. She would have bit- 
terly regretted it afterward if she had spoken harshly then ; for it 
was the last day that poor little Lotte was ever well, or could play 
with anything. She had always been from her birth a delicate, fra- 


gile child, requiring the fondest care, and attention ; and because she 
was so frail, and so exquisitely lovely, and so precocious in her infant 
intelligence, it had been feared, but too truly, that her earthly pil- 
grimage would be very short, that she would be a stray lamb from 
the heavenly fold but a little time, and so it proved. 

The child was taken sick, and lay hovering upon the edge of the 
grave for many weary days. The delicate rose-bloom that had flushed 
her exquisite face faded entirely until she grew white as a lily of the 
valley. Then her cheeks grew thin and her eyes hollow, but all the 
blight of illness could not quench the strange beauty of her eyes or 
dim their violet luster, soft and beautiful as the light shining through 
a summer sky. 

She was a patient little thing ; and though she lay in suffering for 
six long weeks, she never cried or refused to take any of the bitter 
medicines that were prepared for her. She submitted to everything 
with a patient resignation that was indescribably touching. I used to 
think, as I watched her through the nights of agony, lying silently, 
and only moaning softly sometimes, when her suffering was so intense, 
that the infant Jesus must have been like that child ! And so many, 
who had scarcely known her before, loved her with a strange love as 
they lingered around her sick couch. So many kind friends came and 
watched by her ; Charlotte Arnold would come every day and bring 
flowers, or fruit, or some delicacy which the child could not eat, but 
still every one loved to bring her; and Mrs. Arnold and Marie were 
unremitting in their delicate and sympathizing attentions ; and many 
others were so kind in that time of sore distress. But love, and sym- 
pathy, and tender kindness were of no avail to bring back the strength 
of life to the child, or restore health and bloom to that frame which 
was so rapidly etherealizing for the swift passage of the unspotted soul. 

I was ill myself for the few days preceding her death, so sick and 
weak that I could not even sit up in bed unsupported. One afternoon 
I fell asleep, and when I woke up Kitty was sitting by me weeping. 
I felt so faint and sick at heart that I could not even ask what troubled 
her, but she looked up in my face when she saw that I was" awake, 
and exclaimed, passionately, 


" She is dead, Marimilie ! Lotte is dead ! The purest thing that 
God ever sent upon earth has gone up to Him again, and oh, that I 
could go too !" 

The child had fallen asleep an hour before. 

I did not mean to write a mournful story when I commenced this. 
I only meant to tell you some of the events in the lives of the two 
friends — Madge Wildfire and Blue-eyed Mary. I meant to have 
told you of several adventures at " Ayler's," the toy-shop, and at 
" Klopfer's," the shoemaker's, where we used to go to get little kid 
slippers made for the dolls, in which those two young ladies were con- 
spicuous. But I have taken up too much space already, and so I 
must hasten to conclude this veritable history. 

A few months before we left Washington, Charlotte Arnold went 
away to a boarding-school at Freehold, in New Jersey. Some time 
before, she had grown tired of the hoops and taken up her doll again ; 
so when she went to school she would carry Blue-eyed Mary with her. 
Not long after that, we removed from Washington to a quiet country 
home in Eastern Virginia, where we still live. Kitty and 1 packed 
up our toys in a large box, and put in Madge Wildfire, or what was 
left of her ; and so she was brought to Accomac. When the box 
reached us, the lid had been broken off; a number of our toys were 
lost, and poor Madge had her forehead knocked in. After that she 
was thrown about a great deal ; everybody kicked her out of their 
way, and she led a miserable life I should think. One day a little 
cousin of ours took a fancy to pull her to pieces to see what she was 
made of. He chopped her fingers off and then pulled out her arms, 
so that all the sawdust was let out of her body. He tore out the 
glass eyes after that, and took possession of them for marbles, and so 
he left her. Mother passed by a while after and sent Aunt Chloe 
with a broom and a dust-pan to clean up the litter Tasso had made 
with the doll. Then the poor relic was carried away somewhere, 
and I have not seen her since. Peace to the ashes of Madge Wild- 
fire ! 

Whatever became of Blue-eyed Mary I cannot tell. Perhaps she 
is living yet, for Chai'lotte Arnold was a careful little girl, and when 



she grew tired of her doll, she would put it away in a safe place until 
she wanted to play with it again. A very good rule, by the way, 
for every child to adopt with regard to its playthings. 

€\t potest |iihtUt, 

NCE upon a time, in the heart of a vast old forest, dwelt 
a little rivulet. The gray, lichen-covered rock, from 
under which the tiny spring gushed forth, towered up 
in majestic grandeur, while over it hung pliant and 
graceful birches sweeping the rock with their green and 
silver tresses. The little azure forget-me-not knelt on the margin 
of the brook, and peeped timidly in, as though almost afraid to see 
the reflection of her own sweet face ; and the stately cardinal-flower, 
robed in her radiant crimson, stood proudly in the centre of the 
stream. Weeping willows bent down and kissed the water, and the 
noble oaks and elms formed a lofty shade above if, through which a 
laughing sunbeam occasionally broke, weaving its glittering robe over 
the green leaves, and shimmering down to the depths of the rivulet. 
Lady-ferns nodded to each other on the bank, and the modest, tiny 
houstonia, crept timidly forth as if to greet it. A broad, moss- 
grown stone, served to aid the crossing of the little rustic children 
who sometimes passed through the woods, and at whose apnroach 
not even a bird was frightened, for all who looked into their clear 
eyes, read there purity and love. A timid deer would sometimes 
steal to the brook to drink, or a startled rabbit leap across it. 
Through its rippling waters gleamed many a sparkling fish, and on 
its surface the merry beetles "threaded the windings of their mazy 
dance." The brilliant kingfisher sat patiently on its shores,, watching 
for prey — the bright-eyed frogs that swam swiftly from bank to bank. 


The breezes rippled the brook into little waves, and whispered to it 
of the mighty world where so much good could be done, so unlike 
the quiet forest, where goodness was at best but passive, and where 
the rivulet led a life of inactive virtue. " Ah, if I could but be 
there !" sighed the streamlet, " out in the broad sunny fields, where 
I could look right up into the sun's eye, and sing my morning hymn 
to my Creator ! But I ' bide my time,' and till then I will water 
the dear flowers, and I will wind round the hoary oaks, and bathe 
their roots, and send new life into their running sap." And the dai- 
sies kissed the little brook, and the buttercup " looked up like a 
pleasant smile," and spoke of the sweetness of content, but the haughty 
cardinal-flower tossed her glowing head, and said the brook would 
never be a river, if it listened to the buttercup. But the little stream 
flowed gently and quietly onward, scattering blessings on its path, 
and growing broader and broader, till it emerged into the open fields, 
a little river. Red and white clover-blossoms grew beside it, the 
silvery marish-flower leaned over to behold its image in the quiet 
water, and the stately rush and proud purple flag-lily stood together 
on its brink. Presently the river came to a barrier that seemed to 
it impassable, and it stood still to muster strength to surmount it. 
"Courage!" said the wind; "on the other side stands a poor miller 
longing for you to come and turn his mill, that he may get some 
food for his sick wife and hungry children. I know you will help 
them, dear little river !" The river hesitated no longer, but precipi- 
tated itself in a sheet of silver over the dam, and applied all its ener- 
gies to turning the poor miller's wheel. Many more wheels did the 
river have to turn, but it murmured not, but went merrily about its 
duty, now and then sending some of its waters to moisten a farmer's 
land, or to supply a dancing, glimmering fountain, in some rich man's 
garden. Thus the river flowed on, doing all the good it could, and 
never murmuring or complaining, no matter what storms passed 
over it and ruffled its placid bosom, or what impurity caused it an- 
noyance. It was now a broad, noble river ; steep, wood-covered 
banks rose on either side, intermingled with massive pillars, gray 
and moss-covered with the flight of ages, and white, swan-like sail- 


boats skimmed over the sparkling waters, and dipt down their prows 
for the little waves to caress them with their foamy hands. The 
river often thought of its forest home, and, in troubled hours, it 
sighed at the recollection of those early days, spent in the peaceful 
wood, where nought disturbed its tranquillity, and it rippled along 
in a calm, joyful, dream-life, caressed by the sweet flowers, and 
soothed to rest by the songs of the birds ; but it instantly put away 
the thought, and rejoiced that it had not chosen to dwell in inglori- 
ous ease in the vast old forest, but had resolved to take its share in 
the great Battle of Life. It had borne its part nobly, but it was now 
getting old ; every ripple brought it nearer to its end. The breeze 
that swept over it now, whispered to it of the mighty ocean that it 
was approaching, and that had already sent up its briny messengers, 
to warn the river of its coming end. But the river felt no dread of 
death, for it was calm in the consciousness of having fulfilled its mis- 
sion, and having done all it could to advance the cause of Truth and 
Virtue, by setting in its own life a noble example to all. Thus it 
was, that the river was not afraid, but flowed as peacefully and calmly 
as ever. It felt, too, no selfish wish to still the " great unrest " of 
life, and be at peace in the bosom of the vast ocean, but looked up 
to the blue sky with grateful love, and trusted all to its Creator. 
And when its time came, it sank gently to rest in the arms of the 
sea, as a child would sink to sleep on its mother's bosom ; and, true 
to its purpose of usefulness, yielding with its last breath a welcome 
draught to a thirst-perishing mariner. 

Let us then seek to live like this Forest Rivulet, not wishing to 
remain in the dreamy land of childhood, but with an eye steadily 
fixed on the pole-star of our purpose, launch our bark fearlessly on 
the troubled stream of life, trusting to our Father to provide for us 
out of His boundless love, doing all we can to make the world bet- 
ter than we found it, to set up a glorious statue of our example, for 
future generations to profit by. Thus let us live, that when the angel 
of Death comes to call us home, our lives may flow into the broad 
ocean of Eternity, neither hastily or reluctantly, but with a calm 
trust in our Father's will. Titania. 

€\t fillj an tr \\t %m. 

^ip^^ELL me, ye graceful daughters of the dark, rough earth, 
%J g7 who gave to you your beautiful forms 1 for truly, by 
exquisite fingers ye must have been formed. What little 
spirits ascended from your unfolded blossoms'? and 
what delight did ye feel, as the genii were rocking 
themselves upon your leaves 1 

Say to me, quiet flowers, how did. they distribute 
among themselves their joyous task, and beckon to each 
other, whilst they so skilfully spun, and variously adorned and em- 
broidered your delicate texture? 

But ye are silent, happy children, and enjoy your existence. Well, 
then, the instructing fable shall relate to me that of which your 
mouth is silent. 

As once the earth stood a naked rock, behold a friendly band of 
nymphs bear down to it the virgin soil, and kind genii stood ready 
to deck the bare rock with flowers. Variously they distributed 
among themselves the task. Soon, beneath the snow, and in the cold, 
short grass, began modest Humility, and wove the self-concealing 
violet. Hope stepped forth close after her, and filled with cooling fra- 
grance the little cup of the refreshing hyacinth. Then came, since 
these succeeded so well, a proud, glittering train of many colored 

The tulip raised its head ; the narcissus looked around with lan- 
guishing eye. Many other genii and nymphs were busy in manifold 
ways, and adorned the earth, exulting in their beautiful forms. And, 
lo ! when a large part of their work, with its glory and their delight 
in it, had faded away, Venus spoke to the graces also : — 

"Why do ye tarry, ye sisters of gracefulness? Up, and weave 
from your charms, too, a mortal, visible flower." 


358 the riddler's corner. 

They descended to the earth, and Aglaia, the grace of innocence, 
formed the lily. Thalia and Euphrosyne wove with sisterly hand 
the flower of joy and love, . the virgin rose. Many flowers of the 
field and garden envy each other. The lily and the rose envied none, 
and were envied of all. Sister-like, they bloom together upon the 
same field of Flora, and adorn each other ; for sister graces have 
woven them conjointly. l. e. 

%\t IpMrkf s €nxitx. 

NOTHER solution of Praed's riddle has been 
sent us, since we last met our little readers in 
this corner, different from any we have yet seen. 
It comes from Mr. Morton Munson, of Elmira, 
and we give his letter just as it was written. 

Deak Schoolfellow, 

The Agincourt riddle of Praed, published in your May- 
number, has, I suppose, puzzled many of your young readers; 
and noticing that several solutions have been received, no one of which seemed 
satisfactory, I thought I would try my hand at it. Now, I don't profess to be 
very sharp at unriddling riddles, but I do think I have discovered the true solu- 
tion of this famous one ; and so confident was I in my first impressions of being 
right, that my feelings were akin to those of the ancient philosopher when he 
exclaimed "Eureka," on the discovery of his geometrical proposition. I am 
confirmed in this feeling after further reflection, and shall be very happy to 
learn that it receives the approbation of your judgment. Freedom, in my opin- 
ion, is the word containing the two syllables in the mind of the poet when he 
composed this riddle ; and gives to my mind a natural and true solution of it. 
That those who should survive the conflict should find themselves/w would 
seem to be the first desire of the combatant — and does not " dom," the Saxon 
word for doom, satisfactorily answer to the second of this riddle ? The " blue-eyed 
race" are historically lovers of freedom — of these, the Saxon ranks preeminent ; 
which accounts for the allusion to " blue eyes." 


He sends his answer in rhyme also, but we have not room for it, 
as the letter expresses his idea more clearly.. The solution is plausi- 
ble in some respects, but still, like all others, open to objections. 
The word " dom" or " doom" does not, to our satisfaction, explain the 
second proposition ; and we are sorry that we cannot echo Morton's 
joyful cry of " Eureka !" 

" Violante" sends us the following 


Your first and your second are strata, I'm sure, 

And they will be found while our earth shall endure ; 

At least geologians say it is so — ■ 

They've studied the matter, and they ought to know ! 

The belle of the ball-room your third understands, 
As she looks at the gems on her lily-white hands, 
And bends her proud head with its chaplet of pearls 
Gleaming forth with rare lustre amid the dark curia 

No longer concealed in mysterious guise, 
Your stratagem opens itself to my eyes : 
Poor thing as it is, 'twill be practiced however, 
As long as some folks are less honest than clever ! 

We have received no satisfactory answers to Daisy's charades, 
published in August. Violante suggests " Mary-gold," and Lucy 
Wilson proposes " Venus' looking-glass." Both have some pertinency, 
but we scarcely think Daisy intended either as the answer to her first 
charade. Violante suggests " Heart's ease," for charade number two ; 
but we have concluded to leave them both open for another month, 
and meanwhile, will Daisy herself furnish us with the real answers ? 
for we are obliged to confess ourself in doubt about them. 

We are indebted to our little friend, Lucy Wilson, for the fol- 

360 the eiddler's corner. 


My first is the Trench for a word 

Delightful in gay ladies' ears, 
My second's a long-legged bird, 

For laziness best known, appears. 
My whole has no wings, and don't know how to fly, 
Yet no bird of the air ever soared up so high. 


My first is somewhat soft and yellow, 

Especially in spring ; 
My next a busy, meddling fellow 

Forever on the wing ; 
My whole like an inconstant rover, 

From fair to fair one flies, 
Till his career of pleasure over, 

He drooping, sinks and dies. 


When is a gooseberry pudding not a gooseberry pudding ? 

What's the difference between a postage stamp and a horse ? 

When is a lady not satisfied with seven beaux? 

When did David sleep five in a bed ? 

How do we know that David and Solomon were both tailors? 

What's the scientific reason for the potato rot? 

We shall look for many answers to the above, and hope we shall 
not be disappointed ; though some of our correspondents have grown 
idle or neglectful of late. What has become of Inez, Marian, Lettie 
Wilson and others, w r ho used to be faithful contributors to this depart- 
ment ? We miss their pleasant companionship, and trust that this 
gentle reminder may be powerful to bring them back to us again. 

"!► Cajttai §<rrt for l\t $ nmt-€\uk 



Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delighi the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant form3 the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled b!m to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happily 4 and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but " children of a larger growth" may derive both know- 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home." 

. irriiPlilii 

Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Harry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 

JAMES 3. DICKERSON, Publisher. 









€Mt nf €mhnh. 

NOVEMBEK, 1855. 

The City of Pompeii, . 
A Lesson on Eespect, . 

My Brother, 

Sedgemoor, Chapter XLIV. (and last), 

Oliver Cromwell, 

The Exhibition, 

By the Editor. 
By Mrs. Manners. 
By Emma Alice Browx. 
By Mrs. Manners. 
From Dr. Hawks' Series. 
By Sue Leslie. 


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Published monthly by 

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Juvfn&BZit&? s °^ eni ° f Engllsh and Am erican 

8/Jjne Cifg of |oinpeit. 

N the year seventy-nine of the Christian era, there stood 
at the lower extremity of the beautiful bay of Naples, 
a walled city of great antiquity. Its name was Pom- 
peii, and at that time it was inhabited by thousands 
of people, who thronged its streets and crowded its 
theatres and public buildings. It was not a magnifi- 
cent city, in comparison at least with Rome and other 
great capitals. Its name would never have been famous in 
history, if it had not been linked with one of the most extraordinary 
catastrophes which ever befel a town. Pompeii was only five miles 
distance from Mount Vesuvius ; and in the year already named, that 
famous volcano poured forth from its vast crater, floods of red-hot 
lava, and showers of stones, cinders, ashes, water and mud, which for 
a whole week descended upon the adjacent country, and upon the 
waters of the bay. Three cities were buried entirely beneath the 
burning discharges of the volcano. Their names were Stabise, Her- 
culaneum and Pompeii — all of which were situated near the base of 
the mountain. This happened nearly eighteen hundred years ago, — 
and it is now only just a hundred years since any trace of these buried 
cities was revealed to the eyes of men. At that time excavations 
were commenced, and beneath the crust of lava and the mounds of 
ashes which spread over the plain, at the foot of Vesuvius, there were 
discovered these ill-fated cities, in the precise condition they were in 
when the eruption of the volcano subsided in the year A. D. 79. 

Of the three cities, Pompeii alone has been extensively excavated. 
Herculaneum and Stabise are buried up in solid rock, and crusted 
over with lava, perhaps from successive discharges of the burning 
mountain. It is conjectured that they were deluged by a river of hot 
water from the volcano, which served to harden the cinders and ashes 

364 pompeit. 

of the eruption into stone, and it was found very difficult to excavate 
their streets. Hence of Herculaneum little can be seen, and that 
only by going down into a cavern of black rock with lamps or 

Pompeii, however, was covered with ashes and cinders only, which 
raised over its whole extent vast mounds. These have been cut 
through and removed in many places, and whole streets have been 
laid open to the sun, whose beams never visited them for more than 
sixteen hundred years. When the houses of the city were first reen- 
tered by men, after their long burial, they looked as fresh, inside and 
outside, as they did perhaps when they were overwhelmed with the 
hot ashes of the volcano. In some of them were found skeletons of 
human beings in various attitudes. These were, doubtless, unhappy 
people who were unable to escape from their houses, as the vast 
majority of the inhabitants must have succeeded in doing. As the 
excavations went on, theatres, and baths, and temples, and shops were 
revealed to the eye of day. ' In all these were found the implements 
of art and toil, or the appliances of trade and life. The houses were 
some of them very spacious, and upon the walls of the chambers 
there were paintings done upon the plaster. This sort of fresco-work 
seems to have been almost universal in the city. By a curious pro- 
cess these pictures were removed from the walls, and carried to the 
palace of the King of Naples at Portici. Only a small part of these 
still remain there, for a vast number were carried to Sicily. They 
are executed in bright colours, and though not generally fine works 
of art, indicate considerable taste, and are, in many instances, very 
beautiful in design. 

Among the most attractive objects in this exhumed city, is the 
villa of the famous orator Cicero, upon the marble floor of which, 
as the curious visitor enters, he reads the inlaid word Salve ! But 
there is no one inside to give him the welcome this word implies. And 
throughout the whole city there is no tenant in any house, no mer- 
chant in any shop, no living being who really belongs to the place. It 
is an entombed city — a place without a sign of life. The curiosity and 
diligence of man have laid open its ample theatres, where once mul- 

pompeit. 365 

titudes gathered for amusement ; have explored its streets, the stone 
pavements of which are worn by the tread of once thronging feet ; 
have ransacked its villas and dwellings, where once there was social 
life and domestic happiness. But for nearly eighteen centuries there 
has been silence in its halls and darkness in its homes. It must be a 
wonderful place to the thoughtful visitor, for how can he fail to peo- 
ple it again with its once gay and careless multitudes'? It must be 
also a melancholy place to him, for he will think of their terror and 
wild alarm, when first the red-hot cinders and blinding ashes began to 
fall upon their city ; to set fire, perhaps, to the wooden roofs of the 
houses, and to threaten them with instant destruction. What a ter- 
rible flight must that have been of the people of Pompeii ! And how 
did they escape 1 Imagination alone supplies the answer to the ques- 

The picture which accompanies this sketch, represents a scene in 
the city of Pompeii — the ruins of a beautiful temple. The existence 
of numerous ruins in the buried city has given rise to the conjecture 
that the city was visited by an earthquake previously to the eruption 
of Vesuvius, which at once destroyed and preserved Pompeii. 

Mount Vesuvius still rises in majestic beauty over the bay of Na- 
ples, and the signs of its terrible volcanic power are not yet extinct ; 
but the buried cities tell us only of the past, with their sad but elo- 
quent voices. 

Swearing. — An intelligent lady of our acquaintance, whose little 
boy was beginning to swear, anxious to express to her child her 
horror of profanity, hit upon the novel process of washing out his 
mouth with soap suds whenever he swore. It was an effectual cure. 
The boy understood his mother's sense of the corruption of an oath, 
which, with the taste of the suds, produced the desired result. The 
practice if universally adopted, would raise the price of soap. — Cali- 
fornia Christian Advocate. 



T was a stormy day, and from a small country 

church nearly all the members of the usually 
efficient choir were absent. I questioned in my 
mind, as I saw the two or three in the seats 
devoted to the choir, whether they would have 
courage to " raise the tune," and lead that part 
of the worship, and I said mentally, " I will aid them, if possible,'' for 
I have a little capacity that way, though it is quite uncultivated. 

It was not the choir-master who was sounding the first trembling 
notes, and no powerful " soprano" or " contralto" came in with the 
requisite strength to sustain those uncertain notes ; but the trio 
gained courage after a measure had been sung, and did bravely ; — 
the hymn was a sweet and solemn one, and I followed the thoughts 
which it awakened, and felt the spirit of devotion filling me with its 
pure aspirations. I thought of the little band of singers only to be 
grateful to them, that they were willing to do so well ; and any defi- 
ciencies in their melody made no impression because of the worship 
they were assisting in. 

All about me, however, were not thus considerate. I was several 
times disturbed by a suppressed giggle, and there were obtrusive whis- 
perings which would reach my ear. Some young people in a slip 
near me, were apparently much impressed with the ludicrousness of 
the small, weak choir and their humble efforts. They looked around, 
and whispered, and giggled again, and renewed their ill-manners at 
every uncertain or wrong note which the embarrassed musicians ut- 
tered. This behaviour was a serious annoyance to me at the time, 
and often since I have thought of it in connection with other viola- 
tions of the rule of conduct which should have prevented it. 

I cannot see why there should not be axioms, or first principles, or 
truths dcducible from the golden rule which they illustrate, which 



parents or teachers should teach plainly and enforce rigorously on 
those who are deficient in the delicacy and intuitive kindness of good 
breeding. They tought to be stated like this : 

1. Reverence age. 

2. Seek out true ivorth, and respect it. 

3. Always respect humble and unaffected effort. 

4. Do not ridicule unavoidable deficiencies, 

5. Refrain from observing any defects which you cannot remedy. 

G. If you cannot respect those about you, respect yourself too much' 
to allow it to be seen, unless you can hope to do good. 

And these axioms might be carried on to a great number, as the 
judgment of the parent or the teacher deemed necessary. Some 
children seem utterly ungifted by nature with what Phrenologists call 
the organ of Veneration, and in such, careful training must supply na- 
ture's lack. From the days when God showed his displeasure at the 
conduct of the children who mocked at the bald head of the prophet, 
to our own when in the forward, assuming, irreverential characteris- 
tics of what is called '• Young America," the wisest and best of the 
world's law-givers and noblemen have been mocked by this want of 
appreciation of worth and of deference to age. 

Pitiful, indeed, is the old age of those who in their youth slighted 
and scorned or mocked at gray hairs, tottering steps, the infirm judg- 
ment, or failing memory of the aged. I cannot forget the shock with 
which I overheard a young and lovely woman say, — 

" Parents owe children a duty, to take care of them and to train 
them and to make them happy ; but children owe no duty to parents 
who have done for them only what nature has forced them to." 

I thought, " Poor, presumptuous soul, contemning the law of God 
and the dictates of thy better nature, alike by such irreverent 
speech, may God, who judges us by the heart and spirit, rather than 
by our deeds, have mercy on thee, and save thee from a dreary, un- 
loved evening of life." 

A public lecturer said recently that modern chivalry lacked essen- 
tially the principle of respect which was so evident in the chivalry of 


the middle ages. It is a humiliating thought to us in the pride of 
the enlightenment and progress of this much-vaunted nineteenth 
century. We have elevated our bodily comfort and enhanced the 
well-being of our physical natures, by all the arts and improvements 
we boast ; but it is sad to think that we have got to teach our spirits 
the lesson so well known and practiced in those dark ages, which we 
always speak of with pity — the lesson of subordination to age, and 
of respect for worth. 

See now the children growing up into intellectually cultivated men 
or women, having a score of ologies of which their parents never 
heard, using choice language, having a loftier range of mental vision, 
pursuing more refined occupations, familiar with the more graceful 
and polished usages of society, and — blushing with mortification 
because the father or mother, to whom — in spite of the thoughtless 
woman to whom I have referred, the child owes an infinite debt, — vio- 
lates some trifling conventionality, uses an uncouth word, shows an 
awkwardness not consistent with the ease of refined, social intercourse, 
or refers to occupations which are not common now-a-days in " good 
society," being supposed menial. 

Oh ! how heartily is such refinement to be despised ! How mean 
and despicable the person who would thus treat a parent, more re- 
spectable in his or her homely dress and manner than her more grace- 
ful and polished child ! 

" Cannot you persuade your father to wear a better fitting coat, or 
a modern cravat ?" said a lady once to a familiar friend. 

" No, I don't wish to persuade him to do so. He has made up his 
mind that he is most comfortable in that old coat, and he likes his 
collar tied with a ribbon, as he wore it behind his plough ; and though 
it used to annoy me, I have come to regard the style of his dress 
with somewhat of the respect with which I regard him. It is his taste, 
and even that should be respected at his age." 

It is a thousand times better that the father and mother should be 
comfortable, than that they should follow the fashions of the day. 
For my part, I think old people vastly more respectable in any 
antique style of dress, be it stately or homely, than when aping a 


mode which they must wear in common with the dowdy upstarts, 
whom they certainly would not be wished to resemble in any other 
respect. I was saddened painfully a couple of years since, by the 
sight of an old man still acting the beau. I saw him at a large hotel 
where he live/3, away from his children, who would have given him a 
respectable and comfortable home, with only a servant whom money 
bound to him — and people around him who called him a " bore," and 
"old fop," and who laughed at his pretensions to juvenility and 

He had been a man of high fashion in his day : had given grand 
dinners, when opera singers sung to his golden notes ; had even played 
a somewhat auspicious part in some of the courts of the old world. 
He was still gallant, and he would fain be " the fashion" still, but he 
became instead only an object of ridicule and satire amongst those 
with whom he would associate. I can see him now, an erect and 
rather an elegant figure, with a few sparelocks which were coloured 
brown and carefully disposed ; with the white vest and gold studs, the 
white pantaloons and military blue coat and brass buttons, the light 
blue cravat, and the immense diamond pin which confined it ; add to 
this picture a slender cane, carelessly swung from side to side, and a 
jaunty sailor's straw hat, which the young men wore just then, set 
upon one side of his head, and you may judge for yourselves if he was 
an object of veneration, or scarcely of respect. Was he to be com- 
pared to the old man in the old-fashioned coat, his broad shirt collar 
tied at the neck with a riband, and half-quarter calf shoes and blue 
ribbed woollen stockings, in place of the fine gentleman's patent 
leather boots 1 Oh ! it was pitiful to see old age ashamed of itself, 
and rejecting all that made it venerable ! / could not laugh at him ; 
I could only sigh over the drivelling weakness of humanity. 

We do not need that our fathers should dress in the style of the 
day, or that our mothers should wear elegant gaiters and sweeping 
skirts, or dainty little bonnets, short aprons, or low necks. We do not 
expect from them choice and elegant phrases, or highly-cultivated 
tastes, unless where they have had rare early opportunities of educa- 
tion or society : we need not blush that they are unconventional, if 



they have kept bright the pure fire of the home altar; they who 
have forgotten their own comfort, sacrificing it to ours, and whose 
love has brightened the life they gave us. They who have battled 
with life and with sickness, and perhaps adversity for half a century, 
who have carried out even lofty and noble principles, and have now 
a worthy trust in God, and a high hope of heaven, which has survived 
sorrow, and temptation, and disappointment, and heavy chastenings ; 
they whose dimmed sight can yet discern the heavenly mountains 
which will terminate their pilgrimage, are the truest objects of our 
respect and veneration — our parents, and those of like age and claims. 


Oh, briar-rose clamber, 

And cover the chamber — 
The chamber, so dreary and lone — 

Where with meekly-closed lips, 

And eyes in eclipse, 
My brother lies under the stone. 

Oh, violets, cover 

The narrow roof over — 
Oh, cover the window and door ! 

For never the lights, 

Through the long days and nights, 
Make shadows across the floor! 

The lilies are blooming, the lilies 
are white, 

Where his play haunts used to be ; 
And the sweet cherry blossoms 
Blow over the bosoms 
Of birds in the old roof tree. 

When I hear on the hills the shout of 
the storm, 
In the rear of the valley, the roar of 
the river ; 
I shiver and shake by the hearth-stone 
warm, . 
As I think of him cold " for ever." 

His white hands are folded, and never 


With song of the robin or plover, 

When the summer has come, with her 

bees and her grain, 

Will he play in the meadow clover. 

Oh, dear little brother — 

Oh, sweet little brother, 
In the place above the sun, 

Oh, pray the good angels, 

The glorious evangels, 
To take me — when life is done. 


j§ 1 1) cj c in o o r ; 

©ftajtet X2LKU. 

ND now it was Wednesday evening, and they were to 
close their pleasant pastime and e'njoy the society of 
their well-beloved friend for the last time. There were 
some long ftces to be seen as Matthias turned up the 
Carcel burners, making the illumination of the room, 
almost equal to that effected by gas. It was impossible 
&#££*?■ t avoid the effect of this brightening up of everything 

about them ; not a line of gilding on the books and pictures ; not a 
flush of crimson in the voluminous curtains ; not a gleam of the bril- 
liant hues which lighted up the masses of dark green and brown in 
the carpet; not a tint of the fine exotics which glowed in the vase 
upon the inlaid table, but flashed forth their beauty in that flood of 
light, and left its impression on the poetic imaginations of the family, 
both old and young. 

Smiles came back to eyes and lips, and gay words were heard 
instead of sighs. Mr. Clayton summoned his little girl in a cheerful 
voice to take her place by his side and commence, saying : 

" We have no time to waste in idling now, Let us finish the play 
roundly, and give to Mr. Austen only bright, earnest, loving memo- 
ries of the evening circle at Sedgemoor ; such memories, Austen," 
said he, turning to that gentleman, " as will haunt you and hasten 
you back to us. • Look around us now. Here in this huge, green- 
covered arm-chair sits a demure and remarkable man, according to 
Alice, yclept Philip Clayton, the patriarch ; there is a scholarly face 
surmounting a fine figure, who answers to the name of Carey; you 
will remember him kindly if you please, as he is a hopeless melan- 
choly old bachelor ; by his side is a fair and graceful lady, writing 


372 sedgemoor; 

herself, with malice prepense, I am sure, ' Emily Donne, spinster.' 
Somebody who loves this lady dearly, a young, soft-eyed, sweet 
voiced girl, sits at her feet in fond reverence ; young Arthur is 
before you piercing his future with large far-seeing eyes ; Herbert, 
instinct with a new life, and recognizing in himself, daily, fresh en- 
ergies . and hopes, keeps a restless seat by Arthur, while here 
nestling ever, eh, Alice 1 is the youngest, whose curls are darkening, 
and whose soul is growing up through a happy childhood to a 
woman's stature. Now, if the picture is not fairly done, better it, the 
materials are in your own hands ; but / am idling now — go on Alice, 
what have you, X, Y, or Z ?" 

" I've an X and a Z, papa," answered Alice. " Xerxes the Great, 
you know I always knew that ; I learned how to say Xerxes almost 
as soon as I knew my letters, when X stood for him, and he stood on 
a high hill watching a great many soldiers in the valley below him. 
My second name is unpronounceable, is almost unspellable, too, 
Zchokhe — he writes a great many beautiful stories in spite of his 
name. I wonder how old he was when he learned to spell his own 
name ?" 

" Why is he a great man ?" asked Arthur. 

" You mean some pun or other," said Herbert. " Because he is a 
fine writer, that's all I know about it." 

" Can none of you guess 1 Because he keeps everybody waiting 
for a spell." 

" Horrible, Arthur," said Herbert ; " do go on quickly Maude, 
that we may forget Arthur's confusion after this effort, and give him 
time to. recover ; poor fellow, how exhausted he seems !" 

" Please stop your nonsense, young gentlemen," said Maude, with 
uncommon energy, for her. " How do you suppose ' Zenobia's stately 
steppings' will correspond with it, ' the great desert queen.' My 
other name is — " 

" Zero, perhaps," said Herbert. " Your mental mercury ought to 
fall, Maude. You are getting up uncommonly high for you." 

" You will find your level at zero, if you tease me so with your 
nonsense, Herbert ; I mean what I say," she added laughing a little 


as Herbert made large eyes of surprise at her unusual retaliation. 
" I did not know whom to take besides, so I hunted up Zuinglius, the 
great Swiss reformer." 

" Will you allow me to inquire, Miss Maude, if you ever heard 
of a lady of rare fame named Mrs. Xantippe Socrates ? She is the 
only person to bring in after Zenobia ; if she was not queen of the 
desert, she was a deserted queen, and you seem to have a fellow feeling 
for the unfortunate woman." 

" You are wasting our time now, Herbert," said Mr. Clayton, 
smiling, as he thought, with a glad feeling, of the change from the 
demure, sensitive lad Herbert was a year since, to this gay, light- 
hearted boy ; " do go on with the play properly." 

" I will papa. I bring in Xenophon, philosopher, soldier, historian ; 
and Xantippus the Grecian general is his aid ; he was given to aid- 
ing, you know, having done that duty for the Carthagenians when 
they were fighting against the Eomans in those great Punic wars." 

" The people I introduce to-night," said Arthur, are worthy of a 
crowd, and would be chosen from it — Xavier, the devoted mission- 
ary, of the Romish church, to the Indies ; and I have also Zinzendorf 
the excellent Moravian nobleman." 

" I offer," said Miss Emily, " Ximenes, a Spanish statesman and 
cardinal of considerable reputation, and Sydney Yendys, which I 
understand to be a fictitious name ; the assumer of it being an 
Englishman of fine poetical talent, who chooses to be known only in 
that way for the present. But he is a true and noble poet." 

" How fast you are going around," said Mr. Carey, " that you 
reach me so soon. The fact must be that you have exhausted your- 
selves hunting up these odd X, Y, Z's, and have not breath to dis- 
cuss them." 

" The truth is, we are too busy with other thoughts to discuss these 
people to-night," said Mr. Clayton. "I have not even conjured up 
any names from memory to serve my turn. I really must think a 

" Well, / will go on," said Mr. Carey, " and will take Young, the 
poet and divine, but not divine poet, for my first ; my second is one 


I thought you would get hold of, Miss Emily, the artist Zaccarelli, 
the painter of that pretty portrait yonder." 

" How stupid in me to let you get a painter and a poet, when I 
might have had both. But I would vastly prefer Sydney Yendys to 
Edward Young as a poet, though the world has not yet set her seal 
of approval on Yendys. Posterity will do it for him, I imagine. 
You are welcome to your name, Mr. Carey." 

" And you don't want it, Emily ?" asked Mr. Austen, archly. 

" Don't want what, Hench ?" said she, turning around to him 

" Nothing at all, Emily,'' said Mr. Austen, whose second thought 
silenced his jest, " nothing at all, you want as little as any woman I 

" Wanting only your presence, Cousin Hench ; well that is not 
much, honestly. But we all want the names you are to contribute 
this evening." 

" Here they are. Zoroaster and Zeno, two great names, the first 
one founder of the sect of the Parsees amongst the Persians, the 
other the founder of the sect of Stoics among the Greeks." 

"I would not wish to be a Stoic, Mr. Austen," said Herbert, 
"because then, though we should not experience so much pain at 
your going, neither would we have experienced so much pleasure in 
your society. No, no, I believe in feeling pleasure, and pain too, 
as that follows of course, as intensely as we can ; don't you, Miss 
Emily V 

" Some have a more sensitive, and some a more intense nature 
than others,'' said Miss Emily ; " neither of these sorts of people 
would make good Stoics. I hardly think any of our party would 
answer for Stoics without a great deal of practice in self-control — . 
indeed in complete self-denial, self-abnegation. We will not join the 
association, if you please, Cousin Hench ; so your great men may go 
on while we listen to Mr. Clayton." 

" 1 hardly know what you will listen to, Miss Emily," said that 
gentleman. " There is Yriaie, the Spanish writer, and I cannot com- 
mand another name ; I've sunk below zero, according to the boys. 


' Alas, poor Yorick,' rings through my head, and the Shakspearian line 
concerning the son of York, and then with 

' Zaccheus, he 
Did climb a tree,' 

is what I am reduced to. What do you think of your father's learning 
now, Alice?" 

" I think there never were any other people than those that have 
been mentioned already, papa ; so how could you think of them ?" 
said Alice. 

" I would suggest Yturbide, the Mexican emperor, Clayton," said 
Mr. Austen. 

" Very well, Austen, that will do. So now I suppose we have 
finished. It has been a fine play for us all ; when you return, Austen, 
we will try something which will puzzle the imagination, as well as 
try the memories, of these young people." 

" I find I can think faster and more effectually than formerly," said 
Arthur. " I used to have a way of storing up things, as if I never 
expected to want to use them. It was very simple to learn in that 
manner ; it made me awkward with my pen ; I never had any 
material for compositions. If I knew anything about whatever 
might be the topic of conversation, I could not get at it to use it. 
Talking with Herbert, listening to the gentlemen here conversing, 
and playing this game, has taught me a new trick of learning." 

" Alice made some sort of a confession of that kind a few months 
ago," said Mr. Clayton. 

" Ah, papa," said Alice, " I forgot one thing, I did not intend to. I 
was going to name Matthias in the M's." 

" And we have done nothing with &c," said Herbert. 

" Yes, that is the comprehensively careless conclusion of cords of 
confused conversationists and correspondents," said his father. 

" Cutting causticly at us all, Philip," said Mr. Austen. " I for one 
acknowledge the reproof." 

" You should say ' confess the corn,' " said Herbert, " to keep up 
papa's alliterations." 

376 sedgemoor; 

" We have done with slang, Herbert," replied Mr. Austen. 

" One question," said Maude, " before we have prayers, if you 
please, Mr. Clayton. Why do some people call & ' anpersand V 
What does it mean ?" 

" It means that the character which is called anpersand is and per se 
and ; per se is the Latin for by itself, and the expression, therefore, 
means ' and, by itself and.' The chief use of the letter, or character 
rather, is for business men and business purposes. Ladies have no 
occasion for such a letter ; its use always implies haste — no time for a 
correct and careful continuation of the subject in question. It is, 
therefore, unladylike and inelegant." 

Thursday morning's breakfast at Sedgemoor was a dull meal in 
spite of all the efforts of every one present to prevent it. Mr. 
Clayton proposed that they should promise to send Mr. Austen a 
family budget of letters every month. Each of the family must con- 
tribute to it, and the letters were to be delivered into Mr. Clayton's 
hands, all sealed, so that each should be ignorant of what the others 
might write. 

This plan gained favour in the eyes of all except Maude, who did 
not seem so much to dislike it, as to be diffident about undertaking it. 

" I am so little of a Sevigne, Mr. Austen, that my letters will not 
be worth the postage," she said. 

" I shall consider every one of them worth a reply," said Mr. 
Austen. " You must judge for yourself, whether the reward will be 
adequate to the trouble it may cost you to write." 

Maude simply answered : " Then I certainly shall write on such 

" You will have a droll lot of letters every month," said Alice. 
" I never wrote a letter in my life except as a composition for Miss 

" You must mind and tell me all the news, Alice," said Mr. Austen, 
as they were leaving the table to accompany him to the carriage, 


upon which his luggage was already piled. " If anything important 
happens, if your father should show any more symptoms of ignorance 
as he did last night, or Herbert should be run for President ; or 
Arthur should receive a Cross of the Legion of Honour, or a General's 
commission in the army; if Maude should take to playing with 
dolls again, going backward like your father; or Mr. Carey should 
become very miserable at Sedgemoor ; or Miss Emily get married ; 
now all these things would be items of news for you to write to me ; 
remember. Good-bye, dear child," and so he kissed her and his 
cousin Emily, and pressed his lips almost reverentially on the pale 
brow of Maude. Herbert and Arthur shook hands with him, and 
then he jumped into the carriage with Mr. Clayton, who was to go 
to the ship with him, (as also did Matthias,) and turned away, as we 
must, from the evening gatherings at Sedgemoor. 

JgpP" Here ends the delightful story of Sedgemoor, which for 
nearly two years has charmed and instructed a large circle of young 
readers, and at the same time elicited many kind words of interest 
and approbation from parents and teachers. It was our intention to 
have had the whole story published in a neat volume in season for the 
Christmas Holidays, but unforeseen circumstances delayed our 
plans, and will hinder their immediate execution. We take great 
pleasure in announcing, however, that early in the year 1856, if all 
goes well, " Sedgemoor • or, the Home Lessons of Herbert and Alice" 
will appear in book form, to take its place, doubtless, among the per- 
manently popular juvenile literature of the age. 


(JMiirtr (CromtoHL 

[Through the kindness of the Publisher,* we are enabled to give our reader?, 
from sheets in advance of publication, a chapter from a new life of " Oliver 
Cromwell," in the series of ' ' Biographies of the Heroes of History, " by the Eev. 
Francis L. Hawks, D. D., LL. D. It is indeed a beautiful volume, illustrated with 
fine engravings, and is a worthy successor to " Kichard the Lion Hearted,'' in 
the same series, and with which the Schoolfellow's readers are well acquainted.] 

EOMWELL was in the fulness of his power, strong in 
authority, secure in the establishment of order at home, 
and triumphant in victory over his enemies abroad. 
His well-disciplined veteran army, who had been tried 
in all the experiences of warfare but defeat, were firm 
in fidelity, in spite of factious attempts to loosen it, 
and when their old commander, who had always led them to victory, 
appealed to their allegiance, against the treason of his enemies, there 
was not a soldier in the ranks who did not join in the loyal acclama- 
tion : "We will live and die for you." 

The great enemy of Protestant England, Catholic Spain, had been 
humbled by Cromwell, and was compelled to strike her flag at sea 
and on land, at the approach of his dreaded Englishmen. The fertile 
island of Jamaica, the stronghold of Dunkirk, and the opulent tribute 
of gold and silver from the Spanish possessions of the east and west, 
had been wrested from the might of Spain, and now added to the 
strength, enriched the treasury and magnified the glory of Crom- 
well. France had incessantly courted an alliance with the Protector, 
and now congratulated itself upon its enjoyment as the greatest honour 

James S. Pickerson, 697 Broadway, New York. 


and surest protection. A great victory had been won by the allied 
■armies of England and France over Spain, and Louis XIV., grateful 
for the aid of Cromwell, sought this occasion to acknowledge his 
gratitude, and do honour to the greatness of the English sovereign. 
The young King had come with all the splendour of his court to Calais, 
within sight of the English shore, and would have crossed the chan- 
nel to pay his homage in person to Cromwell, had he not been sud- 
denly seized with the small-pox. He accordingly commissioned his 
nearest in blood, his cousin the Duke of Crecpli, accompanied by 
Mancini, the nephew of the potent Cardinal Mazarin and followed by 
a train of French nobles and gentlemen,, to bear to the Lord-Protector 
a letter of congratulation upon the victory over Spain, and the conquest 
of Dunkirk, with assurances of his French Majesty's veneration for 
Cromwell, and his desire to cultivate a perpetual friendship with him. 
The Protector received these demonstrations with a magnificence in 
harmony with the splendid homage of the Grand Louis. His son-in- 
law, Fleetwood, was dispatched to Dover, to receive the Duke of 
Crequi on his landing, and to escort him to the capital. A train of 
twenty carriages, to each of which were harnessed six horses, and a 
body-guard of two hundred chosen cavalry soldiers, with drawn 
swords, conducted the ambassador of the French monarch to London. 
The Protector, on the public reception of the Duke of Crequi, rose 
from his chair of state, and advancing two steps to meet the French 
ambassador, placed him on his right hand, while Eichard Cromwell 
was on the left. 

The people of England were dazzled by the splendour of their sover- 
eign, to whom great potentates sought to honour themselves by doing 
homage. The army proudly shared in the glory of their old leader, 
and with swelling pride increased in fidelity to Cromwell. The Re- 
publican leaders were less resistant, and disposed to yield to a supre- 
macy that towered so high above the level of their theoretical 
equality. It was now the universal belief that Cromwell might wear 
the crown without opposition, as he wielded the sceptre of a king 
without resistance. 

The scene was, however, suddenly changed. From the pomp and 


ceremony of. the French reception, and from amidst the acclamations 
and popular enthusiasm of the English people, and while courtiers 
and friends were holding up to his view the glittering splendour of an 
earthly crown, Cromwell was summoned to the bedside of a dying 
child. He hurried to Hampton Court, where Lady Claypole, his 
favourite daughter, was suffering the fatal agonies of a mortal disease. 
The sovereign whom Louis XIV. declared the greatest and happiest 
in Europe, was now forgetful of all earthly glory, and wholly ab- 
sorbed in grief and despair. " For the last fourteen days," writes his 
secretary, Thurlow, " His Highness has been by her bedside at 
Hampton Court, unable to attend to any public business whatever." 
The disease of Lady Claypole was an internal abscess, the pain of 
which was of the most agonizing kind, and burst forth in frequent 
convulsions. While his daughter thus suffered, Cromwell's heart was 
sorely wrung, and on her death on the 6th August, 1658, which 
closed the scene so trying to a fond father's affection, the Protector 
was so staggered by the blow as never again to recover from its 
severity. He sought consolation, however, for his wounded spirit, in 
those religious exercises which he always sincerely enjoyed. He was 
confined to his bed, where he had lain since the death of his daughter, 
from an attack, writes Thurlow to Henry Cromwell, " of the gout 
and other distempers contracted by the long sickness of my Lady 
Elizabeth, which made great impression upon him." While thus ill, 
he desired his wife to read to him this passage from St. Paul's 
Epistle to the Philippians : " Not that I speak in respect of want : for 
I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I 
know both how to be abased and I know how to abound. Every- 
where and by all things I am instructed ; both to be full and to be 
hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things 
through Christ which strengthened me." When this passage had 
been read, Cromwell uttered these pathetic words : " This Scripture 
did once save my life, when my eldest son (he alluded to Oliver, 
who had fallen in battle during the civil war) died, which went as a 
dagger to my heart, indeed it did." 

This bereavement of his beloved child, Elizabeth, following closely 


upon the loss of his son-in-law, young Rich, leaving Cremwell's 
daughter, Frances, a widow at the early age of seventeen, told heav- 
ily against the happiness of the Protector, for his affections were 
closely intertwined in the domestic enjoyment of his family. Lady 
Claypcle, who, in health, was of a gay and lively temper, cheered 
her father when disturbed by the agitations of his tumultuous life, 
and her exhilarating society was often sought by him as a relief from 
the pressure of the weight of public business. In sickness, how- 
ever, the temper of this beloved daughter became of a severer tone, 
and she is believed to have rebuked with the impressiveness of her 
dying words, some of the more violent acts of Cromwell's career, 
and thus added the agony of remorse to the heart breaking trials of 
the father. 

The Protector revived for a while from the sorrow of his affliction 
and his consequent illness, and was so far recovered as to be enabled 
to give an audience to the Dutch ambassador, but was obliged to cut 
it short in consequence of indisposition. Cromwell mastered his 
feelings sufficiently to be present at the funeral of Lady Claypole, 
which took place with great pomp at Westminster Abbey. He then 
remained some time at the Palace of Whitehall in London, but he 
speedily returned to his favourite abode of Hampton Court. While 
here, George Fox, the founder of the Quakers, had a short interview 
with him, of which he has left this record : "I met him riding into 
Hampton Court Park," says Fox, " and before I came to him, as he 
rode at the head of his life-guards, I saw and felt a waft of death go 
forth against him ; and when I came to him he looked like a dead 
man. After I had laid the sufferings of Friends before him, and had 
warned him according as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me 
come to his house ; and the next day I went up to Hampton Court, 
to speak further with him ; but when I came, Harvey, who was one 
that waited on him, told me the doctors were not willing that I 
should speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw him more." 
In the meantime he had a renewed attack of sickness, which proved 
to be a severe form of ague and fever. 

Cromwell's physicians now counselled a change of air, as it was 


thought his disease was caused by the marshes in the neighborhood of 
Hampton Court. He was accordingly removed to Whitehall in the 
city of London. His condition, however, was not improved, and his 
disease increased hourly in severity. Having overheard one of his 
physicians remark that his pulse was intermittent, his face turned to 
a deathly paleness, and a cold sweat burst from him in a momentary 
agony of despair. He believed his hour had struck, and he sent for 
his secretary, and hurriedly dictated his will. On the following 
morning, however, Cromwell recovered his spirits, and observing an 
expression of sadness upon the face of his medical attendant, asked 
him why he looked so sad. The physician replied : " How can I look 
otherwise, with the responsibility of your life upon mel" Upon 
which the Protector said : " You doctors think I shall die ;" and 
then taking the hand of his wife, who was at his side, turned towards 
her, and in a firm tone of self-reliance, emphatically exclaimed : " I 
tell thee 1 shall not die of this bout; I am sure I shall not. Do not 
think" (addressing himself to the doctors) " I am mad ; I tell you 
the truth ; I know it from better authority than any from Galen or 
Hippocrates. It is the answer of God himself to our prayers ; not 
to mine alone, but those of others, who have a more intimate inter- 
est in Him than I have. Therefore take courage ; banish sorrow 
from your eyes, and treat me as you would treat a mere servant. 
You can do much by your science ; but nature can do more than all 
the doctors in the world, and God is infinitely more powerful than 

On the Protector's illness assuming a dangerous character, prayers 
were offered up for his recovery in all the churches in London, and at 
every pious fireside in England. The chaplains of the palace and its 
Puritanical inmates had, in the excitement of pious ecstasy, believed 
that they had heard a voice from heaven, answering to their prayers, 
" He will recover." Fortified with this fancied revelation from God, 
their hopes of the recovery of Cromwell were so far assured, that 
they declared to the dying man that his safety had been solemnly 
pledged by Heaven. His chaplain, Goodwin, no longer prayed for his 


recovery ; for said he, in his pious enthusiasm : " O Lord ! that thou 
hast granted already ; what we now beg is his speedy recovery." 

The Protector continued to get worse, and to the experienced eyes 
of his physicians, the shadow of death was seen to be gathering over 
him. Cromwell's adherents were accordingly anxious about a succes- 
sor, and Thuj'low was urged to mention the subject to the Protector. 
A document had been drawn up a year before by Cromwell, in which 
he had named the one to succeed him ; but who it was, no one knew ; 
and the paper now being searched for could not be found. It is still 
a matter of doubt whether Cromwell subsequently cleared up the 
matter, although it is believed that he whispered with his dying voice, 
" Richard," in answer to the question, " Whom he wished for 
successor V 

Cromwell, however, was soon dead to all objects of earth, and i» 
the moments of reason intervening between the ravings of delirium, 
was only alive to thoughts of heaven. On one such occasion he asked 
his chaplains, Goodwin and Owen, who were constantly by his bed of 
sickness, " Whether it was possible to fall from grace ?" To their 
answer it was not possible, he replied : " Then I am safe ; for I know 
that 1 was once in grace." The dying Cromwell then turned to the 
wall, away from his attendants, and uttered audibly and with great 
fervour the following prayer : '' Lord, though I am a miserable and 
wretched creature, I am in covenant with thee through grace. And I 
may, I will come to thee for thy people. Thou hast made me, though 
very unworthy, a mean instrument to do them some good, and thee 
service ; and many of them have set too high a value upon me, 
though others wish and would be glad of my death. Lord, however 
thou do dispose of me, continue and go on to do good for them. 
Give them consistency of judgment, one heart and mutual love ; and 
go on to deliver them, and with the work of reformation, and make 
the name of Christ glorious in the world. Teach those who look too 
much on thy instruments, to depend more upon thyself. Pardon 
such as desire to trample upon the dust of a poor worm, for they are 
thy people, too ; and pardon the folly of this short prayer, even for 
Jesus Christ's sake. And give us a good night, if it be thy pleasure. 


Amen." It was. on the night preceding his death when he uttered 
this prayer, so confident in the faith, so beaming with the love of the 
Christian, and so elevated by that heavenly charity which, once 
breathed into the soul of man, " raises himself above himself," and 
makes him lose all the selfishness which the love of life intensely 
concentrated, in the last dying moment, engenders in a heart untouched 
by celestial love. " Lord, however thou do dispose of me, continue 
and go on to do good for them" Thus prayed Cromwell for 'his 
people in the very agony of death. 

As the night sped on, the Protector grew worse, and -while he was 
agitated with the agony of the last struggles of life with the con- 
queror Death, he was heard to utter in broken accents: "Truly. God 
is good, indeed he is — he will not leave me — I would live to be fur- 
ther serviceable to God — but my work is done — yet God will be with 
his people." His attendant having offered him some drink, and urged 
him to sleep, Cromwell said : " It is not my design to drink or sleep, 
but make what haste I can to be gone." These were his last words, 
and he sank into a deep stupor from which he never again rallied. 

During this night of Cromwell's agony, a violent storm burst over 
England. London was overwhelmed with the tempest, trees were 
uprooted, houses blown down, the streets deluged, and the roads so 
obstructed by the devastation of the country round, that all approach 
to the capital was prevented. Ludlow, the republican, who had been 
banished from London by the Protector, attempted to reach the 
capital on this night, but was driven to seek refuge on the road, his 
coach being unable to make headway against the severity of the storm. 
On his arrival next day in the capital, Fleetwood went to ask him 
in behalf of the Protector, the purpose of his visit. He declared 
that he was unconscious of Cromwell's illness, and had only come up 
to see his mother-in-law. Such a night had never been before expe- 
rienced, and amid this crash of the elements the great soul of Crom- 
well was struggling in throes of agony with earthly existence, and 
gaining its victory over death. The Protector lingered until next day 
in a state of insensibility, and breathed his last with one deeply- 
drawn sigh, in the afternoon, between three and four o'clock. 



The great deeds of Cromwell, render an elaborate analysis of his 
character unnecessary. He was eminently a practical hero, whose 
acts, in their massive grandeur, exist as everlasting memorials of his 
greatness. As some huge granite rock rises in a great convulsion of 
nature, from the deepest foundations of the earth, and lifts itself, a 
perpetual monument of might, so Cromwell, in the revolution of 
the State, bursts forth from the people, and stands a tower of great- 
ness, which will record, for all coming time, the power of his 

No one disputes the capacity of Cromwell. He was a great sol- 
dier, a skilful politician, a comprehensive statesman, and a mighty 
sovereign. He always led his armies to victory ; he guided a revo- 
lution ; he constructed a State ; and he ruled a nation. The often- 
quoted saying of Cromwell, " Trust God and keep your powder dry," 
is the best illustration of his public conduct. He was, above all 
things, a practical Englishman. He was no mere theorist. Judged 
by the abstractions of the religious and political enthusiasts, he was 
the most illogical of men. He was both a lover of freedom and an 
arbitrary ruler ; he was an Independent in religion, and yet an advo- 
cate of conformity. Cromwell himself was aware of his compulsory 
inconsistency, and said : " I approve the government of a single per- 
son as little as any, but I was forced to take upon me the office of a 
high-constable, to preserve the peace among the several parties in the 
nation, since I saw that, being left to themselves, they would never 
agree to any certain form of government, and would only spend their 
whole power in defeating the designs or destroying the pei'sons of 
one another." The practical genius of Cromwell led him to adapt 
himself to the emergencies of the times in which he lived. When 
political freedom was lapsing into license, he checked it; when relig- 
ious independence was maddening into profanity, he restricted it. 
To excite a revolution and to subdue it, were the two opposite duties 
to which Cromwell found himself called ; and however practically 
consistent they may be made, it is questionable whether they can ever 
be theoretically reconciled. 

In personal character, Cromwell was centle. kind, and humane. He 



was strong in his domestic affections, firm in his friendships, social 
with his companions, forgiving towards his enemies. He was con- 
stantly respectful and affectionate in his bearing towards his wife, al- 
though there have been some to declare that Lady Dysart and Mrs. 
Lambert were rivals of the Protectress in the affections of Cromwell. 
His children he always cherished with the most tender paternal regard ; 
and his personal attendants he treated more as friends than servitors. 
His soldiers were proud of him, and spoke of their leader with the 
familiarity of affection, whom they called " Old Noll." In religion, 
Cromwell was a sincere enthusiast, and although he did much in miti" 
gating the severity o"f religious persecution, was not, as his cruelty 
towards the Catholics in Ireland proves, always superior to the bigotry 
of his age. 

Cromwell was not, although occasionally indulging in bursts of rude 
humour, the coarse-mannered man he has been represented. His court 
was remarkable for its dignity and refinement ; and his bearing 
towards the dignitaries of his own government, and towards the am- 
bassadors from foreign nations, was always stately and becoming. 
Cromwell was not unmindful of the refining influence of learning and 
the arts. He himself had spent a year at Cambridge, and although 
the duties of practical life had early drawn him from the contempla- 
tive studies of the academic retreat, he acknowledged the claims of 
the learned, and cherished the English universities with constant favour. 
He laid aside his political prejudices in his encouragement of litera- 
ture and literary men, and not only warmly favored his partisans, 
Milton, Marvel, and Waller, but generously protected his enemies, 
Denham, Cud worth, Hobbes, Usher, and Cowley. 

We may appropriately close our history with the brilliant sum- 
mary of the career of Cromwell by the last-mentioned poet. We 
might protest against Cowley's low estimate of the Protector, did 
not the poet's own lofty record of the hero's great deeds vindicate 
the greatness of Cromwell's genius. 

" What can be more extraordinary," says Cowley, " than that a 
person of mean birth, no fortune, no eminent qualities of body, which 
have sometimes, or of mind, which have often, raised men to the 


highest dignities, should have the courage to attempt, and the happi- 
ness to succeed in, so improbable a design as the destruction of one 
of the most ancient and most solidly-founded monarchies.upon earth ; 
that he should have the power or boldness to put- his prince and 
master to an open and infamous death ; to banish that numerous and 
strongly-allied family ; to do all this under the name and wages of 
a parliament ; to trample upon them, too, as he pleased, and spurn 
them out of doors when he grew weary of them ; to raise up a new 
and unheard-of monster out of their ashes ; to stifle that in the very 
infancy, and to set up himself above all things that ever were called 
sovereign in England ; to oppress all his enemies by arms, and all 
his friends afterwards by artifice ; to serve all parties patiently for 
awhile, and to command them victoriously at last ; to overrun each 
corner of the three nations, and overcome with equal facility both the 
riches of the south and the poverty of the north; to be pleased and 
courted by all foreign princes, and adopted a brother to the gods of 
the earth ; to call together parliaments with a word of his pen, and 
scatter them again with the breath of his mouth ; to be humbly and 
daily petitioned that he would be pleased to be hired at the rate of 
two millions a year, to be the master of those that hired him before 
to be their servant ; to have the estates and lives of three kingdoms 
as much at his disposal as was the little inheritance of his father, and 
to be as noble and liberal in spending them ; and lastly, (for there is 
no end of all the particulars of his glory,) to bequeath all these with 
one word to his posterity ; to die with peace at home and prosperity 
abroad ; to be buried among kings and with more than regal solem- 
nity ; and to leave a name behind him not to be extinguished but 
with the whole world, which, as it is not too little for his praises, so 
might have been too for his conquests, if the short line of his human 
life could have been stretched out to the extent of his immortal 

t (Ki|ikiiian: 


S the July days grew warmer and brighter, and were on 
the verge of ripening into August, •' we girls and boys" 
began to find school-task more and more irksome, and 
to wish ardently for the swifter approach of that long 
looked forward to, exciting "last week of the term." 
" There was so much to be done !" said we in our daily confabs, at 
lunch-time, out under the oak-trees; "the evergreens all to be 
gathered and made up, the hall (as we dignified our school-room, in 
the prospective importance of the Exhibition) to be arranged, the 
stage to be put up, and the rehearsals, oh, the rehearsals !" 

But for all our impatie^e, old " Father Tempus" (ours was a clas- 
sical school, remember !) jogged on not one whit the faster, and we 
had to follow his slow paces with our usual round of duties : but 
" there cometh an end to all things," so at length came the last Friday 
in July ; and as Prof. Gruffman growled out " you are dismissed" — 
there was a universal shout from the fifty-five throats belonging to 
the fifty-five male and female members of the good old-fashioned 
Walker's Dictionary Class, and a general rush and tumble toward 
desks and closets, which soon emptied their contents into the yawning 
satchels. The professor said, " oh ! oh ! young ladies ! boys, remem- 
ber where you are, sirs ! don't be such children all of you !" quite 
in vain ; we saw the kindly beam in his eye as he spoke, and the 
relieved look which told that he, too, was glad that the long summer 
vacation had come to release him from his irksome all-day seat in the 
school-house, and allow him to take just as many rides and walks and 
talks as he chose, with that beloved little lady-professor. So we 


made just as much noise as we chose ; and as we were country lads 
and maidens, that was no little : and as they walked out of the school- 
room together, we called out, "Please, Mrs. Gruffman, don't forget to 
Come Monday afternoon to help us arrange the wreaths ; and, Profes- 
sor, send us word what motto you want for the stage !" and as they 
nodded assent and good-bye, we started on our way homeward 
through the woods, now cool in the afternoon shade. 

Allan Neal and Stuart Eyre walked with Jennie and me to carry 
our satchels, and we fell into eager discussion of the all-important ar- 
rangements. " You boys must search the woods," said Jennie, " and 
get the very prettiest cedar and holly and myrtle you can find, sprigs 
with berries ; and let me see, Sue ; Ada Somers is elegant at making 
wreaths, if she'll condescend to roughen her fingers with them." 

" Oh, of course, she'll help ; and Bob Harmanson can cut German 
letters beautifully, he did those for the church last Christmas; but I 
wonder what the motto will be ?" said I. 

" If they'd let me choose, I'd give them the wise man's words, 
' Much study is a weariness to the flesh,' " laughed Jennie ; " for I de- 
clare, my head aches still with that last miscellaneous example in 
Algebra, this evening ; I'm so glad school is done — oh, the rides and 
sails this vacation, Sue !'' 

" That's all you girls think about, such nonsense !" said Stuart, con- 
temptuously ; " now, / thought Algebra was grand when I studied it, 
but it's so long ago, I've forgotten !" 

" Listen to the greater than Solomon now !" mocked Jennie ; " I'm 
sorry your memory's so short, for you certainly studied equations 
last winter ; and as for your preferring school to sport — think of 
Captain Grime, and be silent !" 

" Psha !" said Stuart, reddening ; and Allan said : 

' : I don't think your motto will exactly suit the Professor, Jennie; 
he'll probably search Socrates instead of Solomon." 

" Not he — he's decided on one already, I believe," said Stuart ; 
" you know he likes Latin better than Greek anyhow, the Romans 
being so much stronger and sterner a race, forsooth." 

" Gruffer and grummer you mean," put in Jennie. 


"Oh, be still, can't you?" said the boy; "and only to-day he 
scribbled half abstractedly on the margin of my book, as I was read- 
ing Cicero to him, ' per ardua ad alta,' and that sounds just like what 
the Professor's choice would be — don't it 1" 

" Yes, exactly," said we, only Jennie added, " humph ! it is ' through 
the difficult' I grant you, whether or not ' to the lofty' remains to be 
seen !" 

" Oh, be off, Jennie, with your inelegant literalisms," said Stuart ; 
and she made him a mock courtesy ; and so, jesting and arguing, we 
sauntered on toward our homes. 

All day Saturday the boys were busy, carrying cart-loads of ever- 
greens to the school-house ; and on Monday, about a dozen of the 
oldest girls met there, taking our luncheon with us, to reduce order 
out of the chaos of boughs and branches. Mrs. Gruffman came in 
the afternoon, and her skill and taste were invaluable. Ada made 
myrtle-wreaths with charming grace, and we all worked merrily, 
with a right good will, on the stiff holly and cedar, until sunset. 

" One day more will finish it !" said we, as we again started home- 
ward ; and the next day found us all there again. Such laughing and 
chattering ! such clipping of scissors and snipping of knives on the 
tough twine ; such discussions about graceful festoons and effective 
grouping, such quips and retorts between girls and boys ! it was all 
delightful, and Mrs. Gruffman enjoyed it as much as any of us ; though 
the Professor, when he looked in on us good-naturedly, averred that 
we were for all the world like a nest of magpies, amidst our greenery. 
However, even he condescended to pronounce the result of our 
labours quite the thing, and the general effect very impressive. 

There were the walls draped, with graceful garlands of woven cedar 
and holly, the different shades of green, and the glowing scarlet and 
pale blue berries blending beautifully ; the huge fire-place filled with 
luxuriant boughs, the windows arched with green festoons, and his 
own motto — " Per ardua ad alta," in the most florid German text, 
formed of polished holly, glittering with sober brilliance above the 
stage. He smiled a grim smile at this, and condescended to approve 
it; and then as he said good-bye, added that he wanted every one of 


us now to put the Exhibition out of our heads for the next two days, 
and study intensely for the Examination — to remember that Friday 
morning came before Friday evening ! So we promised we would, 
and we did — my mother had to take forcible possession of my lamp 
Thursday night to prevent my sitting up quite till daybreak ! she 
said laughingly : and there was many a throbbing heart and excited 
eye in the long rows of boys and girls, who formed semicircles upon 
the stage, before the crowd of waiting spectators. The boys played 
awkwardly with their hands, the girls fluttered their fans and their 
ribands, as they sat waiting — listening to the odd, good-natured com- 
ments of the people upon their appearance. Jennie Thorne " nudged" 
me violently : " don't you hear that old lady down there ?" said she, 
" that one in the immense black poke bonnet ; well, she says 'the dear 
cretures do look so purty an' innocent, all settin' in a row, jes like 
cabbages, and that her Betsy's amongst 'em tew !" '' Do hush, Jen- 
nie," said I, trying to suppress my laughter ; " do let's be dignified, 
for there are plenty of critics down there!" "Who cares?" said 
she ; but just then the Professor came forward, and called on Dr. 
Spencer, the clergyman, to open with prayer — and all was still. 

Then came class after class in rapid succession ; and cheeks flushed, 
and pulses beat more quickly, as the questions grew more and more 
difficult, and were triumphantly solved. Many a time, a merry peal 
of laughter burst forth, as some ludicrous mistake occurred, or some 
determined attempt to " stump" on the part of the examiner was suc- 
cessfully parried. The funniest time, however, was with our Latin 
class — Annabel Le Grande, Kitty and Ada Somers, Jennie Thorne 
and myself. Old Colonel Leatherberry, the humourist of the neigh- 
bourhood, and a most merry and pleasant old gentleman, rose to 
examine us ; and instead of opening upon us the battery of critical 
inquiries, which we had prepared ourselves to sustain, he poured upon 
us a sally of Latin puns, the most absurd things ! but which puzzled 
us not a little. " Translate for me," said he, with a comic twinkle of 
the eye, " the sentence — ' mea mater sus est mala 1 — you, Miss Thorne, 
if you please." 

" Mercy !" said Jennie, sotto voce. u Well, Sue, I don't like to say 


right out ' my mother is a bad sow,' but I suppose I must, so here 
goes !" And sure enough, she announced that fact in a clear tone, 
thereby throwing the whole audience into convulsions of laughter, es- 
pecially the delighted Colonel. However, after the mirth had sub- 
sided, he explained to her how every word in the sentence, except 
mater and sus, had double meanings, and gave the real translation, 
while poor Jennie was almost overwhelmed, between amusement and 
confusion. Kate Somers found out the puzzle in the u mus cucurrit 
plenum sed contra meum magnum ad" and announced with the gravest 
of faces, that " a mouse had run full butt against her great toe !" 
while every one laughed again, both the initiated and those who were 
not. Annabel's clear intellect perceived the peculiar construction of 
the ablative in " Hie est libellus qui venit ah Anglia tellus.'' Ada 
translated the " novus homo ibat ad caudam vel habere sua vestimenta 
homines mortuos" which was a jest of the same nature as Kate's ; and 
I claimed that the " bis" be sounded as long as the "wo" in the "nobis 
sub pontemy 

Oh, it was a merry examination ; the boys sat behind us laughing, 
and helping us with hints, for many of these old puzzles were famil- 
iar to them ; and when the exercises closed at noon, we had a hearty 
laugh over it. 

At three o'clock we were all in our places again, this time to dis- 
play our dramatic and oratorical powers. 

Little Johnny Grahame, the smallest boy in school, stepped out 
in his little white jacket and trousers, and piped out in a little lisping 
voice : 

"You'd thcarce exthpect one of my age 
To thpeak in public on the thtage,'' 

and so on. The little fellow retired amidst rapturous applause, and 
was succeeded by Stuart Eyre, who sprang forward, and burst out 
impetuously with " ' Sink or swim, survive or perish, I give my hand 
and my heart to this vote !' " Allan Neal came, then, with " ' Give 
me liberty, or give me death !' " and Bob Harmanson followed with 
a speech of Emmet's. Unfortunate orators of all time ! how they 


were ridden that afternoon ! and the poets were as unfortunate in the 
hands of the girls. I thought I " did" Poe's Raven to perfection. 
»nd Jennie Thorne was irresistible in one of Saxe's comics. Dial- 
ogues followed in swift succession, and the. whole wound up with a 
grand play, most artistically performed. 

At least, so we thought, and our audience was very indulgent, and 
pronounced themselves highly gratified, as they made their adieus, 
and departed homewards. We, however, that is the pupils, did not 
leave till long after. 

The gallant young gentlemen had, with Mrs. Gruffman , s assistance, 
prepared an entertainment of cake, and fruit, and nuts with whole 
fountains of lemonade, and old " Uncle Zeke" the fiddler ! to which 
the ladies were respectfully invited. So the long benches were rap- 
idly removed by the boys, while we girls flew up-stairs, which Mrs. 
Gruffman had thoughtfully supplied with toilet-articles, and busied 
ourselves with tangled curls, refractory sashes, and tumbled muslins. 

What a merry party it was to be sure ! we danced cotillons and 
reels, waltzes and polkas to our full content, and the spraining of the 
arm of our valiant fiddler. Our gallant partners saw us safely home, 
and the last word on every lip, amidst the cordial good-nights, was — 
" it was delightful, wasn't if? I hope we'll have just such an exhibi- 
tion next term !" 

Sue Leslie. 


fiswiiPif « i® 


Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs 6y Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
Bcience in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the fingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's har<?. study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled him to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young,people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book for the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happily and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but " children of a larger growth" may derive both know 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home," 


Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
'Harry's Vacation" as a premium sj'ift. free of postage. 





Being first in the Series of Romantic Biographies to be 
edited by the 


** A choice biographical library has long been in contemplation in New York, 
the design being to portray romantic characters in a popular yet authentic style. 
The editor of this attractive series of books is Rev. Dr. Hawks, who, it is under- 
stood, has a life of Sir Walter Raleigh in preparation. The first volume of the 
" Romance of Biography*' has just appeared in a very neat volume, from the 
press of James S. Dickerson. It is a charming narrative of the exploits of 
Richard Coeur de Lion — spirited, clear, and most agreeable in style — handsomely 
illustrated, and printed in very readable type. Such books cannot fail to be 

" The first volume of this series of books has been issued. It contains a bril- 
liant narrative of Richard the Lion-hearted, divested as far as possible of the 
political history of his reign, and written with a view to the instruction and im- 
provement of the young. Each volume of the series is to be complete in itself. 
The name of the Rev. Dr. Hawks is a satisfactory guarantee of the unexcep- 
tionable character of the work. The Illustrations are numerous and spirited." 
— Boston Transcript 


697 Brondway. Xew York.